You Can't Have It All
Posted on Sep 2nd, 2008
by 
romanlily
romanlily
But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam's twin is blood.
You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful
for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.
You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,
it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
but there is this.
-- Barbara Ras
gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
until you realize foam's twin is blood.
You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,
so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful
for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.
You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,
it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
but there is this.
-- Barbara Ras
Access: Publicfilm vs. digital: photographic ping-pong
Posted on Aug 27th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
I just got back a roll of film that I shot in Tennessee and Virginia last month, on my photo shoot with the Appalachian home repair group. I used my digital camera for 97% of the shots I took that week -- but I borrowed a beautiful Yashica medium-format camera from a friend and brought it along in the hopes of shooting some film (you'll find a photo of this beautiful twin lens camera here).
I only shot one roll of film, and even that one roll was damaged when I accidentally popped the back door of the camera open and exposed half of the roll (oops!). But still, I'm glad I brought the camera with me.
Revisiting the world of film was a total pleasure. I've been shooting with a digital camera almost exclusively since 2004. A huge part of digital photography's appeal is its speed and flexibility. But a big trade-off with digital is the frenetic pace that sometimes seeps into the production of images. Since you aren't burning through any raw materials with a digital camera, you can just shoot shoot shoot! You don't even need to pause to advance the roll of film through the camera! But for me, something important often gets lost in the process.
The Yashica I borrowed has a damaged light meter, so composing images with it was especially time-consuming. Each time I wanted to take a shot, I would use the light meter in my digital camera, then transfer the settings to the Yashica.
The ground glass of the Yashica casts back a mirrored reflection of the scene before you. This sounds like it wouldn't be a big deal -- but I'm amazed by how long it took me to set up shots. But in a way, both of these "shortcomings" in the Yashica just added to the pleasure of composing shots with it.
I'm seeing now that a conversation between film and digital cameras may be just what I need to maintain a happy relationship with photography for the rest of my life. The clarity and responsiveness of digital, the meditative quality of film... both approaches to photography are delightful in their own way.
I must admit that I can't remember the name of the man in the photo above... he was a client of the organization I worked with, who did free home repair for the rural poor in southern Appalachia. He didn't speak much when I asked him if I could take his photo, just gave the slightest nod and grunt to let me know I had his permission. He was the first "model" I shot with the Yashica. He was wearing a big red foam trucker had that said GOD IS GOOD ALL OF THE TIME. I'm glad I had black and white film in the camera at the time. The color equivalent of the same scene would have been very, very different.
I only shot one roll of film, and even that one roll was damaged when I accidentally popped the back door of the camera open and exposed half of the roll (oops!). But still, I'm glad I brought the camera with me.
Revisiting the world of film was a total pleasure. I've been shooting with a digital camera almost exclusively since 2004. A huge part of digital photography's appeal is its speed and flexibility. But a big trade-off with digital is the frenetic pace that sometimes seeps into the production of images. Since you aren't burning through any raw materials with a digital camera, you can just shoot shoot shoot! You don't even need to pause to advance the roll of film through the camera! But for me, something important often gets lost in the process.
The Yashica I borrowed has a damaged light meter, so composing images with it was especially time-consuming. Each time I wanted to take a shot, I would use the light meter in my digital camera, then transfer the settings to the Yashica.
The ground glass of the Yashica casts back a mirrored reflection of the scene before you. This sounds like it wouldn't be a big deal -- but I'm amazed by how long it took me to set up shots. But in a way, both of these "shortcomings" in the Yashica just added to the pleasure of composing shots with it.
I'm seeing now that a conversation between film and digital cameras may be just what I need to maintain a happy relationship with photography for the rest of my life. The clarity and responsiveness of digital, the meditative quality of film... both approaches to photography are delightful in their own way.
I must admit that I can't remember the name of the man in the photo above... he was a client of the organization I worked with, who did free home repair for the rural poor in southern Appalachia. He didn't speak much when I asked him if I could take his photo, just gave the slightest nod and grunt to let me know I had his permission. He was the first "model" I shot with the Yashica. He was wearing a big red foam trucker had that said GOD IS GOOD ALL OF THE TIME. I'm glad I had black and white film in the camera at the time. The color equivalent of the same scene would have been very, very different.
creativity, memory and the quest for the poem
Posted on Aug 22nd, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
Here is a bit of blogging about how my creative process works.
It's an unnecessarily long story, but it has a happy ending.
Last night I came home from a day at a client's office, mulling over what I might take as my photo of the day. I've been taking and posting a photo a day for the better part of two years over on my Flickr site. I love the practice, not necessarily because it results in lots of groundbreaking photos, but because it keeps me engaged daily in paying attention to the world around me.
Cleaning out a dresser drawer a few days before, I'd come across an old white cotton nightgown, which I'd wadded up carelessly and shoved into the drawer a couple of years before. The nightgown had some history. It had been with me through my marriage, divorce, and subsequent relationship -- the one that just ended. It's still a pretty little gown. I thought about how I might pay some kind of tribute to it by taking a photo of it.
