Locked In

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In the stockyard I'm, like, hunting. Maybe that's too strong... I like beef stew, especially when the meat is cooked really tender, and the sauce is so thick it almost needs to be chewed. And as I fork through, I'm careful to mix things. You know, carrot and onion for one mouthful, maybe meat and potato for another. It's not a big deal, I'm not manic about it, but the jumbled mixtures add to the dining. Every taste is different.

I think that's what happens to me at the stockyard. i want to mix textures and colors, shapes and shadows. Like the stew, the platter is always the same but each lensful is different. Each time I go back there seem to be new hues, the wreckers are slowly revealing new layers. They are demolishing the place in such slow motion - since I started visiting last summer, they've pulled down about half of the structures and torn up most of the roads. The patterns of utility are disappearing. Leaving behind onions, carrots, and hunks of well cooked meat. Soon there will be little left but unintelligible rubble. Meantime there are locked doors to no place... or empty place... or...