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Sunday, October 9, 2011

Of a morning, playing catch-up, getting things done with eyes on the prize -- absolutely nothing I have to do this afternoon

I'm obsessed with a lot of things (to put it in numerical terms, 144 of them), one of which is the little, weathered garage at the intersection of Highway 210 and Route N. I've taken pictures there several times, usually at sunrise, which just happens to be when I drive to work. It's a magical time of day, easily my favorite. There were some nice orange lines in the sky around where the sun was about to come up (maybe five minutes before these photos were taken), but by the time I pulled over, got my camera adjusted and crossed the highway, the lines had dissolved or done whatever it is that disappearing lines do. 
I walked through the field of cut corn -- you trip, you get speared, you die a lonely death in rural America -- to see what was going on around back. In the time it took to get there, the sun had poked up and created some unanticipated shots. I tried different things -- focusing and metering on the sky, the sun, the garage and the silos (see the other photo below) -- and got different effects each time. 


Being a silhouette aficionado (in part because I can spell "silhouette" and get a kick out of saying "aficionado"), I settled on these. I could get into all that composition stuff -- the lines, the textures, the blah blah blah -- but I hate that pompous crap. See the picture, shoot the picture and get the heck back in the car, that's my philosophy. As I was heading back across the field, a bozo on a low-rider Harley-Davidson passed by heading toward Richmond. He yelled something, obviously a bit on the hostile side. Being paranoid in addition to compulsive, obsessive and prone to wordiness, I figured it was the land owner yelling at me for trespassing, which technically I was ("But, sir, I was Magically Commuting!"). He turned left on Route N, which further fueled my paranoia. But then he gunned it, hit that Harley rumble that I find so pleasing and was gone. So was I, minus a real-life Easy Rider experience.

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