I also found myself thinking about the nightgown as a kind of ghost, or a silent witness of a past life. I find it interesting to consider the emotional history of a simple piece of clothing, the thought of it being present at many important events in your life.
I started to ruminate about how to set up the photo. I liked the idea of hanging the nightgown in a tree. Sometimes taking a phototographic subject out of its usual context yields an interesting image. I started to ruminate over what words might accompany the photo of the nightgown (adding a bit of text to each photo is usually as delightful as taking the actual photo).
I went outside with the nightgown and hung it in the branches of a huge magnolia tree down the block. The photo isn't remarkable and doesn't accomplish much -- I think of it as a pencil sketch of a better future photo -- but it's a functional, somewhat interesting daily photo. (There's an element of practicality about this photo-of-the-day thing. You have a limited amount of time to work with.)
Bonus tip: if you ever want to feel like a complete loon, get out an old nightgown and hang it in the tree in a public area and watch townspeople eyeing you suspiciously as they walk by.
Back in my apartment, I looked at the photos of the gown in the tree. Suddenly I remembered a few random lines from a lovely poem I had encountered years previous in the pages of The New Yorker. (They have always published such wonderful poetry.) The poem I remembered was about grief, and the act of being still and acknowledging the transitions of life. I had photocopied the poem many years ago and read it several times and then sort of forgot about it. But suddenly I was sure that the poem would be a perfect partner for the photo of the nightgown. I remembered a bit in the poem about a student putting her head down on her desk and feeling her breath on her arms. I remembered the final line: "There should be a mourner."
I Googled that phrase six ways to Sunday, and found nothing.
(Incidentally, this is one of the more terrible feelings I personally encounter in my day-to-day living. To know a poem is out there in the world, to remember a few scattered pieces of it, and to not know quite how to get my hands on it.... the agony!)
I looked around a little bit online and found a different poem about grief that I really liked. I bookmarked that one and decided to use it with the photo of the nightgown on Flickr.
Meanwhile, I was getting downright irritated by my inability to manifest the original poem I sought. I decided to get away from the computer and go grocery shopping.
Walking around at the grocery store broke some part of my memory loose. I remembered the poet's name. Ruth Fainlight!
Back at home, I got back on Google. A search showed that the poem I sought was published in the January 18, 1993 issue of The New Yorker. That sounded exactly right. The poem itself was not online, but I saw the first line in an abstract of the poem on The New Yorker site:
That was it!
I put my shoes on again and walked with extreme purpose to the public library a block away. They may not have hard copies of that issue, but I knew they had microfiche. It's been a long time since a photographic journey led me to the depths of the public library's archives.
When I opened the appropriate drawer with the New Yorker archives, I was crestfallen to see that there was a perfect little gap in the neatly organized boxes of microfiche. A perfect little gap where the 1993 reel of The New Yorker should have been -- but wasn't.
I approached a research librarian. I wondered if research librarians secretly adore tasks like mine. The librarian I spoke to gave chase enthusiastically, but was unable to locate the microfiche or any more information on the poem.
I was dejected. I walked back home, shoulders slumped. I posted a sad little note on Twitter about my adventure, the missing New Yorker reel.
Sam, a friend in New York, saw my post. He posted a reply to me:
Sam had the DVD archive of The New Yorker! Every page of every issue from February 1925 through April 2007! A few hours later, there was an email from Sam with the poem attached. Mystery solved.
Now all I have to do is come up with a photo that's worthy of the poem.
Here is "The Mourner" by Ruth Fainlight. Thank you, Sam.
I put my head on my arms on my desk
to weep, and the smell and heat of my breath
remind me of afternoons at school
when the teacher made us stop our noise
and running around, and take a rest.
Not since then, except in love's
embrace, have the damp intensities
of my own body and feelings so
combined. My pain is this particular
odor, this primeval climate.
The teacher talked about an endless
age of fire and flood and earthquake,
everything changing, life-forms dying
and being born. In all the confusion
and turmoil, there should be a mourner.
It's an unnecessarily long story, but it has a happy ending.
Last night I came home from a day at a client's office, mulling over what I might take as my photo of the day. I've been taking and posting a photo a day for the better part of two years over on my Flickr site. I love the practice, not necessarily because it results in lots of groundbreaking photos, but because it keeps me engaged daily in paying attention to the world around me.
Cleaning out a dresser drawer a few days before, I'd come across an old white cotton nightgown, which I'd wadded up carelessly and shoved into the drawer a couple of years before. The nightgown had some history. It had been with me through my marriage, divorce, and subsequent relationship -- the one that just ended. It's still a pretty little gown. I thought about how I might pay some kind of tribute to it by taking a photo of it.
