And now for something completely different. A shot from Summer. Three girls. The Surf, the Sun, the Sand, the feel of cold water as it slams into you at breakwater. The softness of sand under your feet. The thrill of bobbing above a big wave. Cold drinks. Ice cream. The smell of Sun Block. Ahhhh.... It was just a few months ago. And now it is so far away. Just a memory. A conversation overheard. And you have to know what the girls are talking about, don't you? Intuitively you know. Right? Am I right?  

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It's worse than I though. Worse than I could have possibly imagined. We are living on the razor edge of panic so uncontrolled that it may devolve into an event best described by Physicists in some future decade. We are vibrating at some sub-atomic frequency. Schools are closed in all surrounding counties near Washington, DC. Everyone is talking about it, even though no one has seen it yet. We are preparing ourselves for the worst. It is difficult to continue any sort of normality on the surface when there is so much turmoil beneath. It is going to snow sometime today. Maybe as much as 6 inches! Some have heard a prediction of 8 inches. In the world of Porn, that's pretty big. If I am unable to post again, please know that I loved my family and my friends and tried, at heart, to always to the right thing. My Will is filed in a cabinet in our guest room. God Bless you all. 

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It isn't any wonder that I feel disoriented sometimes. Look at the visual information that my tired brain has to instantly process as I walk down the street. Yours too. You have to do the same high speed math in your brain too. There is light and shadow and glass and metal and doors and windows that you can see through and colors that aren't really there. They're being transmitted from other place. People laugh when they see someone bump into a glass patio window that can't be seen because it's so clean and the person doing the bumping just naturally assumes that it is open, but in fact it is not. And they thump into it and it seems so funny because anyone could make that mistake. It happens all the time. Miraculously, it doesn't seem to happen that often downtown. At least I've never seen it happen. It's never happened to me. But I feel that it could. 

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Urban life is full of reflections. Maybe there is no time for actually reflection, but there are certainly lots of different kinds around us because the urban space is made up of glass and shining surfaces. And shadows. And waste. There are, besides many reflections, many opportunities to throw away stuff on site. At my office I can choose Paper, Plastic, Trash, or Glass. I'm liable to make an error late at night, or early in the morning, when my Plastic could end up in Paper, or vice versa. I'm not certain what kind of problem this might present further down the food chain, but I don't worry about it. Any more than I worry about the probable fact that all of the segmented trash ends up in the same green dumpster in the alley behind the office building. 

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It's snowing in Washington. What that means is unbridled chaos. If certain unsavory mean spirited individuals or groups wanted to bring Washington DC to a standstill, they would need do nothing more than make it snow here. Schools close. People take time off of work to care for the kids who are not in school for the day or the week or more. In certain instances the Federal Government shuts down. The city just closes up. There is a ceremonial run to the store for toilet paper, milk, and bread. We already have the Duck Tape stored up. This city is over 150 years old and it still hasn't figured out how to plow snow. People flip out. Every snow is like the first snow ever. It's the Horror. The Horror. 

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I know that it is probably not readily apparent, but I do think carefully about what images, out of the thousands I have, to post here. I try to establish a rhythm and a flow and a kind of dialogue with the pictures. Sort of like Be Bop for the eyes as a way to deconstruct the travel photo album. It may not always make sense to the viewer, but it occasionally makes sense to the writer. This image was taken in Paris. Not, I agree, the usual image one might bring back from that City of Light. But, it's one of the ones I was attracted to. The light there is so clear it almost hurts. The sky on a late Spring Day in Paris is almost beyond color. It's more like a substance. The early morning light is soft and glows. Perfect for a picture of some street art spray painted on the side of a building that I saw on my way to get my morning coffee.  

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Sometimes you just have to put your feet up and set back and relax with a product that is meant to be smoked. Jess let your fringe hang down. Know what I mean? 

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He was alone. He was always alone. He didn't know how to communicate well with people. He was shy and prone to long periods of silence. He was just him and his horse. He was among the heros of the Old West. He had a whip and he knew how to use it. He worried about his future sometimes. He wasn't getting any younger and it was getting harder to take the punishing work of cattle herding. He smoked a lot and he drank some. Some day, he thought, he'd have to give it up and he'd have to settle down somewhere. Somewhere where it was quiet and the sky was blue and you could look around and see forever. 

