my boring life in pretty pictures

broken and can’t be fixed… Winding two lane interstate road.  Through the mountains of Vermont, Grand Isle to be exact. Green fields, languidly stretch over undulating hills, the occasional building, sitting like a cat, nestled along a gravel path towards somebody’s home. Along our daily ride from the campground to the connivence store, we noticed a stripped down architectural skeleton in the middle of a field. Ornate rusty objects, golf clubs, bathtubs, santa on a sleigh were strewn around this open air impromptu flea market. “Have you seen this place before?” “Nope. the last time we passed by two days ago, it was boarded up.” I called it nostalgic chaos. Half unfurled flags, tattered, shoved in a garbage bin with hockey sticks, skates, tennis rackets and skis. Paintings, hanging onto their frames by rusted chicken wire were propped up against the outside of this wooden house. An endless amount of tables, side by side, end to end, orbiting the center of this haunting universe of kitsch. “is all this stuff for sale?” A gruff pear shaped old man, with a detailed face like eroded pavement, mumbled to us. “Yep. All for sale. Getting rid of this shit. Once and for all.” “Now that’s a lot of stuff!” “A lifetime’s worth. Can’t take it with me to the grave. Need to sell it all before I turn to dust. Been a collector all my life. Now I’m just a glorified fancy garbage hoarder.” Hidden, as if she was sleeping behind unstrung stringed musical instruments, a fair haired cloth bodied doll. The only thing ceramic was her face. Delicate, weathered and broken. She lay silent on a rotting bureau. I moved a few lamps, unhinged doors so I could get some light on her face. Eyes wide open, stillness like death, she was the perfect photographic subject. “How much is this doll?” “She’s not for sale.” the old man muttered. “Belongs to the house, and besides, she’s sleeping…” I waited until he rounded the corner, to tend to another couple who was as curious and inquisitive as we were about this lost museum of melancholy. “Excuse me Miss, I hope you don’t mind if I take your picture.” I leaned closer and noticed the delicate lines on her face. The details in the porcelain - how it ages more gracefully than skin, mesmerized me.  Did she have a history, lovers, children? Or was this abandoned shack always her home? Smile I could have sworn that she blinked just before i pressed the shutter button… * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * My Favorite poem fromThe Lineup - Poems on Crime” Issue #4 I would have to say A Story To Tell Our Daughter by Kieth Rawson “this is why you’re marrying me.” The whole tone of the poem resonated deeply with me, especially after looking at this image again. Small town values differ greatly from big city life: skyscrapers vs farms, multi-lane highways vs winding single lane scenic roads, isolated individuals vs communities. Public scandals vs dirty little secrets… We kept to the back roads, through sagging sage brush towns covered in copper orange dust The lone ‘fallen from the sky’ impromptu flea market in the winding hills of a small Vermont town, population 300, and the weathered, broken and dirty remnants of a forgotten history embedded within each object made me wonder: “what was the story behind the people who held onto this old set of rusted golf clubs, these warped vinyl Sing Along With Mitch albums, this fragile weather worn doll?”  She kept her daddy’s revolver cocked in between her thighs as she guided my right hand to her distended belly: “This is why you’re marrying me” Desolation that breeds secrets and contempt is a mood so very palatable within the sparse yet eloquent lines of this poem. And the underlying disturbing sense of things returning to an awkward yet serene sense of normalcy is echoed in the last few lines. She said, her eyes set in a concrete glaze I cursed under my breath, One eye on the gun, The other on the road and kept driving. Some roads are better left untraveled.  Some questions are better left unanswered. Some secrets are better left unexplained…

broken and can’t be fixed…

Winding two lane interstate road. 

Through the mountains of Vermont, Grand Isle to be exact.

Green fields, languidly stretch over undulating hills, the occasional building, sitting like a cat, nestled along a gravel path towards somebody’s home. Along our daily ride from the campground to the connivence store, we noticed a stripped down architectural skeleton in the middle of a field. Ornate rusty objects, golf clubs, bathtubs, santa on a sleigh were strewn around this open air impromptu flea market.

“Have you seen this place before?”

“Nope. the last time we passed by two days ago, it was boarded up.”


I called it nostalgic chaos.

Half unfurled flags, tattered, shoved in a garbage bin with hockey sticks, skates, tennis rackets and skis. Paintings, hanging onto their frames by rusted chicken wire were propped up against the outside of this wooden house. An endless amount of tables, side by side, end to end, orbiting the center of this haunting universe of kitsch.

“is all this stuff for sale?”

A gruff pear shaped old man, with a detailed face like eroded pavement, mumbled to us.

“Yep. All for sale. Getting rid of this shit. Once and for all.”

“Now that’s a lot of stuff!”

“A lifetime’s worth. Can’t take it with me to the grave. Need to sell it all before I turn to dust. Been a collector all my life. Now I’m just a glorified fancy garbage hoarder.”

Hidden, as if she was sleeping behind unstrung stringed musical instruments, a fair haired cloth bodied doll. The only thing ceramic was her face. Delicate, weathered and broken. She lay silent on a rotting bureau. I moved a few lamps, unhinged doors so I could get some light on her face. Eyes wide open, stillness like death, she was the perfect photographic subject.

“How much is this doll?”

“She’s not for sale.” the old man muttered. “Belongs to the house, and besides, she’s sleeping…”

I waited until he rounded the corner, to tend to another couple who was as curious and inquisitive as we were about this lost museum of melancholy.

“Excuse me Miss, I hope you don’t mind if I take your picture.”

I leaned closer and noticed the delicate lines on her face. The details in the porcelain - how it ages more gracefully than skin, mesmerized me.  Did she have a history, lovers, children? Or was this abandoned shack always her home?

Smile

I could have sworn that she blinked just before i pressed the shutter button…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My Favorite poem fromThe Lineup - Poems on Crime” Issue #4

I would have to say A Story To Tell Our Daughter by Kieth Rawson

“this is why you’re marrying me.”

The whole tone of the poem resonated deeply with me, especially after looking at this image again. Small town values differ greatly from big city life: skyscrapers vs farms, multi-lane highways vs winding single lane scenic roads, isolated individuals vs communities. Public scandals vs dirty little secrets…

We kept to the back roads,

through sagging sage brush towns

covered in copper orange dust

The lone ‘fallen from the sky’ impromptu flea market in the winding hills of a small Vermont town, population 300, and the weathered, broken and dirty remnants of a forgotten history embedded within each object made me wonder: “what was the story behind the people who held onto this old set of rusted golf clubs, these warped vinyl Sing Along With Mitch albums, this fragile weather worn doll?” 

She kept her daddy’s revolver cocked

in between her thighs as she guided

my right hand to her distended belly:

“This is why you’re marrying me”

Desolation that breeds secrets and contempt is a mood so very palatable within the sparse yet eloquent lines of this poem. And the underlying disturbing sense of things returning to an awkward yet serene sense of normalcy is echoed in the last few lines.

She said, her eyes set in a concrete glaze

I cursed under my breath,

One eye on the gun,

The other on the road

and kept driving.

Some roads are better left untraveled.  Some questions are better left unanswered. Some secrets are better left unexplained…

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