Daily 50

January 13 — by Patrick T. Power

Last month, I undertook a project that I thought was a relatively easy thing to do — a series of self-portraits marking my 50th year.

The plan was simple: I would create and post (at flickr) at least one self-portrait each day from 1 December 2005 to 1 December 2006. How difficult could that be, right?

Well, aside from the fact that I got wrapped up in other things on several days and forgot to shoot anything at all, I'm finding it to be an extremely challenging task.

Now, I'm not one to go to extremes for my self-portraits. I haven't the desire to get overly dramatic with my poses, or to use props. For the moment, I've made do with existing lighting around the apartment — the bathroom window light tends to be the best (although the sun has made rare appearances since the end of November), but I've found the desk lamp at the computer to be surprisingly useful.

As I have cruised flickr for the past year, I have seen comments posted on other flickr members' self-portraits complaining that "your stream is nothing but self-portraits." That tends to be a bit of an exaggeration most of the time, but I suppose I can understand how the process of doing self-portraits might be misundertood.

For most of us who shoot self-portraits on a regular basis, I think that it comes from the simple fact that we are our most convenient (and cooperative) subjects for portraiture. That surely is the case for me. It's not that I have any great desire to look at myself... it's about light and shadow and composition and (when I'm moved) post-processing.

But as convenient and willing and cooperative as I might be, there have been days that I just feel as though I'm way in over my head with this project. I often wonder if over the course of 360 days I can maintain a consistent level of creativity (subjective, of course) and interest, without the photographs being too similar.

Last night was an occasion in which I didn't get around to taking the picture until almost 11:30. I tried using the living room torch lamp as I lay on the couch/bed, but there was nothing really interesting there. I tried the foyer area (finding that the colour temperature of the light there is lower than tungsten, so that proved useful), but was again rather uninspired. I then proceeded to the basement and began exploring what opportunities were there.

I discovered a few empty storage lockers with light that came through the gaps between the wooden slats which proved interesting, but the light wasn't strong enough for the Nikon's auto-focus system. I would also have preferred to have a tripod — I suppose I'll keep that i mind for future sessions.

I was fearing that I'd not come up with anything that I liked, and at one point considered that I'd just sit up against the white wall, shoot something and let it go at that. I recognized, however, after shooting a frames, that I was sitting between two equidistant ceiling lights. It was like sitting on a copystand — boring, uninteresting light that didn't really show much form.

Moving to the north end of the room, I sat against one of the lockers, illuminated by only one of the lights, eventually getting the shot that I've posted here. Upon editing the image, I desaturated the colour, bringing my skin tones to approximate the wood behind me. The crop you see is the crop I created in-camera.

Today, there is sunshine, so I will probably take advantage of it and shoot at the bathroom window for the first time in a week or so.

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I Want...

to write again.

The desire is returning slowly but surely... I remain Paris drunk and am sluggish at getting real-life things done of late. But real life is a moment or two from slapping me upside the head. I can feel it.

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Hope

I took Penny to the airport in Grand Rapids (she's leaving the car with me for three weeks while she's in San Francisco) and she said that as of today, we've had 43 consecutive days without sunshine.

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Weather Update

Rain.

Grey.

More Rain.

More Grey.

Update:I was told today that this is the 43rd day in a row of no sun.

Rain.

Grey.

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Crisis... What Crisis?

January 2

The new year has started out much like the last month of the one that just flashed by... it's grey and rainy outside. I honestly can't recall when the sun made a significant appearance in East Lansing. Zach said he recalls having seen it a week or two ago.

Since my return from Paris, I have procrastinated like I never have before in my life... I feel as if I'm floating in some kind of vacuum. Hah! Now there's an idea... perhaps I'm actually in some cosmic vacuum cleaner — on my way to some very undesirable destination!

I had a discussion with a friend recently about a comment she'd made one night just before I'd left for Paris. We were at a meeting and I was gushing about my upcoming adventure when she blurted out, "Well, I think it's just a mid-life crisis!"

It bothered me to hear that at the time — especially because she is one of my dearest friends — but I didn't say anything to her about it until last week.

I told her about the comment and how it bothered me, then I explained to her that the trip was very much arranged on a whim... at the suggestion of a flickr friend, and not designed to coincide with my 50th birthday, something which (truth be told) didn't occur to me until after I'd made the flight reservations. I think that the most annoying aspect of her comment was that she so easily put me into some kind of box despite knowing me as well as she knows me. I told her that, if anything, I'm having a life crisis — that it has nothing to do with mid-life.

But then, is it really a crisis at all?

The other day, I talked about this with another friend and she suggested that life is one long crisis. I tend to agree with that. We wake up each day with something new to deal with — earth-shattering or otherwise — and we have to manage our way through.

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 (damned 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 photograph 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 snaps 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 frames for a panorama 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.

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Paris

Paree! by Phil Hilfiker

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!

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Singing Mea Culpa

Singing Mea Culpa

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

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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.

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Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.

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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!

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Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.

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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!

In Her Shadow

In Her Shadow — ©2025 Patrick T. Power

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.

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Reading Again!

Time Away — ©2026 Patrick T. Power

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.

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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?

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"Me And My Guitar..."

Me And My Guitar — ©2025 Patrick T. Power

"...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).

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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?

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Guilty Pleasure

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

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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!"

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Red Sandals

Red Sandals — ©2025 Patrick T. Power

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.

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Ready

Ready — Photo by Eric Payette. All rights reserved.

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!

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Unless otherwise noted, all writings on this blog are copyright Patrick T. Power. All rights reserved.

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