Townes Ferry Pike

Townes Ferry Pike is a lyrical interpretation of Middle Tennessee. The images function as metaphors for the duality of past and present in the Southern social landscape. Portraits of everyday life reveal a search for shared experience and desire.

I.

It’s quiet around here. The only two noises are the trains going by at night or Kenny and Lee going out for a smoke. Most of my outings begin and end with a conversation with them. They ask me how I’m settling in. I ask them about their life before and what’s ahead. Houston, North Carolina, Stockton, they’ve been all over. I’ve been all over recently too. Rohnert Park, San Diego, Rochester, and now Nashville.

Buster was found on the backyard lawn near the tree line. Still sopping wet from birth, Kenny picked her up and brought her to the back porch. He’s never had to care for a doe before. After a call to the local animal control, Kenny fed Buster fresh milk, chickens’ eggs, and tomatoes to keep the baby deer alive. It didn’t take long for Buster to assimilate into her new environment.

One night, Kenny found Buster asleep on the back porch by the chickens, cat, and dog. All asleep in perfect harmony. The next morning, Buster was gone.

II.

There are often moments throughout the day when I think I see something moving out of my periphery. Reflections from windows and shadows on walls become mice running along countertops or mysterious figures peering in from dark corners. I can’t help but look up every time and be convinced it will be the latter. Only to be relieved, yet slightly disappointed, that it isn’t.

When I first moved to Tennessee, I thought I was seeing the same fields Ulysses, Delmar, and Pete ran through while handcuffed together. When I would go down to the river, I thought I would happen upon churchgoers being baptized in the water. Maybe even be serenaded by the songs of beautiful sirens as they lay along the banks. Every time I looked up, though, my convictions weren’t true; and I was left slightly disappointed, but not yet relieved.

The South that exists in my periphery only exists temporally. That’s not the silhouette of Tommy Johnson with his guitar or big Dan Teague sitting underneath an oak tree. They’re not the mice running along countertops nor mysterious figures peering in from dark corners. No, they’re the reflections from windows and shadows on the walls that exist outside of my periphery – outside of my temporal idea of the South. For that, I am no longer slightly disappointed. I am relieved.