TakingITGlobal - Panorama

Published on: Nov 15, 2005

Topic:

Type: Short Stories

https://www.tigweb.org/express/panorama/article.html?ContentID=6592

Today with my sister Jessica's camera, 35 mm, I walked downtown to snap a few shots of the overcast dreary mood of the day; a falling mist on and off; a dusty mud in between the wood of the train tracks; faces hidden behind New York Times; and wool scarves just brought out for the oncoming winter awaiting us here. I took some shots of fire-escapes; the crispy leaves on top of the wet leaves stuck to the metal of the stairs. Pigeons sheltering from the mist in the corners of the rusty bridges. An old water tower. An ancient medicine factory, the shelves still in tact inside; looking in from the broken-glassed windows and beyond the barb-wired fences, I saw the slums and hobo village of my small city of Rahway: now only the pigeons house it. It is where they all assemble together when they are not on the roofs of houses or telephone wires, which seem to never end. Who knows what they discuss? The open bag of chips they found? The soggy bread in front of the bus depot?

I came to a place that I once saw outside of the window when I was riding the train. It was the place of a homeless man, underneath an abandoned bridge that once served as the old railway bridge, but no longer. Clothes scattered like a deck of fallen cards or like pick-up-sticks. Books on a shelf. Newspapers piled up since the early 80's probably, who knows? Beer and whiskey bottles underneath magazines and boots. An umbrella hanging by a protruding bolt attached still to the interior of the bridge. One single hanger on the opposite end hanging up nothing at all, just hanging by itself; maybe this was where his or her coat (if one was possessed) hung. It was gone because, maybe, he or she went down south to Georgia where the air is warmer and easier to survive in, like AL told me the other day he was planning on doing. Then again, maybe the homeless person was there, just buried underneath all the rubble?

There was a fear in me, like maybe what I was doing was ethically or morally or whatever you call it, wrong. Was I invading? Was I crossing over into private property? Trespassing into another's home? I couldn't help it, I don't know what drew me there to this place where messages of graffiti evoke a strong sense of desperation and hopelessness, but somehow give me hope. I snapped around at all angles, hoping maybe I would see something later when I got them developed, maybe the title of a book on the shelf that might appeal to my eye.

I continued on my journey along the train tracks, behind the walls of the city, the underground places of civilization, tripping over rusted spray cans, buried in the weeds and webs. It is my assignment for drawing class to refer to one of these photographs in a drawing. I hope my professor approves.

« return.



by Daniel Brophy
Published on: Nov 15, 2005
Topic:
Type: Short Stories
https://www.tigweb.org/express/panorama/article.html?ContentID=6592


Today with my sister Jessica's camera, 35 mm, I walked downtown to snap a few shots of the overcast dreary mood of the day; a falling mist on and off; a dusty mud in between the wood of the train tracks; faces hidden behind New York Times; and wool scarves just brought out for the oncoming winter awaiting us here. I took some shots of fire-escapes; the crispy leaves on top of the wet leaves stuck to the metal of the stairs. Pigeons sheltering from the mist in the corners of the rusty bridges. An old water tower. An ancient medicine factory, the shelves still in tact inside; looking in from the broken-glassed windows and beyond the barb-wired fences, I saw the slums and hobo village of my small city of Rahway: now only the pigeons house it. It is where they all assemble together when they are not on the roofs of houses or telephone wires, which seem to never end. Who knows what they discuss? The open bag of chips they found? The soggy bread in front of the bus depot? I came to a place that I once saw outside of the window when I was riding the train. It was the place of a homeless man, underneath an abandoned bridge that once served as the old railway bridge, but no longer. Clothes scattered like a deck of fallen cards or like pick-up-sticks. Books on a shelf. Newspapers piled up since the early 80's probably, who knows? Beer and whiskey bottles underneath magazines and boots. An umbrella hanging by a protruding bolt attached still to the interior of the bridge. One single hanger on the opposite end hanging up nothing at all, just hanging by itself; maybe this was where his or her coat (if one was possessed) hung. It was gone because, maybe, he or she went down south to Georgia where the air is warmer and easier to survive in, like AL told me the other day he was planning on doing. Then again, maybe the homeless person was there, just buried underneath all the rubble? There was a fear in me, like maybe what I was doing was ethically or morally or whatever you call it, wrong. Was I invading? Was I crossing over into private property? Trespassing into another's home? I couldn't help it, I don't know what drew me there to this place where messages of graffiti evoke a strong sense of desperation and hopelessness, but somehow give me hope. I snapped around at all angles, hoping maybe I would see something later when I got them developed, maybe the title of a book on the shelf that might appeal to my eye. I continued on my journey along the train tracks, behind the walls of the city, the underground places of civilization, tripping over rusted spray cans, buried in the weeds and webs. It is my assignment for drawing class to refer to one of these photographs in a drawing. I hope my professor approves. « return.