The oregano in the garden was already out of control by July of last year, and by the end of this February, it was a carpet covering a quarter of the whole bed. To pull it up I had to use a mix of clipping, snagging with a metal rake, and just plain gripping and grunting. The roots of the oregano were like a mist in the soil, a nebula of tendrils refusing to let go.
Washington County, Mississippi, Polaroid SX-70 (all photos 2021)
I wasn’t even really sure what oregano was for; I hadn’t planted it, and the person who lived in this house before me didn’t say. It smelled nice, if subtle, but unlike the basil and rosemary I added to the garden, I never felt compelled to brush my fingers against it and smell them, or to sneak a tiny bite of it to savor it.
I wanted the space for bell peppers and arugula. The stalks of last year’s pepper plants, thick as two thumbs and dry as rocks, lifted up easily.
Indianola, Polaroid 600
Maybe I should take some pictures of the garden, I think now, sitting at my desk and looking at it through the window. By picture I mean Polaroid, a “real” photograph, one that will last. Of course in their way they last less than the ones from the glass rectangles in our pockets, and over decades may crack and fade. Like us, I suppose.
What I’m guessing is a ‘55 or ‘56 Ford Fairlane, Sunflower County, SX-70
This morning the sky is the color of a robin’s egg and the clouds are slight matte floofs. Even though it’s beautiful I still have this fall wistfulness, maybe it kind of feels like fall even; maybe I just miss football.
I’m wondering if any of the seeds I planted are going to sprout, and when. I didn’t do any tomatoes, big or cherry, having kind of decided I don’t really like tomatoes too much (I do like tomato sandwiches and tomato pie if there’s a good crust and a lot of cheese). I just remembered I planted radishes, and am now wondering when the last time I had a radish was. A decade ago? Two?
Washington County, SX-70
What I really want to come in are the jalapeños, habing spent last year tossing them in everything from sauces to omelets on a whim. Everything was fresh and spicy and new-feeling. But then I had just moved into a new house, after years of hoping and looking, and everything felt fresh and new and suprising. It still feels that way, months later, perhaps because I’m still slowly finding places for the endless series of boxes tucked snug in the corner of the dining room and populating the library.
A work in progress, I tell myself, and on this morning, let it be true.
I’ve got two matted and signed prints of this “Flying Horse,” printed on Canson Baryta paper, if you would like one. The Polaroid is reproduced at just around 10% bigger than in real life, which I feel like holds up well under glass.
Over across the River, on 82 in Louisiana, Polaroid 600
If you would like one, drop me a line; I’ll send it your way for a reasonable donation to a food security charity in your community.
“NO WEAPON” is this week’s installment of GORJUS, a newsletter devoted to art and life in the South on instant film. If you like it, consider sending it to a pal. Just like anything, some weeks are better than others. I’m gorjusjxn on Instagram, and you can see more Polaroids at McCartyPolaroids.
I would love a print of the flying horse. I also moved to a new home last year and am slowly getting it sorted. I’m planning a photo gallery for the hallway and I think I should stick to square format pictures. I have one of Peter Mitchell’s scarecrows ready to be framed. I did have another of his prints and I’m still looking for it amongst the house move chaos. I think my teenager may have ‘disappeared’ it but I really hope not. I keep searching for ‘Mrs Clayton and Mrs Collins’ in hope. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that - being careless with artworks is probably not going to go in my favour. But I am the most dedicated reader of your substack.