Five On Six

I've been asked to open a show next March for the amazing Jack WIlliams (the show is tentative at the moment), so I've begun to brush up on my playing. I've pushed my songwriting and playing so far to the backburner that the other day, my guitar threatened to put itself on eBay!

I will get thirty minutes, so that means about six or seven songs (mine tend to be rather short, so maybe even eight).

It's an honour to have been asked, and a greater honour to be associated with Jack in this way. For the ten or so years that I've been involved in the folk music business ("folk music business" — that's almost a contradiction of terms, I realize!), Jack has been one of my favourite people.

(Stupid) American In Paris

Well, today was my first full day here... I had fallen asleep rather early last night and was up by about 7:00am (that's 1:00am to you in the Eastern time zone), and after emailing and blogging, I got out of here at about 10:30.

It was quite a beautiful day for most of the day... big clouds rolled in at around noon, but nothing rain-related; it was a rather blustery day as well.

After stopping around the corner for an orange, I headed immediately for Boulevard Saint-Michel so as to get to the Seine in the vicinity of Cathédral Notre-Dame de Paris (note the de Paris part! Heh!). I didn't spend as much time as I thought I would there as it was — as you might expect — loaded with tourists. What was surprising to me was that there was a mass going on at the same time! I took a few photos there — one was of a couple of girls (sisters, I'm guessing) who were taking each other's photo with the enormous expanse of the church interior behind them.



I left the church and walked a bit along the west bank of la Seine... looking for a good shot of the cathedral from that angle, but didn't find much of interest. There is a beautiful section behind the Cathédral with trees and benches... very photogenic, but a garbage truck was on duty. Along the river were gobs of newstand/souvenir booths which I resisted for the time being. I was wishing I spoke French... I would have loved to engage some of the vendors in conversation — either about their art or what they were selling.

I walked along the river in the direction of Tour Eiffel, grabbing a few shots here and there. There was a sax player on the opposite side of the river, his music reverberating under one of the bridges and seeming to hang in the air. This was near the Palais Royal Musée du Louvre, which I passed by today, instead walking through Jardin des Tuileries. It was here that I snapped my first picture of Tour Eiffel that I decided at the moment would be called "The Tower For The Trees"...



I took a few more panoramic shots in le jardin before heading back to the streets. I glimpsed Arc de Triomphe from near Champs-Élysée, but walked across the river in the direction of Eiffel... it was after visiting Eiffel that I got lost. Not a bad thing, really, as I discovered some interesting areas of the city. As for getting lost, I had a map with me and somehow misread where I was. Also, there are a few incidents where a rue and a boulevard share the same name. That could have been my problem. As I said, getting lost wasn't such a bad thing, it's just that I had just bought a bag of groceries and had to carry it around the entire time!

Speaking of the groceries, I decided to avoid the difficulty of ordering food at a restaurant (and I refuse to eat at McDonalds -- yet!), so I figured the easiest thing would be to select groceries for a couple of days, take it to the cashier, say, "Bonjour!" and "Merci!" then be on my way. Well, the best laid plans... I was told (in French, of course) that I needed to weigh the bananas (she spoke little english but was able to get that out). After I went back to do that, and after paying for the food, she asked me more questions... I had no clue. She was pointing to bags on the wall. I had no clue. Finally, the cashier next to her noticed we were having a problem and asked my cashier if I spoke english, then explained to me that I had a choice of two sized bags for purchase. (I was told that there is a campaign to reduce the number of discarded bags.) While I didn't have to purchase a bag, it was a good thing as the bag had a more substantial handle, which made carrying the bag FOR TWO HOURS a little easier.

NOTE: I have been having trouble posting via Blogger, so my posts are likely going to be a bit delayed... I have a whole 'nother day to write about but my problems with Blogger have messed up my timeliness with posting.

Paris

                                          Paree! by phi

I have arrived in Paris! The flight from Detroit went very well... there was a crying child only a few seats in front of me that I was afraid would never stop; but he did.

I sat next to a woman returning to France after ten days in the states with her son and several others. She is from Brittany (a three-hour train ride from Paris) and had many more miles of travelling ahead of her as she was to leave for Spain within a few hours of returning home.

Paris skies were grey as we landed at Charles DeGaulle airport (CDG), and after making a quick call to my host, Callixte (say kah-LEEKST), I found where to buy my train ticket for the city. There were a couple of delays along the way; I also managed to fall asleep on the train, waking myself up with my own noise!

Callixte was at the station as planned (he'd heard of the delays) and we headed back to his place, a very short walk from Port Royal station. After getting acquainted with his computer and taking care of emails, I went out for a walk in what was very quickly dimming light. Soon, a light rain began to fall sporadically as I walked up Boulevard du Montparnasse to Boulevard Saint-Michel, then around Jardin du Luxembourg (Luxembourg Gardens) via Rue de Vaugirard and Rue d'Assas, where I passed an elderly man walking with his hands clasped behind his back, clasping a rosary. I wished I'd had enough light for a photograph.

I walked a bit more, then decided to head back to the apartment as the rain began falling a little heavier. Callixte arrived home shortly afterwards and we went for dinner, eventually ending up at Café Royale (if memory serves); I can't recall what I ordered by name, but it was some kind of fish casserole (cod, I think) with a salad. I had a fine French beer — Heineken — to drink. Hah! Upon returning to the apartment, I pretty much passed out while Callixte chatted online. I didn't hear him go to bed but he said that he went fairly early. Methinks my presence is cramping his style a bit as my bed (a futon) is in the same room as the computer. I am going out now... it is after 9am and the days only get shorter!

Miserable Failure

Screenshot from Irish TV

Culture Of Life

I think that no one could have said this any better...

Olbermann, Limbaugh, Sharpton and the GOP Mindset

The Right, as embodied by Limbaugh, Frist, Bush, Hastert, DeLay. They would move heaven and earth to save the life of one White Woman in Florida to combat the very idea of euthanasia (which technically it was not). A woman that a decade earlier had lost her ability to so much as ask for help, much less have coherent thoughts about the quality of her own life.

And they would sit on their ass[es] and watch as tens of thousands of poor men, women, children, babies, and elderly bake in the New Orleans heat surrounded by water, sewage, gasoline and an abandoned city, now devoid of anyone with the means to have escaped ahead of the storm.

This is the culture of life. The culture of life wants to save brain dead white women and unborn children. The culture of life wants you to watch endless non-news about the disappearance of one white teenager in Aruba. The culture of life wants you to support your nation as it kills tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians in its Quixotic quest against a non-threat. The culture of life wants a zero-tolerance for looters policy to sound authoritative as babies die of dehydration. The culture of life expects you to take care of yourself, and if you can't, then it is your own fault for getting into that situation in the first place. Fuck off. You had your shot. Station in life, where you hang your hat, and whether you have the $40 at the end of the month to pay for the overpriced gasoline to get out of that home in time is all up to you.

Celebrate Oil Prices

From the Letters section of the August 27th Chicago Tribune

People ought to stop grumbling about rising oil prices and consider the many positive virtues of that development.

Increased oil prices inevitably will result in decreased use of automobiles, trucks and airplanes.

That will result in less environmental pollution, less traffic congestion, fewer air travel delays, and fewer deaths and injuries.

It will reduce pressure to build more roads, bridges, airports and parking lots, which will result in more open space, lower taxes and more commercially productive and job-producing land use.

The incentives to create rural subdivision sprawl will be diminished, two important consequences of which will be preservation of farmland and reduced need to increase local school taxes.

Consumer interest in mass transit and car-pooling will increase.

People will take more interest in walking and biking, which will produce increased personal fitness and decreased need for medical services.

Political support for serious alternative energy development and for serious research to identify ways to use energy more efficiently would be expected to increase.

More money spent for gasoline and heating oil will mean less money spent for foreign-manufactured goods, particularly non-necessity goods.

