I was going to post another day in the other blog, but then I thought about this one. And the fact that it's almost (arbitrarily) next year. Something in me wants to add another post to this blog, even if it is completely superfluous, which it won't be.
Just an update on life progress and what not, to all my reader out there.
Well, it's the 30th of December, and I haven't finished writing up a daily blog for something that lasted 8 days in the month of September. But you know what? That doesn't really matter to me. The month of November I spent writing an average of nearly 1700 words a day on an entirely different project, which, to all reviews so far, is a surprising success. Not formally, of course, but people seem to like it.
Once November was over, I think I needed a little break from writing, and went back to putting a little OT in at work, being a little more social again, etc.
Right now I'm trying to find that balance. It seems to be working. There are a couple of other daunting projects looming, though. Maybe more on that later. We'll see how it goes.
Intrigued? Ha! You should be.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
November Got By Me
Just like the title says, November got by me.
Ordinarily, I'd complain profusely about the myriad reasons, both known and unknown, as to why a whole month went by without so much as a one word post.
Fear not, I'll not complain. I have a reason. One to which I can attribute all of my blogging failures during the month of November. That reason is something that I discovered sometime in October, and is called National Novel Writing Month. The idea behind the title is to write a novel of at least 50,000 words during the 30 days of November. Now, I've been in the process of something that I now realize to be a novel--or, at the very least, novel-esque--for the last year and a half or so (and reaching approximately 110,000 words).
When I heard about this challenge, I realized that I just about couldn't pass it up. It seemed like it would be quite an achievement to actually accomplish, but it served a couple of other purposes for me, as well. First and foremost, it served as a distraction from my sole fictional focus over the past 18 months. Something new to think about. Maybe it's a mistake to take that kind of a break from a project that epic, but I thought, and continue to think, that it was the right decision.
The second reason that I thought the project would be so worthwhile, was the fact that my writing habits aren't particularly regular. For a while I had been averaging 2 or 3 times a week, but never with much consistency over time (obviously 110,00 words over 18 months is not equal to 50,000 in 1). I thought that the challenge could potentially serve as a kind of training--get in the habit of writing at least something every day. To reach that many words in 30 days, you have to average 1,667 words per day. I was silly enough to keep track of my word count in a spreadsheet, so I know how many words I wrote each day. I'll tell you plainly that I missed only one day. It was the day that I had to go straight from work to the family Thanksgiving (celebrated, not actual), and from there to a party, then back home to be in bed and ready for the next day, bright and early in the darkness of 4:30 a.m.
Other than that singular day, I wrote anywhere from my low of 300 or so, to my high of over 5,000. The high was the last day I did any writing, which was the 29th. I'd met my quota for the day, but I knew where the story needed to go from there, and something in me just wanted to get it finished. So I did.
And that's why I don't have a problem with having missed writing anything on either of the blogs I have. Is it true that I probably could have found the time to post? Yes, it probably is. That doesn't matter though. Not right now. Not to me.
I'm less than a week into December, and here I am, writing a new post. So there. Take that. I think that after I post this (which will be soon), that I will attempt to continue writing up the trip that I took in September. It's about time I finished up with that. A ridiculous note: I actually had hoped to finish writing that up within a day or two of being home. Ha ha, not so much.
But that's how it is, and how it was is how it's going to be.
Ordinarily, I'd complain profusely about the myriad reasons, both known and unknown, as to why a whole month went by without so much as a one word post.
Fear not, I'll not complain. I have a reason. One to which I can attribute all of my blogging failures during the month of November. That reason is something that I discovered sometime in October, and is called National Novel Writing Month. The idea behind the title is to write a novel of at least 50,000 words during the 30 days of November. Now, I've been in the process of something that I now realize to be a novel--or, at the very least, novel-esque--for the last year and a half or so (and reaching approximately 110,000 words).
When I heard about this challenge, I realized that I just about couldn't pass it up. It seemed like it would be quite an achievement to actually accomplish, but it served a couple of other purposes for me, as well. First and foremost, it served as a distraction from my sole fictional focus over the past 18 months. Something new to think about. Maybe it's a mistake to take that kind of a break from a project that epic, but I thought, and continue to think, that it was the right decision.
The second reason that I thought the project would be so worthwhile, was the fact that my writing habits aren't particularly regular. For a while I had been averaging 2 or 3 times a week, but never with much consistency over time (obviously 110,00 words over 18 months is not equal to 50,000 in 1). I thought that the challenge could potentially serve as a kind of training--get in the habit of writing at least something every day. To reach that many words in 30 days, you have to average 1,667 words per day. I was silly enough to keep track of my word count in a spreadsheet, so I know how many words I wrote each day. I'll tell you plainly that I missed only one day. It was the day that I had to go straight from work to the family Thanksgiving (celebrated, not actual), and from there to a party, then back home to be in bed and ready for the next day, bright and early in the darkness of 4:30 a.m.
Other than that singular day, I wrote anywhere from my low of 300 or so, to my high of over 5,000. The high was the last day I did any writing, which was the 29th. I'd met my quota for the day, but I knew where the story needed to go from there, and something in me just wanted to get it finished. So I did.
And that's why I don't have a problem with having missed writing anything on either of the blogs I have. Is it true that I probably could have found the time to post? Yes, it probably is. That doesn't matter though. Not right now. Not to me.
I'm less than a week into December, and here I am, writing a new post. So there. Take that. I think that after I post this (which will be soon), that I will attempt to continue writing up the trip that I took in September. It's about time I finished up with that. A ridiculous note: I actually had hoped to finish writing that up within a day or two of being home. Ha ha, not so much.
