Solstice Trees

In honor of the Winter Solstice, some Wintry trees.

Through The Fence

The solstice eve sky.

Extracting Color From The Gloom

The Sky Above...

On Santa Rosa Street

Paths and Lanes

Walking West

December 4 2011

Other photos from our cemetery ramble:

It was necessary to go farther afield in order to take more pictures this weekend, hence the long, cold walk in the lightless afternoon.

My companion and I kept to the old section, where the dead had been buried at least a hundred years. Partly out of respect for the more recently dead, as well as to visit those whose graves had likely not had a visit in many years. We brought a wisk broom to sweep away leaves and pulled weeds that were overgrowing some of the old stones. It was the least I could do, if I was going to

come into their place for my own purposes.

While there was a proliferation of cenotaphs and Woodman of the World tree stones, there was a notable lack of angels in the old cemetery. I'm unsure why, as the modern section is full of them. The angel stone above was one of very few. It belongs to the grave of a 14 year old girl.

It was a relief to make our way out of the newer section into the old - the new section is rather more eerie than the old, contrary to the way it would seem to be. Graveyards can be "noisy" places for me, full of desperate-feeling energy and buzzing whispers. Like dozens of half-heard people clamoring for your attention at once. No, don't ask me to explain why. I make no claims for or against the existence of ghosts (or anything else, for that matter). I only know that strange things happen to me there, and I'm not the only one, either. It's part of the uneasiness about this town, a feeling that the dead can't rest.

But the old section is mostly quiet, as if the dead are finally at rest after many years.

At The Cemetery Gate

Yesterday I spent the afternoon at the cemetery - it being that sort of gray, gloomy day that compels one to hang about the cemetery, you know.

At the gate, a black plastic bag was caught in this tree's branches. It rattled in the wind like some hapless spirit. It seemed eerie, somehow.

Mrs. Zimmerman Listening At The Wall

I'd totally forgotten I'd meant to add this drawing from The house with a clock in its walls by John Bellairs. I'd never been able to find it online.

This is probably my favorite Edward Gorey illustration, as well as one of my favorite scenes in the book. Lewis arriving at his Uncle Jonathan's house to find a woman mysteriously listening at the wall sets up a story you know will be a bit unusual.

A Place Only Fit To Leave

Reality rears its ugly head.

So this week I finally acquired a new printer and scanner. I knew another one was needed in order to start putting this art project together in some cohesive form, but I hadn't exactly been aggressive about finding one.

Just how passive I'd been became clear when I'd got the thing plugged in and realized I hadn't the foggiest idea what to do. All these drawings, photos, half finished texts attempting to say something about the place I live, all with the vaguest of themes - what to do with them? Especially when vagueness is the theme, pretty much.

It's an art project, not history. Well, it's supposed to be art. :p But it's definitely not history. That would be easy. This town is in love with its history, at least the parts (as per usual) written by the winners. Art is different, and making art about a place that's only fit to leave is not easy.

Working in an atmosphere of pervasive hopelessness is not easy, either.

In that light, my passive avoidance makes a little more sense.

The truth, according to Ms. Phantasmagoria

Had I wanted to document the ugliness and decay of a dying town, that would have been easy, too. But It's something else I'm after, and it's the thing so many others seem to overlook. It's also in the way they overlook it.

This town is weird, and not in a nice, cool, quirky way. Under its utterly boring surface of nowhere to go and nothing to do, its disorienting and discomforting nature permeates. Insanity breeds like the stray cats in my neighborhood. There is a darkness that underlies everything. Maybe it's the isolation. Maybe it's the barren flatness, the humidity, or maybe it's even toxic marsh gas, for all I know. These explanations are as good as any. It's a place where people have either crash-landed or never had the will to leave in the first place. The rest bide their time until they can get out, hopefully before they're drained of their life force and any self-confidence they ever had.

Underneath the crime, poverty, despair and the seamless insistence from city officials that everything is fine, just fine in our lovely town, thank-you-very-much, something else leaks out. Whatever it is, it's creepy as hell. And you aren't supposed to talk about it.

Which leads me where I am today, with a messy attempt to capture something unseen and hard to define, the "truth" of the place as I see it, which you aren't supposed to discuss and a good portion of the population is too miserable or insane to care. I could collect all this work into a book, write and design it to the best of my ability, make it as good and clever as I possibly can, and what I have at the end of the day is a book that even the local library wouldn't carry. :/

But then I must reconsider. This project is not a labor of love. It's a distraction from the hate. It's an attempt to make something of value where art has no value. It's mine alone, good or bad as it is. And if there is one thing this place trucks in, it is hopelessness. If I give in, I become like the others who've lost their will to care. There is already too much of that here. I don't want to go any further down that road.

There's nothing left to do but work.

* I know the photo at the top is unrelated to the post (except inasmuch as i made both of them) I thought of using a photo of a slug or palmetto bug to express my feelings, but that's just gross.