If one of you is a cat, and the other of you is a person, there are certain rules.
One of these rules is, no matter how much you wish it to be otherwise, the one of you who is a person must, before retiring to another room for even just a moment, place some sort of protective covering over the bacon bits on the sideboard next to the spinach salad. Because if you do not do this, the one of you who is a cat will shortly be discovered (by someone else, in this case) with his entire head brazenly in the salad bowl. You must either learn to "cover up, buttercup," or learn to go without bacon bits in your spinach salad.
This is just the way it is. No amount of yelling, scolding, training, or flat-out cussing is ever going to make it any different.
17 April 2008
06 April 2008
Overexposure
I went long on this because I really got stuck. Not because I couldn't come up with a response--no, quite the opposite. I got stuck because I had too many responses crowding the door to my brain, each trying to get through first and be picked up and held. As a result, this might end up being one of those "all over the damn place" posts.
My problem remains that two of the three men dearest to me in the world are professional photographers--my father, a fine art photographer after twenty-five years in the judicial branch, and my dearest friend and mentor, a photojournalist and filmmaker. One thing this means is that what gets saved from our house fire is not photographs but a metal case containing binders crammed with negative sleeves. That's just the way it is. The cats have legs, they can get out on their own.
Another thing it means is that often, the memories I have of people and events are dictated from a different perspective. We don't pose for photographs in my family. We go about our daily business, assured in the knowledge that we will one day find it magically recreated in the tiny squares of a contact sheet and wonder aloud why we didn't see the long snout of the 75mm lens crawling up into our faces at the time.
A third thing it means is that watching TV is a bitch. My dad will see things going on in the corner of the frame that those of us without secret x-ray vision would never notice. Robin has been known to yell "Focus!" at a perfectly normal screen, or criticize its headroom. Good God, man, it's baseball. Let the rest of us watch the World Series in peace, will ya? Not even CSI is safe. The other night, as Catherine Willows was documenting a crime scene, my dad winced as the flash went off three times in rapid succession: "That's the trouble with digital. People take three shots when all they need is one." Um, yeah dad, but this is about documenting evidence, not making things look pretty. It's not like it's going anywhere. The victim isn't going to get up any time soon and blow the composition.
I can't even call them digital cameras without getting yelled at. My dad refers to them--not arbitrarily--as computers with lenses. He's right, of course. That's really what they are. A digital image is not a photograph, since etymologically speaking a photograph is a picture made with light. There's no light involved in creating a digital image, just pixels. Nevertheless, this frequently causes another chorus of, "Yeah, whatever dad."
And don't even get him started on film vs. digital. He's got several dozen valid points, among them clarity, depth, control of your input (ever seen a digital camera with a "manual" shutter setting?) But sometimes digital is just so damned convenient. You can go to Africa and not have to check $2000 worth of overage in luggage. You can carry 14 gigs of memory a lot more easily than 60 rolls of film. (I know this. I've packed 60 rolls of film. They end up everywhere. In his shoes. In the first aid kit. Shirt pockets. Tucked between his shaving kit and his toothbrush. In his underwear, though not usually while he's wearing it.) But on the other hand, so many people go digital because they think you don't have to think. You just shoot. Manipulate later. It's art, some of it, but is it photography? How do you explain depth of field to someone who's never had to calculate it because the computer does it for them? How do you explain the tension of waiting for a shot, your fingers itching for the shutter but your brain overriding them because your eye knows the moment is not yet come? The magic of standing in a darkened closet, waiting for the image to swim up through the bath in pieces toward you?
My problem remains that two of the three men dearest to me in the world are professional photographers--my father, a fine art photographer after twenty-five years in the judicial branch, and my dearest friend and mentor, a photojournalist and filmmaker. One thing this means is that what gets saved from our house fire is not photographs but a metal case containing binders crammed with negative sleeves. That's just the way it is. The cats have legs, they can get out on their own.
Another thing it means is that often, the memories I have of people and events are dictated from a different perspective. We don't pose for photographs in my family. We go about our daily business, assured in the knowledge that we will one day find it magically recreated in the tiny squares of a contact sheet and wonder aloud why we didn't see the long snout of the 75mm lens crawling up into our faces at the time.
