FOURTH WEEK

The end of a long, hot day; bands have been playing in the streets and a few sun-reddened spectators linger in the dust.  I’m helping to dismantle the barriers, re-opening the road.  We lift the long beams and hurl them to the sidewalk where they clack loudly in the heavy  silence.  The security guard from the local library walks past, his starched para-military uniform exchanged for a well-worn chequered shirt, he smiles warmly and joins us in the work.  Soon we have all the roughly stencilled ‘City of Clarksdale’ planks stacked away, their chipped white paint tired under the bright blue afternoon sky.

THIRD WEEK

We were struck by a huge storm earlier this week, the clouds sat low and heavy in the sky – such monstrously dark things, almost purple, writhing in the muggy air, threatening.  Then, all at once they burst, a torrential downpouring of sweet, refreshing water.  The sky lit up with lightning and the streets were quickly submerged.  Obviously, I had to go for a walk.  The only looney bastard struggling down the gushing pavements, clutching his little umbrella tight against the angry wind, grinning maniacally at the novelty of it all.  

Clarksdale - Second Week

Walking home in the sticky heat of the end of another day, crossing the long bridge over the sluggish green waters of the Sunflower, the sun a fiery red glare in my eyes.  The pavements are all cracked and broken, like someone’s attacked them with a sledgehammer, grass and weeds grow up in all the countless cracks.  The lawns are all perfectly manicured and most blocks sport little ‘for rent or sale’ signs, the numbers to call all long since washed away by time and rain.  Big old trees line much of the street, providing sweet dappled relief from the sun.  Two young girls play on one of the lawns, spinning and laughing, their tightly braided hair shining.  They stop as I pass, point with eyes wide, ‘Momma, momma!  That’s a white man!  A white man!’ and from the porch behind them, a deep and tired voice says ‘Yea, but he also a man.’  And I laugh and continue walking.

Clarskdale - First Week

The plane trip was like any other trans-Pacific flight – long, boring and left me with a neck that felt like it had been put through a wringer and then driven over by a car.

The uniformed gruffness of the customs officials, all para-military machismo in their crisp blue uniforms, but smiling warmly when told by the gangly Aussie that he’s off to Graceland.

Beers at LAX – quaint, faux-bar bars with grid iron on countless flatscreens so that you can’t but watch the heavily armoured men dashing back and forth on the neatly measured green fields.  Talking to a few friendly American commuters, learning their life stories over just a few pints and having the minutae of NFL rules and strategy served up in a concise and enthusiastic manner.  The college team from New Orleans has golden helmets, what a sight!

ANOTHER WEEK (ACTUALLY POSTED c.JAN 2013, I CLICKED THE WRONG BUTTON SOMEWHERE)

Visit to the Sanitarium

ANOTHER WEEK - The Local Bar (Now with Totally Random Photos!)