But that's how it is, and how it was is how it's going to be.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Meta-Blog
Or, 'The 20,000 Feet"
Today, this is where I'm going to briefly summarize the plan for the the other blog and hope that I can commit to completing it before I leave on Monday. Which is to say, before I go to sleep on Sunday night.
Anyway, I've had this idea of venturing forth out into the world. Sort of like I did several years ago, but on a smaller, more regular scale.
Two weeks ago I went on a 2 day trip to the south of Washington. Last week I went on a hike in the Cascades. This past weekend (equivalent) I went down to the south of Washington, once more.
The plan (that I am here enshrining) is to write up those adventures and post them before I leave--rather than wait until I get back and post basically the last month's worth of mini and mega adventures all at once.
I know I don't have much of an audience (read: a total of zero followers as of this writing), but if anyone happens upon this (read: that), I'd like for them to have reason to come back.
We'll see. For now, I think this will suffice as demonstrable commitment.
Plus, now I've made a second entry in the month of September. Does that make up for missing August? No, but it's progress.
Today, this is where I'm going to briefly summarize the plan for the the other blog and hope that I can commit to completing it before I leave on Monday. Which is to say, before I go to sleep on Sunday night.
Anyway, I've had this idea of venturing forth out into the world. Sort of like I did several years ago, but on a smaller, more regular scale.
Two weeks ago I went on a 2 day trip to the south of Washington. Last week I went on a hike in the Cascades. This past weekend (equivalent) I went down to the south of Washington, once more.
The plan (that I am here enshrining) is to write up those adventures and post them before I leave--rather than wait until I get back and post basically the last month's worth of mini and mega adventures all at once.
I know I don't have much of an audience (read: a total of zero followers as of this writing), but if anyone happens upon this (read: that), I'd like for them to have reason to come back.
We'll see. For now, I think this will suffice as demonstrable commitment.
Plus, now I've made a second entry in the month of September. Does that make up for missing August? No, but it's progress.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
An Unfortunate Event.
Oh, no! I missed August!
I'd say that this grievance cannot stand, but unfortunately, I cannot undo the past.
September will not suffer the same injustice, clearly.
I'd say that this grievance cannot stand, but unfortunately, I cannot undo the past.
September will not suffer the same injustice, clearly.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Tale of Two Lenses
Yesterday, I finally got motivated to address the problem I've been having with one of my lenses. Whenever I attach it to my camera and turn the camera on or off, it makes a terrible grinding sound before the autofocus mechanism finally catches. The terrible noise lasts for about 3 awful seconds every time the power switch is moved.
It was never a great lens, but it served its purpose. The lens is a 70 mm - 300 mm, and I paid $200.00 for it. I knew it was never meant to be of the highest quality, and that was why I dealt with its slow, often inaccurate autofocus.
Even though it still was able to ultimately focus (and once the grinding sound had finished I could set it to manual focus, if I so chose), the time had come to see about repairs. I knew that I'd be paying for it this time.
"This time?" you ask? Yes. This has happened before. The problem had occurred once before when the lens was still under warranty. That was no big deal, though. It just meant I was without my zoom lens for about a month last year.
Another thing that was brought to my attention this time, was the root cause of the problem. It was an alpha mount range doubler that I bought online for $60. I absolutely knew that it was going to be crap as far as build quality and materials (I think the brand name is Phoenix), but I never thought it could basically 'infect' other lenses with any kind of trouble. This time I saw the pattern.
The problem began immediately after I used the range doubler. It came into my mind that this was the same order of events that had brought the problem to grinding life the first time with that lens, and the same for my 18 mm - 70 mm kit lens. Yes, it happened to that one, too. The smaller lens was out of its warranty proper, but was still covered by the City Advantage protection plan (care to guess what place no longer exists and where I bought my camera from?). In any event, my extended plan was honored, and the problem with that lens was cured once I sent my lens and camera body (eek!) to wherever it was I sent it for repairs.
The important thing here is that I realized the culprit, and that I wanted my lens fixed. With that in mind, I stocked my bag with all the problem parts, and headed to a local camera store.
I got the attention of a person behind the counter and asked about lens repair. She said that they didn't do it in house, but they could send the lens out for me. This piqued my interest, so I explained the problem and began a demonstration.
Now, an aside. To call myself an amateur photographer is probably an overstatement. I know enough to compose and produce decent images, but there is a whole lot on the matter that I just don't know. Technical knowledge, best practices, special effects--you name it, I probably don't know it. I would definitely make the statement that I know more about photography than the average person, but not more than the average photographer. All of this being said, I feel that I have managed to compose some pretty stellar images (some of them were even of actual stars! ...true statement, but also a joke). So, hopefully some of the weight that this next part carries will come across a little more forcefully now.
The woman tried to see what kind of lens it was that I was using. I suggested Tamron, because that was the brand I had bought for my first film camera. Nope, this was a Sigma.
She looked at me, eyes dripping (metaphorically) with horror and disgust. "Oh, we don't do anything with this brand," she said. The look of utter disdain for my chosen equipment was memorable in one of the worse possible ways. It looked as though I were being held in contempt for the simple act of using inferior contempt.
Don't get me wrong, I hold no ill will toward the woman who helped me. She was awesome. It was just a funny moment to be there for, almost like a master craftsmen shooing away a potential apprentice for only being able to afford an inferior hammer or saw.
As we continued to discuss the matter, she said that they did have the name of someone local who did lens repair. I thought about it for a moment, and asked about current prices on more name-brand fare.