That will reduce money flows to foreign nations and consequently reduce the financial ability of foreigners to bid up world oil prices.

Reduced spending on non-necessity goods will result in reduced pressure on local landfills.

Reduced use of oil will also make the U.S. less dependent on foreign energy producers, and our political leaders in turn will be less inclined to embarrass us by launching foreign wars.

Our national image both here and abroad will improve.

These consequences obviously are good and will only improve as oil prices increase.

Oil price increases, therefore, should be cause for celebration.

Robert E. Mann
Geneva, IL

George W. Blah, Blah, Blah...

photo: MANDEL NGAN/AFP/Getty Images

When he speaks, he says things that we already know. "It's going to require hard work," he blathered, about relief for the Hurricane Katrina devastation.

"We've saved a lot of lives, we're going to save a lot more," he said yesterday during a "looking Presidential" interview with Diane Sawyer.

Molly Ivins' column from yesterday (Why New Orleans Is in Deep Water) precisely pinpoints what a huge chunk of the electorate in this country seems to have ignored last November... that politics affects people; that how you vote really, truly affects the lives of others.

This administration's only priorities are power and wealth... whatever it does with regard to social or economic issues serve merely as a means to its ends.

If this guy had two heads, both of them would be up his ass!

Singing Mea Culpa

the sins we commit
grab us by the throat and squeeze;
with luck, they let go

Recently, one of my flickr contacts posted an apology (now deleted, I see) to another flickr member for an indiscretion of some sort. I don't know the details, but I don't need to in order to empathize somewhat with his situation.

Like any other community, flickr presents opportunities to meet people — whether "virtually" or (eventually) in person — as well as opportunities for us to be misunderstood, to miscommunicate and/or miscalculate.

I had an experience earlier this year which, if I could, I would do it over again differently. It was a very dynamic relationship I'd developed with another flickr member, one in which we fed off each other's creativity, but one in which I surely made a misstep or two. It has been said that talent is an aphrodisiac. Hers certainly affected me, drawing me in — not so much that she wanted that, but because I was ripe for it, I suppose.

Our communication was basically limited to occasional emails and the photos we created, and while much was communicated, there was also much that was left unsaid and unheard. I misread her, and went a little overboard, which, despite being very honest, sincere and innocent, made her uncomfortable. That's fair. I think she misread my intentions as well, but email, as concise as it allows us to be with words, fails often to clearly convey what's between the lines, or what's truly in our hearts and minds.

I thought I'd backed away enough to salvage the friendship, but it wasn't the case, and I'm sorry for that. It has been her choice to sever ties, and I've not pressed the issue, although there are times I wish I could have had the chance to explain myself better.

I apologized for anything I might have done to upset, bother, annoy or unsettle her, but it wasn't enough. I presume she remains unsettled. I remain bummed about the whole chain of events, but sometimes we can't do anything more than apologize and move on, hoping that the other person's wounds eventually heal, or that time brings a different light with which to see thing differently enough to allow us to get close again.

Or not.

So goes life.

Democracy

is hard work!

Not that the miserable failure would know anything about that.

Switching Modes

Most of my life, I've been a fairly creative person... I've drawn, sketched, painted, coloured; I've written; I've photographed. I've designed.

A little over a year ago, I discovered the concept of blogging, which has been — for me — a means by which I've written a journal of sorts. Early on, I concentrated on the political scene, thinking that whatever I had to say might have an impact on last fall's election. Alas, it didn't. (Well, I'm pretty sure it didn't... let's hope it didn't! Heh!)

The election results were such a letdown that I've not paid as much attention to the ol' VOP blog on any kind of regular basis... I was so disheartened by the prospect of four more years of the miserable failure that I stopped writing even my more personal essays. I wouldn't say I was depressed, but I realizing to my marrow that this country and the world were going to have to somehow survive the misappropriation of patriotism, national pride and justice courtesy of the miserable failure was a bit difficult to bear. I felt a sadness for the world.

Also, for the last several months, my family has been reading my posts... in and of itself that's not a big deal to me, but that things I write here can be misconstrued and misunderstood has bothered me. I've thought about blogging a bit more anonymously, or creating another blog that family wouldn't find, but there's nothing that I write here that I feel I need to run from. I'm just a fellow who wants to write. I just want to write about things I know. Honestly, the only thing I really know about is me and my life.

I had a chat with my sweet friend, Rebekah last night thanks to Google Talk. We haven't spoken in over eight months, I'm guessing, and it was such a delight to once again hear the slightly scratchy blend of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan and Savannah, Georgia in her voice. Rebekah is a prolific blogger – despite being so busy with her thesis work, she manages to find time to read books and blog. I've still not finished the John Irving novel I picked up last month (granted, I had a trip out east and a festival to help produce), but still...

That I'm sitting here writing this, though, has much to do with her encouragement and her spirit. Thanks, Ms. B!

The brain is a funny thing, though... for years, I absorbed music. I memorized lyrics to probably every Bob Dylan song that came to light (officially or otherwise), as well as many by John Prine, Loudon Wainwright III, Martin Mull, Neil Young, etc., etc. When I worked for the Michigan State University Instructional Media Center, however, my mind began a shift towards a creativity of my own. I began to study portraiture more seriously — specifically lighting. I bought many books on lighting, as well as books that featured the images of (mostly) commercial photographers. I tried to figure out how they used light to obtain the results they achieved. At the time, I got up the gumption to ask the Lansing Art Gallery's Karen Stock if she'd take a look at my portfolio and give me a chance to have a show at the gallery. She agreed to a date (April/May of 1995) and I went about asking local visual artists if they would pose for me.

The show required a bit more than simply taking pictures, however. I sought support from Kodak (film and photographic paper), the now defunct Photo Conexxion (same), PhotoMart and Custom Photographic (darkroom). I also needed to set up studio space in a couple different locations: the Unitarian Universalist Church in East Lansing, and in my then-wife's ArtSpace gallery/studio/classroom. It was during this time that she wanted out of the marriage, so another fairly ignominious variable was thrown into the swirling pot of emotion and creativity. That I had to shoot her portrait was almost a challenge I didn't want to bear, but I really had no choice — she played a huge role in the inspiration for the project.

As that project came to an end, I seemed to drop photography as my first choice for creative outlet. All of a sudden, songwriting became my medium for creative expression and I dove in as if my life depended on it. In a way, I suppose it did.

For a long time (just about ten years, I guess), I didn't think I'd move away from songwriting — it seemed as though songs were all I knew. Anything that happened to me was turned into a song — whether on paper or merely in my head for a few minutes or hours.

Mingled in amongst all that has happened to me over the course of the last ten years, has been my involvement in the local folk music scene (namely, serving as the booking manager for the Ten Pound Fiddle Coffeehouse), helping to manage the career of an amazingly talented singer from Cadillac, Michigan and (for the last four years) getting a job booking the music for the Great Lakes Folk Festival.

As the internet became a part of my life, I've also designed a few websites... mostly folk music-related, one which required doing a Google search for the photograph of a band that I needed for one of the sites.

That led me to flickr.

And my return to photography.

It started out fairly innocently... I had clicked through flickr a few times (from others' blogs — including Rebekah's), but I didn't really experience it until I stumbled onto Marya's flickr page. It hit me like a ton of bricks — photo sharing! Comments, contacts, descriptions... all of a sudden, all of my creative worlds seemed to be colliding. Of course, clicking over to Marya's blog provided further impetus to join flickr, as she so deftly married words with images — with lots of wonderful wordplay.

I wanted to let her (this "emdot" woman) know that I liked her photos, and that I liked her clever, witty remarks about them as well. The email address on her site, however, didn't work, so I had to join flickr in order to leave a comment, which I did. I also wrote her a note using flickrmail. In a return note, she asked me when I was going to begin posting photos to flickr. Since I was yet to purchase a digital camera, my only real option was to begin scanning some of my favourite photos (starting with those from my exhibit) and posting them.