A third thing it means is that watching TV is a bitch. My dad will see things going on in the corner of the frame that those of us without secret x-ray vision would never notice. Robin has been known to yell "Focus!" at a perfectly normal screen, or criticize its headroom. Good God, man, it's baseball. Let the rest of us watch the World Series in peace, will ya? Not even CSI is safe. The other night, as Catherine Willows was documenting a crime scene, my dad winced as the flash went off three times in rapid succession: "That's the trouble with digital. People take three shots when all they need is one." Um, yeah dad, but this is about documenting evidence, not making things look pretty. It's not like it's going anywhere. The victim isn't going to get up any time soon and blow the composition.
I can't even call them digital cameras without getting yelled at. My dad refers to them--not arbitrarily--as computers with lenses. He's right, of course. That's really what they are. A digital image is not a photograph, since etymologically speaking a photograph is a picture made with light. There's no light involved in creating a digital image, just pixels. Nevertheless, this frequently causes another chorus of, "Yeah, whatever dad."
And don't even get him started on film vs. digital. He's got several dozen valid points, among them clarity, depth, control of your input (ever seen a digital camera with a "manual" shutter setting?) But sometimes digital is just so damned convenient. You can go to Africa and not have to check $2000 worth of overage in luggage. You can carry 14 gigs of memory a lot more easily than 60 rolls of film. (I know this. I've packed 60 rolls of film. They end up everywhere. In his shoes. In the first aid kit. Shirt pockets. Tucked between his shaving kit and his toothbrush. In his underwear, though not usually while he's wearing it.) But on the other hand, so many people go digital because they think you don't have to think. You just shoot. Manipulate later. It's art, some of it, but is it photography? How do you explain depth of field to someone who's never had to calculate it because the computer does it for them? How do you explain the tension of waiting for a shot, your fingers itching for the shutter but your brain overriding them because your eye knows the moment is not yet come? The magic of standing in a darkened closet, waiting for the image to swim up through the bath in pieces toward you?
21 March 2008
This Space Intentionally Left Blank
Although I think a much shorter and more comprehensive list would be entitled "Things I Get," that was not this week's assignment. So here goes, in no particular order (sort of like my life):
Marshmallow fluff. I appreciate it, especially paired with peanut butter on Arnold's Country White bread. But I don't get it.
Giraffes. People are surprised by this one. They want to know about platypuses. Those make total sense to me: leftover parts smorgasbord. No, it's giraffes I struggle to understand. It's not the long neck; I can deal with that. Someone's got to eat all those yummy green leaves (and everyone has their own Slurpee machine--wait, wrong post). It's the fact that they have tremendously long black tongues. Yes, black. And no vocal cords. How cruel is that? To be given all that space, all that equipment--and nothing to say. And did I mention their tongues are black? Poor giraffes.
Why my refrigerator has a light, but not my freezer. Don't my waffles need to see, too?
Why Snickers bars have a label that cautions, "Warning. May contain nuts." Yes, and so might the marketing department.
Algebra. Nuff said.
Gary Snyder's poetry. Again, I like it. Just don't get it. Same for Medbh MGuckian, except for the part about liking it.
Why God in his infinite wisdom has seen to give us two kidneys and one bladder. And then put a uterus on top of mine. I realise that space is at a premium here, but come on. Two processing plants and one holding tank? Couldn't you have at least had a better overflow valve? If nothing else, couldn't you have made it a shorter trip to the bathroom at midnight?
Why are Peeps always stale, even the day after Easter?
Why do people insist on writing "This page intentionally left blank" on an odd-page of a manuscript? Don't they get it? What about something like, "This page intentionally left otherwise blank" or "This page would have been left blank, except I had to go fuck it up by printing something useless on it, thereby wasting another tree" or even "Hi mom" ?
Where all the light brown m+m's went. I miss the tan ones.
Note that nowhere on this list has been found "Why don't sheep shrink when it rains?" That would be because the lovely Mary O'Brien of Twist patiently explained this to me one evening over homemade gingerbread. I'd always assumed it was because it doesn't rain hot water, but Mary-O assures me it's the agitation in the washing process that felts wool, as much as anything in the temperature of the water. I'd theoretically have to follow them around in the pasture and "zhuzh" them one at a time if I wanted them to felt. Or perhaps I could find another way to agitate them, like sneaking up behind them and yelling "Lamb chops! Mutton! Haggis!!" That would likely be highly agitating to a sheep.
Marshmallow fluff. I appreciate it, especially paired with peanut butter on Arnold's Country White bread. But I don't get it.
