tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25626388888182301322024-03-13T08:48:43.904-07:00How Gravegrass GrowsZakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-56110334558663155822011-10-25T12:19:00.000-07:002011-10-25T12:19:12.807-07:00Another Golden HourI went out for some more practice with the golden hour, this time to Pioneer's Park. WOW there were a lot of other photographers there. It was the complete opposite of my evening at Oak Lake. At the lake I was totally alone. There was the occasional car coming down the road nearby, but I had the island completely to myself. At Pioneer's, there was a pro photographer ever couple of feet and they all had way bigger cameras than me! Now I know bigger isn't automatically better, but it was still super intimidating. And to make it worse, I appeared to be the only one shooting the scenery--the rest of them had models/clients, and were probably making bank for their trouble.<br />
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Anyways, the result of the crowd was that I waited a while to really get started, since I couldn't find many spots that weren't full of people who I assume were watching, judging, and cursing me. So a lot of these shots were taken later on in the evening and are darker. It was a bit of a different experience.<br />
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here's the whole album on picasa:</div>
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<br /><table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/TheGoldenHourOctober232011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-WuPB9JJSqbg/TqToIYYHRfE/AAAAAAAAA_A/xZVv4aiCv04/s160-c/TheGoldenHourOctober232011.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/TheGoldenHourOctober232011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">The Golden Hour - October 23, 2011</a></td></tr></table>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-1925783249649688202011-10-17T18:16:00.000-07:002011-10-17T18:16:48.016-07:00KC Ren FestWe went to the Kansas City Renaissance Festival on Saturday. I might or might not add some more shots later.<br />
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Here's the whole album on picasa:<br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url(https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left; height: 194px;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/KCRenFest2011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-enCZ1Ii1gss/TpzRP4KxGfE/AAAAAAAAA2A/MlYpr0ZPFo8/s160-c/KCRenFest2011.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0 0 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/KCRenFest2011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">KC Ren Fest 2011</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-58611971538254817902011-10-13T21:33:00.000-07:002011-10-14T09:09:02.890-07:00The Golden HourI've been trying to get out to catch the "golden hour" all week, but it's been either rainy or cloudy or I've been sick and missed it. Today I finally got out. I was intending to bring my boyfriend to act as a model, but he was gone when 5:45 rolled around and I knew I couldn't wait. So it was just me and the camera and Oak Lake.<br />
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I'm super ridiculously pleased with the shots I came up with. This is my first time doing a shoot on my own since I picked up my camera again. I've done a few with my boyfriend, but it's not the same shooting a person and having a person there while I shoot. I'm not sure which one I prefer, but I definitely was more willing to experiment and didn't feel any sort of pressure.<br />
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A few of these shots aren't even edited! It's been a long time since I've felt comfortable releasing my photo babies into the wild without dousing them in photoshop first.<br />
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<a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/TheGoldenHourOctober132011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="160" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Rvt3zBIA-2Q/TpeurOJH5jE/AAAAAAAAAuE/DCRK3OtIHFY/s160-c/TheGoldenHourOctober132011.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/TheGoldenHourOctober132011?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">The Golden Hour - October 13, 2011</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com0Lincoln, NE40.788859944494817 -96.679687540.016899444494818 -97.943115 41.560820444494816 -95.41626tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-62497395086374487182011-10-11T12:27:00.000-07:002011-10-14T09:09:16.388-07:00Everything I OwnI'm starting a project I'm calling "Everything I Own." Basically I'm photographing everything I own. Every item that is a part of my life is going to get its own photograph. I expect it to be great practice. I've learned a lot in the few days since I've started. I'm starting with small things that I can photograph on a seamless background, because that's something I've always wanted to try. The first day, I was using just a piece of poster board taped to the wall. Yesterday I made a lightbox, which has helped me soften the shadows a lot, especially after I figured out how to position my flash for maximum bounce in the box.<br />