Shortly after that, I borrowed a camera that my son had borrowed from a friend of his and began exploring the digital world a bit. The immediate gratification of digital photography can be very addictive (addicting?), and I soon fell under its spell. In December, I purchased my first digital camera, then went deeper into debt with a bigger, better (though not totally satisfying) model that has 8MegaPixel resolution.

Since I joined flickr, I've posted over 3700 photos and shot many, many, many more times that! My flickr site has had almost 55,000 views (whatever that really means) and there seems to be no end in site to my af-flickr-iction. I think that what drives me (and others) to post to flickr — as well as spend untold amounts of time cruising others' photos, etc — is the idea that prior to flickr, perhaps only a handful of people would see the photographs I took (my personal ones, that is)... now, I can share them — literally — with the rest of the world. What a concept!

Still, there is this desire to lay down words on paper (or more succinctly, cathode ray tube pixels), so I hope to be doing a lot more of that soon. I have imagined writing a novel one day's worth of blogging at a time, but that hasn't yet seemed to settle into its proper place. Like anyone who loves writing, I believe I have a novel in me somewhere.

Perhaps like flickr, I can use this blog to share that novel with the rest of the world, if and when it decides to rise up and bite me on the ass!

Miserable Failure

The miserable failure decided that democracy in Iraq would come easy... just kill off a few thousand people, destroy untold numbers of buildings, ruin what was probably a fairly reliable infrastructure, shovel a few billion dollars to cronies, install a president and prime minister, have an election, set a deadline for a constituion and voila! — democracy!

Google Talk!

I love it!

Get it!

Who Lied? Who Died?

AP Photo

Is there a photo that better sums up the miserable failure's misbegotten war in Iraq than this one?

If you are at all stumped by the banner's questions...

Who Lied?
Bush (and his whole vile, miserable swarm of vermin) Lied! They had at least 21 Reasons as of October 2004.

Who Died?
As of today, almost 2,000 American miltary personnel and tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis have died!

Who Paid?
In terms of human life, see above question; in terms of the financial outlay, the citizens of the United States of America, mostly.

Who Profits?
I think that's been quite well documented... Bush and Cheney cronies, of course.

There has never been a more vile, murderous, relentlessly irresponsible administration in the history of this country.

Thank you, Cindy Sheehan for getting the so-called liberal media to finally take notice!

How Cool Is This?!?

Co-pilot

I was minding my own business this evening, when I came across a comment at my flickr site on the photo at the right. The photo, which has become my most "faved" photo (by a longshot!) at flickr, as well as my "most commented" and — as deemed by flickr's algorithms — "most interesting", has been posted at the flickrBlog.

The photo was already on its way to becoming my most viewed photo at flickr as well (it took the number one spot earlier this evening), but there's a chance that it'll become my first photo with 1000 views (it's approaching 600 now) considering its prominence now on what is ostensibly flickr's front page.

How cool!

Go, Cindy, Go!

This woman has more guts and courage than the miserable failure she's stalking.

Interview with Hack Blitzer.

Profiteers

These people are disgusting...

Two Jackson Jurors Regret Acquittal

LOS ANGELES - Two of the jurors who voted to acquit singer
Michael Jackson of child molestation and other charges say they regret their decisions.

Jurors Ray Hultman and Eleanor Cook, who both have pending book deals, planned to appear Monday night on the new MSNBC show "Rita Cosby: Live and Direct."

In a preview shown Monday on NBC's "Today," Cosby asked Cook if the other jurors will be angry with her.

"They can be as angry as they want to. They ought to be ashamed. They're the ones that let a pedophile go," responded Cook, 79.

Hultman, 62, told Cosby he was upset with the way other jurors approached the case: "The thing that really got me the most was the fact that people just wouldn't take those blinders off long enough to really look at all the evidence that was there."

Hultman has said previously that when jurors took an anonymous poll early in their deliberations he was one of three jurors who voted for conviction.

On June 13, the jurors unanimously acquitted Jackson of all charges, which alleged that he molested a 13-year-old boy, plied the boy with wine and conspired to hold him and his family captive so they would make a video rebutting a damaging television documentary.

Explaining the turnaround by Cook and Hultman, Larry Garrison, who is working with both on their separate books and a combined television movie, said all the jurors "had an agreement (to be united) and then basically when they went on Larry King Live, both Eleanor and Ray couldn't tolerate what was going on anymore. They said, 'Enough is enough.'"

These people are gutless wonders. All of a sudden, after the acquittal and with a book deal pending, they have the courage of their convictions.

Pukes!

In Her Shadow

I was filling out my passport application this evening when I came to a portion of the form that asked for my spouse's (or former spouse's) name and the date of my most recent marriage.

As it turns out, today would have been our 23rd anniversary had the marriage lasted this long.

I had an email discussion with a friend the other night about what she perceived as my continued grieving of my loss. She might have a point, but as I told her (as well as others), I think that I will probably never get over the best parts of the marriage. It will always be difficult to look Penny directly in the face and not see the woman I fell in love with twenty-five years ago.

But as I have processed everything for the past ten years, it has become clear to me that a major readjustment would have had to occur on both our parts for things to have gotten better than they were. I will probably always be bitter that she decided not to make the attempt, but I have realized, too, that I wouldn't have grown as much as I believe I've grown in the last ten years had I still been married. But that's the great unknown, I suppose. Had we continued, I'd probably still be in her shadow.

As for the photo, I recall this day very well... we were at odds with each other over nothing particularly important — we just weren't getting along. You can see the pain she's enduring for the photograph in her face. What looks like a smile is due more to the sun being in her eyes than that she's happy.

Shortly after the divorce, Loudon Wainwright III came out with a record with a song that seemed to sum it up pretty well:

OUR OWN WAR
by Loudon Wainwright III

Hostilities ended
Nobody cared
Any more for the war
So a truce was declared
So it ends in surrender
Then there’s peace at least
Arms are withdrawn
And fire is ceased

To stay in a skirmish
One needs appetite
Two need desire to
Keep up a fight
But when appetites off
And desire is gone
Then the fire is held
And arms are withdrawn

When losses and wounds
Are grievous and gory
When the battle is pitched
In the field there is glory
When hearts just aren’t in it
Retreat leads to rout
And then arms are laid down
And the fire goes out

We remember the ones
Who run out of dumb luck
Monuments are erected
And statutes are struck
But we tend to forget
If and when we forgive
That survivors survive
But they never quite live

As for our own war
Yes I recall it well
Just what it was like
Our own personal hell
I’ve forgotten the good times
Heaven’s so vague
I remember the battles
Oh how they raged

When losses and wounds
Are grievous and gory
When the battle is pitched
In the field there is glory
When hearts just aren’t in it
Retreat leads to rout
And then arms are laid down
And the fire goes out

The irony (if there is any) is that Loudon performed at Blissfest the year this photo was taken.

American Values

When I read this article today, it made me think that it's probably what the miserable failure means when he talks about "American values"...

Coach Allegedly Paid Player to Injure Boy

PITTSBURGH - A T-ball coach allegedly paid one of his players $25 to hurt an 8-year-old mentally disabled teammate so he wouldn't have to put the boy in the game, police said Friday.

Mark R. Downs Jr., 27, of Dunbar, is accused of offering one of his players the money to hit the boy in the head with a baseball, police said. Witnesses told police Downs didn't want the boy to play in the game because of his disability.

Police said the boy was hit in the head and in the groin with a baseball just before a game, and didn't play, police said.

"The coach was very competitive," state police Trooper Thomas B. Broadwater said. "He wanted to win."

Reading Again!

Time Away

I have spent too much time away from reading over the last year or so... That will change this week as the new John Irving novel came out yesterday. I'll be hunkering down for the next few days reading it before I head out to New York next week.