Giraffes. People are surprised by this one. They want to know about platypuses. Those make total sense to me: leftover parts smorgasbord. No, it's giraffes I struggle to understand. It's not the long neck; I can deal with that. Someone's got to eat all those yummy green leaves (and everyone has their own Slurpee machine--wait, wrong post). It's the fact that they have tremendously long black tongues. Yes, black. And no vocal cords. How cruel is that? To be given all that space, all that equipment--and nothing to say. And did I mention their tongues are black? Poor giraffes.
Why my refrigerator has a light, but not my freezer. Don't my waffles need to see, too?
Why Snickers bars have a label that cautions, "Warning. May contain nuts." Yes, and so might the marketing department.
Algebra. Nuff said.
Gary Snyder's poetry. Again, I like it. Just don't get it. Same for Medbh MGuckian, except for the part about liking it.
Why God in his infinite wisdom has seen to give us two kidneys and one bladder. And then put a uterus on top of mine. I realise that space is at a premium here, but come on. Two processing plants and one holding tank? Couldn't you have at least had a better overflow valve? If nothing else, couldn't you have made it a shorter trip to the bathroom at midnight?
Why are Peeps always stale, even the day after Easter?
Why do people insist on writing "This page intentionally left blank" on an odd-page of a manuscript? Don't they get it? What about something like, "This page intentionally left otherwise blank" or "This page would have been left blank, except I had to go fuck it up by printing something useless on it, thereby wasting another tree" or even "Hi mom" ?
Where all the light brown m+m's went. I miss the tan ones.
Note that nowhere on this list has been found "Why don't sheep shrink when it rains?" That would be because the lovely Mary O'Brien of Twist patiently explained this to me one evening over homemade gingerbread. I'd always assumed it was because it doesn't rain hot water, but Mary-O assures me it's the agitation in the washing process that felts wool, as much as anything in the temperature of the water. I'd theoretically have to follow them around in the pasture and "zhuzh" them one at a time if I wanted them to felt. Or perhaps I could find another way to agitate them, like sneaking up behind them and yelling "Lamb chops! Mutton! Haggis!!" That would likely be highly agitating to a sheep.
27 February 2008
Breaking News
So, I'm out of the marathon in April. What I'd thought were nagging shin splints that just would not quit turned out to be multiple stress fractures. Yeehaw. The bad news, aside from the kibosh on Nashville of course, is that there's pretty much nothing to do for stress fractures except sit around on my ass with ice and pop Tylenol every four hours. (good thing I have a sturdy liver, Terri!) And whine a lot about the various, lesser forms of odious cross-training.
The good news (and yes, there is some) is that I'm not a wimp. There's a very good reason my legs have hurt like hell every time I've run for the past several weeks: they're broken, dumbass.
The good news (and yes, there is some) is that I'm not a wimp. There's a very good reason my legs have hurt like hell every time I've run for the past several weeks: they're broken, dumbass.
22 February 2008
Overheard at the End of My Driveway
Cast of Characters
Him: socially inept, cheerful but fairly clueless, very Italian last name. Son of landlord to houseful of Mexican immigrants of uncertain status who do farmwork for them.
Me: anti-social, fairly often outraged, Irish temper. Bound in on three sides of property by this new landed gentry. Also currently cold, wet, and hungry.
Him: "I saw you out shoveling before."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Don't you have Mexicans to do that for you?"
[beat.]
Me: "No, we use Eye-talians for that."
Him: socially inept, cheerful but fairly clueless, very Italian last name. Son of landlord to houseful of Mexican immigrants of uncertain status who do farmwork for them.
Me: anti-social, fairly often outraged, Irish temper. Bound in on three sides of property by this new landed gentry. Also currently cold, wet, and hungry.
Him: "I saw you out shoveling before."
Me: "Yup."
Him: "Don't you have Mexicans to do that for you?"
[beat.]
Me: "No, we use Eye-talians for that."
17 February 2008
While You Were Out
I love sleep. Always been a big fan of it. Unlike my sisters, who when we were growing up would bargain for later and later bedtimes, I never had one. This always confused the babysitter greatly, but my parents' insistence that I had enough sense to go to bed when I got tired usually proved true. At least during my childhood, anyway.
Somewhere during high school, I developed a love/hate relationship with sleep. Stage crew ran late, to nine, ten, sometimes eleven o'clock (on a school night!) and I had to be up at six to get to school on time. Late nights was when things got interesting--when my friends got original, creative, and sometimes illegal bugs up their butts, our parents went to sleep, friendships were forged and romances ignited. And, of course, there was homework to be done. Theoretically. I subconsciously became afraid that if I fell asleep on someone's couch/floor/lap/diner booth, I would miss something. This was likely based in firm reality, as I have a long-reaching history of being the first one to fall asleep at slumber parties and midnight gatherings. (One group of friends scattered across the country has begun to keep a scrapbook of photos from our somewhat annual gatherings at people's homes; every last one of them features at least one shot of me, asleep on the floor, while conversation rages around me. Enough so that renaming this blog Floors I Have Slept On would not be entirely inaccurate, if somewhat ungrammatical.)