I also found myself thinking about the nightgown as a kind of ghost, or a silent witness of a past life. I find it interesting to consider the emotional history of a simple piece of clothing, the thought of it being present at many important events in your life.
I started to ruminate about how to set up the photo. I liked the idea of hanging the nightgown in a tree. Sometimes taking a phototographic subject out of its usual context yields an interesting image. I started to ruminate over what words might accompany the photo of the nightgown (adding a bit of text to each photo is usually as delightful as taking the actual photo).
I went outside with the nightgown and hung it in the branches of a huge magnolia tree down the block. The photo isn't remarkable and doesn't accomplish much -- I think of it as a pencil sketch of a better future photo -- but it's a functional, somewhat interesting daily photo. (There's an element of practicality about this photo-of-the-day thing. You have a limited amount of time to work with.)
Bonus tip: if you ever want to feel like a complete loon, get out an old nightgown and hang it in the tree in a public area and watch townspeople eyeing you suspiciously as they walk by.
Back in my apartment, I looked at the photos of the gown in the tree. Suddenly I remembered a few random lines from a lovely poem I had encountered years previous in the pages of The New Yorker. (They have always published such wonderful poetry.) The poem I remembered was about grief, and the act of being still and acknowledging the transitions of life. I had photocopied the poem many years ago and read it several times and then sort of forgot about it. But suddenly I was sure that the poem would be a perfect partner for the photo of the nightgown. I remembered a bit in the poem about a student putting her head down on her desk and feeling her breath on her arms. I remembered the final line: "There should be a mourner."
I Googled that phrase six ways to Sunday, and found nothing.
(Incidentally, this is one of the more terrible feelings I personally encounter in my day-to-day living. To know a poem is out there in the world, to remember a few scattered pieces of it, and to not know quite how to get my hands on it.... the agony!)
I looked around a little bit online and found a different poem about grief that I really liked. I bookmarked that one and decided to use it with the photo of the nightgown on Flickr.
Meanwhile, I was getting downright irritated by my inability to manifest the original poem I sought. I decided to get away from the computer and go grocery shopping.
Walking around at the grocery store broke some part of my memory loose. I remembered the poet's name. Ruth Fainlight!
Back at home, I got back on Google. A search showed that the poem I sought was published in the January 18, 1993 issue of The New Yorker. That sounded exactly right. The poem itself was not online, but I saw the first line in an abstract of the poem on The New Yorker site:
I put my head on my arms on my desk
That was it!
I put my shoes on again and walked with extreme purpose to the public library a block away. They may not have hard copies of that issue, but I knew they had microfiche. It's been a long time since a photographic journey led me to the depths of the public library's archives.
When I opened the appropriate drawer with the New Yorker archives, I was crestfallen to see that there was a perfect little gap in the neatly organized boxes of microfiche. A perfect little gap where the 1993 reel of The New Yorker should have been -- but wasn't.
I approached a research librarian. I wondered if research librarians secretly adore tasks like mine. The librarian I spoke to gave chase enthusiastically, but was unable to locate the microfiche or any more information on the poem.
I was dejected. I walked back home, shoulders slumped. I posted a sad little note on Twitter about my adventure, the missing New Yorker reel.
Sam, a friend in New York, saw my post. He posted a reply to me:
You're just looking for the poem text? I have the DVD archive.
Sam had the DVD archive of The New Yorker! Every page of every issue from February 1925 through April 2007! A few hours later, there was an email from Sam with the poem attached. Mystery solved.
Now all I have to do is come up with a photo that's worthy of the poem.
Here is "The Mourner" by Ruth Fainlight. Thank you, Sam.
I put my head on my arms on my desk
to weep, and the smell and heat of my breath
remind me of afternoons at school
when the teacher made us stop our noise
and running around, and take a rest.
Not since then, except in love's
embrace, have the damp intensities
of my own body and feelings so
combined. My pain is this particular
odor, this primeval climate.
The teacher talked about an endless
age of fire and flood and earthquake,
everything changing, life-forms dying
and being born. In all the confusion
and turmoil, there should be a mourner.
broken keys
Posted on Aug 11th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
It's been a long, long, long string of days. My boyfriend and I split up a week ago. Seven days later, I'm continuing to process all the layers of our parting.
We had 3 years together, and they were pretty good years. I think we both struggled throughout our courtship to make sense of some fairly significant incompatibilities. It's hard to say how present I was in the relationship; my journals from our time together are brimming with angst over this or that perceived contradiction in our togetherness. We deeply appreciated and enjoyed each other, but at the same time, neither of us could ever silence the incessant voice always churning in the background: Is this really the right person for me? (Implied follow-up question: Is there even such a thing as "the right person for me"? I don't really think there is.)
