Fantasy people
"After driving for four or five minutes along the road outside my door, I come to a long row of one-room shacks about the size of kitchens, made out of used boards, metal signs, old tin roofs. To the people who live in them an electric dishwasher of one’s own is as much a fantasy as an ocean liner of one’s own. but since the Medium (and those whose thought is molded by it) does not perceive them, these people are themselves a fantasy: no matter how many millions of such exceptions to the general rule there are, they do not really exist, but have a kind of anomalous statistical subsistence: our moral and imaginative view of the world is no more affected by them than by the occupants of some home for the mentally deficient a little further along the road. If, some night, one of these outmoded, economically deficient ghosts should scratch at my window, I could say only, “Come back twenty years ago.” And if I, as an old-fashioned one-room poet, a friend of “quiet culture,” a “meek lover of the good,” should go out some night to scratch at another window shouldn’t I hear someone’s indifferent or regretful, “Come back a century or two ago”?
-- from the Randall Jarrell essay, "A Sad Heart at the Supermarket"
This was from one of my "micro-adventures," to use the term conferred by uair01. The intent was to get a picture of our impressive new city-county jail building, which -- when I do capture it -- will be posted here along with some descriptive words revealing why it's such a noteworthy public project. So ... presumably that's enough of a "teaser" to stir up interest about that future subject or "coming attraction" as they used to say about movie previews.
But this image obviously doesn't show the jail.
Having walked a few hundred yards through a desolate piece of what seemed like no man's land in hopes of finding a good view of the jail, I hit a dead end, and the view of the new building was still hopelessly obstructed. I started to turn back, but happened to notice this urban campsite tucked away just a stone's throw from where I stood. It seemed to be an ideal location, one in which there would be very little chance of the occupant(s) being viewed or disturbed by curious outsiders. From what I could tell, it was relatively neat and well-constructed. A man -- probably the occupant -- was partially visible. But as far as I know he didn't see me. I decided to take one quick shot, although not the best from a documentary standpoint, and move on without further intrusion.
When I got back to my car, a sheriff's department cruiser was coming out of the parking lot for the Justice Complex or whatever they call it. The vehicle stopped behind my car in the familiar "gotcha blocked now" maneuver, and a lawman -- not in uniform -- got out. He said I had been seen "back there taking some pictures."
I didn't dispute that, deciding the best course was to be friendly and forthcoming. Told him about my hope of getting a pic or two of the new jail, and how I'd had no luck other than coming across the homeless campsite. He noted that "we've got a lot of construction equipment and materials around there," hence the reason for being watchful. We had a brief and (I thought) pleasant enough conversation. He was satisfied and went his way. I did likewise.
In hindsight, I could have taken a different tack, perhaps pointing out that there weren't any "No Trespassing" or "No Photography" signs. By nature, though, I'm not the confrontational type, and if I had gone that route it could well have cost me some time and trouble, at the least. More extensive questioning, for instance, perhaps even an "invitation" to come inside for further discussion.
That was it, but enough I presume to qualify the shot for the "Photos You Got Hassled While Taking" collection.
Fantasy people
"After driving for four or five minutes along the road outside my door, I come to a long row of one-room shacks about the size of kitchens, made out of used boards, metal signs, old tin roofs. To the people who live in them an electric dishwasher of one’s own is as much a fantasy as an ocean liner of one’s own. but since the Medium (and those whose thought is molded by it) does not perceive them, these people are themselves a fantasy: no matter how many millions of such exceptions to the general rule there are, they do not really exist, but have a kind of anomalous statistical subsistence: our moral and imaginative view of the world is no more affected by them than by the occupants of some home for the mentally deficient a little further along the road. If, some night, one of these outmoded, economically deficient ghosts should scratch at my window, I could say only, “Come back twenty years ago.” And if I, as an old-fashioned one-room poet, a friend of “quiet culture,” a “meek lover of the good,” should go out some night to scratch at another window shouldn’t I hear someone’s indifferent or regretful, “Come back a century or two ago”?
-- from the Randall Jarrell essay, "A Sad Heart at the Supermarket"
This was from one of my "micro-adventures," to use the term conferred by uair01. The intent was to get a picture of our impressive new city-county jail building, which -- when I do capture it -- will be posted here along with some descriptive words revealing why it's such a noteworthy public project. So ... presumably that's enough of a "teaser" to stir up interest about that future subject or "coming attraction" as they used to say about movie previews.
But this image obviously doesn't show the jail.
Having walked a few hundred yards through a desolate piece of what seemed like no man's land in hopes of finding a good view of the jail, I hit a dead end, and the view of the new building was still hopelessly obstructed. I started to turn back, but happened to notice this urban campsite tucked away just a stone's throw from where I stood. It seemed to be an ideal location, one in which there would be very little chance of the occupant(s) being viewed or disturbed by curious outsiders. From what I could tell, it was relatively neat and well-constructed. A man -- probably the occupant -- was partially visible. But as far as I know he didn't see me. I decided to take one quick shot, although not the best from a documentary standpoint, and move on without further intrusion.
When I got back to my car, a sheriff's department cruiser was coming out of the parking lot for the Justice Complex or whatever they call it. The vehicle stopped behind my car in the familiar "gotcha blocked now" maneuver, and a lawman -- not in uniform -- got out. He said I had been seen "back there taking some pictures."
I didn't dispute that, deciding the best course was to be friendly and forthcoming. Told him about my hope of getting a pic or two of the new jail, and how I'd had no luck other than coming across the homeless campsite. He noted that "we've got a lot of construction equipment and materials around there," hence the reason for being watchful. We had a brief and (I thought) pleasant enough conversation. He was satisfied and went his way. I did likewise.
In hindsight, I could have taken a different tack, perhaps pointing out that there weren't any "No Trespassing" or "No Photography" signs. By nature, though, I'm not the confrontational type, and if I had gone that route it could well have cost me some time and trouble, at the least. More extensive questioning, for instance, perhaps even an "invitation" to come inside for further discussion.
That was it, but enough I presume to qualify the shot for the "Photos You Got Hassled While Taking" collection.