I guess everyone has their own thing that they yell into a well

Waiting out a storm in Big Lots parking lot, Christiansburg, VA

Randolph Park, Dublin, VA

A few nights ago, I found myself on my hands and knees following broken mounds of mole trails around my back yard. I had planned on trying to get rid of the moles, but as I crawled through the damp grass I had a change of heart; I felt a kinship with the subterranean creatures blindly tunneling through the darkness. Suddenly I was half-humming/half-singing "If I's a mole in the ground, I'd root that mountain down" and "I been in the bend so long, yes, I been in the bend so long." Down among the moles, in the bend. My thoughts weren't clear. I was in that sort of free associative state where ideas and images drift and dissipate and mingle like night clouds. While humming the Lunsford song, I was simultaneously thinking of Deleuze's rhizome concept, how the moles turn the ordered, domesticated space of my lawn into what D+G call a "body without organs." Lines of flight. A means of escape. "Find your black holes and white walls and know them." In many ways, crawling around my yard in the middle of the night was a (failed?) line of flight. "Nothing on top but a bucket and a mop and an illustrated book about birds." Looking down into a hole, an image from Gerald Vizenor's Trickster of Liberty came to mind. In the book, characters scream their frustrations into what he calls "panic holes," burying them? or implanting them? in the ground. I whispered my problems down to the moles, and the peep frogs peeped and the hound dogs bayed and the darkness circled.

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're trying to be so quiet

Ellett Valley Rock Quarry

Hidden Water
-Frank Stanford

A girl was in a wheelchair on her porch
And wasps were swarming in the cornice

She had just washed her hair
When she took it down she combed it

She could see
Just like I could

The one star under the rafter
Quivering like a knife in the creek

She was thin
And she made me think

Of music singing to itself
Like someone putting a dulcimer in a case

And walking off with a stranger
To lie down and drink in the dark

The Sound
-Kim Addonizio

Marc says the suffering that we don’t see
still makes a sort of sound—a subtle, soft
noise, nothing like the cries of screams that we
might think of—more the slight scrape of a hat doffed
by a quiet man, ignored as he stands back
to let a lovely woman pass, her dress
just brushing his coat. Or else it’s like a crack
in an old foundation, slowly widening, the stress
and slippage going on unnoticed by
the family upstairs, the daughter leaving
for a date, her mother’s resigned sigh
when she sees her. It’s like the heaving
of a stone into a lake, before it drops.
It’s shy, it’s barely there. It never stops.

Nice, high-quality pitchfork.tv video of Bill Callahan and his band performing "Cold Blooded Old Times" on a rooftop in Brooklyn. More songs from the performance can be found on pitchfork.tv

Let me take a picture of that thing, I want an 8X10 of that thing

Allen's Shed, Ellett, VA

Below is part II of an entertaining documentary on Hasil Adkins, a musician from Boone County, WV. According to wikipedia (not always the most reliable source, I know, but servicable here) "He was the youngest of 10 children, and was both severely depressive and hyperactive. Growing up in a tarpaper shack on property rented from the local coal company, Hasil attended 6 days of school total and never really worked at anything other than being a musician. He would occasionally repair various items such as cars or washing machines and turn them over for some income. Hasil could fix just about anything he could lay his hands on." He was a neighbor to "the Dancing Outlaw," Jescoe White, and he was a major influence on the Cramps and other "psychobilly" bands. Hasil's heroes, he says, include Hank Williams and Colonel Sanders.

While some people see Adkins' music as little more than a joke/novelty act and as perpetuating negative stereotypes, I think there's more (or maybe less) to it than that. On the less side, it's just fun music. No need to overanalyze. People take the stereotype business (and themselves) too seriously. It's condescending to assume he--or any of the other denizens of Boone County, WV--aren't aware of the stereotypes. And, to me, having fun with the stereotypes (adopting a sort of trickster pose) seems healthier than treating them like a death sentence. Besides, Hasil's music is certainly more original and innovative than commercial country. Or, for that matter, the countless traditional (and tepid) bluegrass bands or faux hippy jam bands favored by trendy coffee shops in progressive little mountain towns throughout Appalachia.