She stood across the counter from me, checking the computer for inventory as I looked around the store. There was a Sony for about 800. There was a lower-end Sony for 250. Then she made a sound like, "huh." The sound implied she was seeing something that she didn't quite believe. "I wonder why that's so... inexpensive." She had chosen the word carefully.
"We have a used Minolta in the computer for $60. Let me make sure we actually have it, though."
Shocked at the prospect, I stood and waited patiently for her return.
She had already given me the local repairman's card, and now she brought the lens out. I knew that I had only paid two hundred for my lens, and I figured that it would probably be from fifty to one hundred for the lens repair, so it became an instant no-brainer to purchase this used, name-brand piece of equipment.
The minimum focal distance is about 5 feet, which isn't quite as good as the Sigma's 3 or so, but overall I'm pretty pleased with my... I guess I can call it an impulse buy, as I wasn't planning on buying it, but I feel that fortune smiled upon me with that little find.
It was never a great lens, but it served its purpose. The lens is a 70 mm - 300 mm, and I paid $200.00 for it. I knew it was never meant to be of the highest quality, and that was why I dealt with its slow, often inaccurate autofocus.
Even though it still was able to ultimately focus (and once the grinding sound had finished I could set it to manual focus, if I so chose), the time had come to see about repairs. I knew that I'd be paying for it this time.
"This time?" you ask? Yes. This has happened before. The problem had occurred once before when the lens was still under warranty. That was no big deal, though. It just meant I was without my zoom lens for about a month last year.
Another thing that was brought to my attention this time, was the root cause of the problem. It was an alpha mount range doubler that I bought online for $60. I absolutely knew that it was going to be crap as far as build quality and materials (I think the brand name is Phoenix), but I never thought it could basically 'infect' other lenses with any kind of trouble. This time I saw the pattern.
The problem began immediately after I used the range doubler. It came into my mind that this was the same order of events that had brought the problem to grinding life the first time with that lens, and the same for my 18 mm - 70 mm kit lens. Yes, it happened to that one, too. The smaller lens was out of its warranty proper, but was still covered by the City Advantage protection plan (care to guess what place no longer exists and where I bought my camera from?). In any event, my extended plan was honored, and the problem with that lens was cured once I sent my lens and camera body (eek!) to wherever it was I sent it for repairs.
The important thing here is that I realized the culprit, and that I wanted my lens fixed. With that in mind, I stocked my bag with all the problem parts, and headed to a local camera store.
I got the attention of a person behind the counter and asked about lens repair. She said that they didn't do it in house, but they could send the lens out for me. This piqued my interest, so I explained the problem and began a demonstration.
Now, an aside. To call myself an amateur photographer is probably an overstatement. I know enough to compose and produce decent images, but there is a whole lot on the matter that I just don't know. Technical knowledge, best practices, special effects--you name it, I probably don't know it. I would definitely make the statement that I know more about photography than the average person, but not more than the average photographer. All of this being said, I feel that I have managed to compose some pretty stellar images (some of them were even of actual stars! ...true statement, but also a joke). So, hopefully some of the weight that this next part carries will come across a little more forcefully now.
The woman tried to see what kind of lens it was that I was using. I suggested Tamron, because that was the brand I had bought for my first film camera. Nope, this was a Sigma.
She looked at me, eyes dripping (metaphorically) with horror and disgust. "Oh, we don't do anything with this brand," she said. The look of utter disdain for my chosen equipment was memorable in one of the worse possible ways. It looked as though I were being held in contempt for the simple act of using inferior contempt.
Don't get me wrong, I hold no ill will toward the woman who helped me. She was awesome. It was just a funny moment to be there for, almost like a master craftsmen shooing away a potential apprentice for only being able to afford an inferior hammer or saw.
As we continued to discuss the matter, she said that they did have the name of someone local who did lens repair. I thought about it for a moment, and asked about current prices on more name-brand fare.
She stood across the counter from me, checking the computer for inventory as I looked around the store. There was a Sony for about 800. There was a lower-end Sony for 250. Then she made a sound like, "huh." The sound implied she was seeing something that she didn't quite believe. "I wonder why that's so... inexpensive." She had chosen the word carefully.
"We have a used Minolta in the computer for $60. Let me make sure we actually have it, though."
Shocked at the prospect, I stood and waited patiently for her return.
She had already given me the local repairman's card, and now she brought the lens out. I knew that I had only paid two hundred for my lens, and I figured that it would probably be from fifty to one hundred for the lens repair, so it became an instant no-brainer to purchase this used, name-brand piece of equipment.
The minimum focal distance is about 5 feet, which isn't quite as good as the Sigma's 3 or so, but overall I'm pretty pleased with my... I guess I can call it an impulse buy, as I wasn't planning on buying it, but I feel that fortune smiled upon me with that little find.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
More than Mundane
Yesterday was a bit of a crazy day.
The usual stuff happened. You know, getting up at ridiculously early o'clock (4:50 am), being at work by 6, leaving at 2:30 pm. Regular stuff. Then a plan fell through. That's when the weirdness began.
I received a call from a family member regarding certain dramas, and felt incapable of meeting the request. I was kind of at a loss. The request just felt too big for me, so out of character, I didn't think I could do it. Not to mention all the possible outcomes I began imagining if I did try it.
Then I started worrying that by not taking up this challenge I was slippery-sloping back to my pre-realization days of letting perceptions-without-fact get in the way of my life and how I conduct myself. This was different, though. I had (somewhat) logical reasons to believe these imagined outcomes could be realized in devastating ways.
So I waited.
I didn't really do anything productive.
