WALKING THE DESERT
I came to a place of bullets, by the thousands — some, to casings — others, to spent bullet shells of the brass made. These lie in the sun like golden teeth — knocked out, scumbled in the sand, fragmented and dusted with other litter — charcoal, gun-powdered dust, the black of fused nitro, scented with metallic tinges — a tongue of burned remarks.
All in all, the masculine ground of things spent — mostly, to my take, wastefully. Where, the bullseye? Where, the precision? What, the target?
There are thousands of shotgunned shells, ripped bottles, cans — old signage bullet-holed, cans rusted to the quick: missile pierced cathedrals that glint in the glare.
Ants and spiders, chambered within.
Light shines through.
And the shells, piled — they show a heart of metallic nature, forged from the hunt, the boom, the punctured. And the war against nature.
Still, something good can come of any thing.
tsg | coconino wilderness, arizona
GIRVIN | BUILDING BRANDSTORIES
EXPERIENCE DESIGN | THE STRATEGY OF MEMORY