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I was originally going to make it a set on Flickr, but of course I don't have a Flickr Pro account. That's something I will have to get if I'm going to start making money with this photography stuff, but I can't afford it right now. In the meantime, I've got them all on Picasa, and I have to say, I like me some Picasa.<br />
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I'll post some of my favorite shots on the blog a little later on, but until then, here's the Picasa album.<br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url(https://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left; height: 194px;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/EverythingIOwn?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-FKxZii9aT6g/TpPB6V6UZUE/AAAAAAAAAoA/qLYJV0eeMxM/s160-c/EverythingIOwn.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: white;"><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/zakiue/EverythingIOwn?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite" style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Everything I Own</a><br />
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</tbody></table>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-46539800930793762012011-09-30T13:27:00.001-07:002011-10-14T09:10:00.406-07:00The old house<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOlpsIG64Os/ToYmYj3mv1I/AAAAAAAAAQc/LIJlYYZm5dE/s1600/DSC_0902%2Bcopy.png"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658252185224789842" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOlpsIG64Os/ToYmYj3mv1I/AAAAAAAAAQc/LIJlYYZm5dE/s400/DSC_0902%2Bcopy.png" style="height: 320px; width: 229px;" width="286" /></a><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cTUO2b6-I3E/ToYmS_NAKOI/AAAAAAAAAQU/vVHZUxixtpA/s1600/DSC_0926%2Bcopy.png"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658252089483077858" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cTUO2b6-I3E/ToYmS_NAKOI/AAAAAAAAAQU/vVHZUxixtpA/s640/DSC_0926%2Bcopy.png" style="height: 320px; width: 229px;" width="458" /></a>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-17799347993790408472011-09-29T13:41:00.000-07:002011-09-29T13:49:37.162-07:00FallEvery year at the end of August, as I anticipate the fall, I wonder if summer might go on forever. It seems impossible that it could end. The world is so green and so alive, and I can remember so many summers. It seems like all of my life has been summer. But here we are at the end of September, and the leaves have started to change. I can smell the familiar approaching chilly days. Without realizing it, I'm leaving the house wearing sweaters.<br /><br />The beginning of any season brings with it confidence. I have plans, however indistinct, for the coming months. I know what to expect. I know the pattern. Fall is especially invigorating because of the cool and comfortable weather. I no longer have to dress with the aim of achieving maximum airflow to my skin.<br /><br />This is the first fall I haven't been in school since I was four. Sure, I started classes in August, but I'd dropped them all by early September, and when I left I was still wearing short shorts and sweating on the walk home. The beginning of the season has always been closely tied to the beginning of school for me, and it's nice to drop all of those distractions and look at the season a little more closely. From now on, my life is a circle. School creates a pattern of starting and stopping lines--fall is the beginning of one year, spring is the end, and summer is the space in between. Then a new line starts. Now, I'm just moving through the seasons, never really stopping or starting. It feels nice.Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-45384940551268079942011-05-17T15:57:00.000-07:002011-05-17T16:06:58.499-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dGuRhTUiBR8/TdL_EMA-FKI/AAAAAAAAABE/WrLaS_fY2gg/s1600/Top.bmp"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dGuRhTUiBR8/TdL_EMA-FKI/AAAAAAAAABE/WrLaS_fY2gg/s320/Top.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607824933439542434" border="0" /></a>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-27079731278189944702011-03-15T23:07:00.000-07:002011-03-16T01:08:12.803-07:00I'm going to start using this blog more, hopefully. I'm going to try to post at least every two or three days, whether or not I feel like what I have is good enough to share. It'll keep me working while I'm not in school, and keep me thinking creatively. I'll be posting music, art, poetry, and whatever I'm working on. So be aware that none of it is finished work, and try not to think too poorly of me, but constructive criticism is still totally welcome!<div><br /><div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SlsyOi_3IkU/TYBs5Sbt4zI/AAAAAAAAAA8/1eQaQ66lfuQ/s320/Cansunrise.png" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584583269395850034" /></div><div><br /></div></div>Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-15657671482424247072011-01-27T21:17:00.000-08:002011-01-27T21:18:42.724-08:00Tim<i>The Chinese are always very frightened of the drowned one, whose weeping ghost, wet hair hanging and skin bloated, waits silently by the water to pull down a substitue.