“The first to command my attention was approaching Jackson as I came from the west.
I took a wide curve, and reached the crest of a sloping hill.
The orifice that was once the door was wide open, almost beckoning.
The windows were dark caverns, and the roof line a tired spine. Any remaining paint was furled like newspaper caught on the edge of a flame.
The path to the facade was clear and well worn, almost as if it had willed to outlast the rest.
The most grand of structures are overtaken slowly again by the earth – the decrepit walls, porous and swollen with the past...
I study the uneven plane of the steps, and can picture the feet that used to bound inside.
A wash of wear exerts a vice grip on the faded frame and warped floor boards – once gathering places for swelling families and visiting neighbors.
I trace the lineage of the vines to the gaping window frames.
I wrap myself in the curtains that drag the floor and pad broken panes, a seeming afterthought, in various states of warmth and decline.
When I was little and a storm would grip our neighborhood, my mother would move me to the guest room – afraid it would mean the end of the aging tree in our front yard. I glance to the window and paint a vivid picture of the eyes that would meet mine in such rain, cautious of the creaking limbs overhead.
The film captures the soft grain, often an inevitable fuzz that clouds the image and the senses.
Sometimes I think the structures themselves rebel against the lens, determined to remain marred and obstructed.