Posts Tagged ‘Shortcake’

unsettled

August 16, 2010

 Every man wants to be settled, but only insofar as he is unsettled is there hope. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

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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.

 

weekend

saturday / sunday

how was yours?

lomography metaphor

June 4, 2010
shortcake, holga, tri-x 400 film in t-max dev

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.)

oh. hi there.

May 23, 2010
You see, I want a lot
Maybe I want it all;
The darkness of each endless fall,
The shimmering light of each ascent.
 
Rainer Maria Rilke, from Rilke’s Book of Hours
tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr, shortcake, november

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

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:

what he said.

May 13, 2010
shortcake + black marker lipstick.  (i don't even wear lipstick.  where did this compulsion come from?)  digital (d200).

shortcake + black marker lipstick. (i don't even wear lipstick. where did this compulsion come from?) digital (d200).

 

 

 

 

  
 . . . it is a good thing, if you possess great talent, to give, early in your youth, a very hard kick to the right shin of the society that you love. After that, be a snob.
-Salvador Dali
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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.)

Signs

March 18, 2010

Now that it’s nice enough outside to go for walks . . .

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. . . I’m embracing the learning opportunities presented by signs.

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dance!

March 15, 2010

“Now you are entering the world.
You will become adult with responsibilities…
Walk with honour and dignity.
Be strong!
For you are the mother of our people…
For you will become the mother of a nation.”

Apache

 

 My future little women and I had such fun playing with colors and shutter speeds the other night.  Lately, every time I put on a skirt, Shortcake stops what she’s doing, and commands me:  “Dance!”  And so I dance, swishing the skirt and spinning.  She stands back, watching me with a critical eye, then says things like, “Yes.  Mm-hmm.  Good, good.”

I don’t know if it is Spring, or these photos, or the new moon, or what.  But I am craving ritual and fires and drumming and dance and lying awake in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.  And such.

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to them . . .

March 10, 2010

i am
sandwiches on plates
milk in cups

I wrote a poem the other night that started like this.  Except, I don’t actually know what “poem” means.  And so I won’t share it with you as such.  I will, maybe, make the words lyrics someday. 

>>>digression.  I listened to the very end of an interview with Anais Mitchell this weekend on NPR.  I turned on the radio, on my way to my beachy solitary-ing, intent on remaining open to signs and natural instinct.  Of course, then, she was being interviewed for her new folk drama, Hadestown.  Hades!  Persephone!  Orpheus!  Eurydice!  Alright, already.  I get it.  It is time to focus on that damn novel again, apparently.  (ha, ha!  damn!  underworld!  get it?  is this thing on?)  But I bring it up, because she said something like this: ”If you want to be a poet nowadays, you’d better learn how to play the guitar.”  end digression<<<

Essentially, the ”poem” was a list of all the pointless, meaningless things I am to them, these kids.  I realized recently, or remembered, that I am not as important to them as I think I am.  This is both heartbreaking and liberating.  I am the biology that got them here, the biology that facilitates their continued living.  But beyond that, they are independent little bodies, free little spirits.  Usually, I am just getting in their way.  The “poem” ends:

and i can’t help but consider
sea turtles

You know, sea turtles.  Because the mothers abandon their children, as eggs, on the beach.  (tap, tap.  is this thing on?)  I mean, no.  I’m not planning on deserting my babies.  But, really.  Those little hatchlings are perfectly capable.  The species still survives, right?  (Okay.  I just looked this up.  And there are a few different species of sea turtles.  And most of them are endangered.  So nevermind.  Forget the sea turtle thing.  Just forget it.)

And so guess what.  Now Dimples is really sick.  And he needs me.  Go figure.  All lies, these epiphanies.  All lies!

This is the photo that started all of this “independent children” thinking in the first place:

independent shortcake in bath, digital.
independent shortcake in bath, digital.

and another, for good measure:

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