clarity, times three.


Originally uploaded by hepcatbeatnik

Sometimes things don’t happen until you let them ferment… for a year. As I mentioned the other day, a friend of mine from college commissioned me to make an image of a pomegranate. After some toil last week, I finally put things together today…

This summer my hard drive on my laptop had a meltdown and needed to be replaced… I lost very little and was lucky… but the SD cards have been mounting up in my photo case and I’ve found it easy (too easy) to neglect my photo responsibilities. Today I uploaded hundreds of photos… ones I haven’t seen in months.

With a mega mug of Earl Grey, and Pandora set to an a capella selection, I slogged through every image. I’ll be posting many on Flickr as the week goes on. I hope that revisiting some personal work from the end of 2010 will help me shed some light on how photography fits into my life…as overly dramatic as that sounds!!

Confessions of a book hoarder.

“He [the writer] is careful of what he reads, for it is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, because that is what he will know.”- Annie Dillard, “The Writing Life”

As cabin fever started to set in, my mom and I decided that today would be the day for brief errands. In addition to getting the fixings for a yummy quiche for later this evening, we stopped by our favorite used bookstore (run by our local public library). My grandma, who is in nursing care, was in need of “new” large-print reading material.

Our neighborhood road is still not plowed in places, with wet gnarled branches littering the snow banks on the sides of the street. The bookstore parking lot was empty except for our Jeep, but the shop light miraculously flickered to life as we ambled out into the cold.

I should tell you… I’m a book junkie. I’d say I’ve read about a third of the books in my collection, and I’m constantly picking up new things wherever I go. The bookshelves in my family’s home are bowed in the middle, packed horizontally and vertically, and braced with other stacks packed in front of the original row. For those of you out there who love the smell of yellowing pages and soft-thumbed corners, you know that there is no greater paradise than a “good” used bookstore.

As my mom went in search of large-print Reader’s Digest collections, I headed for literary criticism (a shelf I usually never touch) and poetry. Before long, I ended up with a short stack of thin delights: T.S. Eliot’s “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats,” Dylan Thomas’s “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog,” Annie Dillard’s “The Writing Life,” and Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “A Far Rockaway of the Heart.”

Old books= new friends.

Old books have the potential to yield stories not printed on the page. I once found a perfectly preserved maple leaf in a 19th century grade school reader. I discovered extensive handwritten notes on loose-leaf paper wedged in the back of my Ezra Pound collection. For those of you who frequently seek out used books, how often are you tempted to investigate the previous owner? I once read a magazine article that featured a woman who made an argument against used books. In so many words, she said, “I don’t know where they’ve been.” Seriously?

Perhaps I just have an overactive imagination, fueled by fiction about books (“People of the Book” and “The Shadow of the Wind” ). I like to speculate on the shelf history of my reading material. A crazy cat lady owned my T.S. Eliot and a young hipster college student shoved Dylan Thomas in his back pocket on a long bus ride to New York…. Perhaps this is an unhealthy habit, but it hasn’t killed me yet.

God bless used bookstores. They make it easy for me to continue my literary binges.

Enjoy the weekend and Happy reading!

a true snow day.

a very happy snowman

After shoveling the driveway this morning, I built this guy in my backyard. Pretty dapper, don't you think?

building the torso:
rolling snowballs round and round
breaking sticks for limbs.

clay-pot hat, slight tilt…
sly mouth and a crooked nose
quizzical eyebrows.

Yesterday afternoon, when I switched on the TV to check out the storm track, our local weatherman relayed the exciting news… 3-4 inches of snow an hour!! At the time, we had a little sleet on the ground and some snow from a few hours before. I feared that we wouldn’t get anything, as is usually the case here in the Mid-Atlantic (I should note that I was not here last year for “Snowmageddon”– I was in Boston– the one place that ironically had an uncharacteristic winter… READ: LACK OF CRAZY SNOW… much to my dismay). While I waited for the snow, I decided it would be best to start on an art project I had been putting off for about two weeks.

A friend of mine from college commissioned me to photograph a pomegranate. I know what you’re thinking… easy (here was one of my early attempts.) Poms look like the product of a particularly nasty argument between an uppity citrus and a passion fruit. I like the juice well enough, but it’s a messy fruit. Its dismemberment is a sort of carnage… and I’ve had a tough time conceptualizing how to make this whole project work.

Let me just say that it reminded me of the scene from the film “Sleepy Hollow”– when Ichabod Crane chops up the roots of the tree and gets splattered with blood. I had to wipe off the exterior of my mini softbox a few times (have yet to process these images, but when I do I’ll post the finals). I emerged from the downstairs with a tray of sanguine pomegranate pieces and rosy fingers to find sideways snow crusting windows and weighing down trees.

I’ll leave you with a list of things I’ve done on this true snow day:
-about 10 “hard” Sudoku puzzles
-accepted a job offer
-shoveled the driveway
-built a snowman
-tried to brush my kitten’s teeth… with malt-flavored toothpaste

well, hello.

For quite a while now, I’ve struggled with the idea of a blog. Seriously. I’ve grappled with the torrent of content running through my brain (those of you who know me personally know that sometimes my brain moves faster than my mouth)… continually revisiting themes, organizational ideas and reworking a structured “plan of attack” sketched out in pink pen on scratch paper (per the suggestion of WordPress, it features me as an emaciated stick figure with a happy face, surrounded by all the things I’m “passionate about” in bubbles).

And then… there was the great hurdle of finding a name. I told myself I couldn’t really give birth to this project unless it had a savvy name. “Spiralis” was on my short list—that’s medieval Latin for spiral. I’m kinda a spiral nut in all honesty (I see them everywhere, draw them obsessively, etc.). Once I started to investigate further, I realized that “Spiralis” reminded me of “Trichinella spiralis.” Yeah, talk about a buzz kill.

I turned to my favorite poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti— “Dog.” It’s one of the few poems that I have almost memorized (I’d be a terrible bard, but it’s a skill I secretly hone as I read). The Dog sits on the corner of a San Francisco street and observes his world:

“… looking like a living questionmark into the great gramaphone of puzzling existence…” (L. Ferlinghetti)

While sipping my tea and scrawling alternative names on paper, I realized that the Dog and I have a lot in common.

I have too many interests to blog authoritatively on just one. So, at least for now… this blog will be subject to whatever happens to be cycling through my brain at the moment.