I don't know what to think about romantic love these days. Part of me is very tired of even attempting to engage in meaningful romantic relationships. Simple togetherness is often a lot of work. Not to mention the breaking up, which is absolutely crushing. I don't want to comment here on how wrecked I was when he and I finally parted last week. Even though I knew it was right -- even though our conversations about the split were completely full of tenderness and care -- even though it had been coming for a long time. Breakups -- even very good breakups -- hurt terribly.
I can say that our time together was full of useful lessons for me. I emerge with a clearer sense of myself, and a renewed interest in telling the truth about who I am.
Just the same, I'm not sure I'm going to be volunteering that truth anytime soon. After summer comes fall, and after fall comes winter. I'm starting to think that an isolated trapper's cabin in the middle of the frozen north sounds pretty good right about now.
We had 3 years together, and they were pretty good years. I think we both struggled throughout our courtship to make sense of some fairly significant incompatibilities. It's hard to say how present I was in the relationship; my journals from our time together are brimming with angst over this or that perceived contradiction in our togetherness. We deeply appreciated and enjoyed each other, but at the same time, neither of us could ever silence the incessant voice always churning in the background: Is this really the right person for me? (Implied follow-up question: Is there even such a thing as "the right person for me"? I don't really think there is.)
I don't know what to think about romantic love these days. Part of me is very tired of even attempting to engage in meaningful romantic relationships. Simple togetherness is often a lot of work. Not to mention the breaking up, which is absolutely crushing. I don't want to comment here on how wrecked I was when he and I finally parted last week. Even though I knew it was right -- even though our conversations about the split were completely full of tenderness and care -- even though it had been coming for a long time. Breakups -- even very good breakups -- hurt terribly.
I can say that our time together was full of useful lessons for me. I emerge with a clearer sense of myself, and a renewed interest in telling the truth about who I am.
Just the same, I'm not sure I'm going to be volunteering that truth anytime soon. After summer comes fall, and after fall comes winter. I'm starting to think that an isolated trapper's cabin in the middle of the frozen north sounds pretty good right about now.
She & Him
Posted on Jul 30th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
I went to see a performance by She & Him last night. She & Him is a hip little musical duo consisting of actress Zooey Deschanel and indie musician M. Ward. My affection for M. Ward's music began on the day in 2005 when I heard his song "Vincent O'Brien" for the first time:
She & Him sing sweet 3-minute love songs with simple little rhymes. Their music is unthreatening, completely nonpolitical, wholesome and solidly American. It's nothing you've never heard before, but it's very easy on the ears. I hear a hybrid of the Carter Family, Linda Rondstadt, and even early Diana Ross in their songs. Lots of doo-wops and handclaps going on in the background.
We got to the club a little after the opening band had started their set. I figured we'd find plenty of seating, but instead were stunned by the huge crowd already forming at the foot of the stage. We were lucky to score a few remote chairs in the balcony. After a long wait, She & Him took to the stage. The crowd -- sell-out capacity -- went bonkers.
This morning I'm thinking about why these 3-minute candy-coated pop songs whipped a deeply urban audience into such a froth. Behold the opening lyrics to one of their sweet little numbers:
Halfway through the performance of this toe-tapping tune, I turned to my neighbor and said, "These guys are the opposite of Radiohead."
Maybe we all want some relief from being so unfailingly serious all the time. Maybe we're tired of thinking about how we're all in debt up to our elbows. About how we've depleted our nation's natural resources. About how the country is balanced on the edge of some impressive long-term problems that aren't going to be fixed in this generation, or the next one...
This morning I wake up and poke around on the web. The NYTimes has an article called "10 Things to Scratch From Your Worry List." It's today's most e-mailed article.
The title amuses me. Though I hate to admit it, I certainly have a Worry List, a string of carefully nurtured anxieties. When I am sleeping poorly or eating poorly or dealing with bad energy or generally wishing to heap suffering on myself, I have a list of favorite super-scary thoughts I turn to. You know, the stuff about dying alone, destroying the polar ice caps, contributing even more of my own trash to that massive Texas-sized island of plastic floating somewhere in the Pacific. That kind of thing.
Maybe the crowd was there last night hoping to get some distance from that endless drone of worrybot voices. If the worrybot voices lead me to nothing useful, nothing but the rat wheel of anxiety, then they're useless. Frankly, this is precisely where the music of Radiohead takes me.
I'm happy She & Him were able to get us into a different place last night. It was a great, great concert. Today I'm turning up the pop music and doing the handclaps right here at my desk. Radiohead can take the day off.
He only sings when he's sadI seriously adore this man.
But he's sad all the time
So he sings the whole night through
Yes, he sings in the day time, too
She & Him sing sweet 3-minute love songs with simple little rhymes. Their music is unthreatening, completely nonpolitical, wholesome and solidly American. It's nothing you've never heard before, but it's very easy on the ears. I hear a hybrid of the Carter Family, Linda Rondstadt, and even early Diana Ross in their songs. Lots of doo-wops and handclaps going on in the background.