Still, I adore my sleep. For a while in my twenties, this combination made me the worst of all possible things: a late sleeper. Saturdays I could sometimes sleep until noon and still wake up only from guilt at knowing what time it was. I hated it. Somewhere inside me was a morning person, waiting to be released from this bizarre ritual. It didn't help that I dated a series of night owls and insomniacs, starting with my first serious boyfriend. Even my best friend, who loved to rise at the ungodly hour of 5:30 to walk the dog and listen to the BBC, was an insomniac and could often be found roaming the house at midnight. The one morning he slept until quarter past eight, I was afraid to go in and check on him because I thought he might have died during the night.
And then there was my husband, who fell into sleep like dropping off the edge of a cliff. I used to tease him that he had two speeds: fast, and off. He would stay awake for hours into the night, sometimes days at a time, but when sleep came, it would take him in the middle of sentences, sometimes in the middle of words. And Lord knows there was no waking the man. Getting him out of bed and functional enough to light a cigarette was a ritual as drawn-out as a Japanese tea ceremony.
He was an entertaining sleeper, too, with vivid dreams that sometimes involved him spouting out dialogue for all the anthropomorphic characters, and acrobatics that more than once left me with interesting bruises to explain to friends. Sleep for him was in intricate dance of elbows and gangly limbs thrown wide, long hair strewn wildly across all our pillows, humping up under the blankets like a turtle, and something we used to refer to simply as "The Leg." The Leg was something to see, all right, not only for its cranelike humour, but also for its sheer flexibility. There was, quite simply, nothing this man would not do in his semi-conscious search for ORSP. (Optimal Rest and Sleeping Position, if you have to ask.)
These days I sleep alone, tweaking my nocturnal schedule so I'll have time to myself in the mornings and the evenings after my parents retire. I'm reverting to my morning-person schedule, though I still resent the alarm those days it reminds me that I'm only up because I have obligations that aren't to myself. I'm not lonely when I wake curled on my side of the bed, usually with a couple of cats strewn about in positions of utter somnolence. It's the nights that get to me. I still lie awake in the dark, listening for the cadence of his breathing, thinking about impossible fish missions and those ridiculous involuntary twitches that used to overcome him and scare the crap out of me, and waiting for the return of The Leg.
Somewhere during high school, I developed a love/hate relationship with sleep. Stage crew ran late, to nine, ten, sometimes eleven o'clock (on a school night!) and I had to be up at six to get to school on time. Late nights was when things got interesting--when my friends got original, creative, and sometimes illegal bugs up their butts, our parents went to sleep, friendships were forged and romances ignited. And, of course, there was homework to be done. Theoretically. I subconsciously became afraid that if I fell asleep on someone's couch/floor/lap/diner booth, I would miss something. This was likely based in firm reality, as I have a long-reaching history of being the first one to fall asleep at slumber parties and midnight gatherings. (One group of friends scattered across the country has begun to keep a scrapbook of photos from our somewhat annual gatherings at people's homes; every last one of them features at least one shot of me, asleep on the floor, while conversation rages around me. Enough so that renaming this blog Floors I Have Slept On would not be entirely inaccurate, if somewhat ungrammatical.)
Still, I adore my sleep. For a while in my twenties, this combination made me the worst of all possible things: a late sleeper. Saturdays I could sometimes sleep until noon and still wake up only from guilt at knowing what time it was. I hated it. Somewhere inside me was a morning person, waiting to be released from this bizarre ritual. It didn't help that I dated a series of night owls and insomniacs, starting with my first serious boyfriend. Even my best friend, who loved to rise at the ungodly hour of 5:30 to walk the dog and listen to the BBC, was an insomniac and could often be found roaming the house at midnight. The one morning he slept until quarter past eight, I was afraid to go in and check on him because I thought he might have died during the night.
And then there was my husband, who fell into sleep like dropping off the edge of a cliff. I used to tease him that he had two speeds: fast, and off. He would stay awake for hours into the night, sometimes days at a time, but when sleep came, it would take him in the middle of sentences, sometimes in the middle of words. And Lord knows there was no waking the man. Getting him out of bed and functional enough to light a cigarette was a ritual as drawn-out as a Japanese tea ceremony.
