Life Through A Lens
So it seems that with the advent of digital photography more and more people are trying their hand at the art. This has both positive and negative implications for existing photographers. It can be helpful in the sense that there is a wider appreciation for the skill it takes to frame an excellent photograph. But it can also be detrimental in that people don’t have a respect for the skill it takes to make your own prints and develop your own negatives. There are certainly two arguable sides to the story.
In a related scenario, I have recently perused the photographs of a friend which they had posted online. These pictures were digital and it looks like the camera was a Nikon D40. She has no formal training in photography, just bought a decent camera and took it with her, utilizing it often. As I looked at her pictures I was inspired. She certainly has an eye for the art. I offered her some formal instruction should she ever make it out to this part of the country. It seems that time may be sooner than later.
So now here I am, pondering over my own photos attempting to discern a couple days worth of memorable photographic stops across Virginia. I mean, it shouldn’t be too hard. It’s a very photogenic state. There is a lot of history here and history always makes for a great picture. Also, there is a lot of nature here and nature offers a wide variety of opportunities if you just keep your eyes open and your mouth closed.
I am thinking we could start in Shockoe Bottom, probably in the evening when the light has a little more color to it and the neon of the bars stands out. Then perhaps the James River, somewhere about Belle Isle. W. Main street, just East of the Boulevard would do well too, though better in the evening. From Richmond perhaps to Charlottesville to visit Monticello. From there, the Blue Ridge and Skyline Drive. I’m thinking this entire trip may be a rediscovery for me as well. It’s been so long since I really took the time to photograph this wonderful part of the country. Alas, I doubt this all fits into one trip.
Oh well, better excuse to bring her back more often. Now I just need to prioritize the order of this list of places into a reasonably timed weekend or so.
Keeping Their Sound
Lately I have gone back and listened to a number of bands that I listened to as a youth. In addition, a lot of these bands have come out with new albums. Of course it is always exciting when a band you love releases something new after five, eight, ten years or so on. Of course, this can also be a setup for a great letdown, as has been the case with more than a few of these albums.
I think it all started with the new Offspring album. I was stoked to have some new Offspring and the two tracks that came out before the album’s release sounded like something off of Ixnay… so I was convinced the rest of the album would follow suit. Man was I wrong. One of the songs strayed so far as to have a piano lead. The Offspring…with pianos? Get Out.
The next highly anticipated album (more so than the Offspring record) was the new H2O album. It has been a long while since they gave us anything, so this was big news. I expected it would sound somewhat like GO, but that it would bring back some of that old school speed and urgency. Apparently I set my hopes too high. It was poppier than GO and the lyrics sounded geared towards the 12-14 year old age bracket. It was hurtful to listen to.
There is, apparently, some hope for some of our old favorites. There have been a handful of releases from older groups that have either met my expectations or exceeded them. The first of which was the newest Pennywise. Right off the bat I very nearly crapped my shorts in excitement. This was what I had been waiting for. Old school skate punk. The thrash on this cd is intense. I had the misfortune of first listening to it in my car and I found myself going waaaaaay beyond the speed limit. Note to listeners: don’t drive to new Pennywise, you may kill someone.
Another new release that exceeded my expectations was the new Alkaline Trio cd, Agony & Irony. I was glad to see they left the Crimson sound behind for the most part (it does creep into some of the tracks, but the album is pretty much classic Alkaline Trio). I am still stoked off how awesome this album is. I was really in need of something new. I have noticed there are some more old school bands that are slated to release some new material this year. I am hoping they meet my expectations. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Why Can’t I Do It Myself?
So, as I am sitting here shoveling some reasonably delicious manufactured cereal into my face, I am stricken with an idea that I can’t believe has never before crossed my mind. As I look at this cereal box, reading the list of ingredients I am surprised at what all goes into what appears to be a relatively simple cereal. This can’t be right…there is way to much in this list. There has to be 30-some ingredients, but I look in my bowl and see only crunchy little honey colored squares. This is wrong. Surely there is another way to go about this.
And thanks to the aid of the internet, I have found it. I can now make my own breakfast cereal with the help of a really cool website titled www.mrbreakfast.com. On this site is a list of recipes for breakfast cereals that is just long enough to keep things interesting for a long time, but not long enough to be considered exhaustive (or exhausting). You can view it here: <http://www.mrbreakfast.com./recipe_collection.asp?subcategoryid=8> .
I plan on trying these out because, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I like my food as natural as I can get it. I am an avid eater of naturally produced and ecologically sound production/ growing/ farming methods. I won’t get on my soap box here, but let it suffice to say that these are some pretty sound recipes. The Danish Rye recipe sounds like a winner. I am going to the store first thing in the morning (only because nothing is open past 11 here).
Conversational Qualities
I have recently been in contact with an old friend. A female friend, I should probably note. Over about a week we have been talking to each other and the conversations have been incredible. I’ve not had so stimulating and entertaining a conversation since… well, last time I talked to my cousin in Milwaukee who is pretty much on the same wavelength as myself when it comes to conversation. She catches what these days would be considered obscure literary references. She takes a joke and dishes one out. She understands that conversation should have a good rhythm, as should a story. Listening to her relate stories of her past experiences is fulfilling for several reasons. The intonation of her voice is such that it doesn’t get old as the story draws out. It remains fresh and expressive and there is a tone of thoughtfulness behind it as though she were actually choosing her words rather precisely (as she may be). In addition, the sound of her voice is very soothing. It has a low key, low pitch, smoky quality to it; almost as if everything she were telling was a secret meant only for you to hear. In all honesty, it has been exhilarating conversation.
