Still Life, with Percocet.
Today had a distinct high point and low point. The high point was the arrival of my new Nikkor AF F/1.8D portrait lens, which operates in an exceedingly friendly way with my new Nikon D80 D-SLR. After months of hemming and hawing, I finally sold my Olympus to a friend here in Boston and dove headfirst into the world of Ebay in all its glory. The camera arrived maybe two weeks ago, followed up by some filters and a memory card. So I cannot begin to describe how excited I am that, with the F/1.8's arrival, my new photography kit is now complete.
The low point of the day was the grievous neck injury I incurred while attempting the Atlas balance during rehearsal at the YMCA this morning. After some serious pain and two prolonged black-outs -- my thanks to Jeremy for catching me both times before I pitched into the bathroom wall -- I got strapped to an orange plastic backboard and loaded into an ambulance. The CT scan showed that I didn't do any serious damage to the vertebrae or spinal column; still, it's likely that I tore a few muscles and/or ligaments along the left side of my neck and that I won't be doing a great deal of flipping, spinning, or really much of anything in the near future. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. So I'm thankful for that, I suppose.
But I don't understand how people can get addicted to drugs like Percocet; in my mind, it will forever be associated with the excruciating pain shooting up between my shoulder blades, and why would I want to remind myself of that?
3.28.2009
Photography At f/1.8, or "How To Distract Yourself From A Serious Neck Injury"
3.19.2009
Borrowed Words Poetry
[Borrowed Word poetry is something I picked up in high school, I think; the idea is that you take the words of someone else and recompose them. It's a mix of collaboration and inspiration that allows you to generate ideas less linearly and is, I hope, not actually plagiarism.
In any case, the following poem was composed using only words and phrases pulled directly from T S Eliot's The Wasteland. Everything -- including verb tenses and articles -- came from the original work.
Mr. Eliot: please don't sue.
To Play A Game
And as we talked, I found you there
In a garden of your images,
Arms and hands and fingers
Wrapt softly round white bodies, red sails
Gliding over the violet air.
You show me something different
Those strings of pearls, fruited vines of ivory
That run softly down your back,
Draped in your shadow at evening,
In empty rooms, in faint moonlight.
I spoke of nightfall with you, the scene
Framed by marble walls, each red flash
Like so many caresses, mixing memory with desire
Like a bridge of reflecting light over a calm sea;
And through a window of unlit fog, red and
gold, we talked for an hour in whispers,
and rose and fell and glowed into words.
Goodnight. Goodnight.
3.15.2009
3.11.2009
A Different Spin Got Talent
A Different Spin is for realz, y'all. For the last month or so, we have been doing our damndest to pull ADS together as a legitimate business. Which is hard when you're dealing with four people as ridiculous as ourselves, but still, we're doing it. This involves a lot more than I would have thought going into it. We are practicing upwards of six days a week, two hours a day. We are constantly writing and rewriting our routines to make them smoother and more entertaining. I have cut and recut the same three songs so many times that I'm not sure I remember what the original tracks actually sound like.
And that's just the performance aspect of it. On top of the 10-12 hours of rehearsal time each week, we're doing our best to be an active business practice. Ricky and I have been graphic designing our asses off to get ready for the APCA National Conference in Atlanta. Since the APCA conference is really focusing on the fall, Mooch and I have been submerged in more college calling, while Ricky and Jeremy are hunting down spring and summer festivals. We've also registered as an official partnership, gotten a tax ID number and opened a business bank account.
And to prove it, here are some of the finished products that Ricky and I have spent what must be hundreds of cumulative hours designing. Goooo team!
Business Card (front and back): | Full Page Ad: |
Tri-Fold Brochure (outside, interior):  | 2' x 6' Vinyl Banner: |
2.20.2009
Sun Rises
This poem was inspired by a series of photos taken by a friend. One of these photos is presented below.