London, My Heart

London, My Heart

LONDON, MY HEART
by Patrick T. Power

London, my heart is calling
Through dust that fills your skies
London, my heart is falling
With the tears that cloud your eyes

London, my heart is aching
With the pictures on my screen
London, my heart is breaking
Is this all just make-believe?

London bridges falling down
Morning turns to night
Hopes and wishes all around
Does black ever turn to white?

London, my heart is bleeding
Will a cure come sure and swift?
London, my heart is pleading —
Will this shadow ever lift?

London, my heart is grieving
For the victims of this game
London, my heart is screaming
At the ones who are to blame

London tears are falling down
Does wrong after wrong make a right?
Hopes and fears are all around
Will black ever turn to white?


Download mp3. (Please don't stream.)

"Me And My Guitar..."

"Me And My Guitar..."

"...always in the same room" (James Taylor)

A little over ten years ago, I lost my interest in photography. Or so I thought.

Only a couple of years before that, I had begun writing songs, but with the demise of my thirteen-year marriage, songwriting took up a major chunk of my creative psyche. I wrote songs on the way to work, at work, on the way home from work, in the car, in my head... anywhere I had a free moment to think, it seemed, songs invaded my headspace.

I purchased my Martin guitar a few months before I moved out of my house. It was a present to myself as way of making up for all the years I'd pretty much denied myself many personal possessions. I'd owned a 12-string guitar which my wife had picked up from a friend of hers for $70 as an anniversary gift. It served me pretty well for a number of years, despite its rather high action. But to improve as a guitar player, I needed a better guitar. I'd always wanted a Martin, so over to Elderly Instruments I went. My choice came down to either a 30-year old D-21 or a brand new D-1R. I chose the latter.

Hour after hour I would play some days, either learning someone else's songs or writing and rehearsing my own. I met many local (and a few not-so-local) musicians during my first year after moving out of the house, so I was often invited to jams and song circles. Never wanting to be without something new to play on these occasions, I tried to write as often as possible. Mostly, I wrote about myself... taking some aspect of my life and turning it into song. Divorce is pretty fertile ground for songwriting, as you might imagine, so I did lots of plowing of that field. It's only natural to do lots of processing after such a life-altering event, so I did most of my processing in songs.

A couple of wonderful yet short-lived relationships provided more song material and for several years, I attended a songwriting retreat; I began writing songs that didn't necessarily involve me thematically, although I'm always in there someplace, I suppose.

For the last year or so, I haven't done a lot of writing, other than for my blog, which until recently, has even been forsaken for my resurgent interest in photography thanks to flickr. Every now and then, however, a song comes to me — whether to celebrate a friend's birthday, or in response to emotions I might read in a photograph. I write almost as if it's my duty, sometimes, whether that means giving voice to something I — or someone else — might be feeling.

I've re-recorded my most recent song (complete with train whistle).

Adrift

Adrift

Sometimes my songs are inspired more by others' lives rather than my own...

Adrift

by Patrick T. Power

Down by the water
Down by the sea
Adrift on the shore
That's where I'd rather be
Looking over the waves
And out to the blue
Clouds in the distance
Remind me of you

Slowly, so slowly
The ocean creeps in
I wonder, I wonder
Where does it begin?
And where does it end?
And where does it go?
Questions with answers
That I wanna know

Far from the city
Far from the lights
Far from the laughter
That once ruled the nights
Far from the people
Far from the streets
Far from the madness
That repeats and repeats and repeats

Here by the water
Here by the sea
Adrift with these thoughts
Washing all over me
Slowly, so slowly
A sadness creeps in
I wonder, I wonder
Where does it begin?
And where does it end?
And where does it go?
Questions with answers...
Will I ever know?
Will I ever know?

Listen

Guilty Pleasure

French Postcards (Screen capture)

This morning, I was reminded of an old (1979) film French Postcards. Many years ago, I happened to see it on Cinemax and it has turned out to be one of my guilty pleasures. So I pulled out the VHS (!) and watched it again.

The film is about a group of American exchange students who travel to France for a year to study the language and French culture. It's a fairly innocuous, predictable film, really, but it has many humourous moments and a few poignant ones. It also has – as one of its recurring musical motifs – a song that one of the students (Alex, played by David Marshall Grant) writes and sings for his teacher (on whom he had a crush) early on in the film. I suppose it's more of a ditty really, but I've always liked its naïve sweetness and the lilting melody. It's probably a song that only a songwriter could love... Download mp3 (Save it to your computer – please don't stream it.)

THE THING OF IT IS
by John Kander / Fred Ebb

I hear a sigh from a bench in the square
And the sound of the sigh says a lover is there
Then I suddenly see
That the lover is me
And the thing of it is...

Paris

Paris... is a lady with a light in her eyes
A surprise kinda glow about her
Paris... is a teacher who has lessons to give
how to love, how to live
That there's so much to learn
That you toss and you turn about her

I hear a song down a cobblestone street
And I've never heard singing that sounded so sweet
Then a jolt in my spine
Says the music is mine
And the thing of it is...

Paris

--------------------------

Also notable about the film is that it's one of the earliest film appearances by Debra Winger (above right), who plays a bit role as the party-loving roommate of one of the main characters (Blanche Baker, above left), and Mandy Patinkin, who plays a sexist Iranian who Lora finds to take her to what she calls "The Festival". His favorite English phrase is "No problem!"

Irony

Does anyone find it ironic that the miserable failure is making an issue about Iran's President-elect Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's purported past criminal behaviour?!? Using an old adage, isn't that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?

There appears to be considerable debate over the claims of his participation in the 1979 hostage taking in Tehran, but for the sake of argument, let's say that he was involved...

Fuck you, George W. Bush!


When George Bush supposedly patriotically served his country in the Texas Air National Guard, he went AWOL. Militant students in Tehran, "patriotically" stood up to the mighty United States in their takeover of the US embassy over twenty-five years ago. It seems to me that if indeed Ahmadinejad was one of the students, at least he had the courage of his convictions — he wasn't off snorting cocaine.

Red Sandals

Red Sandals

I was photographing a mailbox near my apartment complex when a woman ambled up the driveway to see what I was doing. I told her that I was photographing the neighbourhood for a project, then she pointed out that perhaps I should take a photo of the mole path that wended through her front yard. I humoured her by taking a shot of the brown trails, then turned my camera toward her feet.

The neighbourhood I live in is a very private area that sets just east of the US-127 / I-496 interchange... it's not accessible other than the south so doesn't connect with the other nearby "Flower Pot" (the streets are all named for flowers) neighbourhood, much to the dismay of many who have tried to find a short cut to Michigan State University (I'm sure that even I did years ago!).

Because my tendencies are to walk toward the University (in the other direction), this was the first time I'd done much of an exploration of the neighbourhood. So, it was nice to meet Joyce and her husband, Joe, who eventually walked up from what I assumed was a journey of his own.

We chatted a bit about the neighbourhood and the attempts of a local developer to build a huge student rental unit (directly in view and earshot of my apartment!!) in a lot previously occupied by a now partially-razed Ramada Inn. We also came back around to talking about their mole problem and Joyce said she'd tried just about everything to get rid of them. I told Joe not to let her watch "Caddyshack", and he got quite the chuckle out of that.

Ready

Ready by Eric Payette.

Boy, does this bring back memories!

Many years ago (I was probably no older than thirteen), as I slept soundly in my bed, I awoke to "Pat! Pat!" being called out by my brother Mike.

It was probably 1:00 in the morning — maybe later — and our parents were at another couple's house playing cards or something. Of course, I was groggy and a little dazed at the harshness of Mike's voice, but I crawled out of bed and headed toward the living room to see what was going on.

As I made the left turn from the short hallway outside my bedroom into the dining room, I looked up and to the right where Mike stood with my dad's 16-gauge shotgun pointed, essentially, right at me.