Adkins' music is often perceived as rudimentary, but his songs display a complexity that challenges the boundaries of "country" or "hillbilly" music. Hasil's music makes sense grouped with avante-garde artists like Henry Flynt, who, in addition to contributing essays to various art and philosophy journals and widely exhibiting his conceptual art, has worked with La Mont Young, John Cage, Steve Reich, and other experimental composers. Hasil's music is closer to Flynt's genre subverting Back Porch Hillbilly Blues than hixploitation music (i.e.--that horrendous "Cotton Eyed Joe" song from the mid 90's). In fact, Flynt's essay, "The Meaning of My Avante-garde Hillbilly and Blues Music" could apply to Hasil's work nearly as well as his own. In the essay, Flynt says that he was inspired by the image that Ornette Coleman had at the beginning of his career: an untrained "folk creature" as an avante-gardiste. That fits Adkins pretty well. Of course, some might say the difference is that Coleman and Flynt were approaching these ideas intellectually, constructing a new music, whereas Adkins was a bona-fide hillbilly. I'm not sure I buy that, though. He was an entertainer, and part of his show involved self-mythologizing, playing up the redneck pose. To me, extra-musical elements like Hasil's eccentric character could be seen as part of the art--a postmodern parody that playfully undermines any notions of authenticity, particularly any notion of an authentic social "type."

In any case, here's part II of "The Wild World Of Hasil Adkins." The other 2 parts are on youtube.

What was not but could have been was my obsession way back when.

Pulaski, VA

On my way to work this morning, a small doe with matted fur scrambled into the road, stopped in front of my car, and stood there for a moment or two before ambling down the opposite bank. It made me think of something one of my students had written in an essay on Oscar Wilde. In one sentence, she had intended "heavy dose of fear," but had written "heavy does of fear." When I saw the doe this morning, that phrase came to mind. The delicacy of a doe juxtaposed with heaviness and fear has a certain resonance. The unintentional poetry of the malopropism almost warrants extra credit.

While the South is hardly Christ centered, it is most certainly Christ haunted

Fries, VA

This church is down the road a ways from my dad's trailer home. The building it's in used to be "Top of the Mountain Grocery," a little country store/pawn shop where old men would gather to shoot the breeze or haggle over how much money they should get to pawn their rifles or chainsaws or girlfriend's jewelry. After my dad quit his job at BC Vaughn and we moved out of the trailer my grandma now owns, we briefly lived in a one room apartment (one and 1/2 if you count the bathroom) over "Top of the Mountain." The man who owned/operated the store also owned a fruit stand in Independence, VA, and my dad tended the fruit stand in exchange for rent and a few dollars each month. There was a large creek behind the fruit stand, and during the summer I'd wade and look for crawfish and salamanders. On one occasion, I found some Nehi and Coca-Cola bottles dating from 1910 wedged into the bank near the creek. I cleaned those bottles for an hour or so each day for the next month. Since we lived over a store, we didn't have go far to buy food. We bought bread, bologna and Pepsi on credit, then by the end of the month my dad owed most of his pay back to the owner of the store. It was just enough to keep us afloat until my dad took a job at a glass factory in Galax and we moved to Harmony Village apartments. Or maybe we moved somewhere else. As I get older, my memory seems to be dissolving. I don't recall much from our time in the one room apartment. I'm not even sure we lived there after moving out of the trailer. Maybe the house on Iron Mountain came between the trailer and the apartment. I do recall my dad buying a Nintendo during that time, then long hours given over to searching out secret doors beneath pixelated shrubs.

oh the shark has pretty teeth, dear--and he shows them pearly white

Cascades Trail, Pembroke, VA

On Friday night I was feeling restless and had no plans, so I decided to take a night hike to the Cascades and take some photos. I had no idea how the photos would turn out using only the built in flash on my camera, but I didn't really care about the results. I just wanted to get out. Silence had pervaded my table, chairs, book cases (even my normally innocuous pewter deer bookends), and they were starting to look menacing. I was having one of those Roquentin staring at the chestnut tree moments, and I didn't feel like spending yet another Friday night dwelling on my own contingency (or absurdity), so I did what hundreds of canonical novels and country songs recommend and hit the road.

It turned out to be a good decision. The fresh smell of the stream braced and refreshed me. In no time I was pulled out of my malaise and into the rhythm of the hike. Part of the idea of taking shots in the dark involved some vague, not fully formed connections to Beckett and Brecht. Mostly, though, I just felt like hiking in the dark and taking some photos.