Then it hit me. I don't want to say it was fate, or anything like that, but it came to my attention that perhaps the afternoon/evening plan having fallen through was affording me an opportunity to help out when I wouldn't have otherwise been able to.
At that point, I decided to go for a drive. Thinking to myself that I wasn't necessarily going to take up the request, but if I should happen to be in the area at the time, then maybe things would just work out.
Well, I did find myself in the area at the specified time, but somehow I still couldn't make good on the request. And what's more, another family member was making good on this request. This came as a bit of a surprise to me, as the person who had brought this to my attention had basically said that I was the only person who could do this thing; that everyone else was unavailable.
When I found myself unable to make good on this request and knowing that someone else now knew that too, I felt very shameful. Like a coward. It didn't really make sense to me.
After the thing happened and my position at the periphery was left, I went to a nearby store and tried to figure out what had happened. What to do. I went over the evening's events and seriously wondered if this situation had bearing on what I felt I had just gotten past. Especially the difference between what actually happened and what I had imagined could have happened.
Since I was in the area where the plans that had fallen through could have happened, I checked to see if they could be repaired, but such was not to be.
I really didn't want to go over my inner-monologue with my family members, as they were pretty much the source of the insecurity at that moment, so I didn't really know what to do.
As has often been the case with me in the past, and I imagine with many people in times of uncertainty, I went to the beach.
That's when things began getting more interesting. I had taken my camera with me thinking that I might have an opportunity to take some photographs for the request, and found it fortuitous to have my camera on hand for the nice sunset and various modes of travel I found myself bounded by.
A couple of years ago I happened to be at a beach when a train was passing by. I also happened to have my camera and tripod with me. This made for an interesting image as the train is motion blurred while passing under the bridge I was standing on. For a while now I've had a desire to go out and actually attempt a purposeful train in motion picture. For that image to be the goal of my outing.
Well, last night all those conditions were met. Plus there was an additional bonus, and that was that it was at night. Night photography makes for some pretty interesting twists on what people are used to seeing images of.
So, as I was out at the beach, I wandered this way and that, taking pictures of the ferries, the sunset, the lighthouse, a group of high school students who had a fire going, basically anything that happened to catch my eye. If I heard a train coming though, I would run back and try to take pictures of it.
My strategy wasn't working.
Eventually I decided to just set up my tripod aimed at the spot the train was going to be passing by, and wait. I ended up waiting for about 2 hours. It was worth it though, I got about 5 or so pretty good shots. The only problem is that there were people in the shot, and since it was at night and the shutter had to be open for 5 - 30 seconds, the camera picked up all their atrocious movement. In each of the images there are ghostly images of people. It was unavoidable, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
After the train had finished passing, I decided to head back to the other side of the beach and take pictures of the ferries coming in and out of the dock. On my way over there, I saw the raucous group of teens that had been all over the beach while I'd been there. They were surrounding a fire. I was carrying my tripod with the camera still mounted to it, and one person near the fire shouted 'hey! take our picture!'
Ordinarily this would have terrified me and I would have pretended that it hadn't happened and just kept walking. This night was different. I did something so incredibly out of character for myself that I almost couldn't believe that it had happened. I agreed to do this thing. Walking the short distance up the beach to where they were gathered round their fire, I planted the tripod and began taking pictures. At first I tried on auto with flash, but those came out with a dull, blown-out foreground. It was awful. I tried setting the shutter open longer but still with the flash, but each of those had terribly mixed results. It was so weird. There was a group of 20+ teenagers waiting on me, the guy who had no aspirations of being the sort of photographer that tells people to say "cheese!" There was nothing in me that knew how, or even wanted to manage them, for that matter. I just wanted to take my pictures. Eventually some of them came around to check my progress, and I was kind enough to show them the neat pictures I'd had from the train coming by, but was sad that none their pictures were really turning out that well.
Then, at last, there was no more effort being put toward making them pose. One of them said 'let's all be goofy!' And I said that was a great idea. Just be goofy. That was the last picture I took of them.
They were satisfied with that one, thank goodness. I don't think either of us had the patience to continue.
They were kind enough to let me stick around and take pictures of their fire, though. Fire photography, especially at night, has always been really fascinating to me. It can produce such amazingly ridiculously awesome results.
Before leaving that fine group of people somewhat younger than myself, I made sure to get an email address to send a picture to, which they could then further disseminate at their discretion.
So, after having taken pictures of a group of complete strangers and their fire, I continued my trudge toward the ferry dock, grinning like an idiot.
I knew that I had done something I wouldn't have done a little over a week ago. Whatever doubts I had felt prior in the evening felt safely categorized as something else. In times gone by, I have often thought about some of the pictures I have taken of people, and wondering if that person would want a copy of it. I might just start offering now.
The last image I'm going to add is of one of those ferries.
Once I got home last night, I began sorting through the two hundred-some-odd pictures I had taken, and posted a few of the ones I thought were the best. Shortly before I went to bed at the end of my 20 hour day, I discovered the following, and (feeling exceptionally clever), titled it 'The Sound and the Ferry.' Enjoy.
I'd say the day turned out pretty well.
The usual stuff happened. You know, getting up at ridiculously early o'clock (4:50 am), being at work by 6, leaving at 2:30 pm. Regular stuff. Then a plan fell through. That's when the weirdness began.
I received a call from a family member regarding certain dramas, and felt incapable of meeting the request. I was kind of at a loss. The request just felt too big for me, so out of character, I didn't think I could do it. Not to mention all the possible outcomes I began imagining if I did try it.