It was probably the strangest thing I've even awakened to... possibly the strangest moment I've ever had in my life (well, except for that three-breasted prostitute in Rio*).

I don't recall what I said at that moment, but he told me to call mom and dad. Apparently, someone had broken a window in our basement and our dog (Snoopy) had begun to bark and go nuts — something which I managed to sleep through.

So, the gun was pointed at the door in the kitchen which led to the basement — not at me. Well, sort of not at me. It was a shotgun, after all, and I could have been standing several feet either side of the barrel's intended target and still have been in the path of its buckshot!

I really couldn't think much about that, though... I had to call my parents. Where was the phone? On the wall... in the kitchen... next to the door that led to the basement.

Have you ever had a gun pointed at you by a sixteen year old? Do you understand why this photograph stirs memories?

Well, I made the phone call and my parents arrived shortly (they were only a couple of blocks away), and we found that whoever had broken the window didn't gain entry. Likely, Snoopy's barking did the trick in running them off.

You know... to this day, I've never asked Mike if the gun was loaded.


*Just kidding! I've never been to Rio!

Festival Of The Sun

Tent City

I volunteered at the Festival Of The Sun last evening... it's a beer/wine tasting fundraising event for Lansing, Michigan's Old Town Business District.

A friend and I poured wine for a local distributor. By about 9:30, our booth was the only one with wine left, so we were inundated with many "whatever you have" requests.

Ohmigawd are drunk women obnoxious!

Amtrak Sunset

Thanks much to the amazing Catherine Jamieson for including me amongst the contributors to her Trains project.

Catherine is a tireless (sleepless?) photographer/artist living in Winnipeg's Big Sky country (in Canada's Manitoba Province), who regularly takes the time to put together projects such as this as a matter of promoting other photographers.

Catherine is one of the most prolific producers of imagery I have ever known and I suggest that you visit her flickr site — you will marvel at what you see.

Newsweek Retraction

What a crock of shit!

For several days now, much has been made of Newsweek's retraction of a brief story it had published in its May 9 issue that interrogators at the Guantanamo torture camps were abusing the Koran (Qur'an), the Muslamic equivalent to the Christian Bible.

"Fuck you!" I say to the media. Where do they get off making such a story about this retraction?!? This purported incident is only one of a series of events that have been uncovered which illustrate the Bush administration's "by all means necessary" approach to "interrogation".

"Fuck you!" I say to the Bush administration for even trying to imply that their misbegotten, misguided policies, their ill-conceived war in Iraq, and their unconscionable abuse of prisoners in Afghanistan and Iraq (and Guantanamo) haven't contributed in the least to increased violence in Afghanistan or Iraq.

"Fuck you!" I say to Condi Rice. Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! How a woman can be so complicit in the massive loss of life that her husband/president has caused is beyond me. Fuck you!

"Fuck you!" I say to George W. Bush. You pathetic excuse for a "Christian".

"Fuck you!" to anybody who can't place the Newsweek story in its proper context — there would have been no Newsweek story without the war in Iraq, the Abu Ghraib abuse and the Bush administration's lies and manipulation of the emotions related to September 11, 2001.

Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Here's the story that is the center of this nonsensical firestorm, in the event that the above link is rendered inoperable.

May 9 issue - Investigators probing interrogation abuses at the U.S. detention center at Guantanamo Bay have confirmed some infractions alleged in internal FBI e-mails that surfaced late last year. Among the previously unreported cases, sources tell NEWSWEEK: interrogators, in an attempt to rattle suspects, flushed a Qur'an down a toilet and led a detainee around with a collar and dog leash. An Army spokesman confirms that 10 Gitmo interrogators have already been disciplined for mistreating prisoners, including one woman who took off her top, rubbed her finger through a detainee's hair and sat on the detainee's lap. (New details of sexual abuse—including an instance in which a female interrogator allegedly wiped her red-stained hand on a detainee's face, telling him it was her menstrual blood—are also in a new book to be published this week by a former Gitmo translator.)

These findings, expected in an upcoming report by the U.S. Southern Command in Miami, could put former Gitmo commander Maj. Gen. Geoffrey Miller in the hot seat. Two months ago a more senior general, Air Force Lt. Gen. Randall Schmidt, was placed in charge of the SouthCom probe, in part, so Miller could be questioned. The FBI e-mails indicate that FBI agents quarreled repeatedly with military commanders, including Miller and his predecessor, retired Gen. Michael Dunleavy, over the military's more aggressive techniques. "Both agreed the bureau has their way of doing business and DOD has their marching orders from the SecDef," one e-mail stated, referring to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld. Sources familiar with the SouthCom probe say investigators didn't find that Miller authorized abusive treatment. But given the complaints that were being raised, sources say, the report will provoke questions about whether Miller should have known what was happening—and acted to try to prevent it. An Army spokesman declined to comment.

-Michael Isikoff and John Barry

Newsweek Editor Mark Whitaker'scomments about the story and the subsequent retraction.

Name Withheld Pending Notification

By Cindy Sheehan
t r u t h o u t | Perspective

Sunday 08 May 2005

When I woke up this morning, the "official" death count in Iraq was 1576. The first thing I do in the morning after I boot up my computer is to check the DoD website to see if any more of our nation's precious children were killed in this horror of a nonsensical war. I was talking to another Gold Star Mom, Celeste Zappala, today and she sadly advised me that the count rose to 1579 (note: the official count is now 1594) while she was out to lunch.

Celeste and I and too many other moms know what the significance of "Pending Notification" means: it means that there are people in our country going through their lives right now not even knowing that they are about to be ambushed with the most devastating news of their lives: "We regret to inform you…."

Somewhere in America, there is a mom (I always think of the moms first) shopping for groceries, driving home from a long week of work, or maybe even planning her soldier's homecoming party. Somewhere, here in our country there is a mother who is hoping that she will receive a Mother's Day card from her soldier, or perhaps, if she is extremely lucky, a rushed telephone call. There is a mom out there who has been worried sick about her soldier since they arrived in the combat zone. Maybe the mom still supports George Bush and the occupation or maybe the mom is certain if her child is killed in this abomination that her sweet baby, her soldier will have died for lies and betrayals. In the end, and at that moment, the mom is not going to care about politics or about reasons for invasion and occupation. She won't care if her child died for freedom and democracy, or to make some people wealthier and more powerful. All she will see is the Grim Reaper in a uniform standing at her door before she collapses on the floor screaming for her child and pleading with the Grim Reaper to take her with him.

Somewhere there is a father in America who won't know what hit him and who won't know whom to hit back. There are brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, spouses, and children who are about to step on the path of unbearable pain and seemingly endless grief. Today there are the families and friends of three wonderful human beings who never, until now, knew that the human body could produce so many tears. Somewhere in America live our fellow citizens who never even knew that a broken heart is not theoretical or symbolic. These most unfortunates are about to find out that a broken heart hurts far worse than a broken limb, and does not heal so readily, if ever at all.

The families of these soldiers are also departing on a long tour of banalities uttered by well-meaning, but let's face it, uninformed people. I hear these phrases over and over again: "Time heals every thing", "Casey's in a better place", (oh really, I didn't know that home with his mom was such a bad place to be), "Casey wants you to be happy", "Casey died doing what he loved doing", (he did?), or, my favorite, "Casey died defending his country". Let me assure the reader, phrases like this do not help. They are clichés for one thing, and for another, none of them are true. None of them help a grieving family. If you, the reader, is ever in the situation facing a mom who had her son brutally murdered, God forbid, I will give you hints on what does help: hugs (lots and lots), make sure she eats, make sure she drinks plenty of water (tears are dehydrating), make sure she hears wonderful things about her child, bring boxes of tissues and toilet paper, and bring yourself. Leave your tired and impotent clichés at the door.