He was an entertaining sleeper, too, with vivid dreams that sometimes involved him spouting out dialogue for all the anthropomorphic characters, and acrobatics that more than once left me with interesting bruises to explain to friends. Sleep for him was in intricate dance of elbows and gangly limbs thrown wide, long hair strewn wildly across all our pillows, humping up under the blankets like a turtle, and something we used to refer to simply as "The Leg." The Leg was something to see, all right, not only for its cranelike humour, but also for its sheer flexibility. There was, quite simply, nothing this man would not do in his semi-conscious search for ORSP. (Optimal Rest and Sleeping Position, if you have to ask.)
These days I sleep alone, tweaking my nocturnal schedule so I'll have time to myself in the mornings and the evenings after my parents retire. I'm reverting to my morning-person schedule, though I still resent the alarm those days it reminds me that I'm only up because I have obligations that aren't to myself. I'm not lonely when I wake curled on my side of the bed, usually with a couple of cats strewn about in positions of utter somnolence. It's the nights that get to me. I still lie awake in the dark, listening for the cadence of his breathing, thinking about impossible fish missions and those ridiculous involuntary twitches that used to overcome him and scare the crap out of me, and waiting for the return of The Leg.
26 January 2008
Pandemonium at the Exploding Sheep Shop
If I had to use one word to describe my life right now, since pffffffht! is more of a sound effect I would have to say that miscellaneous does the job pretty well. Is everything the same as it was five weeks ago when last I managed to log in? Hell no. Has anything actually occurred in the interim? No, not really. Am I flying around ass-over-teakettle and occasionally putting my underwear on sideways? You betcha.
That's a true story, by the way. It's amazing how misinterpreting a single foundation garment when getting dressed for work can mess with your personal feng shui for the whole day, until suddenly, during a quiet moment in the late afternoon, it all becomes stunningly clear why you've been verhoodled since you got dressed.
Then again, maybe it wasn't my underwear. Maybe my underwear was doing okay, and I put the world on sideways yesterday. I wouldn't put it past me, considering the way the world's been acting of late. A small list, to demonstrate the sort of non-accomplishments with which my life is riddled this winter:
+my hips have been living in different time zones, but my chiropractor's dog seems to have cured me of this affliction temporarily
+I can knit socks! I am a knitting genius!
+I managed to drive into a brick wall while the car was off, in neutral, not moving, and I wasn't in it. This is the general consensus, anyway. The car's not telling.
+political protests might actually be a form of community service
+for three days at the beginning of January, all my internal organs were temporarily replaced with ginger ale dispensers
+there is a direct proportion between the percentage of your brain convincing your body that you are going to die from speed workouts and the endorphin rush you will get when you are done. Also the amount your nose will run while doing this in the snow
+a one-page statement on your teaching philosophy is a lot easier to write if you know what your philosophy actually is. Or, indeed, have one.
+Foxes. Lots of them.
I mean, really. My resemblance to the late Anne Boelyn is starting to be rather alarming.
That's a true story, by the way. It's amazing how misinterpreting a single foundation garment when getting dressed for work can mess with your personal feng shui for the whole day, until suddenly, during a quiet moment in the late afternoon, it all becomes stunningly clear why you've been verhoodled since you got dressed.
Then again, maybe it wasn't my underwear. Maybe my underwear was doing okay, and I put the world on sideways yesterday. I wouldn't put it past me, considering the way the world's been acting of late. A small list, to demonstrate the sort of non-accomplishments with which my life is riddled this winter:
+my hips have been living in different time zones, but my chiropractor's dog seems to have cured me of this affliction temporarily
+I can knit socks! I am a knitting genius!
+I managed to drive into a brick wall while the car was off, in neutral, not moving, and I wasn't in it. This is the general consensus, anyway. The car's not telling.
+political protests might actually be a form of community service
+for three days at the beginning of January, all my internal organs were temporarily replaced with ginger ale dispensers
+there is a direct proportion between the percentage of your brain convincing your body that you are going to die from speed workouts and the endorphin rush you will get when you are done. Also the amount your nose will run while doing this in the snow
+a one-page statement on your teaching philosophy is a lot easier to write if you know what your philosophy actually is. Or, indeed, have one.
+Foxes. Lots of them.
I mean, really. My resemblance to the late Anne Boelyn is starting to be rather alarming.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)