cement boots in san marcos: a photographer’s foggy affair with the unseen
the kind of day that clings to your skin like old band-aids-cold, distant, and refusing to let go. i woke up to this shimmering curtain of clouds, heavy on the humidity, light on the soul. 11.67c might sound mild for the city of perpetual fog (“lick in”, as a local bird told me more than once), but with 85% humidity, you’ve already started sweating before leaving the apartment. my lens fogged up twice, and i about murdered my coffee trying to demist it. but hey, at least the coffee was decent. the bean-slinger at the corner shop, maria, rolled her eyes when i asked if the mountains were visible. her words: “saved you a chair on the bench,” she said, nodding toward the view. classic maria.
> someone outside the post office said, “that’s not cedar creek on the hill-that’s the ghost’s old stomping ground”. don’t argue with strangers, i’ve learned. they’ve already seen the paranormal historian from eldorado roll through with a camcorder last week.
> “don’t waste film on those trees”, another voice said. “the relics are downtown, where the brick walked wrongly”. was this a hallucination? the humidity? either way, i chased it with a 35mm and a prayer.
turns out the downtown ruins-yes, plural-were hiding under ivy like a shy secret. the local, luke (he refuses to say his last name, but his arms tattooed like he’s memorizing solipsism), took one look at my setup and muttered, “buying a tripod for this? you’ll need it”. “what’s wrong with my camera?” “nothing, kid. just what’s right with “you.”
i’ve been crawling through this smog-scented maze of alleys and "abandoned" warehouses, asking people like they’re slot machines for lucky photo ops. the drunk at the taqueria swore there’s a bakery that’s only open 3 days a week. the witch on the bench claimed the market’s scorpion tacos are better than my mother’s. which is damning, honestly. her words exactly: “my mama’s made these with actual salt”-turns out salt’s a strong flavor in this place.
the only constant is the fog. like the city’s breathing, but none of us can say what it’s dreaming. tomorrow’s update might be sunny, but let’s be honest-these clouds? they’re shapeshifters. if they can turn into the spire you see on google, imagine what they’ll do if you’re not looking.
links that might help you avoid the soul-crushing void: unshackle the city’s secrets on tripadvisor, yelp’s venomous critique of the scorpion vendor, and the ethered review that decoded the feels like vs temperature war.
seriously, though-the fog’s hiding something. always does.
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