We got to the club a little after the opening band had started their set. I figured we'd find plenty of seating, but instead were stunned by the huge crowd already forming at the foot of the stage. We were lucky to score a few remote chairs in the balcony. After a long wait, She & Him took to the stage. The crowd -- sell-out capacity -- went bonkers.
This morning I'm thinking about why these 3-minute candy-coated pop songs whipped a deeply urban audience into such a froth. Behold the opening lyrics to one of their sweet little numbers:
I was takin' a walk
When I saw you pass by
I saw you lookin' my way
So I thought I'd give you a try
Halfway through the performance of this toe-tapping tune, I turned to my neighbor and said, "These guys are the opposite of Radiohead."
Maybe we all want some relief from being so unfailingly serious all the time. Maybe we're tired of thinking about how we're all in debt up to our elbows. About how we've depleted our nation's natural resources. About how the country is balanced on the edge of some impressive long-term problems that aren't going to be fixed in this generation, or the next one...
This morning I wake up and poke around on the web. The NYTimes has an article called "10 Things to Scratch From Your Worry List." It's today's most e-mailed article.
The title amuses me. Though I hate to admit it, I certainly have a Worry List, a string of carefully nurtured anxieties. When I am sleeping poorly or eating poorly or dealing with bad energy or generally wishing to heap suffering on myself, I have a list of favorite super-scary thoughts I turn to. You know, the stuff about dying alone, destroying the polar ice caps, contributing even more of my own trash to that massive Texas-sized island of plastic floating somewhere in the Pacific. That kind of thing.
Maybe the crowd was there last night hoping to get some distance from that endless drone of worrybot voices. If the worrybot voices lead me to nothing useful, nothing but the rat wheel of anxiety, then they're useless. Frankly, this is precisely where the music of Radiohead takes me.
I'm happy She & Him were able to get us into a different place last night. It was a great, great concert. Today I'm turning up the pop music and doing the handclaps right here at my desk. Radiohead can take the day off.
Tagged with: music
my old Kentucky home
Posted on Jul 20th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
I'm just getting back in the swing of things after being out of town all week. The smell of clean sheets on my bed has never been more lovely.
I spent the weekend in southern Appalachia -- Tennessee, Virginia and Kentucky. I was there to shoot photos and do grip work on a video project for an organization (Appalachia Service Project) that does home repair for poor families in the area.
I saw some things this week that shocked me. The poverty in this part of the world is just unbelievable.
We met a woman in Evarts, Virginia who lived with seven children in a one-room home (shown above). That sounds like such a cliché. It sounds like a set-up for a joke on a Jay Leno monologue. But these were real people. And I saw that one room they had lived in (remarkably clean, I have to say). The home repair client was building a two-room addition for her family so they could have more space.
We met a couple in Harlan, Kentucky whose roof was falling in. Ray was jobless and suffered from emphysema (naturally, this didn't keep him from smoking incessantly. I shook my finger at him for that). Judy harvested green tomatoes and turnips from their garden and fried them up for the work crew who was putting a new roof on the house. They were absolutely wonderful. The photo I took of her in her kitchen with the fried green tomatoes is one of my favorites from the trip. Maybe I'll share that later.
We met another family in Harlan, Kentucky who lived in a tiny trailer. The mom and dad were in their early 20s and they had four children. The children rambled happily around the yard in bare feet, completely ignorant of the broken glass and random auto parts littering the ground, completely ignorant of the raw sewage draining into the yard from their home.
It was heartbreaking. I can't believe people in this country live this way. Our producer, who has traveled to many poor parts of the world in Albania, Cuba, Ukraine, etc., said he had never seen poverty like this.
The redemptive part about the week was meeting some of the individuals doing the home repairs for these families. More than half the volunteers for the organization are youth group members from churches in Alabama, Connecticut, Maryland, and North Carolina. Many of these kids come from very privileged families. To see poverty like this probably rattled them as deeply as it rattled me. Some of these kids have been coming to serve for 3 or 4 summers now, and they keep in touch with the families they've served in previous summers. It warmed me to see how much affection these children had for the families they served.
It may sound strange to say -- but it was one of the best weeks I've had in a long time. Using my camera to try to capture some of what I saw was incredibly challenging and rewarding. I also learned somethings along the way about the nuts and bolts of video work. I really hope that the photos I took and the video we captured will go a long way toward furthering the organization's work, and pull in lots of donations that will help the hundreds of families in this area who need assistance.
I spent the weekend in southern Appalachia -- Tennessee, Virginia and Kentucky. I was there to shoot photos and do grip work on a video project for an organization (Appalachia Service Project) that does home repair for poor families in the area.
I saw some things this week that shocked me. The poverty in this part of the world is just unbelievable.
We met a woman in Evarts, Virginia who lived with seven children in a one-room home (shown above). That sounds like such a cliché. It sounds like a set-up for a joke on a Jay Leno monologue. But these were real people. And I saw that one room they had lived in (remarkably clean, I have to say). The home repair client was building a two-room addition for her family so they could have more space.