Of course, the most tragic thing about the 1579 is that not even one should be dead. Our "president" cheerfully rushed this country into a needlessly horrendous and devastating invasion. Our "president" thinks stolen elections confer a mandate. Our Congress cheerfully relinquished their Constitutional responsibility to declare war. If they had any courage or honor they would claim that right back and end this travesty. I have a feeling our mis-leaders will be having a nice day with their moms or their children on Mother's Day. As they are eating their brunches and giving and receiving bouquets of Mother's Day flowers, they probably never even think about the moms in this world that their insanely reckless policies have destroyed. It never enters their wicked brains that they have ruined Mother's Day for so many families. This is a tragedy.

Our media was, and still is, a willing shill for the Administration and has never told the American public the truth. Reporting about Iraq is always trumped by such as child molesters, Martha Stewart, Terri Schiavo, Scott Peterson, the American Idol, or now, Runaway Brides! Another tragic thing about this illegal and disastrous invasion and occupation is that there are only 1579 families in this country who even have to think about Iraq. Most Americans probably don't even know where to find Iraq on a map. The Halliburtons, Bechtels, KBRs, and the oil oligarchs of the world, who are laughing all the way to the bank, think of Iraq with greedy glee each day. Sorrowfully, there are 1579 families in this country who have "Iraq" carved on their hearts and souls for eternity. We have sacrificed more than the $1.99 it costs to buy a "Support the Troops" magnet for our cars. We have had a violent amputation. Even if our fellow citizens don't realize it, by allowing this occupation to continue, they are also losing a very important part of themselves: their humanity.

My heart, my prayers, and my love go to the three families who are now embarking on this mournful, unnecessary journey. We at Gold Star Families for Peace are here for them. I hope they find comfort in what I know now seems like a comfortless world. Peace.

Cindy Sheehan is a co-founder of Gold Star Families for Peace. Her son was killed in Iraq on April 4th, 2004.

Quoting Shakespeare

shakespeareposter by CarminaGitana.

Bigger size.

Let Us Prey

It just occurred to me that for the past five years, the Bush administration has been courting the American religious right with the use of a homonym.

A Brave New Wonderful

In the days after September 11, 2001, I talked to one of my best friends who boldly told me that "we had it coming."

I wouldn't have gone that far, but I did go so far as to say that the foreign policy of the United States (as well as actions of American corporate conglomerates) contributed greatly to the conditions to which the events of that day were tied.

So, I applaud the public statement by actress Maggie Gyllenhaal in which she said that September 11 was:

...an occasion to be brave enough to ask some serious questions about America's role in the world. Because it is always useful as individuals or nations to ask how we may have knowingly or unknowingly contributed to this conflict.

Not to have the courage to ask these questions of ourselves is to betray the victims of 9/11.

Of course, her comments have created an uproar

It is beyond me how Americans can be so unable to connect dots... so unwilling to recognize that the attacks of September 11 didn't happen in a vaccuum.

Did the nearly 3,000 people who died that day deserve what happened to them? No. Did the Goliath United States deserve what the David Al Qaida slingshot its way. Maybe. But instead of trying to learn and understand the history that unrolled its matching red carpets in New York City, Washington and the Pennsylvania countryside, we attack those who have tried to point out that the attacks might never have happened had the United States been just a bit more respectful of human life around the world and a little less concerned with military and corporate might.

Mourning

Mourning II

Wow... it's been a month since I lasted posted anything here. Perhaps it's time to start using flickr as my point of entry for the blog, posting a photo a day.

It's not a particularly happy occasion that brings me to post today... For the past couple of weeks, I have been fairly wrapped in a euphoria of watching mourning doves nesting on top of the air conditioner just outside my living room.

I spotted the bird one morning on my return from the grocery store, and when I got a bit closer to investigate, found that there were two eggs in the nest. Eureka!

In the two weeks now since the discovery, I have been documenting — for all of the flickr world to see — the daily adventures of the mourning doves.

Of course, not much happened from day to day, except that the adult (or adults — it was somewhat difficult to tell the male from the female) would allow me to get closer and closer with my camera.

At first, I would set the ten-second self-timer, focus on something approximately the same distance away as the bird, position the camera and wait for the timer to count down. Eventually, the bird would allow me to actually place the camera on top of the air conditioner, which allowed me to get to within four or so inches from her/him.

I shared the photos with flickr (and the world) and each picture increased the excitement for me and those that were looking in.

I gave myself a scare last week when I returned from a trip to Midland, Michigan... I took a walk out on the balcony and from a distance took a look to see if anything was going on. It didn't appear that much was... just the bird sitting on the nest. But as I stood on the chair to raise myself above the top of the air conditioner for my daily shot, the bird flew off and one of the eggs flew out of the nest and landed on the balcony.

I was shook. I got down and walked into the house, pacing in fear that I'd killed one of the soon-to-be hatchlings. Knowing that I would have to document my crime for the world to see, I went back to the balcony and bent down to photograph the carnage, but what I saw was an empty shell, with traces of membrane on the inside surface of the shell. A huge wave of relief washed over me as I recognized what that meant.

The adult dove hadn't returned to the nest yet, so I climbed up once more to see the two hatchlings lying in the bottom of the nest. I quickly took a few photographs and got down so as encourage the adult to return promptly to its place in the nest.

Since that day, I've not bothered the birds all that much, except that I did manage to grab a shot last week of only one hatchling. I don't know what would have or could have happened to the other baby. I looked around on the ground for clues but found nothing. One of the birds engaged in some kind of fight with two other mounring doves last week... I wouldn't know if the events are related.

This past weekend, the weather turned cold again — a couple of days of mid- to low-30s (F) conditions — so I left the birds alone so that they would be able to properly care for the sole developing baby.

Today, I took a look out on the balcony at the mourning doves... and saw the adults sitting together at the edge of the air conditioner. I was hopeful that it was a sign that the young bird was bigger and stronger.

One of the adults flew away, so I slowly ascended onto the chair to take a closer look. As I raised up above the air conditioner, I saw that the brief return to winter this weekend must have been too much for the baby. It lie lifeless and sprawled along one edge of the nest.

Then, the adult that had remained walked closer to the nest where the remains of the baby lie. There was something touching about that... it made me think that I was being told to respect what had happened... that the adults were indeed in mourning.

Unphotographable

"Are you a terrorist?"

Words

I have spent so much time with my photography lately that I've not written anything here for close to a month.

Wow! Considering that I used to post several times a day, I feel as though I've gone mute.

Life, of course, plods on, and there is probably plenty for me to write about, but it's a very strange phenomenom to have my brain almost completely overrun by the process involved with creating photographs. Some of it has to do with the physical requirements of photography — particularly when it involves posting to Flickr. My trip to Montreal yielded over 700 images which needed to be pared down to what I felt was worth sharing, then cropped, color/density-corrected, uploaded and titled — a major task in and of itself since I titled everything I shot in Montreal in French!

Since that trip, I've made a couple of long walks 'round town in which I came back with loads more to edit and upload. Everywhere I go, I look with the camera's eye, hoping to see something interesting; looking at the details of this world.

Of course, Flickr is about more than simply uploading photos — at least it's more than that to me. Much time is spent looking at others' photographs and commenting on them... the process is very much a social event that involves people from all around the world. Flickr is truly one of the finest uses of the internet and it has been the place lately, in which I have spent most of my spare time. Okay... maybe not so spare.

I expect I'll slowly but surely begin to find that place of balance with regard to my visual vs. written forms of expression, but for the moment, I feel like I need to follow the photographic flame while it's still hot.

Willow Sunrise.

I leave soon for Montreal for the North American Folk Alliance conference. I'm intending on bringing back a Gigobyte worth of photographs!

Adieu pour le moment. Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons encore...

