it all started like this, torrential rain in bursts, and the compulsion to fully experience it.
and then he said this, and i couldn’t not write it down.
and then she remembered how fun chalk is when the pavement is wet.
and so did he. 
and let’s just say we were deeply moved.
and then:
and then:
saturday / sunday
how was yours?
shortcake, holga, tri-x 400 film in t-max dev
An unintended theme in my life lately has been a loss of control. (Maybe “unintended” is a given, since intention is a form of control?) Or, more specifically, the theme is a fucking obliteration of any semblance of control. Control is dying a painful and twitching death here, and I’ve taken the job of holding the pillow over its face. I’m tired of sharing its air. I can’t really give you any insight here, because there is not any hindsight to speak of.
But it has me feeling kindred with the ol’ holga. I’ve got no control with the holga, which sort of kills a woman whose religion is the Church of the Light Meter. The aperture and shutter speed simply are what they are, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Even those settings are relatively uncertain. All I can do is open the plastic shutter and let the light in, to fall on the film as it will. The focus will be off, some frames will be overexposed, and some will be underexposed. There are unintended shadows everywhere and places where the sun burns the negative completely black. But a couple of the frames are, with ironic consistency (or is it pure statistics?), absolutely gorgeous. Alternatively, I could leave camera at home; or worse, I could let a computer set the controls for me.
But I think the illusion of control can be deceiving. The only constant is this beautiful inconsistency. I think. I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you. (But don’t count on it.)
tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr
today, i sever the connection to my inner Wisdom with my own hands.
the Places She leads me, i cannot go because i am weak.
the Light She shows me, i cannot embody, because i am weak.
the River She floods, i cannot swim, because i am weak.
the Truth She sings, i cannot hear, because i am weak.
the Fruit She offers me, i cannot taste, because i am weak.
this threshold of Knowing is crossed, and so perhaps when i return, the door will be propped open.
but i know i will not return. i will search my whole life for that elusive gateway, and will not find it.
today i gather scraps of shed skin, and paste them to my face, because i am stupid.
because i am weak.
today i think of Orpheus, and plant seeds in my garden—let them be the Brave ones,
now that the frost has passed.
(but even Orpheus looked back.)
today i recognize that a bird in my backyard has called out,
(as i write this, shortcake says, “look, mama! a bird!”)
like a reminder of Morning,
and that i chose sleep, as did you, because we are weak.
(did you?)
this is not Bravery. this is not receptive Stillness. this is not bold Foolishness.
this is not silent Power.
this is smallness. because i am weak.
(does anyone have any chocolate?)
i’ll add a few inspiring, though not “pretty” links now, to completely contradict everything i just said:
a poem about dancing. yeow
i’ve always wanted to photograph people in the shower. check out this series. yeow.
in case you missed this on my facebook, yeeeow again:
shortcake + black marker lipstick. (i don't even wear lipstick. where did this compulsion come from?) digital (d200).
This past weekend, Louise and I went to investigate the theory that online people are actually real people. On a whim. To . . . Kansas.
It turns out—get this—they are! Real people, that is. Real-person Deb invited us into her home for the weekend, without agenda, without purpose (oh shit! I can do things for no reason!). Just . . . for fun. She caffeinated us and fed us and entertained us and photographed us (oh shit! i have a face!) and even let us borrow her super-cute real-person husband as, oh, you know, our own personal pilot (oh shit! i can choose to fly!). Just . . . for fun. Real-person Aimee met us on Saturday and helped us drink a bottle of wine and splurge on a few items of over-priced clothing at Anthropologie (oh, shit! i can buy an apple shirt! because who does not want a shirt with apples all over it?). Just for . . . well, you get the idea.
aimee + me, holga fisheye
It was a weekend full of frivolous nonsense. It was not rational in the least. And it was absolutely wonderful.
me + deb + rock music
It was incredible to spend time with all of these three women, so full of vitality and wisdom and beauty. One thing that struck me about them was the connection they have to their own power. It is not an I-have-something-to-prove sort of thing, but a certain inner knowing and acceptance and manifestation of their own unique gifts. I am so inspired by them all, by their power and joy and authenticity and the bravery to challenge the concepts of “easy” and “safe” in order to live their own fabulous truths. Lately, I’ve been remembering: (oh, shit!) I am a real person with my own real talents and my own real choices and my own real place in the story. There is the balance between 1., knowing that you are enough, that “all you had to do was be born,” and 2., being connected to that truth and purpose that you were born with, and living. It’s all about the mojo, y’awl. (Oh shit! That mojo is powerful, though. So watch out, when it hits you.)
julie (louise) + me (thelma) + deb (superstar)
AND P.S., HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! (please do sing.)
The imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense.
holga on the then-snowy shores of lk michigan. right image with fisheye. completely irrelevant to the post.
The P word.
(No, not that, you dirty thing, you.)
And, no! not pregnant, godsaveusfromoverpopulation.
P…
Puh…
Pub….
PUBLISHED!!!
I think I’m actually supposed to act cool about this. Like, oh, ho-hum. I am so very important and oh, by the way, I almost forgot about this other thing I’m published in . . .
Except I’m not a good faker. And I’ve never actually been PUBLISHED before. And so, I’m not acting very cool about it at all. I mean,check out some of the other riduculously fabulous bloggers who have been featured in this magazine! I think you’ll agree with me: my freakout is valid.
The Summer 2010 issue of Artful Blogging is available on May 1st online or in bookstores like Barnes and Noble. (Barnes and swearing effing cussing Noble!) This issue is bright orange; you can’t miss it. And when you’re finished with pages 68-73 (that’s six pages of my stuff, woot), thumb through the pages of good company my words and pictures are keeping. Here are a few from this issue that I checked out:
http://emmallamb.blogspot.com/ (crochet flowers! it’s fate!)
http://swirlygirl.typepad.com/ (the illustrious Christine Mason Miller.)
http://lavenderlimes.blogspot.com/ (visual feast and now i’m off to make some dal or maybe move to India.)
http://www.mocking-bird.org/blog/ (can it be? a fellow film-shooter I didn’t know about?)
http://shonastudio.blogspot.com/ (has more kids than me and is well-acquainted with the P word.)
This could get addictive, being PUBLISHED. pub. (the fuck) lished. baby.
However shall I celebrate?
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves,
the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword,
are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
William Blake, Proverbs of Hell, in The Prophetic Books
holga, fisheye, tri-x 400. kiki, dimples, my feet.
Am I perpetually unhappy, or am I perpetually inspired?
Do I have ADHD, or do I have particularly keen senses?
Am I unable to finish a project, or am I unable to deny a potentially brilliant idea my attention?
I found this article and then this, googling—I kid you not—”creativity and distractibility.” (SPARKLY!)
“Scientists have wondered for a long time why madness and creativity seem linked,” says Carson. “It appears likely that low levels of latent inhibition and exceptional flexibility in thought might predispose to mental illness under some conditions and to creative accomplishment under others.”
“This means that creative individuals remain in contact with the extra information constantly streaming in from the environment,” says co-author and U of T psychology professor Jordan Peterson. “The normal person classifies an object, and then forgets about it, even though that object is much more complex and interesting than he or she thinks. The creative person, by contrast, is always open to new possibilities.”
“We are very excited by the results of these studies,” says Peterson. “It appears that we have not only identified one of the biological bases of creativity but have moved towards cracking an age-old mystery: the relationship between genius, madness and the doors of perception.”
Regarding me, we think the jury’s still out. But until the verdict (or the next distraction), I’m happy with this explanation.
(The study in its entirety, in PDF form, here.)
has it been almost a week? it is not for lack of things to say, but for lack of focus on which one.
but a picture, at least, until focus shows up.
Waxing moon, crazy me. Just last night I told m’girl that I have two kinds of crabby: waning moon (woe is me) and waxing moon (everything! now! must!). She said, “the moon is waxing, right?”
I stay up too late, trying to desperately attend to all of the inspiration that speeds around my head. Sometimes I feel like a pack of hyenas upon myself, scavenging whatever is left, whatever we can get from the dead carcass of me.
The other night, around 10 PM, I felt tired. There is this wise zen-like woman in there somewhere that whispered, Burnout, love. This is burnout. Rest your body and your mind. You have all the time in the world. Take care of you. And probably, also, she said ommmmm.
But the loud, obnoxious one said, Burnout’s a stupid FUCK! A bitch I don’t have time for! A poor player that struts and frets her hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more! I’m not sure why Shakespeare was brought into it, but the loud one won, and I developed some film.
I just can’t help but like that bitchy one. She brings me things like this:
all 3 photos: tri-x 400 pushed a stop in mamiya c330 tlr