We met a couple in Harlan, Kentucky whose roof was falling in. Ray was jobless and suffered from emphysema (naturally, this didn't keep him from smoking incessantly. I shook my finger at him for that). Judy harvested green tomatoes and turnips from their garden and fried them up for the work crew who was putting a new roof on the house. They were absolutely wonderful. The photo I took of her in her kitchen with the fried green tomatoes is one of my favorites from the trip. Maybe I'll share that later.
We met another family in Harlan, Kentucky who lived in a tiny trailer. The mom and dad were in their early 20s and they had four children. The children rambled happily around the yard in bare feet, completely ignorant of the broken glass and random auto parts littering the ground, completely ignorant of the raw sewage draining into the yard from their home.
It was heartbreaking. I can't believe people in this country live this way. Our producer, who has traveled to many poor parts of the world in Albania, Cuba, Ukraine, etc., said he had never seen poverty like this.
The redemptive part about the week was meeting some of the individuals doing the home repairs for these families. More than half the volunteers for the organization are youth group members from churches in Alabama, Connecticut, Maryland, and North Carolina. Many of these kids come from very privileged families. To see poverty like this probably rattled them as deeply as it rattled me. Some of these kids have been coming to serve for 3 or 4 summers now, and they keep in touch with the families they've served in previous summers. It warmed me to see how much affection these children had for the families they served.
It may sound strange to say -- but it was one of the best weeks I've had in a long time. Using my camera to try to capture some of what I saw was incredibly challenging and rewarding. I also learned somethings along the way about the nuts and bolts of video work. I really hope that the photos I took and the video we captured will go a long way toward furthering the organization's work, and pull in lots of donations that will help the hundreds of families in this area who need assistance.
solstice fire
Posted on Jun 22nd, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
I'm growing to truly enjoy the act of taking stock once every quarter and burning old baggage, usually on the date of the solstice or equinox, and usually in the company of my dear friends Halal and Fabulous Slice. The practice of burning old junk in the fire feels much like the rituals that dotted the year at the Orthodox church I used to attend. I always found some comfort in the rituals of confession, fasting and feasting in the church, and in these quarterly fires, I think I've found the rituals I want to carry with me into the future. The solstice or equinox is a beautiful opportunity to take stock, to look at the path life is taking, to appreciate what's working, let go of what's not working.
Fabulous was out of town on Friday, but Halal and her husband offered to carry on the tradition. They built the fire on their lovely back porch. By the time I arrived with Tom, the woods behind their house were glowing with fireflies and dusky light.
The fire was hot. I dropped some of good stuff into it. Wishes and desires and old junk to release back to the universe. Halal read some beautiful reflections on the passing of the season of growth. She served a glass of wine to each of us, and we sipped it slowly while watching the fire burn down.
I made my first move toward incorporating my freelance graphic design business this week, after a couple of years of deliberating about the whethers and whens. The legal requirements of the corporation I'm creating suggest that I should appoint a board of directors and hold quarterly board meetings. Sipping the wine in the glow of the fire, I suddenly realized that I was right in the middle of a lot of wisdom. Hmmm, maybe the solstice and equinox gatherings are the perfect time to hold board meetings. Hmmm, maybe Fabulous and Halal and some other wise friends would make excellent board members.
Truthfully, I have no idea how serious I need to get with the board meeting requirement. But if I am to take it seriously, I can think of no better board members than those whose company I enjoyed on Friday night by the light of the fire.
Fabulous was out of town on Friday, but Halal and her husband offered to carry on the tradition. They built the fire on their lovely back porch. By the time I arrived with Tom, the woods behind their house were glowing with fireflies and dusky light.
The fire was hot. I dropped some of good stuff into it. Wishes and desires and old junk to release back to the universe. Halal read some beautiful reflections on the passing of the season of growth. She served a glass of wine to each of us, and we sipped it slowly while watching the fire burn down.
I made my first move toward incorporating my freelance graphic design business this week, after a couple of years of deliberating about the whethers and whens. The legal requirements of the corporation I'm creating suggest that I should appoint a board of directors and hold quarterly board meetings. Sipping the wine in the glow of the fire, I suddenly realized that I was right in the middle of a lot of wisdom. Hmmm, maybe the solstice and equinox gatherings are the perfect time to hold board meetings. Hmmm, maybe Fabulous and Halal and some other wise friends would make excellent board members.
Truthfully, I have no idea how serious I need to get with the board meeting requirement. But if I am to take it seriously, I can think of no better board members than those whose company I enjoyed on Friday night by the light of the fire.
blissed out
Posted on Jun 15th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
I went to my favorite yoga class today for the first time in several months.
The teacher of this class has been teaching this Sunday afternoon yoga class for years now. I first wandered into her class at the local YMCA some time in 2001, when my view of the world was pretty narrow. At the time, I was interested in yoga from a purely physical perspective. I remember scoffing quietly to myself when she briefly touched on the concept of chakras during one class. Not very yogic, I know.
