dimples, holga, tri-x, kettle moraine

someone once said that the definition of insanity is taking four children on a cross-country road trip.  i think maybe that someone was me, precisely one year ago, when we did such a thing.  but then i forgot, because now we are doing it again.  this one will be shorter than last year’s trip, only 22 hours of driving each way.  last year i spent the entire time in the passenger seat puting newborn dreadlocks into my hair.  this year, i plan to spend the entire time tweeting.  so, follow me through the thrills of iowa and nebraska, through the joys of altitude sickness in colorado.  it’ll be fun.  i promise.  if i can figure it out, i’ll upload an occasional shot of my journals (watercolor, ink, writing, i’m feeling ambitious).  we leave tomorrow morning.  i wonder if i should consider packing?

tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr, shortcake, november

 Oh.  Hi there.  I was going to say, “Yikes.  A week without blogging.  I was just a little busy—falling.  Did i miss anything while i was away?” 

But I already know the answer:  I didn’t miss one thing.

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:

This is something i am not good at:  being nice.

This is something i am good at: taking pictures.

tri-x 400, mamiya645af

This is a daughter of a new friend.  (And who does not want a new friend that makes stove-top lattes with pure maple syrup and has loads of fresh kale growing in her backyard?)  When I met this little girl I cried—literally had tears stream down my cheeks—because of her beautiful face.  That was a little bit embarrassing.

This little session has inspired me.  And so I’ve decided that if I do not introduce my new session offerings by next week, you have the right to punish me in any way you see fit.  Ideas for consequences?  I could probably use the motivation. 

(This is something I am not good at: marketing.)

from deb’s polaroid camera when we said goodbye at the airport.

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.)

 Make yourself necessary to someone.  Emerson

I hate quotations.  Tell me what you know.  Emerson

Actually, if this were paper, I’d be furiously scribbling all over that first quote until the ink made holes in the paper.  Then I would tear the paper into a thousand tiny pieces and then I would burn it.  And then I would dig a hole in some remote wilderness with my bare hands and bury the ashes.  That’s how much I hate that quote.

Someone posted it on facebook the other day, and I tried not to look at it.  Unfortunately, it lodged itself into my memory and I’ve been dwelling on it.  This morning, my will faltered at the strength of my curiosity, and I searched for the author.  It was like a knife in my heart (only a mild exaggeration).  EMERSON!?  My dearly beloved?  Say it ain’t so, Ralph Waldo!  Say it ain’t so!  Alas, it was him.  I am betrayed.

navel-gazing holga screw up. 'cause i SUCK!

The thing is, I’ve just stubbed my toe on this little pebble of self-doubt, which made me fall and scrape my knee on a sidewalk of self-pity, and when I tried to stand, I sprained my ankle in a rut of self-loathing.  How embarrassing.  I throw my hands up in the air now, make my hands into signs of number one!* and say “I’m good!  It’s alright!  I’m all good!”  But still I feel like an idiot; it’s always worse when there’s nobody to laugh at with you.  And I walk it off, walk it off, but it still hurts a little, to tell you the truth.  All sorts of ridiculous, but honest, emotions that equate to I’m not enough.

And then Emerson tells me to make myself fucking necessary.  Which I just can’t even believe is possible.  How does one become necessary to someone else?  Especially someone who is so acutely feeling her not-enough-ness?  I mean, necessary?  This is when I’ve been necessary to someone else:  as a uterus and a birth canal.  There are a lot of uterus/birth canal combinations walking around, if you hadn’t noticed.  So even my sole case of necessary-ness is questionable.

How’s that for pathetic?  Is this working for you?  Great!  I know it’s making me feel a lot better!  I’m so awesome!  Yaaaaay me!

[stomps on a ziploc bag full of pretzels]

[pops a chocolate covered espresso bean]

Today I was shopping for sunglasses.  The muzak chick was singing something like “does anybody need you?”  I was like, the fuck?  What’s wrong with you people!

The sun was shining, though.  I took a walk in the woods with girliefriends and smelled the pines and touched the clear water and discovered some crazy mushroom thing.  Everything is fine, just fine.  Just.  Fine.  So don’t worry.  Empty flattery will earn you a middle finger, anyway.  But if you just so happened to want to give me a hug, to come up with something deep and edifying to say, and to maybe also make out with me, I’d probably be OK with that.

[curtsy]

* “number one!” is a great story from my sister (that you really have to see her tell), in which a drunk guy stumbled out of a club, fell head-first into a garbage can, then jumped back out with his arms raised, signaling and shouting “NUMBER ONE!”

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.)

The Four. Holga, tri-x 400. Obviously.

What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.

from The Rainbow Connection, written by Paul Williams

My Kiki is not a soft, frou-frou girl.  She likes loud rock songs and music she can dance to.  So, imagine my surprise when I learned that she had been listening to the Sarah McLachlan version of this song on her iPod!  Whether it’s the voice or the chords or the elusive meaning, I don’t know, but it moves her.  The other night, I played the youtube of Kermit rockin’ the banjo for her, and we laughed.  But also, dammit, I got all choked up.  What is it about this song?

She wanted to understand the meaning, and I fumbled through an explanation about journey, Mystery, self-expression, connection.  Drawing from a rather entertaining fire-and-brimstone vs. Love-and-Light facebook exercise in tolerance this weekend, I told her that we can’t help but walk individual paths, as we each live and experience every moment differently.  But at the same time, we are all trying our best to understand the same Thing, whatever we call It, however we respond to It.  We know there is beauty and magic, and it is the collective vision of everyone’s unique Truth that . . .

I’m totally lying.  This is so much better than the bullshit I gave her.  I’ve gotta write this down.  Or just ask her what she thinks it means, because that would all go over her head.

Anyway, is this not a fan-cussin’-tastic photo (if I do say so myself)?  It is the Spring of the Holga.  I’ve just decided.

(p.s.  yes.  i’ve heard voices.)