Rural Skies in Infrared

Recently I drove the back roads around my small town, which I often do when I need to get out and clear the cobwebs out of my head. It's like a camera walk, the purpose of which is not to make art, but to do a kind of meditation: to just walk, to see what is there, to see rather than just look. You make images with the camera, but the focus is on the process rather than the product. Sometimes I get only one good image from a camera walk, sometimes I get several. Driving around with the camera is similar, just with a wider range of opportunities.



Open prairie skies, endless sea of grass. . . .



I ended up at one of my favorite local county parks, photographing the brilliant autumn colors. I also set my other camera on B&W and made some infrared photos, and also some drive-by photos of farm buildings and fields as I drove. This photo is the best of the drive-by photos.

Rural Roads: an afternoon's crop of photos and haiku

hard prairie winds
pull at the barn windows,
hawk overhead



gopher tracks in spring,
crossing from mud to creek,
leave dirt clods behind



white tree flowers
fast clouds, high winds:
snow on the road



the sky's more empty
without a falcon soaring
despite these clouds



trees as tall as barns
host swallow strings—
nesting time has come

Rumors of Spring

The farms in the area are starting to get in gear. I drove the backroads a couple of days ago, the air heavy with the smells of fresh-turned earth, manure, and fertilizer. Today was the second-warmest sunny day so far this spring. I brought out the garden hose, swept out the garage, and planted another rose bush. Tomorrow will be for planting lavender and wildflowers in the beds on the sides of the house, then waiting till they emerge.



Rows tilled and plowed in the black earth. Ridges of earth. Nothing yet emerged. Soon the corn and soy and wheat and other crops will green the fields. Earth still wet from heavy spring storms.



Clouds till the sky, making rows that dissolve, reform, and fly on. Now heavy with more rain, now light and airy, nothing to touch but evaporating mists.



Sky turns in on itself, becoming memory and expectation. We wait and watch, desire for gentle winds rooting us by the budding trees.





Pretend it's all ceiling. All you have to do is reach up to dip into it, long fingers trailing wakes in a fast stream. The willow have turned golden raking the sunset from their hair.



And then come the days of wheat and sorrow. Feathers blow from wind-socks in the long-grass scarecrows. Soon, another storm will rise, and fall again.



It's time for more plantings. I'll air out the house, once the days turn predictably clear and warm. One day soon, roses shall bloom and perfume the evening's peace. Meanwhile we still huddle under the eaves, tend the fires of waiting, and harp our melancholy songs into the dark.

The Prism Chronicle

UPDATE:

The Prism Chronicle folded almost immediately, under stress from several directions. That's too bad. Nonetheless it instigated a new direction of writing for me, that of being a rural gay artist and musician, so I've taken the material I originally wrote for TPC and have started a new blog: Rural Gay Artistry. I will continue to add older material to that blog periodically, in addition to new material. I plan to continue to write on the topic from many directions, something I haven't done much with publicly before now, and post those writings over there.

So, stay tuned.

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I am now going to be writing a regular column for a new rural LGBT e-zine named The Prism Chronicle. My first column is titled Out Here. The feature article in the lead issue is the first part of a three-part article is on rural religion and gay life, based on extensive reporting and interviews.

I will also be doing some book reviews for them, from time to time.



I also have a couple of photos in this issue.