we’re not afraid of the big, bad wolf. so we’re building our houses with sticks. one of the funnest summer projects, ever!
when i was little, i had this imaginary world i would go to before i fell asleep. we lived in the trees of a thick forest, and there were bridges that stretched from one tree to another. i miss that place.
Every man wants to be settled, but only insofar as he is unsettled is there hope. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
shortcake, dimples, kiki, at the "real" lake
She was poorly behaved yesterday, at a bridal shower. She did not want to sit and socialize. She did not perform, smile, or give affection appropriately or on command. And she screamed like a pterodactyl if she was not allowed to watch the hockey game (what? whose kid is this?) being played in the adjacent ice arena. Then, after a while in the hockey rink, she screamed when i wouldn’t let her climb all over the bleachers. So, I took her outside to continue her screaming.
I stood on the jogging trail while she threw a fit at my feet. My eyes followed the too-perfect curve of the artificial lake, and i compared the identical rows of too-perfect rocks where the water met the too-perfect grass. The windsurfers and canoers looked plastic. Imperfect, sweaty people passed us by, most of them smiling at the tantrum-ing toddler. Above it all, loomed the ugly power plant, which Shortcake noticed was making clouds.
The screaming eventually became whimpering, and the whimpering eventually became silence. I thought she was asleep on my shoulder when I heard her addressing the seagulls.
“Duckies. Not birdies? I hold him.”
I set her down so she could pursue the flock. She exaggerated a tiptoe, whispering “I’m just like you, birdie. Come back!”
She picked up white feathers, and after studying each one, held it up to the seagulls.
“Here you are, birdies.” The ugly creatures continued to evade her, but she followed them—north, then south, then north, again and again.
“Here you are! Here is your feather.” Defeated every time, she would eventually wait for a gust of wind, hold the feather up to the sky, and let the wind take it. And she would laugh.
We missed the gift opening. She did not finish her cupcake.
I’ve just done all of this, too: the tantrum, the whimpering, the silence. There are changes afoot, and uneven currents in the air. A dear friend has just blessed me with some red hawk medicine, with the reminder of the hawk’s sharp vision, its awareness of interconnectedness and the highest Intent, and its ability to see beyond what seems to be to what truly is. Yes, I do believe it is just about time to feel that wind.
It happens in a pattern, becoming almost predictable. The girls do handstands, their legs sticking out of the water in a V. There is a large splash, then a small one, over and over again, everywhere. Most of the mothers try to cover their feminine curves with clingy wet fabric. There is sunscreen and waterwing-ing and squealing and running and splashing and jumping and eating and sitting and sculpting and scolding. It is all so random and recurrent that it is balanced, and the entire place is drenched with visible, audible, palpable chaos.
Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them. I notice the pockets of space between swimmers. I listen for pockets of space between sounds. I consider the imperceptible space between molecules. I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking. I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”
I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence. And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation. The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.
(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night. The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out. I mean, what? Why is that OK? From my nappy dread to yours? Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair? This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face? But no. It did not. And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back. And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake. Right after this blog post.)
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.)
but i'm glad i didn't.
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.
shortcake + black marker lipstick. (i don't even wear lipstick. where did this compulsion come from?) digital (d200).
This is something i am not good at: being nice.
This is something i am good at: taking pictures.
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.)
