A Sort of Homecoming

Stretching weary muscles I groan and tumble out of bed. 4:00 AM never gets easier no matter how many times I complain about it. I hate the nauseated, slightly hung-over feeling that lies in the pit of my stomach until the sun rises, the grittiness of my eyes and the inability to find the light switch in the dark. At this hour it's difficult for me to remember for whom and why I promised this torture.

My puppy doesn't even twitch his ears as I get dressed and pull my boots on. I try turning on every light in the house in a desperate attempt to convince my body that it's time to be upright. The ploy fails.

This morning was a long one, but it was also long in coming. So much has happened in the two months that I have been out of exploring commission, and I don't regret the choices that I made. I do miss my old friends, my casual companions of similar insanity levels and vastly different backgrounds. I miss having my entire season's schedule so full of plans that I neglect my family, my other friends, my housework and my home life. But now it feels like years since I have been able to work in this medium and pair it with writing, and this hiatus has deleterious effects on my mood. When I cannot be creative on a regular basis my psyche takes a severe blow; I get mean, bitter and volatile. While life is spinning too fast to tell heads or tails I had to promise myself (and those who have to deal with me!) that I will take half a day to step back, purge and mentally refocus.


I told Vandemar Electric that I would return, but it was 3 months before I could see him again. While in some ways nothing had changed, there many ways in which they had. And, as usual, it saddened me. First, however, was the thrill of charging into a sleeping, breathing building and feeling high from the cold and slightly damp scent of mildew on concrete. These buildings do breathe, albeit slowly, and it is the breath of both life and death. Although the day was sunny, still and warm you can feel the whisper of cool air brushing against the door frames and whooshing up the stairs like ghosts of children. Like I wanted to, had I not been 20 years too old loaded down with gear and decorum.

As expected, the creative block slammed down upon entering the building. It never matters if it is new territory or old. Every day is different, every hour the sun moves across the broken ceilings and through jagged windows like a huge sundial. Knowing this and realizing that every moment is unique and changing only adds to that panic. I try to talk myself out of it, to breathe and relax and approach each line of the grid independently of the next moment but... ah, you know how it goes.

My first visit here last July was an exploration of a Steampunk Wonderland. That much had not changed: the turbines sit chilly and silent, chunks of concrete from the ceiling cluttered every surface like post-apocalyptic coral. But I did not want to speak to the giant sea creatures today because I had other intents in mind. In the silence I let my companions wander in their own directions. I was feeling timid but not afraid, at least not of corporeal harm. We had a different battle to fight, my muse and I, and it promised to be a long and very private one.



For the first 5 hours I considered, examined, climbed, crouched, stared, twisted, composed, and deleted. Nothing worked and nothing truly spoke to me. For 5 hours I was unconcerned, perhaps thinking that I just hadn't Found It Yet, when there is probably some truth in that. Maybe the light that morning wasn't so good, either? It's always very hard to tell in an abandonment. I managed to get out of the turbine hall and into the newer buildings as well as some of the less-industrial offices. I climbed up rusty catwalks and sought new perspectives and new physical challenges. (This did nothing except prove just how much I need to work on my upper body strength) After 5 hours my friends had left me again, and I found Zen in solitude.

A chair posed at a makeshift wooden table, the top littered with yellowed newspapers. Jugs of drinking water still stacked and unopened. The infirmary, cleared of furniture but haunted with shadows of the injured. A rainbow of hues exposed in the layers of flaking paint. A fuse box hidden in a corner still marked with tags describing services performed in 1949. All these things and more are what make buildings like this alive to me while on the surface it seems cold and dead. Is this really a new revelation? Of course not, but I think that each and every one of us forgets the most obvious things when they can't see the trees for the forest.


Industry and rust are my first loves, but there will be a time when I may have to hang up my laurels and give up the art of regularly photographing these buildings. Part of me is tired but the majority is feeling my responsibilities and the stress of fulfilling other obligations. While my enthusiasm and energy will determine if/when that happens, I hope that my friends will forgive me -- or at least not forget all the moments we endured and shared.

I will always want to capture, learn and create. I am convinced now that this is my purpose in life. Hopefully the people who surround me will not change as quickly as my subjects.

Please, and thank you.