Then I started worrying that by not taking up this challenge I was slippery-sloping back to my pre-realization days of letting perceptions-without-fact get in the way of my life and how I conduct myself. This was different, though. I had (somewhat) logical reasons to believe these imagined outcomes could be realized in devastating ways.
So I waited.
I didn't really do anything productive.
Then it hit me. I don't want to say it was fate, or anything like that, but it came to my attention that perhaps the afternoon/evening plan having fallen through was affording me an opportunity to help out when I wouldn't have otherwise been able to.
At that point, I decided to go for a drive. Thinking to myself that I wasn't necessarily going to take up the request, but if I should happen to be in the area at the time, then maybe things would just work out.
Well, I did find myself in the area at the specified time, but somehow I still couldn't make good on the request. And what's more, another family member was making good on this request. This came as a bit of a surprise to me, as the person who had brought this to my attention had basically said that I was the only person who could do this thing; that everyone else was unavailable.
When I found myself unable to make good on this request and knowing that someone else now knew that too, I felt very shameful. Like a coward. It didn't really make sense to me.
After the thing happened and my position at the periphery was left, I went to a nearby store and tried to figure out what had happened. What to do. I went over the evening's events and seriously wondered if this situation had bearing on what I felt I had just gotten past. Especially the difference between what actually happened and what I had imagined could have happened.
Since I was in the area where the plans that had fallen through could have happened, I checked to see if they could be repaired, but such was not to be.
I really didn't want to go over my inner-monologue with my family members, as they were pretty much the source of the insecurity at that moment, so I didn't really know what to do.
As has often been the case with me in the past, and I imagine with many people in times of uncertainty, I went to the beach.
That's when things began getting more interesting. I had taken my camera with me thinking that I might have an opportunity to take some photographs for the request, and found it fortuitous to have my camera on hand for the nice sunset and various modes of travel I found myself bounded by.
A couple of years ago I happened to be at a beach when a train was passing by. I also happened to have my camera and tripod with me. This made for an interesting image as the train is motion blurred while passing under the bridge I was standing on. For a while now I've had a desire to go out and actually attempt a purposeful train in motion picture. For that image to be the goal of my outing.
Well, last night all those conditions were met. Plus there was an additional bonus, and that was that it was at night. Night photography makes for some pretty interesting twists on what people are used to seeing images of.
So, as I was out at the beach, I wandered this way and that, taking pictures of the ferries, the sunset, the lighthouse, a group of high school students who had a fire going, basically anything that happened to catch my eye. If I heard a train coming though, I would run back and try to take pictures of it.
My strategy wasn't working.
Eventually I decided to just set up my tripod aimed at the spot the train was going to be passing by, and wait. I ended up waiting for about 2 hours. It was worth it though, I got about 5 or so pretty good shots. The only problem is that there were people in the shot, and since it was at night and the shutter had to be open for 5 - 30 seconds, the camera picked up all their atrocious movement. In each of the images there are ghostly images of people. It was unavoidable, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
After the train had finished passing, I decided to head back to the other side of the beach and take pictures of the ferries coming in and out of the dock. On my way over there, I saw the raucous group of teens that had been all over the beach while I'd been there. They were surrounding a fire. I was carrying my tripod with the camera still mounted to it, and one person near the fire shouted 'hey! take our picture!'
Ordinarily this would have terrified me and I would have pretended that it hadn't happened and just kept walking. This night was different. I did something so incredibly out of character for myself that I almost couldn't believe that it had happened. I agreed to do this thing. Walking the short distance up the beach to where they were gathered round their fire, I planted the tripod and began taking pictures. At first I tried on auto with flash, but those came out with a dull, blown-out foreground. It was awful. I tried setting the shutter open longer but still with the flash, but each of those had terribly mixed results. It was so weird. There was a group of 20+ teenagers waiting on me, the guy who had no aspirations of being the sort of photographer that tells people to say "cheese!" There was nothing in me that knew how, or even wanted to manage them, for that matter. I just wanted to take my pictures. Eventually some of them came around to check my progress, and I was kind enough to show them the neat pictures I'd had from the train coming by, but was sad that none their pictures were really turning out that well.
Then, at last, there was no more effort being put toward making them pose. One of them said 'let's all be goofy!' And I said that was a great idea. Just be goofy. That was the last picture I took of them.
They were satisfied with that one, thank goodness. I don't think either of us had the patience to continue.
They were kind enough to let me stick around and take pictures of their fire, though. Fire photography, especially at night, has always been really fascinating to me. It can produce such amazingly ridiculously awesome results.
Before leaving that fine group of people somewhat younger than myself, I made sure to get an email address to send a picture to, which they could then further disseminate at their discretion.
So, after having taken pictures of a group of complete strangers and their fire, I continued my trudge toward the ferry dock, grinning like an idiot.
I knew that I had done something I wouldn't have done a little over a week ago. Whatever doubts I had felt prior in the evening felt safely categorized as something else. In times gone by, I have often thought about some of the pictures I have taken of people, and wondering if that person would want a copy of it. I might just start offering now.
The last image I'm going to add is of one of those ferries.
Once I got home last night, I began sorting through the two hundred-some-odd pictures I had taken, and posted a few of the ones I thought were the best. Shortly before I went to bed at the end of my 20 hour day, I discovered the following, and (feeling exceptionally clever), titled it 'The Sound and the Ferry.' Enjoy.
