Seeing the almost bare trees as antennae—intelligence-gathering stations for an alien umwelt, the rococo feelers of moths.
lonesome hollow
speaking softly so the void
doesn’t reply
What I miss most of all in the colder months: beetles and butterflies, crickets at night, and those delicate ninjas the ichneumon wasps. The way they tap the ground with paired canes, sniffing, listening.
unmarked path
a stick leaning on a tree
for the next hiker
*
Process notes
This was born of the simple desire to film the brown and gray colors of a November forest, on a hike in another hollow nearby. Standing in the same place, I did two slow pans from opposite directions, then thought about combining them with a horizontally split screen. When I tried that in editing, though, it wasn’t as satisfying as simply using two halves of the same shot, one of them reversed.
That hike was yesterday. Today, a hike on my home ground shook loose the text.
It seems as if the Pandemic Season series won’t be ending any time soon. I will probably end up re-naming it Plague Year, echoing Defoe, or something similar.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Self-Quarantine
- Pandemic Time
- Quarantine Walk
- Putting a Garden In
- Face Masks
- Flag of Hate
- Spring Evening
- Brachiate
- How to Care
- Public Relations
- Out of Whack
- Tadpool
- In the Fullness of Time
- Unrest
- Robber Fly
- Truncated
- Independence Day
- Drought
- Augury
- Descent
- Crickets
- Execution
- Arboreal
- Nuthatch
- In Common
- Undivided
- Antennae
- Presence
- Losing Maizy
- Heard on High
- Epiphan’t
- Smell Pox
- Winter Den
- 55
- Unforgetting
- Animist
- Exclusive
- Ephemeroptera
- Song Dogs
- Sproing