Over the years I've come to see her as a woman of rather profound wisdom. She practices wicca and subtly weaves a pagan philosophy into her teaching. It's always understated and, I must say, rather intriguing. But it's not just her spiritual view of the universe that I have grown to admire. It's also the fact that she fought a valiant battle with some very nasty cancer around '03-'04, and now practices yoga with a titanium hip due to complications from the cancer treatment.
She has an amazing spirit and imparts a powerful joy as she teaches, despite all the terrible stuff she's been through.
So, as usual, today in the first half of class, we did all kinds of challenging poses. I'm not very good at these poses, but that's another story for another time. And then for second half of this class we went into savasana.
I've read stories over the years from yogis and spiritual teachers about reaching a place of bliss in deep meditation. I don't know quite what others in the class went through today, but I can say that I experienced a profound deepening and settling deep inside during the savasana segment.
I did 20 or 30 minutes of deep breathing. I only followed part of Kathy's instructions during the meditation -- for the most part, I was riding my own wave. When I slowly came out of the pose at the end of class, I felt like I was waking up after eight hours of deep and refreshing sleep. The calm and groundedness I felt in that moment has stayed with me all afternoon.
Kind of wonderful, really.
(Side note: I'm glad to be writing about this now because it's reminding me to take some ibuprofen before bed tonight. I may be feeling all enlightened right now, but I know that my muscles are going to be wickedly sore tomorrow.)
anniversary thoughts
Posted on May 2nd, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
Tomorrow is my 34th birthday. Am I reaching the age in which I should no longer publicly admit my age? List-making seems to come naturally at these times, when I am a bit more reflective than usual. Here are some lists I scratched out today.
Things I'm realizing that I would kind of love to do, but that I will probably never do:
- Introduce a son or daughter of mine to all of the poetry that I love. Sharing my love of poetry would undoubtedly be a splendid part of having a child. But this alone is not a good enough reason to have a child.
- Own a luxurious beachfront home. The kind you see in movies, with huge decks and stunning views of the water.
- Become a really, really, really good cook. Have killer knife skills, know how to make legitimate sauces, be able to just "throw something together" in the kitchen, etc.
- Design artwork for postage stamps.
Things I'm realizing that I would kind of love to do, and that are still within the realm of possibility:
- Adopt a happy dog or cat (or both) from the Humane Society. Give them really great names. Take the dog for walks through the graveyard.
- Learn how to make pottery on a wheel.
- Buy and become extremely conversant with a really delicious high-quality film camera (e.g., Bronica, Hasselblad, Leica, etc.).
- Visit the Philip Johnson Glass House in Connecticut.
- Plan and grow a flower garden.
- Live in a smaller, quieter city with a smaller, quieter lifestyle.
- Own a beautiful home with tons of natural light that would double as a photography studio/art gallery.
- Go on an extended walking tour of some other continent or country.
- Take a long vacation in Ireland.
- Produce the best and most creative work of my life.
I'm proud of some of the things I've done since my past birthday. Here are some things that I'm glad I did:
- Freed myself from the clutches of a dreadful dead-end job at a massive soul-eating corporation.
- Went on a women's retreat that really opened up my thinking about who I am and what I want.
- Had a photo selected for a juried photography exhibit.
- Landed a freelance contract that is allowing me to do good work that I care about.
- Climbed Mt. LeConte in NC (...and barely lived to tell the story).
- Stepped up to receive some really great teaching. I've been gobbling up Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. This feels like a significant development.
Here's hoping 34 is half as happy as 33 was. I'm a very blessed woman.
Things I'm realizing that I would kind of love to do, but that I will probably never do:
- Introduce a son or daughter of mine to all of the poetry that I love. Sharing my love of poetry would undoubtedly be a splendid part of having a child. But this alone is not a good enough reason to have a child.
- Own a luxurious beachfront home. The kind you see in movies, with huge decks and stunning views of the water.
- Become a really, really, really good cook. Have killer knife skills, know how to make legitimate sauces, be able to just "throw something together" in the kitchen, etc.
- Design artwork for postage stamps.
Things I'm realizing that I would kind of love to do, and that are still within the realm of possibility:
- Adopt a happy dog or cat (or both) from the Humane Society. Give them really great names. Take the dog for walks through the graveyard.
- Learn how to make pottery on a wheel.
- Buy and become extremely conversant with a really delicious high-quality film camera (e.g., Bronica, Hasselblad, Leica, etc.).
- Visit the Philip Johnson Glass House in Connecticut.
- Plan and grow a flower garden.
- Live in a smaller, quieter city with a smaller, quieter lifestyle.
- Own a beautiful home with tons of natural light that would double as a photography studio/art gallery.
- Go on an extended walking tour of some other continent or country.
