Clyde

A few weeks ago I was delivering a bobcat to a tree service company out in Clyde, it was shortly after ten in the morning, the sky was a clear blue, mustard bloomed on the otherwise green hills, and I was seduced. Two weeks later, I wandered slowly from street to street, camera in hand, full of apprehension. Angry dogs in every yard told the whole town where I was, whenever I was anywhere. Where they were when I was delivering the bobcat is a mystery to me.

The first overcast day in weeks came the day after my new lens arrived in the mail, the beautiful gray hills lost there charm to a dull gray backdrop. I was regretting my determination to photograph the town, the dogs hated me, the population of almost seven hundred seemed to have convened in a secret underground bunker to determine what it was they would do with my body. The tree service company comes to mind. That had been my first stop, actually; I had asked the lady working there if I could photograph the enormous piles of rounds, or the mulch, or the equipment necessary for the transformation. She had plainly told me no. In my imagination, she’d shot the other receptionist a nervous look after I walked out.

Closed blinds, secrets, an uncanny proximity the naval weapons station, and an obscure past. I don’t like Clyde

 

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

“Oh I was just photographing this birdhouse.”

“I can see that, what makes you think you can photograph other people’s property without their permission?”

“There was a bird… in the birdhouse.”

“And what are your pictures for?”

“Just a photo project.”

“Of Clyde?”

“Yes.”