the brown cordoroys, tan shirt and suspenders struck me as not just old, but distinctly old fashioned. quaint. muted wheat fields belonged behind him, rolling out as far as the eye could see until only a soft blur of blue seperated the landscape from the curve of the earth. but here he was, the side of a busy road, dirty beard invoking thoughts of grit and honest labour, out of place in front of the restaurant advertising pizza deals.

i drove by and thought of how i’d arrange a photograph to capture what i was seeing. capture not the right word. alter, change the actual scene to fit with what i thought it could convey. it reminded me of the other night, the man’s silhouette in a window. the ego’s importance in the idea of symbols. in the idea of meaning at all. that man was probably an apartment-complex-coke-dealer. this man was simply homeless.

thoughts thought and done with by the next light. remembered today when i saw his red suspenders, vintage uniform firehouse red, on a different busy street, parking lot of a mexican food dive spreading out behind him.