Personal Power

Monday, August 29, 2005

Singing Mea Culpa

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.

* * *

If you're interested in commenting, please sign up at Blogger to do so. The spammers have yet again found a way to ruin something, so I've configured this blog to accept only comments I've read first.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

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 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 coordinating 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 have taken 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!

* * *

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

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!

Sunday, August 07, 2005

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 pleased.

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 statues 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.

* * *

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Reading Again!

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.

* * *

Thursday, July 07, 2005

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?

* * *

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

"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.

While in the thick of splitting up with my wife, I purchased my Martin guitar a few months before I moved out of our house. It was a present to myself as way of making up for all the years I'd pretty much denied myself personal possessions beyond books and record albums/CDs. I'd owned a 12-string guitar which Penny 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 long 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. While I sometimes think I should have gone with the D-21, I chose the latter.

Hour after hour I would play on 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. I also became a regular at open mics. 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 feel from looking at 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).

* * *

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Adrift

Sometimes my songs are inspired more by others' lives rather than my own. In this case, it was inspired by a photograph one of my FLickr contacts had posted.

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?

* * *

Monday, July 04, 2005

Guilty Pleasure

Still image of Blanche Baker (left) and Debra Winger taken from the film French Postcards

French Postcards: Blanche Baker (left) and Debra Winger

This morning, I was reminded of an old (1979) film, French Postcards. Many years ago, I happened to see it on Cinemax on a small black-and-white television in Lansing, Michigan, and it has turned out to be one of my guilty pleasures. So I pulled out the VHS (!) copy I have of it 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.

Listen/watch

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 whom Lora finds to take her to what she calls "The Festival" in an unidentified town far from Paris. His favorite English phrase is "No problem!"

* * *

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

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 sits just east of the US-127 / I-496 interchange... it's not accessible other than from Arbor Drive from the south, and 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.

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.

* * *

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Ready

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 ever 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!

* * *

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Festival Of The Sun

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.

Ohmuhgawd are drunk women obnoxious!

* * *

Friday, June 10, 2005

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.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

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.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Quoting Shakespeare

shakespeareposter by CarminaGitana.

Bigger size.

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.

Monday, April 25, 2005

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.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

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.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

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...

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Winter When She Goes

Rachel Bissex by Matt Thorsen

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 death 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 using the "he" pronoun, whereas Dave originally wrote the song as "Winter When She Goes" — I've opted to use the original form here.

* * *

Monday, August 29, 2005

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

How Cool Is This?!?

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Monday, July 04, 2005

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Friday, June 10, 2005

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Newsweek Retraction

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Quoting Shakespeare

A Brave New Wonderful

Monday, April 25, 2005

Mourning

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Words

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Sunday, February 20, 2005

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