Photography, when paired with Tourism, is a very frightening thing. It does not speak of experience; it speaks of conquest. That is why I don't really take photographs anymore. When I do, I try not to be part of the picture - so that my photographs would not tell a story about what I have conquered, but the story of what conquered me.



This story is about how I spent my most quality hours this weekend, at the side of a small road, listening to the sounds of my neighborhood.



This was where I sat, enveloped by the breeze.
You can hear the breeze and see it create these pretty waves in the fields.




If you sit here and close your eyes, you will hear all the different sounds of birds, of toads, of crickets and of living things I do not know how to identify from the sounds they make. And if you follow their lines as a sound scape, you have an instant symphony.




Occasional cars pass through this road. When they do, it's one at a time, so you can hear the their engines go past behind you, and notice how the pitch of the sound it makes changes as it goes into the distance.



More of the orchestra pit.



The white things standing out of the fields are cranes (okay, crane-like birds i don't know their names).





Do you go to the city, or does the city come to you?



We don't raise a white flag in the face of the bulldozer. We raise a black flag instead.





Man at work. You can hardly tell, because he is one with his surroundings.



At night the humans go to sleep, but the fields continue their nightlife.