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A Short Requiem for St. Peter
Over the weekend I went, briefly, to a friend's St. Peter's Fiesta party in Gloucester. St. Peter is the patron of fishermen, of which Gloucester still has some. I knew I wasn't going to know anybody at the party and I wasn't actually in the mood to hang out with people I didn't know, so I ensured that I would have an alienated time by bringing my camera. Given that I was at a party and a festival, there was plenty to photograph. I mostly didn't photograph it.
Instead I photographed the food. The chips weren't as good as they look.
The guacamole was better.
The tofu dogs looked unhappy from the start.
During the cooking process they briefly achieved a sort of tranquility.
It did not last.
Eventually I tired of the food and moved on to surfaces.
Sometimes I don't get past surfaces, but this time I noticed this sphere.
A short metaphor-seizure ensued.
Later I found another one under a bush.
Part of the reason I felt out of place at the party was surely that I always feel out of place in Gloucester. My ancestors may well have fished and fought and died beside these people's ancestors, for all we know, but I am now exactly the outside world that Gloucester struggles to exist in contrast to. I am alien, so I ought to feel alienated.
These people are trying to sustain a dying way of life, and all I can think to do is show up and make fun of their spelling.
They have enough problems.
A dying town holds festivals for its own reasons.
And perhaps we are both best off left alone.
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