1. Gray fading to dusk. We're driving around an early winter storm on the high Montana prairie. Snow on the hills. Wet snow on the life-sucking wind soaking my pant legs when I refill the gas tank in Jordan on the prairie's crest. Dozens of deer lurking in the ditch, nerving themselves for a mad dash across the heavily-patched little highway. Ten miles north of Roundup, the driver says she sees an abandoned farm. "Stop!"
We've passed a couple of others; life is hard on the high prairie. This one has no fence and no neighbors. We pull in and I tramp around. It's 39 F. so no need to think about rattlesnakes. Or tripods; just leave it on automatic and try not to shiver while I'm shooting.
2. No points for going inside; the house is stuffed with tires. The nearby, windowless shed holds only blackness and garbage. There's a moral here. After you admit that your life's work is worthless and walk away, your neighbors prove that it wasn't worthless after all, by dumping their stuff that's even more worthless.
But the fence lines intrigue me. Two-dimensional strokes on the prairie canvas that sag like Dali's soft watches.
3. A fence mended with bedsprings. An improvisation with a story; a sad story, perhaps.
4. How did you leave your home? Do you try to remember it or forget it?