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What if we just gave it back to them. Said, "Sorry, it's a little broken, but here it is. We're giving it back and moving on." Going back to the planet that we came from or something. I don't know. It doesn't sound like such a terrible idea. Would they even want to take us up on it? What with all the Super Fund sites and all. It might be more trouble than it would be worth. 

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An early morning image from the opening ceremonies for The National Museum for the American Indians

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This is about Survival. 

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This is about Opportunities Lost. 

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This is about Dreaming. 

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I am NOT gonna smile. And I am NOT gonna look at the STUPID man with the camera. I don't even want to BE here. I didn't want to come on this STUPID ride. My mom MADE me go with her BOYFRIEND. I HATE him. I HATE this stupid ride. When I get off I'm gonna THROW UP. 

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Just when you think that it can't get any stranger or more beautiful, you look at a flower. It's good to remember flowers this time of year. They're the things that are going to start happening at the end of Winter. I'm ready for the flowers. Nicki bought some bulbs to force open inside, so I know that she's ready too. It's good to remember that eventually there will be flowers. Here's some pictures to help jog the memory of what was. 

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Words and Pictures. Are they connected? Yes. And No. The words are really just a way to add space between the pictures so that they don't all crowd up on one another. The pictures should stand by themselves. Sort of like the Cheese. But then the words have to stand alone too. They can be sometimes a tool to suggest something about a picture that might not be immediately obvious to the viewer but was, at least for a fleeting second, obvious to the writer. What can the words relate about this image, for example? Is it about the loneliness of a plastic potted plant? No, I don't think so. Is it about the sleekness of metal ventilation pipes, maybe. No. Myself, I think it's about No Diving. There's something Universal about the concept of No Diving. Everyone can understand that. So, now I think, "Enough said". 

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"Wait for our call." It had rained all the day before. It didn't matter, though. The man stayed in the room all day waiting for the call. He hadn't left once. Spent the day pacing, looking out of the window overlooking an alley at the rain. The stranger had told him to stay in this hotel and to wait for a call. The call would tell him where to leave the money. After the stranger had the money he would call back and give the man information about the whereabouts of his son who had been missing now for seven months. After he disappeared, he and his wife waited for word and then began to look for their son themselves. They hired people to find him, but all leads had come to nothing. Now he had to wait in this room for the call. He pulled back the drapes and looked out at the alley. There he saw a dagger blade of sunlight slashing across the wall of windows. The windows all had their blinds drawn shut. Then the phone rang. 

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The "Gates" are grand! They are everywhere, seemingly, in Central Park. You can see them over here, over there, over hill and down in the valley. They are a color one normally doesn't see in February: a golden, crimson, saffrony orange, depending on where the sun is shining. We met friends at the Met and walked downtown to the zoo and then out of the park. It was crowded on the first day, Saturday. It was less crowded at 92nd Street on Sunday when Miles and I went back because my camera's batteries pooped out on Saturday. I overheard a lot of people questioning the "art" value of what Christo and Jeanne-Claude have put together. For me, it is obviously art. The first aspect of the art is the $20+ million that they raised to make this happen. Can you do that? I certainly can't. That, my friend, is art! Performance art, even. Another aspect of the art for me is all the people. There were thousands upon thousands of people roaming around Central Park on a cold February day looking at, touching, and talking about over 7,000 saffron drapes that looked pretty much alike; having their picture taken with the "Gates" above them; walking with tiny dogs or gigantic dogs that looked more like small cows, pushing strollers with bundled up little people in them, eating, smoking, talking, laughing, walking and talking about the "Gates". There are few people that I can think of who could make so many people happy at the same time. Bush can't do it. Kerry couldn't do it. The Pope can sometimes do it, but not too often. It was like Woodstock without the dope or music. Ya shoulda been they-ah! 

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We three, Nicki, Miles, and I, are going to spend the weekend and Monday in New York in order to get a look at Christo's "Gates" in Central Park. I figure that this is as close as I'm likely to get to one of his works. Maybe there'll be something interesting to post. In any event, there will be no new posts until Tuesday, 15 February. Enjoy the silence. 

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This is what snow looks like at 9,000 feet in Colorado. The amazing thing to me is that it looks pretty much like this at ground level at the Chesapeake Bay. What it falls on, though, looks very different. I guess snow is the great equalizer, or at least one of them. It doesn't care what it falls on. Its all the same to snow. 

