winterlamaster winterlamaster

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Davis Bell  Commercial/Editorial/Reportage(🎬📷🎥)Let me tell you a story. Currently: New Article! See link

Gonna be out of service for a few days gang. See you this weekend.

Crossing the bridge into Belle River in Pierre Part headed South from Bayou Corne. On the left behind the trees is Graveyard Island, on the right is a big grass covered levee that rises, a slope, up about 60-70 feet. Down on the level of Hwy 70 tucked under green branches across tall grass fields are the places where these river folk stay. Mossy covered trees and modest houses , often times a trailer or a shack assembled with a variety of seemingly found materials plunked down towards the water. Avoca Island Cutoff is the liquid highway for this area. Boats pulled up at the docks of the Belle River stores , familiar greetings at S&D bait as gas cans are filled, cold, cold soda is pulled out of the fridge. The day passes on slowly. Little Tensas Bayou runs high in the levee, above the old river, above the road, above the homes. A viper on the map as it lays towards Morgan City, perhaps languishing as it moves muddy water South. It's a resting beast now, aware of its place above a fragile town on an old river in the old forest of the old bayou. As the ripples and wake play along Belle River shores , fish tales are told, and the sound of old cottage screen doors as they swing closed swim in the summer air. There is a presence behind the slope, over the wall of the levee but I look towards the river as I head on towards the Gulf.

At a quiet crossroads I pulled over. The warm gravel lane laid out along the boundary of an old homestead. The ground, still damp from the earlier rain, seemed fresh. To my right the old asphalt continued. Carrying commerce, strangers,and travelers from places I haven't been yet, going to places I don't know exist. These crossroads out here on the trail are powerful. Fateful deals can be made here. Unspoken contracts signed. Whispers of the deals done echo on still nights. Murmurs in empty bars, on quiet porches, as skies grow dark and the air becomes still. Under the high sun or the shade of night on these intersecting roads, choices come to call. Some have found their way here by virtue. Some compelled by fear. As they step onto the soil they need to remember, the long road behind them holds the deed and that record is bound. No matter. These places care less about why you're standing here and more about which way you'll go. Take stock before the ink is writ as the road gives no quarter.

Just past the bridge down the road from Morgan City I pulled over. Across the road giant nets hung from tall frames unmoving. The road was busy, the town was not. Big trucks and old sedans moved on down the roads. The opaque sky did little to minimize the heat. Even without a visible Southern sun the heat was everywhere. "I sure could go for an ice cold Mellow Yellow about now." I muttered to myself while looking through the front of the mouldering Shop-A-Lot. Shelves empty, aisles in disarray, humidity resting on the once cool, air conditioned walls. The draw bridge sounded its alarm, slowly splitting itself, tilting skyward. I edged out between the slowing cars onto highway 90, turned on the AC, and pointed towards Texas.

Headed north from the Gulf of Mexico the smell of pine sap in the air. @juanathantyler singing me a song. I have the windows down and the humid air of Southern Louisiana combs through my hair on highway 90. Bayou towns coming and going outside my windows and old mossy oaks and derelict fishing boats lean towards the waterways I can glimpse only for a moment. I'll take my time through these parishes. I'll pace myself on these roads. Because I want to breathe it all in.

Last one from Dallas for a while. @silasnello under gods light in the great state of Texas.

Rainy days and Mondays.....

Rainwater filled fields reflecting the late day sky. Clouds, like a flaneur, on the horizon. Distant out buildings and the sky take on the Western equivalent of dutch light. Maybe the mood is more Terrance Malik. Dragon flies heavy and dark daintily sit on the stray stalks of tall grass as I walk up the berm past the old gate and across the dry gravel road. I needed a moment. The moving air was warm as it rippled the gentle flow in the tuned field. It pulled the hem of my shirt and pushed my hair askew. Other travelers passing on the road to my left, the air moving around their cars an abrasive hiss in the quietness of the day. Soaking in the Louisiana country I stood for a few more moments, watching the sky.

After watching Streets of Fire it is fitting to hang out with Dallas friends at a bar that hasn't changed since 1983. I had a water FYI.

One last moment in Dallas before the rain arrives. @silasnello

Congratulations to @briantcity your focus and dedication really showed tonight. Thank you and @da_rulk for allowing me a peak into your world. 📸me.

The afternoon grew overcast but the heat maintained. I'm behind Main Street. This farm supply store sits there too. Raspy pops and scrapes as the corrugated skin shifts uncomfortably, almost echoing my sentiments in the 98 degree humidity. "Swift's", it reads on the siding, almost matching the tone of the sky behind as it sits. A couple drives by in an old Ford Explorer, looking my way. I lift my hand to them, the road travelers sign of "I'm friendly.". They wave back, "We are friendly too.". A small acknowledgment but it carries weight out here amongst citizen strangers. I turn and make my way back to the car, looking forward to the next leg of the trip. I turn one last time towards the old building and the mill. I raise my hand to them, "I'm friendly.". The storm moves closer.

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