The crisp air drags a finger across the glassy surface, over hills and rising fields, rippling trees and sky with tangled textures and windblown hair, wisps of light that cover her eyes but not the addictive smile etched across my window. I strain to see in focus through the deep, round frost, corn silk glowing gold and twisting into every twig and finger of the winter ash and pine that stand guard along the rocky shore, (and I hear the faint voice of music, a soft treble |  |
whispered across strings and mountains, an echo of a summer long since gone to sleep. And she lingers as a gentle spirit, back turned, looking ever forward) and the shore scattered with sentinels cold and muted grey; I see red brushed across her cheeks. Oh, how I wish I had kissed them just once more, that satin skin raised shy above her lips curled up in a reluctant smile and drawing a line in thick crystal up to her clear, glittering eyes. The winter chill breathes soft across the glassy surface, decorating the ice that spreads slow and gentle -- silver spider webs dusted with clean, paper doilies -- while the bleached skulls of ancient kings stand bright upon rivers, stones and tides. She stands upon cracked earth and rising fields | and lifts her chin, eyes closed, to breathe in the morning sun that soon will saunter through the jagged woods, mingling with the current of a new day. And a long anticipated smile spreads with a sigh across her lips -- moments later she catches fire and dances with the phoenix in the thin space between the world and the night and all of the dreaming -- while she hums in tune with the last dissipating refrain, (she must hear it, too), quiet and calm, and magically waking. It was, in a word, Freezing; and also in another word, Beautiful, that spirit hour before the sun rises, and when I flutter and drift, and wake in that moment made of moments, the now that crawls and walks, and flies on into forever, I take comfort and lift myself from my frosted sleep, over the fractured fingers of birch and pine, and I glimpse her in the glassy surface, and warm my hands upon her feathers all aflame, as she runs out to the lake, and watches the sun get up. And I rise. |
2.09.2009
1.27.2009
1.25.2009
12.31.2008
12.10.2008
12.02.2008
2 Weeks, $200
As most people know, I dabble in the art of "Photochopping," a hobby which has kept me occupied on those nocturnal nights, (Read: every night), and which, just recently, has started actually paying off. Thanks to good old Woot.com, I am now $200 richer, or at least I will be when their budgeting department realizes they're obligated to pay me.
In any case, due to the demands of those I've mentioned it to already, I am posting the winning images here, along with the contest guidelines that generated them:
Contest #196: Show us a Halloween costume made of past or current Woot products.
Contest #197: Show us the secret role played by one or more Woot products, past or present, in the 2008 election.
12.01.2008
11.13.2008
Grover
The neighbors had always been wary of the Ekhart family. It wasn't the fact that Mr. Ekhart was an abstract sculptor without sufficient studio space, prompting him to keep what amounted to a huge pile of scrap metal and rubbish out on the front lawn. And it wasn't that Mrs. Ekhart enjoyed authentic smoked meats such that thick, black plumes poured from her chimney twice a week. And it wasn't that their eight year-old son, Robert, had recently developed a love of both bicycles and fire engines, which combined into a single hobby of riding up and down the street while shrieking at the top of his lungs.
No, it was their dog, Grover. From a distance, the jack russell terrier was almost cute, a little bundle of white, bristly fur with a big brown spot on one side. His tail wagged perpetually, and his open mouth curled almost into a smile. But up close, the neighbors all knew that there was a strange glint in the dog's eyes, and his adorable outward appearance didn't entirely cover the uneasy feeling they got when his gaze met with their own. The Ekhart's thought they were all crazy, of course. They loved their little Grover more than anything else in the world.
The Ekhart's house was nestled into a small cul-de-sac at the top of a hill. The access road sloped down through a row of young elm trees before meeting with the busy street below. The traffic light defaulted to the main street, changing only when a car passed over a sensor at the end of the quiet road. Because of this constant cross traffic, the Ekharts tried to be vigilant in keeping Grover securely leashed when they let him into the front yard. They didn't want him to run off, or -- God forbid -- dash in front of a speeding vehicle. There was also a chain-link fence surrounding their property, but the little dog had long since learned to escape this obstacle, though the Ekharts never could figure out how. More than once, one of the neighbors had rung the doorbell and delivered Grover, tail wagging, leash trailing behind, back to the Ekharts after a daring escape. Every time, the neighbor would tell them that they found him sitting at the top of the hill, head cocked to one side, staring down at the traffic rushing past. The Ekharts would thank them profusely for saving Grover from harm, although often got the impression that they were less concerned with the safety of the dog than with the safety of the cars in the street below.
