Saturday, March 22, 2003
How Irwin Allen produced my day off.
Kristin and Parker went south to spend the day with a friend, while I got to have six hours or so all to myself. I was bound and determined to go and DO something in my free time - I wasn't going to get on the computer, and I wasn't going to stay in the house and eventually find myself doing chores. I decided to head into Gainesville and practice my photography, which I have neglected in recent months. I was going to cover the Peace Rally downtown, then go and take pictures of Hogtown Creek down in the nature preserve.
I finally arrived downtown, only to discover the last of the protestors packing up. It seemes that protesting only lasts a set number of hours on any given day. On Thursday, there were hundreds of protestors near the University. At the same time on Friday, there were only five, and they had to compete with the Hare Krishnas. Perhaps one day of rallying is considered enough - or perhaps it's incovenient to protest on a Friday - after all, it is the weekend.
Undaunted, I set forth to find Hogtown Creek. I found a small side road, and a patch of roadside parking near a large iron gate protecting a large,m decaying Spanish-style mansion that spoke of Faulkner and wisteria, and hyperdistilled dust. The azaleas were in full bloom, and an inviting path snaked through the palm fronds and slender pines, beckoning the unassuming and unwary traveller such as I. I stepped into the labyrinth, determined to make the stream and capture the image of green and gold and tannish brown water that danced in my head.
The path snaked around branches and trees, gulleys, and ditches. The entire forest floor showed signs that in the wettest years it acted as a brackish swamp, and the recent floods had flooded some of these gulleys. The hot weather of the past few days had altered this landscape once again. The creek had subsided, leaving these snaky tendrils throughout the preserve, seperated from the steady flow and sitting, tepid and stagnant. Tadpoles swam furiously back and forth, as if their motion could will their watery prisons back to its open beginnings. Above the tadpoles, mosquito larvae danced along the surface, in the tens of thousands.
It was then I began to hear the persistent whining in my ears. I turned around, to see that I was leading the advance of D-Day in miniatures. Wave after wave of small, armored bombers floated behind me, ready to reach their target and unleash their arsenal. More than a few found their mark, and soon I found myself walking faster and faster to keep ahead of that flying flotilla of irritating needles.
I reached the bank of the stream, and began the process of unfurling my tripod, while still moving ever forward. While swatting at one of my persistent attackers, I dropped the load of film I was carrying. As I bent to retrieve it, I could feel the mosquitos alight along my arms and legs. I quickly lurched forward, making a double back to where I wanted to take my photo. I reached the location, abadoned the tripod, and made a second circle back to it. Eager to take my photos and make my way back out of the wood, I reached into my photo bag, to discover that I had neglected to bring my camera with me. Inside, I found the second, black and white camera, which lacks an operable light meter. I gathered the tripod and moved on, deciding to continue on my path to get out of the stream rather than go back through the gauntlet of whining behind me.
I soon found that my path turned into a morass of dead ends , leading to even more and more of the small fingers of mosquito nurseries, rippling in the still air, I circled back and back again, over crackling timbers I was sure held some venemous snake, some sun bathing gator, or a nest of yellow jackets. Finally, I made my way to the road, walking through a large stand of barbed vines. As I walked back to the car, I came again to the gate of the Faulkner mansion, standing even in the sun like some Poe or Lovecratian edifice of menance and gloom. I pulled out the black and white camera, ready to take one picture so the day would be for naught. I judged the lighting mentally, feeling the mosquitos cloak my arms, and composed the shot. Then - nothing. The camera was out of film.
I trudged to the car, drove back to Newberry, bought some bactine, some wine coolers, and a burger, and then back to the house. And now I find myself on the computer, and doing chores. It's funny - now that I have had a day to myself, I don't know what to do with it. Except make sure I buy some Off next time I go to capture pristine Florida.
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