Pocahontas
Sometimes I wonder why I'm so drawn to photography. Why do I love wandering solo through a buggy wilderness with only a camera and maybe a water bottle? (I just returned from one of those tramps down to the sandbars to see what I could see..)
I think it's to capture all the beauty that I, somewhere in me, believe will soon be gone.
I want to recall, on command, the sweet smell of hay, and cupping bees--drawn by an offering of spiky cloud-white flowers-- in the palm of my hands, squatting in leviathan fields of clover. I love to stare at the stark contrast of dark dragonflies among acres of glowing green Johnson Grass taller than my father... Then the gnat armies organize and attack after standing still for too long, so you run! Run swiftly along the dirty sand trail, past the smell of honeysuckle that wafts tantalizingly to panting nostrils; you want to stop for a taste, but not enough to endure the black cloud of buzzing flies that hovers seconds behind your head like dialogue in a badly sync-ed talkie. The gnats that crawl adventurously, curiously up nostrils are the worst.
So yes, I can see why the drawling locals love this beautiful, lazy hick-town, named for an Indian princess; the only town I know that can boast a store advertising "Fantasy lingerie and tropical fish!"
This town will always signify summer in my mind, where there's nothing better for high school boys to do but play football, fuck, drink, dip, and trespass on vacation homes (and the owners don't mind: "Gotta keep 'em out of trouble..." ) where they know rope swings and canoes wait lonely on the river... Where net-less basketball hoops stand in grassy fields and the remnants of a horse track destroyed by last spring’s flood (higher than the 100-year floodplain) still draws a crowd, and where arrowheads are found daily by kids ambitious (or bored) enough to dig to China, incidentally scratching the Trail of Tears... Where the sun rises over Dam Hill - in perfect view of your balcony - and sets on the river, and where you can survive on fish caught from a trout line strung across the river, a modern Huckleberry Finn...
Yes, I can see why people love this place.
I think it's to capture all the beauty that I, somewhere in me, believe will soon be gone.
I want to recall, on command, the sweet smell of hay, and cupping bees--drawn by an offering of spiky cloud-white flowers-- in the palm of my hands, squatting in leviathan fields of clover. I love to stare at the stark contrast of dark dragonflies among acres of glowing green Johnson Grass taller than my father... Then the gnat armies organize and attack after standing still for too long, so you run! Run swiftly along the dirty sand trail, past the smell of honeysuckle that wafts tantalizingly to panting nostrils; you want to stop for a taste, but not enough to endure the black cloud of buzzing flies that hovers seconds behind your head like dialogue in a badly sync-ed talkie. The gnats that crawl adventurously, curiously up nostrils are the worst.
So yes, I can see why the drawling locals love this beautiful, lazy hick-town, named for an Indian princess; the only town I know that can boast a store advertising "Fantasy lingerie and tropical fish!"
This town will always signify summer in my mind, where there's nothing better for high school boys to do but play football, fuck, drink, dip, and trespass on vacation homes (and the owners don't mind: "Gotta keep 'em out of trouble..." ) where they know rope swings and canoes wait lonely on the river... Where net-less basketball hoops stand in grassy fields and the remnants of a horse track destroyed by last spring’s flood (higher than the 100-year floodplain) still draws a crowd, and where arrowheads are found daily by kids ambitious (or bored) enough to dig to China, incidentally scratching the Trail of Tears... Where the sun rises over Dam Hill - in perfect view of your balcony - and sets on the river, and where you can survive on fish caught from a trout line strung across the river, a modern Huckleberry Finn...
Yes, I can see why people love this place.