<br /><br /> —Maxine Hong Kingston</i><br /><br />My uncle haunts me<br />stands on the toilet while I shower<br />eyes ringed with shadow<br />looks down over the curtain.<br /><br />Fog clears on the mirror<br />reveals his bloated face<br />skin tight and shiny<br />jaw slack, pale open<br />lips with turned up corners<br />his eyes follow me as I<br />dry my hair, but he<br />can’t blink.<br /><br />When I lay in bed at night<br />his knock is hollow on my door<br />mom said not to answer<br />not to let him in.<br /><br />They never speak his name aloud<br />a ghost; it lingers on the edge of lips<br />unsaid. I break the silence<br />whisper Tim<br />turn the doorknob,<br />let him in.Madelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-59487699614453742622011-01-27T21:08:00.000-08:002011-01-27T21:17:07.971-08:00The Fairy RingThis cassette tape celebrated my birth<br />has played as many years<br />its gentle whisper of piano<br />synth and strings the Fairy Ring <br />as I read myself to sleep<br />in the darkest hours it keeps me under<br />one side crawls to its end I rise<br />eject and turn the tape<br />then back again to listen<br />moonlight moves across the floor<br /><br />Now I see where fingers eroded<br />text on either side the composer faded<br />sings unsteady the sound<br />it aches my lungs and wavers<br />weakened short of breath<br />magnetic tape worn thin<br />wails hollow loss pitch warped<br />my voice is hoarse<br /><br />I listen but can do nothing<br />sleep or turn back time<br />eject and turn the tape<br />at night I can do nothing<br />but hold the ruined song<br />hum what I rememberMadelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04316225102152233834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-88110588132916436132010-01-26T15:38:00.000-08:002010-01-26T15:43:28.562-08:00Clancey<span style="font-weight: bold;">This is just a first draft--let me know how I can improve it.<br /></span><br />I’m worried, but I’m stuck inside all night<br />behind the counter serving those who can<br />take off as soon as they receive a call<br />from sobbing mothers asking for them there.<br />And yet the phone that rings is mine, it hounds<br />me, shaking with a nagging urgency<br />it rings, it’s mimicking the shaking of<br />her shoulders when I don’t respond. My phone<br />is silent now although I still can feel<br />the ringing on my skin, the cold vibration.<br /><br />But later when I’m driving to her house<br />through empty streets in Omaha, the phone<br />is farthest from my mind. I only drive.<br />The streetlight streaming in illuminates<br />the faces of my friends; of those who know<br />the tragedy and feel the need to see<br />it for themselves. They knew him too, and we<br />cannot console each other, only share<br />this silence. If he is dead when we<br />arrive we will return the way we came.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-45858452204922079542010-01-26T15:24:00.001-08:002010-01-26T15:26:26.252-08:00Bridge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/S1959ipRXvI/AAAAAAAAABw/L3KnZFLHm8k/s1600-h/DSC_0304.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/S1959ipRXvI/AAAAAAAAABw/L3KnZFLHm8k/s400/DSC_0304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431193773810999026" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/S19584lhjuI/AAAAAAAAABo/swsfPJwqomc/s1600-h/DSC_0298.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/S19584lhjuI/AAAAAAAAABo/swsfPJwqomc/s400/DSC_0298.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431193762520993506" border="0" /></a>Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-36996680277659433452009-10-14T23:15:00.000-07:002009-10-14T23:18:33.415-07:00My Father's LegsMy bicycle, granny smith green and mud-splattered<br />stands out on city streets<br />moving slowly in the right lane<br />clinging to the curb or the line<br />of parked cars. I’m out of breath, my legs burning<br /><br />but the wind blows against me, a sudden gust<br />rushing down the tunnel created<br />between high-rise offices and<br />crumbling apartment buildings.<br />I feel faster than I am, a racer;<br />it’s a sprint in the final stretch.<br />The people on the sidewalks are fans<br />shouting and waving flags.<br />Someone yells, “She has<br />her father’s legs.”<br /><br />A car honks and races by me.<br />I’ve stopped; this side of the yellow line<br />seems narrower than the other.<br />I’m no racer, but my father’s legs<br />will carry me home at the pace I choose.Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-43709789670720101972009-08-18T21:01:00.000-07:002009-08-18T21:07:14.982-07:00GeorgiaWhen I see the red-rock mountains and cliffs<br />of Box Canyon, I know that she came here<br />with her paint box<br />and a sketchpad she thought<br />might be big enough<br />to hold the image before me.<br />But my notebook isn’t big enough<br />and there aren’t enough words. If this scene<br />could be captured by words<br />or in paints it would have been<br />done a million times already<br />on cave walls, boxcars,<br />billboards, notebooks; we would<br />tattoo it on our backs, we’d sing it<br />out loud—the world would<br />be obsessed.