Winter When She Goes

Rachel Bissex (by Robert Corwin)

Next week sometime, I'll be going in to WKAR studios to do an on-air review of Tracy Grammer's new solo CD, Flower Of Avalon, and I received an advance copy of the disc from her record label yesterday in order to prepare for the review/interview with Melissa Ingells.

In a very sad twist of fate, I received a forwarded email this morning that announced the passing of singer-songwriter Rachel Bissex, someone I knew, albeit not very well. What little I knew of Rachel I liked. She was a wonderful, warm person with an undying giving nature. A sweet, sweet woman blessed with many, many friends.

Last week, as news came to me of her failing condition, a haiku (of sorts) stumbled out of me...


her flame's hot, white dance
trembles 'round the waning wick
before burning out.


And today, as I read the last few words of this morning's email, the first notes and words of Tracy Grammer's "Winter When He Goes" began filling the room and my ears and, eventually, my eyes.

WINTER WHEN SHE GOES*
by Dave Carter

As the sun is to the city
In the endless weeping winter
So is joy to me in pity
When she leaves me falsely tender
Like the true love's knot we tethered
Plastic ivy 'round the portal
For to frame the spring forever
Though the blizzard took the mortal holy rose
It's always winter when she goes

As a matter of convenience
We don't speak of dying gardens
As a man of heart and lenience
I make liberal with my pardons
I am generous with kindess
She with smiles and exaltations
Though she binds her wounds in silence
I my own impracticed patience
Lest she know
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes

She collects the twigs and briars
I stack them up for fire
But it's chilly for the burning

She slumbers in the straw
I hold out for the thaw
For the seasons won't be turning

As I'm writing you this letter
The blue stem's running riot
The daisies break their fetters
And the bees will not lay quiet
If you find her where she's dancin'
With her lover or her jailer
Say in April's splendid mansion
I lay broken by her trailer in the snow
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes
It's always winter when she goes

*Tracy has sung (and recorded) the song as "Winter When He Goes" whereas Dave originally wrote the song as "Winter When She Goes" — I've opted to use the original form here.

20

Zachary

Twenty years ago yesterday, my first child was born.

I recently asked my mother about the day I was born and got very little from her other than the date and the hospital — information, you might be surprised to know, I already knew! Perhaps my birth wasn't particularly memorable. Perhaps the third pregnancy was little more than like having a wart removed... I don't know.

My memories of Zachary's birth day begin about nine months earlier. Certainly we couldn't be sure, but Penny and I will always believe that Zach was conceived in a cheap motel in the Chicago area, where we had traveled for my cousin Peggy's wedding — the Brer Rabbit Motel. As my friend Caro might say, Appropriate that.

Brer Rabbit Motel

Flash forward to February 15, 1985... Penny and I went to her monthly doctor visit and her doctor was on a call at the hospital, so Penny was checked out by the nurse. Penny was feeling a bit of discomfort that day and the nurse suggested that we check her into the hospital, that she'd begun to dilate.

Sparrow hospital was practically across the street from the doctor's office, so we headed there and checked in. After what I recall was a fairly long wait, Penny was checked by a staff nurse and we were told that she had barely begun to dilate, that we should go home and come back at a later time. So, off we went.

Zach Day One

Later that evening, at 9:00 or 10:00, I believe, Penny began feeling more uncomfortable and again we headed for the hospital. Again, we were told that it wasn't quite time yet, that we could check in to the hospital if we wanted to, but that the baby wasn't going to be born until the next day sometime.

Before we left, the nurse told us that she'd be on duty until 7:00 the next morning, and that we should call her prior to her getting off shift. She told us that she (as well as other prenatal nurses) were trained to recognize the breathing patterns pregnant women make, and that she would be able to tell how far along in labor Penny was based on what she could hear over the phone.

Penny had a rather fitful night's sleep (as did I, then!) and at about 5:00 we got up and Penny took a warm shower — also at the behest of the nurse. Just before 7:00, I called the nurse and got Penny on the phone, who described what she was feeling. The nurse told her that we should plan on coming in to the hospital at about 11:00am.

Zach Day One #2

That sounded fine with me. Penny wasn't so thrilled. She was in pain and she wanted it to be over with. Assuming that the nurse knew what she was talking about, I made coffee and puttered around waiting for 11:00 to roll around. Frankly, I was rather nonchalant about the whole process, but I was relying on my instincts. I moved purposefully slowly that morning. I thought it was silly to rush to the hospital again only to have to be told nothing was happening. Penny was uncomfortable but she wasn't in agony.

She was, however, getting upset that I wasn't overly concerned about her condition. What can I say? I seriously felt that the time hadn't come yet and tried to be calm about it all.

I really can't recall why, but Penny had asked our friend Linda to accompany us in the birthing room at the hospital. Perhaps she didn't think I would come through as her breathing coach... I don't know. She called Linda over to the house at about 9:00 — probably figuring that she'd have to rely on Linda to get her to the hospital.

Fuh!

Penny and Zach on Blanket

At about 10:30, Penny was getting extremely antsy about getting to the hospital. I decided to pour a last cup of coffee, and told her that we'd leave once I finished the coffee. I nursed the coffee, again with 11:00 as my target time for hitting the road. I think I finally gave in at about 10:50 and off we went to Sparrow Hospital.

Penny was checked in and it was determined by nurses that she still hadn't dilated more than a centimeter or two, so we whiled away the time. I made several phone calls to relatives to let them know things had begun to happen and to expect news soon. Penny's family all lived within twenty miles of the hospital, and most of them would make their ways to the hospital before long.

Zach and Me in Studio

All the while, of course, Penny was experiencing increasing discomfort. Our original plan was for her to go drug-free for the birthing, but at about 12:40, she decided that she wanted the demerol.

At about 1:10, I was on the phone with Penny's sister Clarice, when Linda found me and told me that things were happening. I returned to the birthing suite where I was handed my scrubs and I washed my hands. I was told that within about twenty minutes of being given the demerol, her dilation shot up to ten centimeters. My memory is that at about this time, the doctor made her first appearance in the room. (Apparently, she had a couple other deliveries that day as well.)

The hard labor went fast. The really serious labor began at 1:11 and by 1:26, Zach was born. Throughout the process, Penny had me in a death grip as I helped her breathe through it all. As Zachary squirted into existence, my eyes watered at the wonder of it all. It truly is a miraculous moment to witness the beginning of a life.

Reds Zach

Zach was 8 lbs, 10.5 oz. (as I recall)... he looked a lot like my dad when I first saw his face. As he has grown up, his looks have changed... He has often looked a spitting image of me as a kid, but his face has elongated, he has the jawline (and teeth structure) of his mother, as well as her eyes (though they differ in color – his blue vs. her brown) — he has beautiful eyes!

He has always been a tremendously talented artist, having inherited his mother's ability to see what he tries to draw. He loves baseball in general and the Detroit Tigers in particular. As baseball memories go, one of my earliest and fondest occurred during the 1986 World Series. Zach was a over a year-and-a-half old and I was watching the Series on television in the apartment Penny and I originally lived in when we moved to Lansing from Toledo. At one point during the game, Zach ran a couple of circles in the living room in front of the TV then SLID! It was the funniest thing to see.

My relationship with Zachary has been going through a number of transitions since his mother and I divorced... he's still trying to find his way in this ever more complicated world and I'm trying to find my way with him, trying to be there for him while he goes through his current difficulties with money and roommate; trying to bite my tongue about his wretched smoking habit and his fondness for drinking beer; continually urging him to rely on himself to find his way out of his confusing times.

Zachary at 20

Last night, we had dinner at Lou & Harry's in East Lansing and he went through the laundry list of problems he and his roommate have been having and I sat with tongue firmly between my teeth as he told me all the details, all the ideas for digging out of his financial troubles. Two months ago, he had a job he liked, was being paid well and decided to move into his own place. The problem is that the job was seasonal – it was scheduled to end in early January. He had expected to get work with connections he'd made while working at Meridian Mall, but they haven't panned out.

