site sits

In my last site sit, I had noticed the glass bottle and a couple of tin cans scattered about ten feet away, but I chose instead to look beyond them and admire the trees, the leaves, the sounds and feelings of the woods. After laying down to watch golden-red light wrap around boughs and seep into shadows—the same “liquid light... drawn up like sap” Abby wrote about—listening to birdsong amidst an electric hum from over the hill, I slowly sat up and quickly took note of the aluminum can sticking out from the leaves not three feet away. I glared.

The trees were glowing as I sat down. It’s easy to see them out of the corner of your eye, a momentary receptacle for the globe of fire dipping below the horizon. A sunset has a name that’s clear; I’m not sure what one would call that which stands opposite to it. That is, what to call the red, orange, yellow, gold, pink of the opposing clouds, the clouds to the east. It’s like watching the person behind you in a glass window—you get the gist of it but the details aren’t there. Anyway, there weren’t clouds this time, instead it was just the trees. They hit that perfect moment first, when their naked bark, lacking foliage, blazes nothing less than a brilliant gold.

The weather said it was 18 degrees outside and I could hear wind blowing against the building so I bundled up. Coat scarf wool gloves the ski mask I save for special very cold occasions. Outside under the tree on the hill it is very cold but it's a beautiful day to be outside. The sky was so blue and the sun was so bright. This week, the geese were on the upper sports field. They were so loud. As I sat on the bench, I started thinking about what I would write in this post; specifically I thought about how to translate my experience into something that people could read. I haven't had any great insights during my site sits and I'm not sure why someone would want to read a straight description of a generic sounding spot on a college campus.

The Feeling of Being Watched

Each time I’ve gone to my scape so far I have felt as though I was being watch. Of course this doesn’t make sense to me because the pitch is in a secluded place. The only people who would see me are those walking to and from their cars in the school of social work parking lot. So where are the eyes? In the trees? The wind? I can’t give a name or a face or a semblance of an identity to what or who it is that I feel is watching. It also occurs to me that this could just be my way of projecting my feeling of being intrusive upon the grounds of the pitch at this time of year.

I visited my location early on Thursday and was slightly saddened to find that it had been tarnished by broken beer bottles and cigarette stubs. I was looking forward to returning to the area that for the last two weeks had been my place of refuge. All the emotions and feelings that had been building up throughout the week seemed to rush to my brain all at once and I couldn't decide what exactly I was feeling. It seemed unreasonable for me to be so annoyed and upset by the fact that my spot had a couple broken glass pieces but it made me feel weird to think about other people not using the location the way I was.The rest of my surroundings seemed the same though.

A happy coincidence.... due to being slow on typing up my thoughts, I have a bit more to add that will make this outside post sort of two parts.

I decided to visit my site yesterday at sunset, which was lovely, and it's interesting looking back on it now and reflecting the next day. I can't say whether it is harder or easier, better or worse, having had a night to absorb and reflect on my short visit. I climbed down the hill behind Batten to my site, over clumped and frigid leaves that crucnhed satisfyingly beneath my feet as I walked, and then over frozen snow trodden over only by animals (and me). I was watching the ground carefully as I stepped, attempting not to fall and observing all the animal tracks in the snow. There were prints from deer and raccoons and other unidentifyable animals.

I left my apartment with a determined stride, patches of snow crunching under my rain boots, cigarette in hand. I paused in the road, the place where my hair gets caught in the early morning sunlight, to slowly close my lips around the filter and pull at the deep orange embers. This cold winter morning seemed oddly warm, maybe because the sunlight and sky were saturated hues of yellow and blue--tempting me to hope for spring.

I think I like ice alot more than snow. Snow is pretty and all, but all it really does is slow me down. Ice can be potentially life-threatening, but that's the fun of it. It gives me a nice rush. Walking through the labyrinth today, I had to switch between walking on fresh ground, ice, and snow. Snow and fresh ground are just too predictable though. I never knew when I was stepping on ice, but even if I did it was still interesting to see whether I could keep my balance or slip. At times, it felt like that moment when you're climbing into a bounce house with only socks on. The other great thing about ice is its ability to keep the shape that it was frozen in. Rewalking the path again, I saw a couple of my footprints from the last time I walked through.