<p></p><p>But if Georgia O’Keefe couldn’t do it,<br />then neither can I and neither<br />will anyone, until the cliffs fall and the sun<br />sets behind the rubble, leaving it<br />invisible in the darkness.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/Sot6LbVIJ8I/AAAAAAAAABA/zKdV_ZLMxiU/s1600-h/40.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nJp19xBA6DM/Sot6LbVIJ8I/AAAAAAAAABA/zKdV_ZLMxiU/s320/40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371521317302970306" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div>Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-76477110517182131222009-08-12T00:56:00.000-07:002009-08-18T20:45:56.174-07:00SleepwalkingMom is in the kitchen making Dutch babies—<br />instead of church on Sundays, we have breakfast.<br />I stumble in, fresh from sleep,<br /><br />and see the table empty, the stove off, no one home.<br />I yawn and smile: she’s back again, the table’s set.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Go and get your brother</span>, she tells me,<span style="font-style: italic;"> Can you believe</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">that boy is still asleep?</span> I pound down the stairs and knock<br /><br />on Eddie’s door. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rise and shine, sleepyhead!</span><br />There’s no answer so I throw open the door,<br />ready to spring on him, but the room is empty<br />of furniture. Just a few boxes in the corner<br /><br />and bare walls but when I rub the sleep<br />from my eyes, I hear a groan,<span style="font-style: italic;"> I’m up, I’m up</span>, and<br />We race up the stairs to the kitchen.<br /><br />Mom has let the cats in from the garage and is<br />feeding them sausages. We tell her that’s not<br />good for them, and she laughs. <span style="font-style: italic;">Put on some music,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">that Martin Simpson album.</span><br /><br />but the CDs are gone with the couch and the stereo.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Where are they?</span> with a hint of panic in my voice,<br />and her call sounds like it comes from far away,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the bottom shelf</span>, but how could I have missed that?<br /><br />Then the sweet sounds of Irish guitar fill the house<br />and for a moment it’s just me and<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">When I Was on Horseback.</span> My family<br />and I sit down to eat but before the fork<br /><br />reaches my mouth it disappears, the plates are<br />gone, and Martin Simpson fades away. I rub my<br />eyes, I blink, but nothing works. The dream is over<br />and I find myself alone in our empty house<br /><br />remembering the wedding and my mother’s<br />new home an hour and half from here by car.<br />I want just one more breakfast<br />of fresh Dutch babies.<br /><br />I return to my bedroom, still fully furnished,<br />and I crawl under my covers, turn on my<br />own Martin Simpson, and go back to sleep,<br />hoping I can drown in my dreams and never wake.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cornichon.org/archives/Dutch%20Baby%20w%20condiments.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 403px; height: 301px;" src="http://www.cornichon.org/archives/Dutch%20Baby%20w%20condiments.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Photo:<br />http://www.cornichon.org/Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-54167354990509655702009-08-11T02:26:00.000-07:002009-08-18T20:45:43.420-07:00BianchiI swear I just<br />saw my dad’s old racing bike<br />locked up outside the library.<br />It was the same minty sea green<br />as when it used to hang<br />in a tiny room in his basement<br />surrounded by wheels and wrenches<br />and nuts and bolts and a leg press.<br />When I was ten he took out<br />the bike and the leg press<br />and all of the junk<br />and painted the room white<br />and that’s where I slept<br />every other weekend<br />and every summer until<br />I was twelve and he moved<br />to Ohio. I don’t have a bedroom there<br />and he doesn’t have a bike room—<br />I didn’t think he rode anymore<br />but I swear to God I just<br />saw that old Bianchi locked<br />up right next to mine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.bikebrothers.co.uk/oldbianchi_files/bianchi1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 255px;" src="http://www.bikebrothers.co.uk/oldbianchi_files/bianchi1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Photo:<br />www.bikebrothers.co.ukZakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-19110696982524379042009-08-07T22:58:00.000-07:002009-08-18T20:45:22.817-07:00Yellow Mama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-e-1.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs148.snc1/5495_129311766553_689611553_3238500_3173737_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 248px;" src="http://photos-e-1.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs148.snc1/5495_129311766553_689611553_3238500_3173737_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Yellow mama<br />sing me a song tonight oh mama<br />let me rest between your arms<br />feel so cold so old<br />and tired, just take me<br />in and hum the old<br />hymns before<br /><br />this time your cold whisper voice will fill me<br />up as your hot fingers take me<br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;">down.