His roommate is also unemployed and has been nothing but irresponsible for the last two years (as best as I can tell). They're both great kids who can't seem to right their listing ships and all I can really do at this point is watch and hope and perhaps make a few phone calls.

Blog Errors

I am paying less and less attention to the blog here as I spend more and more time at flickr, but I've also had trouble posting for some reason. I have a fairly long post in the offing, and I hope to upload that soon.

If this makes it through okay, I suspect more will follow later.

Blog Problems

I don't know what was going on here for the last few days, but when I dropped by to check in on stats yesterday, I noticed that my post from over two weeks ago was the most recent one available. After failing to republish the entire blog, I sent a note to Blogger. They must have fixed something as I'm back up and running at the mouth!

soft

soft by helveticaneue.

Every now and then, I blog a flickr image that isn't my own. This one, by helveticaneue, just knocked me out this morning.

It isn't the mere beauty of the woman that strikes me... it's taking in every aspect of the image and seeing how carefully constructed an image it is.

Note the lines: the inside of her upper arm; her cheek line; the imaginary line that runs through her eyes — they all converge at the water line. The line at the top of her breast forms a virtual right-angle with her (right) jaw line, then another right-angle with the line of the bath water. Follow that line and it leads you to her eyes.

Follow any line and eventually it will lead you back to her eyes! They are the darkest areas of the image; they are easily the focal point of the image.

Many of the photographs at Flickr (and most of mine aren't exceptions) are snapshots or shots that are happened upon and recorded. Then there are those that are carefully composed, cropped and coloured (if not black-and-white) so as to create a pure work of art. This is a most ezquisite example. It's brilliantly executed — from conception to upload.

Bravo, helveticaneue!

The Plan After All

It is my guess that it was the miserable failure's plan all along to create the war in Iraq knowing that spending outlays would force more spending cuts of much-needed social programs.

The bastards are eliminating spending by increasing spending.

Vicious bastards!

Dancing In My Head (Eddi Reader, Part II)

Dancing In My Head ("All Or Nothing")

I was particularly enjoying Eddi Reader's "All Or Nothing" this morning (actually, I've played it virtually non-stop since last night!) and wondered if I might get to capture a bit of what I was feeling with the camera...

The song is from Eddi's second release as a solo artist (that is, post-Fairground Attraction), Mirmama, a word that combines the Yugoslavian word for peace – mir and a common expression for mother.

Those who know me also know that dancing in public is a rarity for me unless alcohol is involved, and I catch quite a bit of flack for not partaking in the organized dance activities that my folk music organization puts on. I don't know what it is, but I've not been interested in going anywhere for the explicit purpose of dancing since high school. The last time I danced in public was probably five years or more ago when I was seeing the lovely Audrey. We danced in front of the main stage at Blissfest as if there were no one else around. I was seriously in love then, and it was the pull of her eyes and her sweet face that lifted me from the ground.

ALL OR NOTHING

By Eddi Reader
(lyrics thanks to Adrian Dover's fine Eddi Reader fan site)

aye-ya

I whistled a tune called "Lazy" and I tiptoed a very tight line
all of the time walking backwards, all of the time I was blind
and the only voice I was hearing was yours inside my head
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen girl, one true move and you’re
dead"
but, I, I, I found out it's all or nothing

all of the time he fiddled, I danced to the dark of his breath
too lazy to crumble and jumble there, over and over he played
and the only sound I was hearing was the one inside my own mind
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen sink girl, you’ve blown it one
more time"
ah, I, I, I found out it's all or nothing at all

{bg vocal: yes it's over, once you've lost it}
nothing's changed, yes it's over, still you breathe

I whistled a tune called "Crazy" and I tiptoed a very tight line
faltered ever so slightly, all of the time I was blind
and the only voice I was hearing was the one inside my head
saying "Get yourself back to the kitchen girl – fly to the moon
instead"
I-ah, hiya... I found out, it's all or nothing
I-ah, hiya... I found out, it's all or nothing
yes, it's all or nothing at all

fly me to the moon, let me go

nnn-nn-nn-...
ah-ha, ah-ha
higher, higher
fly me to the moon, let me roll among the stars
higher, higher
higher, higher

All Or Nothing (Please right-click and save to your computer!)

"Keep Romance Alive!"

Eddi Reader

I love Eddi Reader!

Every now and then a musician comes along that simply yanks my feet to the stars, and Eddi Reader is certainly one of them.

A number of years ago, Eddi's name was bantied about on a discussion list I belong to, so I checked her out, then bought her then current CD, Angels & Electricity. I was mesmerized by her voice, and I must have left "Bell, Book and Candle" on repeat for weeks!

As with so many of the artists I go gah-gah about from time to time, I spend months listening to their CDs — practically exclusively — then will go months without listening to a single track. But I always eventually return and rediscover everything that hooked me in the first place.

Lately, I've been listening to Eddi as lead singer with the 1980s British pop band Fairground Attraction (Eddi is a Scot). Mark E. Nevin was the primary songwriter for the group (and a great songwriter he was!) but Eddi was the focal point. She might not have written many of the songs, but the songs were hers once she sang them.

Eddi is probably the finest singer I have ever heard. Her instincts are impeccable. The songs come from a place so deep inside her that that it's hard to truly separate her from the song as it drifts from her lips.

Check out Eddi with Fairground Attraction: Moon On The Rain (please right click and save to your computer)

Meeting The Governor

Last Friday was a rather hectic day, spending most of the day between here and Midland with Julie, then getting back in to town and having to help put on the Danú concert that night.

I arrived at Hannah Community Center and found the band waiting... They were irritated that they had been in town for a few hours but hadn't been informed as to their hotel accommodations. I had left a message on one of their cell phones the day before to call me so that I could give them the details but they said no such message existed.

This was not a very good start to the evening, so I began to think back on the nightmare I'd had about the concert the previous Monday night. In my dream, it was after 8:30pm the night of the show and the band was yet to do their sound check. People who had come to see the show were leaving in disgust; leaving in droves.

Once the band was loaded in, I got them off to the hotel with the plan that they'd be back by about 6:55 for sound check. They indeed arrived by that time, but our crew still wasn't quite ready for them. So, sound check ran a bit longer than planned or desired. People began lining up quite early – before 6:30 and due to the delay, had to wait until 7:55 to get in to the theatre.

As house manager, I decided to make the people wait outside the theatre's foyer – in the hallway/lobby of the community center. My thoughts were that our gate manager, Rita, needed some space – physically and mentally – so I opted to maximize that space so that she could set up and prepare for the oncoming onslaught of people we expected.

During that spell, a rather tall fellow walked into the foyer. He looked rather serious and interested, but he walked past me and Rita and towards the utility area of the theatre. He stopped and came back to me, then introduced himself as he pulled a wallet out of his inside coat pocket and flipped it open revealing a badge. He flashed the badge at me so quickly, and rattled off "Michigan State" something, I thought to ask him to show it to me again... but I didn't. He informed me that Governor Granholm would be attending the concert and that he was there to prepare for her arrival. He wanted to select seats for her and her husband as well as for two additional security people.

Upon selecting the seats, he said that the Governor would arrive very close to 8:00 so as not to create a stir amongst the audience. In actuality, she arrived at about 7:30 and after shaking her hand and introducing myself, I ushered her in to the theatre. This happened in clear view of people waiting to get in, so I was a bit antsy as she greeted someone in the lobby as it increased the likelihood that regular attendees would see her and make a fuss.

The Governor was treated to the last ten minutes or so of Danú's sound check before I was able to allow the rest of the audience in. Later, during intermission, I stopped by her seat and gave her a Fiddle calendar for future reference and joked about putting her on the email list. She asked for my name again – and I walked away not to speak with her again. I was pleased to see that she stayed for most of the show... I think she left just prior to the band's encore.