I'd say the day turned out pretty well.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Vaguely Personal
I know that the last time I wrote here, I stated quite clearly that I had no plans of making this into anything resembling a diary. Well, I still don't, but a realization dawned on me that I have to write down. Don't get me wrong, I'd like the personal touch of something handwritten that I can envision a grandchild happening upon while cleaning the attic after I've died in a horrific car accident (not my fault) at the ripe old age of 93--it's just that I don't write that fast, and my handwriting is terrible.
All that being said, I feel like I had some kind of breakthrough.
As was previously stated, I had a major realization. Before I get to that, though, some exposition. Just in case I'm wrong about my untimely demise, and I end up with the dementia or something, I've got to give the background on how I got to be the way I am, and how this realization will help to get me back to the way I was. Or the background might be for casual passers-by. Who can tell?
Enough! Now for the story!
Sometimes I look back and wonder if my parents ever regret teaching me to speak. I don't seriously wonder that, that was a joke. Jokes are jokes because they are totally unexpected, or because there is a grain of truth in it that the joke-hearer is meant to understand. In this case, I know me, so I found it funny. You may not know me, so you might not have.
Once I had learned a sufficient number of words, I was unstoppable. I was a toddling force of nature. Something to be reckoned with and completely not disregard-able. I have memories of the things I would do, and say. Some of those memories are legitimately mine, some are mine by proxy and retelling. Any thought that occurred to me, I would say. Any question that popped into my little mind, had to be asked--I probably had more than my fair share of the "Why?" game, invariably ending in a parental "Because I said so."
No one was safe. I'm fairly certain I actually remember this, but it's been retold often enough that I can't be entirely certain the memory is actually my own firsthand account. Anyway, my mother and I were in the line at the grocery store. All the foodstuffs and various other things had been placed atop the counter-top carousel, and I looked around. There were the usual things to look at: gum, candy, magazines, etc. I don't know why, and I don't remember what about, but I began speaking. Not to myself, and not to my mom. I was speaking to the stranger in front of us in line. She was casually paying no attention to the 4 year old(?) behind her and that fact began to vex me. Back then I was a no nonsense kind of guy. I walked up to her, pulled on her dress and said "Hey, lady! I'm talking to you!" I was completely unapologetic. I can't say what story I had to tell her, but I'm sure it was important and her life would be very different today had she heard it in its entirety, but such was not the case. My mom was more than slightly embarrassed and interceded on the other woman's behalf.
That's the most specific account that I can think of, but I know there were others. Alas, though. This isn't meant as some sort of repository for my childhood anecdotes (though that's not a bad idea), there is a point here. The point is that as a child, I put myself out there. I wasn't worried what other people thought of me. My concern was that they would give me a fair hearing, to listen to what I had to say, and take from it what they would. That was all. I didn't need them to become friends with me, I knew that our conversations (for lack of a better term) were one-off events.
I stayed affable and gregarious for the next several years, but then something happened. Well, it took a few prior somethings to happen for the previously referred to something to have the significance that it did, so here goes.
Like so many people in this world, I have a parent with an addiction. She hasn't touched the stuff since I was a teenager, but the memories are still there. The significance of this detail is minimal here, however. You'll see.
Toward the beginning of my fourth grade year in school, my family met with some hard economic times, and our house was foreclosed on. We had to move in with my grandpa--he had a duplex and the other half had been recently vacated. This also meant changing schools.
Making friends had been easy for me up to that point, but the move changed things for me. Befriending people when I was out of my element, when I was on my own, was a little more challenging than it had been when I had support. Before I'd been able to visit with old friends at recess, or in my class. Once I started at the new school, it was more or less a matter of finding out who the other smart kids were and discussing the topics of the day with them. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I sought out the other smart kids, it was just kind of natural. I didn't have a dirt bike, my dad didn't let me play with his chainsaw, I didn't have a lot in common with some of the kids in my new class.
There were a couple of kids in the class who I did become friends with, however. The teacher offered a 'special prize' to any students who met certain, ridiculous criteria. Three of us did, and we earned a Saturday trip to the Science Center.
That was pretty much the end of the school year at that point. Of the two others, one was a boy and one was a girl. I believe the girl moved away that summer.
When the next school year rolled around, the other boy, his name was Brian, and myself were in the same class. We were good friends.
One day I slipped up, and accidentally said something alluding to my dreaded family secret. I told him that my sister had cooked dinner for the family the previous night. He asked me why that would have been the case. And I, feeling that he was probably the best friend I'd had to that point, felt that it would be alright to reveal the fact that my mom had been passed out. He was a good friend, he said awkwardly comforting things.
I had other friends during that school year, well, maybe friends is too strong a word. They were the funny kids, or at least the kids that the other kids all thought were funny. I considered myself to be funny, so I wanted to be a part of what they had. In retrospect, I think what little tagging along they allowed on my part was more to make fun of me than it was to actually include me.
Toward the end of the school year there came a day when the sun shone out warm and bright. The bell sounded for recess. We all blinked the incandescent light from our eyes as we headed for the exit, and Brian asked me if I wanted to play football with him. Ordinarily I would have said yes. I liked playing football. That day though, my mind had been set on tetherball, I believe.
That's when the bomb was dropped. My best friend in the whole world... threatened me with the darkest secret I had. The only real secret I had, and the only secret I had shared with him.
Words like that can haunt you. An emotionally fragile fifth grader being blackmailed into a recess sport. This is dangerous territory.
It was in a low, threatening--if conspiratorial--kind of voice, "If you don't play football with me, I'll tell everyone why your sister made dinner that night."
There it was. And there was nothing I could do.
I played football that day, but I wasn't good, and I didn't have fun.
Our friendship was never the same. We had classes together periodically through middle and high school, but we went our separate ways. Our social circles ceased to overlap.