- Take a long vacation in Ireland.
- Produce the best and most creative work of my life.
I'm proud of some of the things I've done since my past birthday. Here are some things that I'm glad I did:
- Freed myself from the clutches of a dreadful dead-end job at a massive soul-eating corporation.
- Went on a women's retreat that really opened up my thinking about who I am and what I want.
- Had a photo selected for a juried photography exhibit.
- Landed a freelance contract that is allowing me to do good work that I care about.
- Climbed Mt. LeConte in NC (...and barely lived to tell the story).
- Stepped up to receive some really great teaching. I've been gobbling up Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. This feels like a significant development.
Here's hoping 34 is half as happy as 33 was. I'm a very blessed woman.
pleasures of the past 48 hours
Posted on Apr 27th, 2008
by romanlily
romanlily
On Friday I drove down to north Florida for a rendezvous with my friend Kathy. Kathy and I were sisters-in-law until 2005, when my marriage to her brother hit the skids. Despite the divorce, she and I remained close through the entire process and are still very close.
We met in a little town in north Florida, with the plan to do some kayaking on the Suwanee River.
What I loved:
-- Meeting the owner of the B&B where we stayed. A retired schoolteacher, she moved alone from Arizona to Florida two years ago to purchase the B&B and fulfill her lifelong dream of living in a beautiful Victorian home. Growing up, she was not close to her father, who was a military man and a notorious philanderer. He was never present in her life in any meaningful way. Doing a search on the internet a few years ago, she discovered that her father had had many "wives" -- and that she now had 14 (!) half-brothers or half-sisters scattered across the country. She made an effort to reconnect with some of these siblings and discovered that they had been searching for her for a long time. A lonely retiree found a brand new family. Her half-brother Phil jumped at the chance to leave New Jersey and live with her at the B&B. He helps her with maintenance around the home. They seem like two happy soul mates who discovered each other at a critical time in their lives. (The thought that a person might have a family out there searching and praying for them is completely fascinating to me.)
-- Renting kayaks and paddling with Kathy down 4 or 5 miles of the Suwanee River. I'm not much of a water bug, but I loved this adventure. The water in the river is very smooth and quiet. It was so peaceful, floating along and listening to the birds call out from above. I hope to go for a kayak trip again very soon.
-- Talking with Kathy about every subject under the sun.
-- Going with Kathy for a long meandering drive through scenic country back roads to find a restaurant for dinner.
-- Finally meandering our way up to Valdosta, hungry and tired and ready to eat something. The first restaurant we tried was completely booked, so we wandered on. We discovered an utterly charming coffeeshop/bookstore associated with a wonderful Episcopal congregation that meets downtown. Browsed their invigorating religion/spirituality section while grazing happily on our sandwiches. Kathy picked up a gorgeous collection of Hafiz poetry, and I discovered a very delightful photography book. What a lucky stroke that we were turned away at the first restaurant.
Feeling sunburned, tired, happy and thankful for friendship.
We met in a little town in north Florida, with the plan to do some kayaking on the Suwanee River.
What I loved:
-- Meeting the owner of the B&B where we stayed. A retired schoolteacher, she moved alone from Arizona to Florida two years ago to purchase the B&B and fulfill her lifelong dream of living in a beautiful Victorian home. Growing up, she was not close to her father, who was a military man and a notorious philanderer. He was never present in her life in any meaningful way. Doing a search on the internet a few years ago, she discovered that her father had had many "wives" -- and that she now had 14 (!) half-brothers or half-sisters scattered across the country. She made an effort to reconnect with some of these siblings and discovered that they had been searching for her for a long time. A lonely retiree found a brand new family. Her half-brother Phil jumped at the chance to leave New Jersey and live with her at the B&B. He helps her with maintenance around the home. They seem like two happy soul mates who discovered each other at a critical time in their lives. (The thought that a person might have a family out there searching and praying for them is completely fascinating to me.)
-- Renting kayaks and paddling with Kathy down 4 or 5 miles of the Suwanee River. I'm not much of a water bug, but I loved this adventure. The water in the river is very smooth and quiet. It was so peaceful, floating along and listening to the birds call out from above. I hope to go for a kayak trip again very soon.
-- Talking with Kathy about every subject under the sun.
-- Going with Kathy for a long meandering drive through scenic country back roads to find a restaurant for dinner.
-- Finally meandering our way up to Valdosta, hungry and tired and ready to eat something. The first restaurant we tried was completely booked, so we wandered on. We discovered an utterly charming coffeeshop/bookstore associated with a wonderful Episcopal congregation that meets downtown. Browsed their invigorating religion/spirituality section while grazing happily on our sandwiches. Kathy picked up a gorgeous collection of Hafiz poetry, and I discovered a very delightful photography book. What a lucky stroke that we were turned away at the first restaurant.
Feeling sunburned, tired, happy and thankful for friendship.
QaR
September 2008 