Reservoir Days

Prints from slides are expensive. At one point in my life I knew this and chose against having prints made from the rolls of slide film I shot during the first two weeks of my color photo class in college. Slides do not fit through my scanner, however, which put me in the situation where I would either just have these slides forever or have to pay to turn them into prints or digital copies. And then I once more forgot slides were expensive until I went to pick them up (however not as expensive as dry cleaning–I’d recommend not doing a year’s worth at once).

$56 later I had in hand prints from three archival book sheets of slides I deemed worthy of printing out. Yuck.

Thank God I did not print them all.

Sadly, these look so much better as slides. And the wearing of my scanner (I guess my usage is heavier than most) doesn’t do much for them either . . .

I shot these in college during a bright, early September day down by the reservoir and the woods surrounding it. It was one of the first times I met Andrew and the first time doing a photo project with Adria living in the same town. I remember how my photo instructor had just “lectured” on the golden hour the week before and it was the first time I experienced that time with that knowledge.

* * *

I recently had an “A ha!” moment when it comes to my backlog/archive of photos (aka my photo hoarding). Starting today, Fridays will be my “post old photos and hopefully do so in a coherent manner” day. You’re welcome (for not overindulging myself and posting some every day).

You Capture: Color

A few glimpses of color from the previous weekend . . .

Started it off with freshly colored hair. Thankfully, no grays to hide YET.

Then celebrated red solo cups at Calla’s party.

Lights from across the bar.

Revisitation: Weekends & Weekbegins

Originally published February 5th, 2003.

Self Portrait, February 2003

 

as the weekend passes and the weekbegins occur…
we passed through the city a million times to begins and ends.
but never a middle.
there are no weekmiddles in our lives.

the lights were bright enough to make you sterile.
our money was found in the hands of beggars and children.
we swiped the card a million times; we crossed the street once or twice or twenty-times.

time stood still the way people always describe it to.
the way people describe things the same way a million times.
the way people pass off memory as intelligence; memory as creativity.
well i will tell you this:
here there are no memories
but a moment and not a moment too soon
and again that is what everyone says
way too many times.

but the weekends, the weekbegins; the lack of weekmiddles.
they converge and diverge
and indulge in pleasures we think about too many times
and pass off uniformity as intelligence
and pass off uniformity as creativity.
but in the words said by a million people a million times over:
“we will meet again. once more these roads will cross”
and once more we will find ourselves
nothing but silhouettes of a weekend.

and here i have said 2539 too many words
and all have been said before
but just like you
i am passing them off as original and creative
as i force myself through the weekmiddles
and recollect the weekbegins and the weekends.
take.

 

The Line.

There’s this invisible line somewhere on our lives that changes everything. It can be a wide line–a thick boundary like the Mississippi River–or as undetectable as a precinct line. But it’s there. There’s this invisible line and you usually don’t even know you’ve crossed it until you’re well over on to the other side.

I don’t know where I am. I do, but I don’t. It’s like I’m wading in a murky river, toeing the line or straddling it. I can still see both sides very clearly,  but I have this pressing feeling one side will soon be farther than the other.

It’s like this: you’re a kid and you enjoy friday movie nights at home with your family. Then you reach a certain age and staying home on a Friday is the last thing you want to do. Then you’re to the point where you can’t remember the last friday night you spent at home, and then suddenly you’re craving it again.

It’s a bell curve, pretty much. (Bell curve courtesy of Economics Help.)

And now I realize this sounds like I’m talking about middle age, but I’m not. I’m not there yet. This is something else, so similar yet so different.

This is growing up.

Some hit that line sooner than others, by sheer will or circumstances out of their control.

And then there’s me.

It’s not an issue of maturity vs. immaturity–I get that. But priorities and comfort and contentment.  It’s what stimulates you and where you find your heart taking you.

I’m still figuring it all out. I tend to over-think things (when I’m not making rash decisions, that is).

It’s that point where going out becomes sad rather than fun (I’m not there).

It’s that point where renting gives way to home ownership (I’m not there).

It’s that point where running a mile becomes a chore (I’m there).

It’s that point where you learn to pick your battles (I’m getting there).

And maybe it’s not so much a single point but a set of points that together form a line and maybe that line isn’t a straight line and maybe that line doesn’t fall in the same place for every person. I’m getting that.

But the line is there and someday I’ll know I’ve passed it (be it by swimming, by air, by digging, by walking, or by closing my eyes and running as fast as I can through it).

* * *

This post was written as a Just Write exercise. A good challenge to get the rust off and find my creativity once more. Bear with me while I attempt to find it!

Check out others’  Just Write posts here.

Unsatisfactory.

Today is National Handwriting Day. I’ll just go ahead and pretend this is more important than it really is.

Some of you out there (you know who you are) are blessed with handwriting that is an art in and of itself–handwriting that others want to see and possibly even spend money on.

I am not one of those fortunate few.

I have been cursed with a sloppy hand. So bad I was even given multiple unsatisfactory grades for handwriting in elementary school. Seriously. That happens.

I’ve tried to overcompensate. I’ve tried to make my writing interesting, or at least legible. I spent years writing out everything I possibly could, from my original writings to rewriting things I liked. Or rewriting my own writings, then rewriting again. Seriously.

I had calligraphy sets. I bought fancy pens. I bought numerous notebooks and journals and albums hoping they’d prompt me to clean up my act.

They didn’t. I tried, but it was of no consequence.

I have bad hand writing.

It’s boring. It’s sloppy. It’s immemorable.

Even at its most legible . . . blah.

Thankfully, I belong to a time where your handwriting won’t make or break you. We’ve got keyboards (I should also mention I don’t know how to type . . . no really), voice recognition software, smart phones that help isolate you from your sloppy penmanship.

But I still long for the type of handwriting that evokes jealousy. Ughhh. I’ll just keep hiding behind this keyboard.