Aside: If anyone reads this and figures out the details, let it be known that I'm not saying anything about his character now. I haven't talked to the guy at all in probably 10 years. He could be among the world's greatest humanitarians and regret that decision with all his heart. That's fine, but that's not what this is about. This is my realization.
Over the summer I grew my hair out and during the school year I was a self-proclaimed 'loner.' I didn't really make any new friends until the end of the year when I was paired up with a kid in my shop class for the bridge-making project (in retrospect that's really funny, because he would become my best friend throughout the remainder of middle school and all throughout high school... bridge building... you can't make that up).
From that point on, I was pretty much only friends with people that I had classes with. Looking back, I call that 'built in friends.' My second year of high school I joined the drama group (because of a girl... but after that meta-drama was over, I really enjoyed the whole experience and stayed with it for the rest of high school). I did make some friends in the drama group as well, but somehow without that constant, regular, basically scheduled time together, my friendships suffered.
I wasn't really able to make many friends in college, either. There are a few, but I think the friendships owe more to their persistence than mine.
There have been a few people from various jobs that I've had that I would call genuine 'friends,' but not many, and they're usually fleeting. There again, it comes back to a schedule... once that fades, it seems that my friendships do as well.
Bear in mind that all of that was set-up. That was the exposition. Now for the realization.
I went running today. That's something that I hardly do at all. I didn't stretch before I went, and ran about 2 miles before walking the rest of the way back. I'm sure my legs will be very angry with me tomorrow, but I don't really care.
On the walk back, I was just thinking about the things I need to do to change the course of my life. I'm not exactly with the way things are for me, right now. Don't get me wrong, things aren't bad, but I'm not happy with them. Because of this, at least one of two things needs to happen. I either need to accept the way things are and be happy with them, or change them in a direction that I will be more satisfied with. Of course, the first is ridiculous, I'm not just going to accept that which dissatisfies me, I find the premise laughable--not because that's not an option, but because I think that option would quite literally drive me insane. That leaves me with the second option, or to consider unnamed alternatives.
Second option it is. I was thinking about what I needed to do. My dad has periodically asked me a question. He'll ask, "Whatever happened to my talkative little guy?" It's not that he's unhappy with me, it's that he's unhappy with my being unhappy. I've never had an answer.
It was that thought that brought it all home. On occasion, I had remembered the incident with Brian. I'd be annoyed, but that was over and done with. Simple, elementary betrayal.
It was on my walk home in what remained of the day's rain, that the full weight of that recess event finally struck me.
Partly moving to a new school, but mostly being betrayed by my first, best friend in such a complete and total way was what made me self-conscious. It gave me expectations of people, and begged the question of what they were expecting of me. I have been plagued by that ever since, sometimes to an almost crippling degree.
So, what's next? I'm not sure. Obviously this isn't the end. I can't just snap my fingers and be the way that I want to be. I know it's not that simple.
But now at least now I can draw my inadequacies back to something. It has meaning. It allows for a more substantive kind of optimism than I've felt in a long time.
I can finally answer that question posed by my father. I now know what happened to his talkative little guy.
All that being said, I feel like I had some kind of breakthrough.
As was previously stated, I had a major realization. Before I get to that, though, some exposition. Just in case I'm wrong about my untimely demise, and I end up with the dementia or something, I've got to give the background on how I got to be the way I am, and how this realization will help to get me back to the way I was. Or the background might be for casual passers-by. Who can tell?
Enough! Now for the story!
Sometimes I look back and wonder if my parents ever regret teaching me to speak. I don't seriously wonder that, that was a joke. Jokes are jokes because they are totally unexpected, or because there is a grain of truth in it that the joke-hearer is meant to understand. In this case, I know me, so I found it funny. You may not know me, so you might not have.
Once I had learned a sufficient number of words, I was unstoppable. I was a toddling force of nature. Something to be reckoned with and completely not disregard-able. I have memories of the things I would do, and say. Some of those memories are legitimately mine, some are mine by proxy and retelling. Any thought that occurred to me, I would say. Any question that popped into my little mind, had to be asked--I probably had more than my fair share of the "Why?" game, invariably ending in a parental "Because I said so."
No one was safe. I'm fairly certain I actually remember this, but it's been retold often enough that I can't be entirely certain the memory is actually my own firsthand account. Anyway, my mother and I were in the line at the grocery store. All the foodstuffs and various other things had been placed atop the counter-top carousel, and I looked around. There were the usual things to look at: gum, candy, magazines, etc. I don't know why, and I don't remember what about, but I began speaking. Not to myself, and not to my mom. I was speaking to the stranger in front of us in line. She was casually paying no attention to the 4 year old(?) behind her and that fact began to vex me. Back then I was a no nonsense kind of guy. I walked up to her, pulled on her dress and said "Hey, lady! I'm talking to you!" I was completely unapologetic. I can't say what story I had to tell her, but I'm sure it was important and her life would be very different today had she heard it in its entirety, but such was not the case. My mom was more than slightly embarrassed and interceded on the other woman's behalf.
That's the most specific account that I can think of, but I know there were others. Alas, though. This isn't meant as some sort of repository for my childhood anecdotes (though that's not a bad idea), there is a point here. The point is that as a child, I put myself out there. I wasn't worried what other people thought of me. My concern was that they would give me a fair hearing, to listen to what I had to say, and take from it what they would. That was all. I didn't need them to become friends with me, I knew that our conversations (for lack of a better term) were one-off events.
I stayed affable and gregarious for the next several years, but then something happened. Well, it took a few prior somethings to happen for the previously referred to something to have the significance that it did, so here goes.
