One Who Wanders (abiona) wrote,
One Who Wanders

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so very verdant

I ascended the stairs known as Avery St., and for a moment, I thought I had stepped out of New City and into the country. In the course of my exploration, I did climb into somebody's backyard ... I did not realize that anyone who cared actually owned the worn-down mountain on which I found myself. Fortunately for me, they did not seem to be irritated by my presence on their property ... they were mostly surprised and maybe slightly worried that I'd fall down the hill.

Perhaps because I am so accustomed to carefully tended fields of soy and corn, I am always amazed by the sheer vitality of vegetation of this state. Plants will poke through any crack in concrete, or over and under it should there be no break in the human veneer. They grow and they grow until the foliage is so thick you think you might be able to walk on the leaves without falling through.

There was a house back there, but I could not see through the greenery ... the structure had to be perched on a small ledge that offered relief from the otherwise steep grade. I could not risk going further. If the steps were no longer there, or if they had rotted through, I would have plunged a distance equivalent to jumping out a second story window. The driveway was in much the same state ... thin willowy trunks, which might have been pushed aside had there been only a few of them, kept me out by their great numbers.

I almost missed finding a nearby staircase because of the dense layer of growth on it and through it. The cinder blocks were giving way to the pressure exerted by the unstoppable vegetation, and at first glance, I thought they had been placed there to prevent erosion from covering up the road. But the pipe-turned-handrail caught my eye and alerted me to the true function, and if I looked closely, I could see what it really was, though it had been long buried underneath the leaves. It was completely impassable, and I do not have any guesstimate of where it might have once led. I suspect that the house it connected to is no longer habitable or even there. It might as well not exist, and in a few years, it probably won't.

My street ends in a set of stairs as well. I've lived here for a year and a half, and I had no idea until today.

I was playing with the close-up function on my camera for most of the afternoon.

Stairstreets Stairstreets Stairstreets Stairstreets

Stairstreets Stairstreets Stairstreets

I am most fond of the rusted fence and the brown banana.

The other day, I was telling a coworker that I could not be considered a professional photographer because I had never been paid for my work, and then it hit me. Wait just a minute hold the darn tootin' phone, did I not take pictures for the Alumni and Development Department back in Soy Capital, three and a half years of work for which I received money (that admittedly I never saw as it went into paying back my work study scholarship) ...? Have I not taken photos for Cave Inc. ...? Whoa. Dude, I've been paid to hold a camera. I think my case of denial is due to the fact that they haven't paid me to take the artsy-fartsy close up pictures of non-human subjects that I prefer. It may also be related to the fact that at each position, controlling a camera is only part of my daily activities.
Tags: photography

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