I have found myself anxious to speak to her, eagerly awaiting her call (I try not to call her too often, for fear of seeming too invasive and also for fear that we might run out of things to talk about- with such a distance between the two of us, a lack of things to say simply means more time apart. An idea that, to my surprise, I find to be uncomfortable and unwanted). I dare say infatuation has got the best of me. I do seek to follow this infatuation to whatever end it may choose to bring me, if indeed it brings me to an end at all. Suffice to say that this has lent me a new excitement at a time in my life when it is most welcomed. I am certain adventure will ensue.
These Nights Are Already Cold…
“We won’t last through the winter here” she muttered, hunkered down on the bed near the fire, draped in the military green wool blanket they had stowed away in a footlocker underneath the bed. The wind outside wailed on as it had for hours and the drafts sneaking in through the cracks in the walls seemed to seek her out and climb down into the blanket, past the four layers of old clothing she wore down to her skin where it stung and chilled her. Her long auburn hair lay draped over her shoulder as she shivered into the blanket, vainly seeking its warmth. It had grown considerably colder in the five weeks they had been here. The small pantry had been empty for two days. Their only sustenance was the small fish they could catch through a tiny hole in the ice covering the lake. They had managed only one or two in the last three days. Fish so small they seemed only to aggravate their hunger. In the spring there would be caribou and elk and they could eat like kings. Kings of the wilderness. Unfortunately, this time of year all the larger animals had gone south where there was still grass on which to graze.
The older man glanced over at her, turning his gaze away from the crack where the heavy drapes met the window pane. It was a very narrow line of sight, but he could not risk opening the curtains for fear that the light from their meager fire would betray their presence in the old cabin. Out near this lake, such a light would be seen for miles with not so much as a shrub to block it’s glaring beams.
“Either we’ll starve to death or we will freeze. You were a fool to bring us here.” she added. Her voice tinged with sadness and lacking the tone that would indicate a genuine anger. She knew why they were there. It was as much his fault as it was hers and, in reality, this hiding spot was not any worse than any of their other options. At least here he could see them coming far off. She had no desire to watch for them in the beginning, but now- at the end it seemed, she could not keep her mind from the thought of them. Surely they would have pity on her. Certainly someone would understand, or care. No, she was only fooling herself. There would be no pity. No remorse. They were outlaws,criminals. There could be no redemption, except perhaps between them and God- if he would still listen.
The older man returns his gaze to the window. His silver hair sparkles in the firelight. His knitted wool cap hides his bald spot on his crown. If his hair were darker he would look as he had in the old days: intense, brooding and reminiscent of a clean-cut Che Guevara or perhaps a young Vladimir Lenin (without the glasses). Even in his old age he had that revolutionary look about him. Something about him commanded respect and fear, or so it had at one time. His eyes once could pass judgment on any man with a fierceness and severity perhaps paralleled only by the flames of hell. His grey eyes had softened now. He spoke with a smoky, voice and at a slower pace than his younger days. Was he still the same man? Had his determination, his contempt for their status-quo diminished as he aged? Perhaps it is true that life becomes more dear as we reach the end of it. Had he given up his dreams for the sake of mere survival? She couldn’t tell. Despite the changes time had made to this man, she could read him no more easily than she could the day he first proposed this notion to her.
She was little more than a girl and a little less than a woman when they first met on her uncle’s veranda during a social gathering. He seemed to take a genuine interest in the girl; what she thought, what she did, her hopes, they all mattered to him. He was charming and well dressed and had the finest mustache of any man at the party. If things had stayed on the prescribed course, she would have been heiress to her father and uncle’s mining operations. Already she had been with her father to see the mines. She had no affection for them as he had though. She did not care for the dark cavernous recesses or the filthy, blackened creatures who labored there hallowing out the earth. Her hair was long then. It flowed in auburn torrents to her slim waist. She was a beauty to behold and she caught the eye of many a friend of her fathers and all the eyes of the mine workers, though theirs were concealed under hats with little lanterns on them so that she could not tell she was being watched. Time had weathered her in the years that passed. She gave up the life of the well-to-do and followed him on the road. She retained her beauty, but it had been muted by time and worn by care. She thought it was care for their cause. The cause that first had been his and later became her own. Truthfully, it was he whom she truly cared for and she on whom his cares were cast. For many years she had been his confidant and companion and not once did any word of displeasure pass her lips, regardless of the hardships.
He cleared his throat and she thought, for a moment, that she saw the reservoir of his eyelids holding back a flood. She understood. He loosed the strap of his pistol and turned off the safety. She wrapped the blanket tighter about her and let the tears flow down her cheek. He had never seen her this way and so he made a point not to look at her. This time they would be found. This time he would remember why they began in the first place and the six shots in his pistol would not be enough to save them from the fate they made for themselves.
The sound of machinery and people marching echoed softly on the freshly fallen snow. There was no moon to light the way or signal their presence. There were no clouds either. The night was cool and clear and the sound of the shots carried across miles.