One day, Mrs. Ekhart returned from her errands with two new toys: a big, shiny red firetruck for Robert, and a big, shiny red rubber ball for Grover. Both the boy and the dog danced about with glee at their new gifts. Robert dropped to the ground and began to drive his truck from room to room, shrieking with renewed vigor at the top of his lungs. Grover followed right behind, pushing and kicking his ball as he was unable to grasp it in his small, smiling mouth. Once or twice, he accidentally got the ball to bounce, which seemed to delight him to no end. He played with the ball for hours, kicking and bouncing, and then trying to bounce it higher and higher. The Ekharts laughed as they watched him, his little tail whipping about like a propeller.
Around five o'clock Mrs. Ekhart began to prepare dinner. Almost at once, the red rubber ball bounced onto the counter and into the sink where she was peeling potatoes. She chuckled at the little rascal, and then put Grover and the ball out into the front yard so she could cook uninterrupted. She secured his leash to the tent stake in the middle of the yard, scratched Grover behind the ear, and returned to the house.
Grover watched the retreating figure of his owner as it passed into the house. He waited for a moment, watching as the door closed behind her, and then looked at the tent stake. He grasped the protruding end between his teeth and pulled it straight out the earth with a practiced movement. He shook the leash free and deftly replaced the stake into the ground, sliding it gingerly back into its hole. Then he turned his attention to the ball.
It was exactly what he had been waiting for all these months. The perfect toy; the perfect tool. He began to kick and bounce the ball, nudging it higher and higher into the air, until with one final leap he shot the ball, silhouetted for a moment against the late afternoon sun, off his nose and right over the chain-link fence. It swished gently into the hedge on the other side, sliding quietly through the leaves. He stared at it for a moment, then trotted to a small bush in the corner of the yard. He pulled at a loose scrap of Mr. Ekhart's sculpting metal, something corrugated and innocuous, and dove stealthily into the small tunnel hidden beneath. He appeared a moment later under the hedge on the other side, shaking the dirt from his fur, and glanced around. He located the ball, perched in the branches just above him, and carefully nuzzled it free. He looked right, then left; satisfied, he batted it cautiously into the empty road. He ran after it and, with mounting excitement, bounced it once, twice, three times into the air, nudging it ever forward. Then, abruptly, he stopped.
The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.
11.05.2008
We Dared To Hope
In late lamplight I watched
the crowds ripple electric,
a spirit dancing from aged hands
to youthful smiles, a song made
from laughter and deep, deep joy
that splashed over the night
in blue and white, and red-striped banners
shining triumphantly, throwing their
honored salute into the crisp November air.
With the genuine dignity of the noblest of men,
he stood before them — and me,
and the world — and spilled
saturated words out over that Chicago night,
beacons of lights that mingled
with constellations, guiding us
to speak in one voice
from New York to Nairobi, Beijing to San Francisco;
and the blood pumped through our veins,
and our eyes began to water
as we stared in awe at the sun.
And for once I felt my heart pound with theirs,
and theirs with mine,
and my untrained lips spread into a laughing smile,
and I felt big.
Today I shook the hand of a stranger on a train;
I shared a smile and a nod with a man
playing drums beneath the streets of New York;
I laughed as children played,
and raised my voice with a boy
who was shouting his name between streetlights and trees.
I felt alive today.
And we dare to hope.
Obama
Photo credit: Tom Turnbull
Photo credit: mrspleasant
Photo credit: katherine of chicago
Photo credit: tay-lo
Also check out:
sionfullana's ELECTION NIGHT 2008: NY CELEBRATES OBAMA'S WIN (1 of 34), (full set);
Charlesmedia's A Change Is Gonna Come;
luluinnyc's It's been a long, long time coming...;
11.04.2008
10.20.2008
John and Sara
John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.
But it was hard to live up to the standards of the average, middle-class life style. John worked as the manager of a retail electronics business, though he was often putting in overtime hours to make sure he got enough money squared away every month. Sara was always a little bit frantic, making sure their kids got to school, got to sports practices, got to their doctors' appointments. It was a real challenge to get dinner ready on time every day, and that it was something that would satisfy everyone. They made the best of it of course, and they went to bed every night with a smile — albeit a strained one — knowing that they had done their duties as parents, and done them well. Still, it was hard.
