Another Golden Hour

I 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.

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.

 

here's the whole album on picasa:

The Golden Hour - October 23, 2011

KC Ren Fest

We went to the Kansas City Renaissance Festival on Saturday. I might or might not add some more shots later.

Here's the whole album on picasa:

KC Ren Fest 2011

The Golden Hour

I'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.

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.

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.

The Golden Hour - October 13, 2011

Everything I Own

I'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.

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.

I'll post some of my favorite shots on the blog a little later on, but until then, here's the Picasa album.

Everything I Own

The old house

Fall

Every 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.

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.

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.

I'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!

Tim

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.

—Maxine Hong Kingston

My uncle haunts me
stands on the toilet while I shower
eyes ringed with shadow
looks down over the curtain.

Fog clears on the mirror
reveals his bloated face
skin tight and shiny
jaw slack, pale open
lips with turned up corners
his eyes follow me as I
dry my hair, but he
can’t blink.

When I lay in bed at night
his knock is hollow on my door
mom said not to answer
not to let him in.

They never speak his name aloud
a ghost; it lingers on the edge of lips
unsaid. I break the silence
whisper Tim
turn the doorknob,
let him in.

The Fairy Ring

This cassette tape celebrated my birth
has played as many years
its gentle whisper of piano
synth and strings the Fairy Ring
as I read myself to sleep
in the darkest hours it keeps me under
one side crawls to its end I rise
eject and turn the tape
then back again to listen
moonlight moves across the floor

Now I see where fingers eroded
text on either side the composer faded
sings unsteady the sound
it aches my lungs and wavers
weakened short of breath
magnetic tape worn thin
wails hollow loss pitch warped
my voice is hoarse

I listen but can do nothing
sleep or turn back time
eject and turn the tape
at night I can do nothing
but hold the ruined song
hum what I remember

Clancey

This is just a first draft--let me know how I can improve it.

I’m worried, but I’m stuck inside all night
behind the counter serving those who can
take off as soon as they receive a call
from sobbing mothers asking for them there.
And yet the phone that rings is mine, it hounds
me, shaking with a nagging urgency
it rings, it’s mimicking the shaking of
her shoulders when I don’t respond. My phone
is silent now although I still can feel
the ringing on my skin, the cold vibration.

But later when I’m driving to her house
through empty streets in Omaha, the phone
is farthest from my mind. I only drive.
The streetlight streaming in illuminates
the faces of my friends; of those who know
the tragedy and feel the need to see
it for themselves. They knew him too, and we
cannot console each other, only share
this silence.      If he is dead when we
arrive we will return the way we came.

Bridge

My Father's Legs

My bicycle, granny smith green and mud-splattered
stands out on city streets
moving slowly in the right lane
clinging to the curb or the line
of parked cars. I’m out of breath, my legs burning

but the wind blows against me, a sudden gust
rushing down the tunnel created
between high-rise offices and
crumbling apartment buildings.
I feel faster than I am, a racer;
it’s a sprint in the final stretch.
The people on the sidewalks are fans
shouting and waving flags.
Someone yells, “She has
her father’s legs.”

A car honks and races by me.
I’ve stopped; this side of the yellow line
seems narrower than the other.
I’m no racer, but my father’s legs
will carry me home at the pace I choose.

Georgia

When I see the red-rock mountains and cliffs
of Box Canyon, I know that she came here
with her paint box
and a sketchpad she thought
might be big enough
to hold the image before me.
But my notebook isn’t big enough
and there aren’t enough words. If this scene
could be captured by words
or in paints it would have been
done a million times already
on cave walls, boxcars,
billboards, notebooks; we would
tattoo it on our backs, we’d sing it
out loud—the world would
be obsessed.

But if Georgia O’Keefe couldn’t do it,
then neither can I and neither
will anyone, until the cliffs fall and the sun
sets behind the rubble, leaving it
invisible in the darkness.

Sleepwalking

Mom is in the kitchen making Dutch babies—
instead of church on Sundays, we have breakfast.
I stumble in, fresh from sleep,

and see the table empty, the stove off, no one home.
I yawn and smile: she’s back again, the table’s set.
Go and get your brother, she tells me, Can you believe
that boy is still asleep? I pound down the stairs and knock

on Eddie’s door. Rise and shine, sleepyhead!
There’s no answer so I throw open the door,
ready to spring on him, but the room is empty
of furniture. Just a few boxes in the corner

and bare walls but when I rub the sleep
from my eyes, I hear a groan, I’m up, I’m up, and
We race up the stairs to the kitchen.

Mom has let the cats in from the garage and is
feeding them sausages. We tell her that’s not
good for them, and she laughs. Put on some music,
that Martin Simpson album.

but the CDs are gone with the couch and the stereo.
Where are they? with a hint of panic in my voice,
and her call sounds like it comes from far away,
the bottom shelf, but how could I have missed that?

Then the sweet sounds of Irish guitar fill the house
and for a moment it’s just me and
When I Was on Horseback. My family
and I sit down to eat but before the fork

reaches my mouth it disappears, the plates are
gone, and Martin Simpson fades away. I rub my
eyes, I blink, but nothing works. The dream is over
and I find myself alone in our empty house

remembering the wedding and my mother’s
new home an hour and half from here by car.
I want just one more breakfast
of fresh Dutch babies.

I return to my bedroom, still fully furnished,
and I crawl under my covers, turn on my
own Martin Simpson, and go back to sleep,
hoping I can drown in my dreams and never wake.



Photo:
http://www.cornichon.org/

Bianchi

I swear I just
saw my dad’s old racing bike
locked up outside the library.
It was the same minty sea green
as when it used to hang
in a tiny room in his basement
surrounded by wheels and wrenches
and nuts and bolts and a leg press.
When I was ten he took out
the bike and the leg press
and all of the junk
and painted the room white
and that’s where I slept
every other weekend
and every summer until
I was twelve and he moved
to Ohio. I don’t have a bedroom there
and he doesn’t have a bike room—
I didn’t think he rode anymore
but I swear to God I just
saw that old Bianchi locked
up right next to mine.


Photo:
www.bikebrothers.co.uk

Yellow Mama

Yellow mama
sing me a song tonight oh mama
let me rest between your arms
feel so cold so old
and tired, just take me
in and hum the old
hymns before

this time your cold whisper voice will fill me
up as your hot fingers take me

down.

Photo:

www.toxicculture.wordpress.com

My Canary Sings in 7/8

Once 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.


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.


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.


The canary loved the idea that he had made his owner happier, and the thought made it sing even more beautifully.


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.


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.


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.


The owner perked up at the song, and the canary was happy.


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.


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).


So the canary was alone for a long, long time (probably forever).


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.


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."


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.


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.


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.


His owner smiled, and the canary was happy.


There was another someone in the room standing by the window, and this someone stood up and came over to the canary.


“I didn’t know you liked birds, Dad.”


“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.”


And he started to hum.


END