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There is nothing than you can see or experience in New York that would qualify as unusual. Maybe that's true of any big city, but I don't think you would see this scene in London, Paris, or Rome. It's Summer and Miles and I are in Central Park, riding bikes that we've rented.We've just had a New York Moment. We're foreigners here and don't have a firm appreciation for the bike-riding rules in the Park. Miles is have fun, making tight "S" turns with his bike, wavering back and forth. Unknown to us, coming up quickly behind us is a World Class Champion Central Park Bike Riding Jerk, who begins to yell at Miles to "Hold the Track! Hold the Track! Hold your MotherF***ing Track!" and then speed on by giving Miles the finger. I yell back to him that he has just cussed out a 10-year old kid, and add "You Schmuck" for good measure. And we bike on knowing that we have had a New York Baptism of a kind. The folks in this picture are having another kind of New York Moment. This is a wedding Party on their way either to the wedding or to the wedding Party. They all look good. They stopped to buy drinks, but not Hot Dogs, from the vendor. Life is good. 

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I don't know what it is, but occassionally I am overwhelmed by "stuff". All the flotsam that finds its way into the house. I don't even know where most of it comes from, other than almost every economically developing nation on Earth that the US is currently friendly with. Many years ago, when I was a student in Connecticut, there lived above me in the house I rented a small apartment in, a couple of dedicated counter-culturist. They were so unique in their habits and beliefs that everyone knew who they were. Every now and again, about every six months or so, they would have what they called a "Plastic Purge". They went through their living space and gathered anything made, partially or wholly, of plastic. Then their bay window facing the street would be flung open and everything plastic thrown out, one piece at a time. Then, for at least the next six months, they would be pure again. I never spoke directly with either of them, and of course now they are lost in time, but I'll bet that they were just as mystified as I as to where that stuff came from.
Here are two plastic figures from what was Miles' "Choking Hazard" collect of toys.

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I'd like to think that I'm a nature boy. But, the truth is that I don't really trust the Natural World. I'm a creature of the city and therefore feel mostly removed from the natural order of things. Wild animals do not invite but repel. Strange plants, which include most things that grow from the Earth, are meant to be avoided. Story: my Mother-in-Law, a vivacious lady from London, was visiting a daughter who was living in California, a world away. Her daughter took her to see the Redwoods nearby. What my Mother-in-Law took away from the trip was the fact that American parks were wildly "untidy". In England, for example, grounds were kept uncluttered. Leaves and stray sticks, or twigs, or, goodness knows, fallen limbs from the trees, were carted away so that Nature could be admired without consideration of surrounding litter.
This photo was taken at a National Park in Central California. The grounds are cluttered with debris. It is very beautiful. The colors and scents of the place are soft, yet stimulating. Among the things of interest is the traffic sign mandating a speed of 25 MPH.

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I like to go to the County Fair, although most years I miss it. Last Fall was one of our successful attempts. Nicki like to see the animals: the pigs, the cows, the ducks, the chickens and roosters. She likes to look at the award winning vegetables and the preserves and pies. I always gravitate toward the award winning photography that members of the 4H clubs submit. This time, along with the pictures of friends doing goofy things and of pets, there were photos of older brothers and sisters in their uniforms looking strong and brave before being sent off to war. The 1st place and 2nd place ribbons, however, inevitably go to a photograph of either a puppy or a kitten (or both together) looking adorable or doing something cute.

Miles and I like the rides, although now that I am in the AARP demographic, I can no longer go on the rides that spin around at the frequency of sub-atomic particles. It seems that my brain has shrunk and that I no longer have the padding needed to sustain such rides without what polite society calls "being nauseated", and what Miles calls "blowing chunks". Or course, the wildly spinning rides are what he likes best. Of the more sedate amusements available to me now is the Ferris Wheel. The views are fantastic and the ride always too short.

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She was always beautiful. Even as a small girl, you could see the beauty there, waiting, patiently, to develop fully and be brought out. As a young woman, she worked in Hollywood for a few years, playing ever larger rolls in dramas and musicals. Her picture was often in the papers documenting her appearance at this opening or that party. In 1946, she married one of the studio chiefs and stopped appearing in public. She stopped making movies and turned her attentions to being a housewife and hostess. The parties and dinners were grand, held often, included important people, but were not usually reported in the press. She and her husband never had any children of their own, so they adopted two girls. One died of an overdose in the mid-1960s. The other had several marriages and lives outside Paris. She herself is over 80 years old now. Alone in her home north of Carmel. She's writing a biography. They say that she's still beautiful. Still very beautiful.
 

