I got a camera the other day, through a trade. I told my friend that I’ve got a nice router for wood. He wanted that router and besides I wanted a camera. I got it.
So tonight I got to bring out the camera. I had wanted to shoot the town, just what I see, you know, my town. Shoot it like I live here; I know this place. These buildings in disarray are mine.
It’s been awhile since I’ve had my own camera. I’ve been in Goldfield for just over a year now and I’ve never had my own camera to shoot photos on OR video. I take life as it comes to me and that’s just the way it’s been.
And now that I have one again, life has changed for me substantially. Living here and facing the decision of how to dive back into Fishbowling (or not).
Do smelly bums always have blue eyes?
A couple showed up to the Car Forest in a small truck pulling a pop up camper. We talked for a couple minutes and realized, or chose to admit that she’d been reading my blog. All the sudden she asked “Are you the Mayor?”
“Ohhhhh… nooooo, I was the President of the Chamber here. Yeah, that’s me. You read my blog then?” Her name’s Rebecca and her boyfriend/husband is Andrew. They were stopping through coming back from a visit in Mesquite, on the state’s SouthEast angle, originating from North Lake Tahoe.
They had just bought a camper trailer in Vegas as the selection was bigger than Reno’s and the journey was worth it, I surmised. They actually didn’t end up touring the Car Forest. I understand how much they’ve had to asses, traveling. They came inside, instead, and Zak and I served them water and talked about living here. I always get asked by the girls if it’s lonely out here.
After they’d gone, I decided, from then on, I’d always answer that question with “Yes but it gets lonely in the city too.”
I took that camera out to catch the angles of light and feature the hard lit lines, the angles rake at low pivot positions, creating dimension and depth.
How does it make me feel? Stark lighting, evening comes in my town. I’m happy to gain good color in the viewfinder.
Damn I was happy to meet someone who’s been following along back in the real world. It reminds me of the breadth the audience of my blog can gain. I told them about the radio station because I’d be heading here tonight after the photo shoot.
Questions of the breadth of our airwaves ensued. Jokes about BOTH of my listeners listening at the same time, then abound.
Rim light happens when you’re facing the sun, looking West, in other words. Facing away from the sun, every thing’s lit smoothly and evenly. I like to be able to see dust in the air as a shiny truck drives down the slope of a gravel road.
The town is further spaced out in residencies, the further you get from the main drag, which is Highway 95. The highway is also Crook Street from historical layouts of this town. The radio station is housed in a spacious, three store space wooden building with brick walls under the wood, peeled drywall and patterned wallpaper. Our building is across the street from the Goldfield Hotel.
The Goldfield was built around 1907 or ’08 and has been vacant for the majority of that time. In its utilized days, it was the high society place to stay during temporary stays in town. These days, it’s still in nice condition, though obviously out of use with crumbling sidewalks featuring chain link fence surrounding and incredibly dusty windows. You may know this building from the ghost hunting shows on television. As featured in one of tonight’s conversations, it is one of the 7 Gates to Hell. Since none of us even knows what that means, in ramblings, I’ll move on.
Being on Goldfield time means a certain thing here. Life here brings a solace to a person’s responsibility times and also date books. It’s easy to forget which day of the week it is and the date of month is often questionable, as well.
No one’s in a hurry around here.
This town needs a fishbowler®. I live, naturally, at this pace and focus, with me, zooms in and out, sometimes abruptly, to take in wider perspectives. I take it all in.
The houses sit vacant and widely forgotten about. Compounded interest in this former city lay in layers. I had been told recently that a past county commissioner had plots leveled, as such, I’m assuming, were properties of the county. It seemed to have been a piece of a plan to get people here to buy here.
Sally Zanjani’s book “Goldfield” is with me right now. I’ve been reading from this handsome biography of a gold rush boom-and-bust locale of yore. I’m just getting through the first 3rd of the book. I’m learning of the string of entrepreneurs and heathens that built what is a living legacy of a boom town. They got off to a bang. I’m learning that their ambitions were accelerated and all was depleted by convening factors –Both nature and mankind were unkind to the fatalists of this new Old West city.
The pioneers here were banking on a town of rowdy outlaws and determined slash resolute new-Westerners that thought they could wrestle their way to fortune living on the backs of a dirty whisky-fed laboring populous.
Gold can kill. But taking that chance is the American way.
The story city/town’s story features an industrious time of wildly speculative historical calendars-The dust here glittered gold and all that goes with such a pronouncement, this town had. Now we’re just reeling in the years.
A glitter of momentary realization brings me to what it is today to live here, in T20 siding, abandoned washers and dryers and oily rebuilds for windbreaks lining property lines with sagebrush and evening glow is today’s Goldfield. Once in awhile there’s an interesting rooftop to shroud out current day defeatism.
Sitting at the radio station, it’s quiet here-outside the sound booth, anyway. Patty and Dave are doing their live show, inside, with headphones and unscripted lines. Queenie, the dog, rests on the greenroom carpet beside me. Nurse Patty looks up the facts while Dave plays the straight guy, not knowing much about medicine and proud of it. Listeners call in for answers to their prostate questions. It’s the Healthy Hour.
I may sit outside the General Store, now, for awhile with my laptop and work on these artful words. Thanks for reading.
Tonight I’m on a mission to write like a writer. I’ve been reading some instructional books to harness my powers more gracefully. Another beer will get me where I need to be while evening truckers roll through, most without use of engine brake. Thank God for experience.
There’s been a homeless guy in town the past couple weeks. He seems to like it here and that makes me glad. His name is Preacher. We have interesting conversations, he & I, when I see him. Tonight we talk with other locals, on the woodgrain stoop.
Now there’s a whole group outside the radio station and there’s heckling of the live radio announcers.
Preacher and I talk of ghosts and demons. He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t smoke. He wants nothing from me and vice versa. This situation makes for a good useless banter..
We like our ghosts here. We like our paranormal. We like those engaged but not involved in current day life forces. We like death around here it seems.
A good bullshitting session ends with everyone getting their fill of an astute fill of excretion in inconsequential nonsense. The whole point of the game is to rattle off nothing at all that matters to daily life. We all want to get away from what it is that fills our pocketbooks.
Visiting Goldie, similar in stature and temperament to Dave and Patty’s Queenie, pulls off her own bullshitting session, in concurrent dog talk, of course. These two dogs are “good buddies.” The dogs were happy, maybe their human counterparts would take the cue and be courteous and amiable as well, always squelching any attempted puffery of O’Bomney talk.
I should probably record my show now. I’ve got my Mac computer going; it likes to overheat these days. I need it working with me. I’ve got to bounce my show from it to the studio computer so my show can be recorded. I have to edit recorded talk with Dad.
I interviewed him last week and I’m angling to have a “Vietnam Era Episode”, recorded and in the can, episode 18, once this night ends.
Shooting images of these old places we listen for tunes echoed from the past. Ours is a town that questions your motives for driving through without stopping.