A lot of it, they conceded one night, talking softly as they changed into their pajamas, stemmed from their children. As an average family of average means, it was difficult to raise their children. Quite frankly, they didn't know how other people did it. And it wasn't even their two oldest children, (they noted over the bathroom sink as they brushed and flossed their teeth), it was their "point five."
Tommy and Caitlin were great, actually. They got decent marks in school; they were well-liked on their respective baseball and soccer teams; they were responsible and polite, if not altogether clean and self-sufficient. No, it was their youngest, Char, who took up the vast majority of their parental efforts.
They paused, a momentary shadow of uncomfortable guilt passing over them both as they rinsed with Cool Mint mouthwash. His name, according to his birth certificate, was Charles, but he had insisted on being called "Char" since he was able to speak. His full name wasn't him, he said. It didn't fit his personality, his life. And so he cut it in half, so to speak, and refused to go by anything else. He was that kind of kid — stubborn and strong-willed.
It wasn't his fault, (they admitted as they kicked off their slippers and climbed into bed); there was nothing to be helped. He grew up in a world where he was supposed to be part of an average family, only he couldn't ever really live up to the expectations. He tried to join Tommy's baseball league, but with only one arm he couldn't wear a glove without making it impossible to throw. He tried to join Caitlin's soccer league, but with only one leg he couldn't keep up with the other children, let alone kick the ball without risking falling down and hurting himself. They had even tried a table tennis league, which required only one hand and limited movement, but with only one eye and the resulting depth-perception issues, he could never manage to get the ball over the net.
It was also a shock to John and Sara both, (they finally admitted as they set their separate alarm clocks on their separate night stands), when they learned that the average American family does not, in fact, have to deal with these issues. That all of the articles they had read talking about families having "two-point-five children" were describing the average number of children over a wide sample base, and that the average family had either two or three. Very few, if any, have half a child.
But despite all this, (they concluded, heads resting on their pillows, facing each other in the dark), they had done well as parents. Or at least, they had done the best that could be expected of them. And who could ask for more?
10.17.2008
10.15.2008
Nine Beginnings
John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.
* * *
He was wary of his surroundings, and not without reason. A shadow slid past the gate and melted into the fractured lamplight that cut jagged shapes across the gravestones. He felt a shiver run up his spine and radiate through his arms to the tips of his fingers, and he feared very much that it wasn't from the icy chill of the surrounding night.
* * *
"Take a look, Mr. Wilkins," the man in the suit said to him. "All this could be yours one day. All this could be yours." The man spread out his left arm before them, his right wrapped soundly around Wilkins' shoulders, cigar clenched between his yellow teeth. Wilkins wasn't sure at that moment why in the world he would want this mountain of garbage spread out before him, but somehow the cigar smoke and the cut of the man's suit made it seem like a dream worth having.
* * *
The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.
* * *
Six sticks, a few paper clips and a piece of gum are not enough to rebuild a boat engine, I don't care how god-damned clever you are.
* * *
Ellen couldn't concentrate. It wasn't her fault, either. She had successfully blocked out the ticking of the wall clock, as well as the quiet slurping noises coming from the desk next to her, where a kid called Billy was chewing on the end of his pencil. It wasn't the stress of the exam, because she had memorized all the mathematical equations she would need, and it wasn't the fact that her boyfriend had just told her that he was considering joining the army and so thought that maybe they should see other people. It wasn't any of that. Sadly, Ellen's brain was rupturing, and there really wasn't anything she could do about it.
* * *
Eight bananas nestled comfortably in the crook of their tree, all bunched together, as happy as ever. They watched the monkey with increasing glee, knowing that soon all their hard work would come to fruition.
* * *
Tourists are everywhere. In every niche of life, there are those who simply come to watch. They see the sights, they drink your beer, and then they go home and tell their friends. And the number of tourists grow, while we sit here and are consumed.
* * *
The music rippled through the air like water, concentric circles bouncing off of every corner and surface in the room. With every heavy step, I pushed through the crowd of half-asleep ghosts in search of the exit. It glowed just beyond reach, the invitingly cool air brushing seductively against my lungs...
