SUNSHINE

The light let itself down on the verdant fields and the surrounding loams. It gave the impression, so full of prowess it was, of the apparatus of a light bulb having broken free from its glass and now unhindered, unencumbered, and ubiquitous. The world that it shone on absorbed its bounty. There were long one lane highways offset by odd and old graveyards. The tombstones and their designations received the light as did the sets of flowers laid there and on outlying posts along the perimeters of counties where others had tragically passed. Many worlds existed at once within the larger world. There was the world of the squirrel, the ant, the person. Open and loquacious was the world of clouds, cumulus, bragging that they were dragons, wizards, rivers, amulets, talismen, even chairs or donkeys or flora and fauna not known here but metaphysical in origin, in design. Yellow jackets worked in the air by the dozen. Some continent surely was in darkness, slumbering itself, dreaming, - but that notion itself was as if a dream, - in the middle of slew of chapters of dreams and thus forgotten. The fact that another place was without the morning star, well that idea was like the fifth dream of the night- unreachable now. The sun. The sunshine. The light. An incredibly old man once said to another as he watched him sit near about the beginnings of a summit that led to an old country church- well- he didn’t say much other than to call the other one `Sunshine,’ which meant that he was fond of watching the sun. And it went like that- the memory and the present. The sun on grates, pebbles, heads, hands, hair, hats, homes, - the sun, - like a wonderfully dispersed halo that went everywhere. The sun a symbol of the Holy Spirit itself. 

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THAT CITY AT NIGHT

The light begins to leave and then the old city is left to itself and the evening. What it will do is anyone`s guess. The old graveyards sit high on knolls and are quiet. Their gates, usually black wrought iron gates, are nearly always open. People just past by and you would be lucky to see a car pull in there. Old tombstones, rocks, - watering cans, - and someone must go there because the eye can see the small and large flowers affixed to things, lying down, - flowers that rest with the departed. And what of the old factories (broken question mark key). They wait, old tethered bricks,- if you look  closely each brick has a story,- faded, not so faded,- cracked, water got in,- slightly compromised,- marred is the word that comes mostly to mind. Yet there is something there- isn’t there- the fact that the old warehouses and factories still stand, - and sometimes from the streets there are parts that can be seen right through, like the barns when the setting sun is on the other side of them. Pallets, bay doors, - old, incredibly old windows dirty with grime and glue, with decades of stories nobody wants to hear now. Well, the sun will shine on it all in the morning. But first the night- with its possible spectres, for certain winds and cricket sounds. The old lake is up the way from the highway and down the way from the graveyards. Vessels bob up and down a bit, slumbering themselves at the inlets and docks. The city behind is full of electrical lights- blue, yellow, green, white, - even purple. It is alive- but mostly it is for the people that have business, friendships, courtships, and so forth- there. But, it still gives its light to all- like the sun. Maybe it has no choice. And the lovers walk across the boardwalk- hand in hand, whispering things, soft and easy, happily languid, serene, silhouetted against some light from the water`s way or else the back drop of the electrical lights,- of the city at night.

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WHERE THE ROAD ENDS AND THE RED WILDBERRIES BEGIN

Where the road ends is where we begin. A storm has passed through and another one is coming. But, in the meantime, it is a liminal time, and there is pause for walking, reflection, meandering. The smells and sights are normal enough- the fallen pine needles, some washed round droplets upon leaves. No snakes or frogs are seen this time, which is odd because sometimes the water seems to wash them out, to send a disruption their way so that they scurry a bit, slither some, a and even go right across the paths. There are a few black flies it would seem, and other things like mosquitoes that can annoy. But the National holiday along with the weather has kept the place mostly vacant. Even the old farmer can`t be seen and not one person is bumped into. I noticed the bees in the feral shrubs with flowers, usually busily working in the open fields, are simply not there. How different was the sunny afternoon when they were in their multitudes. We go along; - it’s for the dogs to get exercise, fresh air, playtime, and smells, so on. 