</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br />Photo:</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;">www.toxicculture.wordpress.com</span><br /></div>Zakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562638888818230132.post-52102091223381654482009-08-07T22:06:00.000-07:002009-08-18T20:52:14.643-07:00My Canary Sings in 7/8Once upon a time there was a canary who lived in a cage in its owner's basement and had for as long as it could remember. Every day when the owner came down to feed the canary, it would sing for him. It sang the most beautiful songs--about food, and teeth (by which it was fascinated), and its perch, and its water dish, and most of all, its wonderful owner.<br /><br /><br />So the owner came down every day just to feed it, but when the canary began to sing, the owner always felt compelled to stay and watch the bird, and talk to it.<br /><br /><br />The owner would talk about his life, and his family. The canary learned over time that the owner's wife had died not long before the canary came to live with him. The owner's children left when their mother died to live with their grandparents on their mother's side. So the owner was all alone, until someone thought to buy him a beautiful yellow bird.<br /><br /><br />The canary loved the id<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blogs.thatpetplace.com/thatbirdblog/"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 227px;" src="http://www.thatpetplace.com/images/Promotions_Image_Files/canary.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>ea that he had made his owner happier, and the thought made it sing even more beautifully.<br /><br /><br />But the owner was an old man, and time moves more quickly for lonely people than for people with lots of happiness in their lives. He became sicker and sicker, suffering from an internal illness. The canary was sad to see the owner in pain. It sang as hard as it could but still the owner grew weak, until one day he didn’t come down to feed his canary. The canary chirped and chirped, but no one came down.<br /><br /><br />After a day or so (probably forever) someone came down, but it wasn't the owner. The someone took the canary up the stairs—into unexplored territory. The excitement was short-lived.<br /><br /><br />The canary saw its owner, stretched out on a couch, barely breathing. The canary started singing a very worried song, partly for his owner and partly because he (still) hadn't been fed—even sad canaries have to eat.<br /><br /><br />The owner perked up at the song, and the canary was happy.<br /><br /><br />But the canary only lived upstairs for a week (the someone finally fed it) before the owner disappeared again. This time the canary saw him go.<br /><br /><br />The someone carried him out of the room like he was a baby (even canaries know how you carry babies) and only barely remembered to feed the canary before leaving the house. The canary knew something was up because he got about three times his normal portions (even someones know how much you feed canaries).<br /><br /><br />So the canary was alone for a long, long time (probably forever).<br /><br /><br />But the canary noticed something it had never seen before: windows. The canary saw trees for the first time, and grass, and clouds and skyandbugsandflowersand birds. Seeing them filled the canary with such a huge feeling (kind of like gas) that it had to sing to get it out. And the song it sang was so beautiful that even the canary was impressed with itself.<br /><br /><br />So he sang, and sang, and sang to fill the time. After a long time (probably forever) the someone came again. The canary was afraid that his owner was like a baby again, but the someone spoke to the canary and said, "He's been asking for you, little bird. Let's go."<br /><br /><br />When the someone took the canary outside, he thought he would explode from excitement. Luckily he wasn’t outside long and didn’t have time to explode. The someone put him in the car and told him not to make any noise. The canary tried his hardest not to freak out. It was really hard. The canary came out of the car very dizzy and very freaked out.<br /><br /><br />He didn't come to his senses until he saw his owner, which was probably for the best because they were having Cornish hens in the hospital cafeteria.<br /><br /><br />When the canary finally saw his owner, though, he sang. He sang the songs he knew from sitting by the window. He sang trees and grass and birds and skies.<br /><br /><br />His owner smiled, and the canary was happy.<br /><br /><br />There was another someone in the room standing by the window, and this someone stood up and came over to the canary.<br /><br /><br />“I didn’t know you liked birds, Dad.”<br /><br /><br />“Oh, I don’t love them that much,” said the owner, “not in general. But this guy is my best friend. Seeing him makes me want to sing along.”<br /><br /><br />And he started to hum.<br /><br /><br />ENDZakiuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16006633408533495189noreply@blogger.com0