Kurt Weill "Alabama Song" (far creepier and more amazing than the Door's cover)

a visit with grandmother

my g-ma, Mary Ann

My mom drove up to Fries, VA to visit my grandmother this past weekend, so I decided to drive down from Christiansburg to see both of them. My grandmother lives in the trailer I grew up in from the age of 6 to 12 or so(formative years, in many ways), so it's always interesting to visit and think about how I've changed and the place has changed. During the time I lived in the trailer, my dad worked on the hot press (sometimes the drop clipper) at BC Vaughn, a furniture factory in Galax. He worked long hours, often until late in the evening, and my grandmother occasionally took care of me after school. I don't remember much about those evenings, really. Lots of peanut butter. Not Skippy, though. Some generic brand that came in a large plastic bucket, the kind of bucket a gallon of lard or margarita mix might come in. The only markings on the bucket that I can recall were pictures of animals--giraffes, zebras, orangutans, lions, elephants. A peanut butter menagerie. I can't help but feel some nostalgia for that peanut butter.

In any case, here are a few more pics of my grandmother and the trailer. The dog belongs to a woman down the street. I believe her name (the dog, not the woman) is Elsie. My childhood bedroom was at the end of the trailer, the section shown in the 5th photo. The room is now devoted mostly to flowers and plants. Not a bad use for it.

formulate infinity, store it deep inside of me

--a few more pics from a graveyard in Christiansburg

beast and bird they called me kin, bathed me and they tucked me in

Dragon's Tooth, Appalachian Trail, VA
McCaffee's Knob, Appalachian Trail, VA
McCaffee's Knob
Yadkin River near Rockville, NC
Rabbit Tracks, Ellett Valley, VA

I came across this site during a few minutes of down time while at work last week. Once I started converting photos, I had a hard time stopping. Some of the shots I've taken while hiking but didn't like because of flat, punchy skies or whatever other issues suddenly looked better. In fact, nearly all of my nature shots (mostly photos I've taken while hiking) look better in this albumen print look, and there isn't much of a process involved. Of course, I can't read the Japanese, so I have no idea what I may be agreeing to every time I convert a photo. Unless you can decipher the Japanese, I suppose it's risky.

Nevertheless, I'm thinking about using the process on some of my Pulaski photos... printing them out on watercolor or rag paper, then gluing the prints to found slabs of wood. The slightly blurred, scratchy aeshetic suits the disintegration of Pulaski well. For comparison's sake, here are the original, color versions of the photos above.

nostalgia for the present

--a couple more shots from the graveyard in Christiansburg

A new season has to begin, I can feel it leaning in, whispering

--from an eponymous graveyard in Christiansburg, VA

I pass by this graveyard every day on my way to and from work. The faded flowers, foam crosses bending toward the ground, and weathered tombstones intrigue me. The graveyard is relatively unkempt, with vines and yucca plants blending around and through plastic flowers and faded flags. That mixture of the natural and artificial is one of the main things I find fascinating about the graveyard...how the plastic flowers are meant to withstand weather and time, but they're woven and tangled among the ivy and dead leaves. Eggleston and Christenberry's shots of lonely southern graves obviously came to mind while I was walking around photographing. I also thought about the people buried there, wondered what their lives had been like, how long it had been since someone had placed a flower on their tombstone. For a few, how long it had been since someone had thought about them, missed them.

youtube video for "a little at a time" magnolia electric company

sell me a peach o' the ba ho

Behind Food Lion, Pulaski, VA

You Don't Know What Happened When You Froze
--Talvikki Ansel

When buck fever struck,
you stood stiff, unable
to pull the trigger while the herd
crashed past you and
into the woods.

Your cousins--who, one night
when you were all boys, scared
you in a pine grove with a candle
in a cow skull--carried
you to a clearing; they loosened
your hunting vest,
gave you a flask of Jack Daniel's,
and you remembered nothing.

Last night you dreamt of a room--
a room full of fish,
and a swimming pool
where you waded knee-deep
and hauled them all in

except for one, already dead,
a large bluefish wedged
into a corner, its back stiff.

You remember it later: its eye
like a button,
a button on another person's coat.

