Where does it come from, this longing I have to dip and tiptoe through drowned marshes under highway overpasses?
You could blame it on the imagery used so lusciously throughout the first season of True Detective. If you wanted to take it further back, you could go and pin it on fine-art photographer Richard Misrach. Or simple blame me and my continuous binging of southern-gothic flavored music, that instinct to listen to Johnny Cash while driving dusty Texas roads, trailer parks and abandoned cowboy towns littering the landscape.
Either way it ends with me digging my hands into the dry, cracked cement of an unused bridge to pull myself up onto it, so I can get a better view across. It ends with me breathing in the singular scent of earthy green and marshy water and listening to the sound of my feet squishing into none-too solid ground the cars in the near distance almost a world away.
It’s beautiful out here.
to help get you into that feel,