 

There are some wild red berries that glisten in the light along the path. One reaches over to

say hello, to be seen, but remains orderly enough. Beyond that the path is long, clear, still interesting if empty. The wind is coming. It even gets a bit cold, if it could be called cold. Clouds are slowly moving overhead, but they have skill, an agility that is confident and takes its time. Soon we will go back- and they will come in. Thunder will sound and seem to shake. Lightning, way in the distant county`s sides- will be known along loams we might imagine but never actually see. It’s not a day for the sun, for the bee, for the merry-maker, for the walker or really for anyone. It’s a day for the dark wind and the storms. But, - we need the rain as they say. It will bring life back to the ground- a ground in many places too flaxen, parched, and numbed by thirst and the bleaching light of weeks and weeks it would seem, without proper rain.

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PASSING THROUGH BRADFORD (AREN`T ALL PEOPLE GHOSTS, AREN`T ALL PLACES VAGUE- STILL NO QUESTION MARK FOR THE BROKEN KEYBOARD)

It was after the greater part of the day but still before the dusk had announced itself. We had to go north, and made our way. Over the highway and across Greenlane towards Young. We were then headed right to where Young turns into highway 11. The old Lowes, with stores now all built around it. But there is still the long stretch beside it where I used to stop sometimes before shift and give to myself a few long moments. There was all this space and the wild fields that went on forever. They are still there and the imagination, some mytho-poetic movement, can think anything, can feel that it thinks and-or intuits nearly all things there. Some old little shack, perhaps transplanted and disregarded, - sits there. It’s two, less than five minutes away from what they used to call The Hill, or BDS, or Blue Door Shelters. Soon we go past there, and also past the old motel and the little town of Holland Landing, - a place that could be called, though I have never liked and rarely use the word, ``quaint ‘and it’s a town I am not actually enamored of, do not love, - like a person that some people love but that you cannot bring yourself to resonate with exactly, to synch with, to love. Though there is much to it such as little bridges and marshes, unique roads and hills,- old houses more soulful than urban sprawl, it is actually perhaps too small or isolated, and something is missing- maybe industry.

The sign for the shelter appears and on the Hill, and then it is gone. I was a neophyte and my

older peers taught me much in the beginning. I remember doing perimeter checks, - and sometimes alone, - with the cricket sounds in the summer at night, - or the soft silence of the snow falling in the winter afternoon. Many other things. Other stories, other times…soon we are looking on the right at greenery that hides vast and gated communities nobody but the elect can see or really discern. On the right, there was a helicopter training school, but I can`t make it out any longer and its heyday was before my time anyhow. Then large trucks,- vast areas of limestone and maybe shale and ashen dirt,- the type that is getting ready somehow for foundations, to receive what will in months and short years become communities if you could call them that. The highway there is fast, and it leads to the Bradford in no time. I notice on the right, and then on the left, - several if not many places I would like to go back and photograph. There is not time then. I try to catalogue them in my memory. There is some kind of grain or salt mill or storage, - long and scared somehow by time and weather and decades, - and it seems to have some kind soul that is difficult to explain among the cracks in the asphalt and the little weeds. It seems industrial feral, post-modern baroque,- and now a hint of dusk is coming and I can see interesting shadows in the late and last kiss and caress of the descending sun…

There is more of the same and similar. Especially on the left. I shall have to go back- to capture the ghosts that are the vibrational fortitude of those, sometimes abandoned, environs. I want to say- and there is much I am missing- old and large bricks and blocks they don`t make any longer. Old signs but not so old they can`t be read. Bigger than what they make now-solid. A time I drove though, was driven through rather, similar places, - decades ago- a child myself- head securely and most definitely in the clouds, - staring out of back windows on I-75, on I-95, and we passed through a thousand worlds in Georgia, in Jacksonville, in Daytona, in more that I will never remember because places and people are like spirits, - are spirits. Well, Bradford opens up like a mouth and accepts us- it’s like a causeway, a long and calm causeway or runway and these things are far off to the sides. The main light, the first light, - is far ahead still. Those places must have among them some kind of old distillery, a series of abandoned motels, - a broken electronical sign, a boarded up factory but with painted frames and doorways and shipping bay windows. It feels like there is a lake behind, and maybe there is some small type of water area, - but probably not. I need to stand in those lots and look- to somehow frame in photography some angles because the ``angel, ``daemon, `archetype, `essence, `of place and artifact looms large along there. 