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The old man came to the sea wall almost everyday. He came to listen to the roll of the surf and to look out on the North Sea. And to rest and breathe the air. He started coming after his wife died after a long battle with cancer. He had been born here in this village and had spent his whole life here. Things were different then, before the Americans started to come with their hairy legs and their beautiful white teeth. And their money. Things were changing fast here. In the last year the Bakery and a hardware store closed for lack of business. There was a huge new American style grocery store up the road in Ipswich. People went there to get bread and plumbing needs. Course, you needed use of a car to do that. He had no car. He had only the use of his feet. So he came here to the sea wall to watch the sea birds and the brave few who swam in the cold water. And to enjoy the energy of youth that was all around him. 

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There's something about light poles. I don't know why, but I am "seeing" them everywhere after many decades of being blind. They're sort of urban technological flowers. Or weeds maybe. They more or less everywhere look pretty much the same. Silver is the color of choice. They bend over the street. The color of the light they give off is predominantly yellowish. They're something else to avoid running into on the sidewalk.If you look slightly up in any city, this is what you'll most likely see. This one is in New York, somewhere down near NYU. There is a building behind it, a church, I think, that has been wrapped is scaffolding. Christo would've done a better job if he had been given the chance. I like the scattered clouds and the red of the wrap and the green of the street sign. All to set off the silver street light to its best advantage. I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

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Miles and I were traveling through the mountains of Colorado, southwest of Denver. We were doing a guy-thing road trip. We had passed through the Pepperlandish Breckenridge where I paid my respects to Myra, and now we were pushing on to ever increasing remoteness. We were in search of Ghost Towns. Places where Silver and Rail Roads were Kings not that long ago. Before everything everywhere looked and smelled and tasted more or less alike. We had made our way to Fair Play, CO and stopped to find a place to stay overnight. Fair Play has a very well preserved specimen of Ghost Town, but it was closed in March which is when we were there. I looked around anyway. Truth to tell, Miles really wasn't that keen on the whole G.T. thing, prefering instead to hang out in the hotel and watch cable TV. The hotel pictured here didn't have cable or TV for that matter. What it had instead were ghosts. Real ghosts. In the front room. Upstairs. At the end of the hall that creeked and growned when it was walked on.

We didn't stay here.

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Some kind of wonderful?

Tuesday afternoon friend and neighbor, Roland, mailed me that Instapundit.com had added a link to this site. I wasn't really certain what that meant--I have lead a sheltered life--but I thought it was probably good. I didn't know what Instapundit.com was. Roland let me know that it is the Halliburton on Blogs with more daily traffic than Penn Station and that being linked from there would guarantee an "instalaunch" of traffic heading my way.

I still don't know what that means, but am grateful, I suppose. Although I can't help but think that there must be something more significant than this site to attract a large amount of attention.

Roland let me know that it would be down hill from here, so that I had nothing, really, to worry about. Viewers would come and then go back to whatever else they were doing before.

I didn't want to let this opportunity go by without thanking instapundit.com for finding Music From The Film within its first 56 hours of existance. That, surely, counts for something. And, now, I want to return the favor:

Here's the Link:

www.instapundit.com

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In San Francisco it was never unusual to be somewhat disoriented. It happened to me more than once. The ground seems to move under your feet. You feel dizzy. Everything is held out is sharp relief. When that happens, its good to have a marker to steer by. Something to help reestablish the equilibrium. Here we have such an aid. If you know where "up" is, then its easy to find "down". Thank you, San Francisco.

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This is not America. This is someplace else. Berlin, actually. Near the KuDam. The neighborhood has certainly changed since the wall came down. The "No Man's Land" that once separated East and West is now the largest construction site in Europe. The West is pumping money into the East. The East isn't really sure what to think about all of this activity. Two women pass a billboard advertising...what? Motherhood maybe. A stroller. A blonde tot. A furry bunnie. A young and attractive Mom. An over-the-shoulder bag to keep all of the tot related stuff in. But the two women aren't looking at that. They're looking somewhere else and seem puzzled. Or concerned. I remember a lot of that going on in Berlin. The puzzlement and concern.  

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This is an image of a ghost. Or ghosts. An empty storefront has its windows covered with plastic. The windows seem to be almost haunted themselves. You're not meant to be able to look inside to see what is left behind. The lights are on, but there's nobody home. The sun is shining brightly in a cloudless sky. It is late afternoon and someone is walking by on their way to somewhere else. They cast a long and deeply dark shadow. In a moment, they are gone and it's just the haunted windows again. 

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