Too Busy to Hate

dean

2009-07-12T10:18:00.001-04:00

clermont

2009-07-09T09:26:00.001-04:00

drums

2009-07-07T09:59:00.000-04:00

fourth

2009-07-05T17:49:00.001-04:00

adam shapiro

2009-07-02T12:45:00.001-04:00

untitled

2009-06-27T16:19:00.001-04:00

trash day

2009-06-17T10:05:00.001-04:00

parking lot mechanic

2009-06-13T14:31:00.000-04:00

sorting chips

2009-06-04T18:03:00.001-04:00

critical mass

2009-05-31T16:54:00.001-04:00

choices

2009-05-29T11:59:00.001-04:00

broken fence

2009-05-25T21:12:00.001-04:00

high of 74

2009-05-18T10:14:00.001-04:00

one down, nineteen to go

2009-05-11T13:05:00.008-04:00

I've been gone for weeks. I didn't know what to expect but I needed to walk the streets again and taste the sticky southern air. I go to the store and ask for the cheapest cigarettes they have. The clerk smiles and hands me a box of Pall Malls. She's sweet, smiling contently and gracefully handles the register like this is her dream job on the best day of her life. Her voice is gospel harmony unfiltered and tinged by saintly ruby lips.

My inspiration still hasn't returned and I'm more content to observe rather than take pictures. Children decked in paper hats and peppered in donut glaze frolic in the window of Krispy Kreme. New graffiti blazes a trail across the old apartments behind Marcos'. Scattered buffalo wing bones blanket parts of the sidewalk. The final resting place for chickens is the asphalt graveyards of Atlanta.

The shifties are surprisingly reserved. They eye me but say nothing. One passes me and gives me a nod. His left eye is dark and swollen shut. I don't recognize anyone.

A woman asks a man thirty feet away for money but doesn't acknowledge me as I walk by. Most of her belongings are bundled together in lumpy mounds on the bench while other occupy the nearby trash bin. A battered and open umbrella dangles upsidedown like a bat from her forearm.

When I left it was mild and cool. The sun breaks and I'm sweating before I reach the second hill. The streets are active but nothing looks good enough for a photo. The abandoned bank is beginning to succumb to nature. Its derelict lawn festers with thistles and foxtails. A set of pillows forms a mattress in the old drive through lane.

For the first time I realize there are no whores out and before I think about that, one walks out and asks me for a dollar. I tell her what I tell everyone and she fidgets with her capri pants. Her upper front teeth are missing and she takes a screwdriver from her leg pocket and readjusts it before looking at my face. I offer her a cigarette and she accepts, carefully eyeing a cop who drives by in first gear. She thanks me, calling me sweetie before craning her neck and bobbing up the street.

The car wash is slow and most of the employees cram together on a bench near the barrier wall, smoking and talking. I take a look behind me and the whore is out of sight. I should stop using that term. Women and men on this street don't make ends meet with just one job. You do what you can to survive.

A few hundred yards later, the sun disappears and clouds fill the sky. Before it does, some young people dash down the street, bags in hand. I watch them rush from store front to store front, laughing and yelling. Some sort of scavenger hunt. I consider following them but before I can, they dash past in a fury of smiles and energy. I watch them go and eye the darkness that now chokes the skyline. It's not hot enough to be humid and for the first time since I returned, the air becomes cool. I stop and let it welcome me home.

southbound

2009-04-18T13:27:00.001-04:00

one hundred

2009-04-16T22:30:00.001-04:00

repeat

2009-04-10T12:02:00.001-04:00

the pugilist at rest, then in motion

2009-04-06T22:24:00.001-04:00

support

2009-04-03T23:43:00.004-04:00

I notice a man pull into a parking lot as I walk by. He's driving a minivan. We make eye contact and he smiles at me. I can't remember if he waved, but his facial expression seemed more than just friendly passing. I give him the standard head nod and continue walking. I figure if he wanted to talk, he would of rolled down the window or made another gesture. The truth is I don't really want to talk. It's my experience that when men stop you on Ponce, they're not interested in conversation.

Five minutes later I look up and the same guy has pulled into another parking lot as I'm walking by. This time he rolls down the window. He's middle-aged with a warm smile. He asks me if I'm alright. The question catches me off guard. I stop and think about my response. I wonder if he's being honest or he's on the prowl. I answer yes. His eyes glance around. Them seem to suggest that I shouldn't be here. He asks again, as if to give me a second chance to admit that I need help. Again, I inform him that I'm fine. For good measure, I tell him I live here. He nods and I keep walking.

I hear him slowly drive off behind me. I wonder if he was truly keeping an eye out for troubled people. If so, he's not the first to come here to start looking.

playmakers

2009-03-30T19:36:00.003-04:00

I've tried many times to get permission to take photos at one of the local barbershops. It's a door that's not completely closed, but the futility has worn thin in recent months. I have a new strategy, but the details of it will stay quiet until I'm ready to attempt it. The fact of the matter is that some people are wary of cameras and even more so of strange people. The latter I can relate to.

On a whim however, I went to a different barbershop and walked in. I had never made an attempt to reach out to this place. I told them I wanted to take pictures and no one raised a complaint. I worked uninhibited for a short period of time and no one seemed to care. A couple questions and that was it. Sometimes I'm amazed at how easily people welcome a stranger.

In case of a dead end, I had allotted only an hour to take pictures. The unfortunate part is when you plan ahead for difficult things, it seems you're never prepared for the positive outcome.

terrace hotel

2009-03-23T23:27:00.001-04:00

in the band

2009-03-19T22:27:00.001-04:00

untitled

2009-03-14T18:34:00.000-04:00

merica

2009-03-09T23:46:00.000-04:00

mule

2009-03-03T09:17:00.003-05:00

Mule Skinner MacQueen performs at the Beep Beep Gallery. Note: Apologies for the low quality audio.