Swallows
--Talvikki Ansel

Summer's over, and we never even
drank at the Ocean House, that yellow
elegance they'll tear down this year.
Wind sweeps the locust leaves sideways,
I read the journals
of Dorothy Wordsworth: the lucid days,
walks, wet skirts twisted around ankles,
scrambles up rocks and through damp fields.
Swallows nest above her cottage window.
She bakes bread, cuts and turns sheets,
papers a room. Dinner in bed for her brother
William, mutton. John, the other brother,
captain of a great ship bound for China.
Lowering clouds and a swallow swept sideways,
comfrey and laudanum sleep, all gone now,
those torn-up lives. A storm knocks windows.
Windfalls, hard green knobs in the grass,
gather wasps in the orchard.
Half-rotted, wormy, the ones we found here,
boiled and boiled to a pale jelly, celandine,
or someone's hesitant birthstone.
I stash a jar in the back cupboard,
for good luck, sweet talisman against rot.

A Man Born in the Forest
--Frank Stanford

Just like a light-skinned woman
there was a deer
to come out of the Snow Lake Woods
and speak to my father
I saw him
take off his pants
and his Panama hat blew
along the rabbit's hideout

Living with Death
--Frank Stanford

Long ago a man came to our place
With his daughter
It was evening when they arrived
In their wagon

They had a white piano

They asked only to stay the night
For room and board
They said they'd clean the barn

I looked out my window until dawn
Counting the peaches

The maid gave me rags
For the hot pot of coffee
She gave me to take them

I hadn't even milked
Hadn't sung to the fish
But they'd stacked sacks of manure
And sharpened all the tools

So I went to the pump
And found the daughter washing there

She said Death won't dare
Touch a hair on our heads

all around, oh all around, it's kept together by moving all around

John, Pulaski

A couple of weeks ago, I read an article about John Cage's New River watercolors; the article explained how Cage used the I Ching to simultaneously create narrow parameters and introduce chance and random movement into his paintings. I'd been thinking about doing something similar with photography for awhile--something along the lines of Eggleston's unmanned probes crawling over the surface of the earth and snapping photos every thirty seconds or so. There's certainly no lack of this type of photography now, but I sometimes like introducing games into my photography, as a way to add a little whimsy and to force myself to attempt an interesting shot no matter my location. My initial idea was to listen to some Bach or Copland's Appalachian Spring (repeatedly) while walking around town, stopping at predetermined points in the music and taking a photo.

I mentioned some of these ideas to Josh, and prior to our latest jaunt to Pulaski he consulted the I Ching. Two dominant images resulted from Josh's consultation: water (a pond or lake) and a ram getting its horns caught in a dense thicket, struggling, then breaking through into a clearing. Using the image of the lake to direct us, we headed toward a breached dam on Peak Creek in a scrubby field behind Wendy's and "Hot Wheels" used cars. That's where we met John, a laid back guy with plenty of entertaining stories. Many of his stories involved alcohol and somewhat comic violence, but an image from one of his stories describing a flash of beauty has stayed with me. Once, he told us, he had been down at the dam having a few beers with his girlfriend when a huge hawk landed on a broken limb just a few feet away from the concrete block they were resting on. The hawk stayed there, staring down at them, for what seemed like an hour. It was beautiful, he said, so large that when it flew away it shook that entire motherfuckin tree clear to the trunk.

video of John Cage performing "Water Walk" in 1960 on the tv show I've Got a Secret.

She said, "Welcome to the land of the living dead." You could tell she was so broken-hearted.

Bluefield, WV

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg
--Richard Hugo

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn't last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs--
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won't fall finally down.

Isn't this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn't this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?

Don't empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I'll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You're talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it's mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

the runway lies ahead like a great false dawn

Wade School, Bluefield, WV


youtube video of Stephen Malkmus discussing his new album Real Emotional Trash on...Fox News

We are around near the railroad tracks, checking out the thunderings

Pulaski, VA

Palace Brothers "Ohio River Boat Song"

Send us your coordinates, we'll send a St. Bernard

Pulaski, VA

On the Elevator Going Down
--Richard Brautigan

A Caucasian gets on at
the 17th floor.
He is old, fat, and expensively
dressed.
I say hello / I'm friendly.
He says, "Hi."

Then he looks very carefully at
my clothes.

I'm not expensively dressed.
I think his left shoe costs more
than everything I am wearing.

He doesn't want to talk to me
any more.

I think that he is not totally aware
that we are really going down
and there are no clothes after you have
been dead for a few thousand years.

He thinks as we silently travel
down and get off at the bottom
floor
that we are going separate
ways.