Photos from a WestVirginiaVille Life
You have to wonder. He must have parked his gold-rimmed car just so, there in the muffler shop parking lot in the East End of Charleston, W.Va.. For it is not such a special car as all of that (or maybe it is — an old Pontiac Catalina?), except for the fact he rides around, king-like, on golden spokes. Now, you, too, oh, momentary passerby, can appreciate them in all their glory.
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I do not engage enough with this (Photoshopped filtered) scene, which you will find in my second floor office, a pink room where much happens, not just meditation in front of this ceramic green Buddha, his little brother Buddha and — this week — a fresh sunflower from Krogers, which was selling them a half-dozen at a throw. Sunflowers fade fast, a week and a few days and they are flopped like drunken bums, head and chest tipped over. Annica, impermanence, the Buddha called it, this drooping, fading and falling over of all things. The very nature of things, it is, to be golden and showy as a sunflower one day, to be flopped and dead-headed the next. Get used to it and you won’t be so surprised, crestfallen, depressed and overwhelmed when the golden tan of your glory days fades, too. Easier said than done, of course. which is why I keep a lot of Buddhas around the place. To remind me what of I am missing.
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If I went to church … But, wait, here’s my church.
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My 18-year-old daughter, like most of all of her generation, is a native citizen of Digitalistan, the country in which half or more of one’s life force and attention is directed into the uber-shared reality of webworld. This is an un-retouched photo from an upcoming series of photos devoted to young web citizens and their screens.
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Meanwhile, out in the world of rust and rain, this angel caught my eye while strolling one afternoon in the high, sprawling and wonderful old-school Spring Hill Cemetary which overlooks Charleston, W.Va. I dislike — despise might be the better word — the new fashion in flat-stone cemeteries that make them forlorn, impossible to navigate acres of nothingness. The triumph of the groundskeepers and beancounters. Give me that old-time cemetery, with phallic obelisks, ornate mausoleums and grieving angels overlooking the forgotten dead, fractured by decades of storm and cold. Annica, indeed.
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westvirginiaville.com photos by douglas imbrogno
licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://westvirginiaville.com.
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