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PASSING THROUGH BRADFORD (AREN`T ALL PEOPLE GHOSTS, AREN`T ALL PLACES VAGUE- STILL NO QUESTION MARK FOR THE BROKEN KEYBOARD)

It was after the greater part of the day but still before the dusk had announced itself. We had to go north, and made our way. Over the highway and across Greenlane towards Young. We were then headed right to where Young turns into highway 11. The old Lowes, with stores now all built around it. But there is still the long stretch beside it where I used to stop sometimes before shift and give to myself a few long moments. There was all this space and the wild fields that went on forever. They are still there and the imagination, some mytho-poetic movement, can think anything, can feel that it thinks and-or intuits nearly all things there. Some old little shack, perhaps transplanted and disregarded, - sits there. It’s two, less than five minutes away from what they used to call The Hill, or BDS, or Blue Door Shelters. Soon we go past there, and also past the old motel and the little town of Holland Landing, - a place that could be called, though I have never liked and rarely use the word, ``quaint ‘and it’s a town I am not actually enamored of, do not love, - like a person that some people love but that you cannot bring yourself to resonate with exactly, to synch with, to love. Though there is much to it such as little bridges and marshes, unique roads and hills,- old houses more soulful than urban sprawl, it is actually perhaps too small or isolated, and something is missing- maybe industry.

The sign for the shelter appears and on the Hill, and then it is gone. I was a neophyte and my

older peers taught me much in the beginning. I remember doing perimeter checks, - and sometimes alone, - with the cricket sounds in the summer at night, - or the soft silence of the snow falling in the winter afternoon. Many other things. Other stories, other times…soon we are looking on the right at greenery that hides vast and gated communities nobody but the elect can see or really discern. On the right, there was a helicopter training school, but I can`t make it out any longer and its heyday was before my time anyhow. Then large trucks,- vast areas of limestone and maybe shale and ashen dirt,- the type that is getting ready somehow for foundations, to receive what will in months and short years become communities if you could call them that. The highway there is fast, and it leads to the Bradford in no time. I notice on the right, and then on the left, - several if not many places I would like to go back and photograph. There is not time then. I try to catalogue them in my memory. There is some kind of grain or salt mill or storage, - long and scared somehow by time and weather and decades, - and it seems to have some kind soul that is difficult to explain among the cracks in the asphalt and the little weeds. It seems industrial feral, post-modern baroque,- and now a hint of dusk is coming and I can see interesting shadows in the late and last kiss and caress of the descending sun…

There is more of the same and similar. Especially on the left. I shall have to go back- to capture the ghosts that are the vibrational fortitude of those, sometimes abandoned, environs. I want to say- and there is much I am missing- old and large bricks and blocks they don`t make any longer. Old signs but not so old they can`t be read. Bigger than what they make now-solid. A time I drove though, was driven through rather, similar places, - decades ago- a child myself- head securely and most definitely in the clouds, - staring out of back windows on I-75, on I-95, and we passed through a thousand worlds in Georgia, in Jacksonville, in Daytona, in more that I will never remember because places and people are like spirits, - are spirits. Well, Bradford opens up like a mouth and accepts us- it’s like a causeway, a long and calm causeway or runway and these things are far off to the sides. The main light, the first light, - is far ahead still. Those places must have among them some kind of old distillery, a series of abandoned motels, - a broken electronical sign, a boarded up factory but with painted frames and doorways and shipping bay windows. It feels like there is a lade behind, and maybe there is some small type of water area, - but probably not. I need to stand in those lots and look- to somehow frame in photography some angles because the ``angel, ``daemon, `archetype, `essence, `of place and artifact looms large along there. 

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