Like so many people in this world, I have a parent with an addiction. She hasn't touched the stuff since I was a teenager, but the memories are still there. The significance of this detail is minimal here, however. You'll see.
Toward the beginning of my fourth grade year in school, my family met with some hard economic times, and our house was foreclosed on. We had to move in with my grandpa--he had a duplex and the other half had been recently vacated. This also meant changing schools.
Making friends had been easy for me up to that point, but the move changed things for me. Befriending people when I was out of my element, when I was on my own, was a little more challenging than it had been when I had support. Before I'd been able to visit with old friends at recess, or in my class. Once I started at the new school, it was more or less a matter of finding out who the other smart kids were and discussing the topics of the day with them. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I sought out the other smart kids, it was just kind of natural. I didn't have a dirt bike, my dad didn't let me play with his chainsaw, I didn't have a lot in common with some of the kids in my new class.
There were a couple of kids in the class who I did become friends with, however. The teacher offered a 'special prize' to any students who met certain, ridiculous criteria. Three of us did, and we earned a Saturday trip to the Science Center.
That was pretty much the end of the school year at that point. Of the two others, one was a boy and one was a girl. I believe the girl moved away that summer.
When the next school year rolled around, the other boy, his name was Brian, and myself were in the same class. We were good friends.
One day I slipped up, and accidentally said something alluding to my dreaded family secret. I told him that my sister had cooked dinner for the family the previous night. He asked me why that would have been the case. And I, feeling that he was probably the best friend I'd had to that point, felt that it would be alright to reveal the fact that my mom had been passed out. He was a good friend, he said awkwardly comforting things.
I had other friends during that school year, well, maybe friends is too strong a word. They were the funny kids, or at least the kids that the other kids all thought were funny. I considered myself to be funny, so I wanted to be a part of what they had. In retrospect, I think what little tagging along they allowed on my part was more to make fun of me than it was to actually include me.
Toward the end of the school year there came a day when the sun shone out warm and bright. The bell sounded for recess. We all blinked the incandescent light from our eyes as we headed for the exit, and Brian asked me if I wanted to play football with him. Ordinarily I would have said yes. I liked playing football. That day though, my mind had been set on tetherball, I believe.
That's when the bomb was dropped. My best friend in the whole world... threatened me with the darkest secret I had. The only real secret I had, and the only secret I had shared with him.
Words like that can haunt you. An emotionally fragile fifth grader being blackmailed into a recess sport. This is dangerous territory.
It was in a low, threatening--if conspiratorial--kind of voice, "If you don't play football with me, I'll tell everyone why your sister made dinner that night."
There it was. And there was nothing I could do.
I played football that day, but I wasn't good, and I didn't have fun.
Our friendship was never the same. We had classes together periodically through middle and high school, but we went our separate ways. Our social circles ceased to overlap.
Aside: If anyone reads this and figures out the details, let it be known that I'm not saying anything about his character now. I haven't talked to the guy at all in probably 10 years. He could be among the world's greatest humanitarians and regret that decision with all his heart. That's fine, but that's not what this is about. This is my realization.
Over the summer I grew my hair out and during the school year I was a self-proclaimed 'loner.' I didn't really make any new friends until the end of the year when I was paired up with a kid in my shop class for the bridge-making project (in retrospect that's really funny, because he would become my best friend throughout the remainder of middle school and all throughout high school... bridge building... you can't make that up).
From that point on, I was pretty much only friends with people that I had classes with. Looking back, I call that 'built in friends.' My second year of high school I joined the drama group (because of a girl... but after that meta-drama was over, I really enjoyed the whole experience and stayed with it for the rest of high school). I did make some friends in the drama group as well, but somehow without that constant, regular, basically scheduled time together, my friendships suffered.
I wasn't really able to make many friends in college, either. There are a few, but I think the friendships owe more to their persistence than mine.
There have been a few people from various jobs that I've had that I would call genuine 'friends,' but not many, and they're usually fleeting. There again, it comes back to a schedule... once that fades, it seems that my friendships do as well.
Bear in mind that all of that was set-up. That was the exposition. Now for the realization.
I went running today. That's something that I hardly do at all. I didn't stretch before I went, and ran about 2 miles before walking the rest of the way back. I'm sure my legs will be very angry with me tomorrow, but I don't really care.
On the walk back, I was just thinking about the things I need to do to change the course of my life. I'm not exactly with the way things are for me, right now. Don't get me wrong, things aren't bad, but I'm not happy with them. Because of this, at least one of two things needs to happen. I either need to accept the way things are and be happy with them, or change them in a direction that I will be more satisfied with. Of course, the first is ridiculous, I'm not just going to accept that which dissatisfies me, I find the premise laughable--not because that's not an option, but because I think that option would quite literally drive me insane. That leaves me with the second option, or to consider unnamed alternatives.
Second option it is. I was thinking about what I needed to do. My dad has periodically asked me a question. He'll ask, "Whatever happened to my talkative little guy?" It's not that he's unhappy with me, it's that he's unhappy with my being unhappy. I've never had an answer.
It was that thought that brought it all home. On occasion, I had remembered the incident with Brian. I'd be annoyed, but that was over and done with. Simple, elementary betrayal.
It was on my walk home in what remained of the day's rain, that the full weight of that recess event finally struck me.
Partly moving to a new school, but mostly being betrayed by my first, best friend in such a complete and total way was what made me self-conscious. It gave me expectations of people, and begged the question of what they were expecting of me. I have been plagued by that ever since, sometimes to an almost crippling degree.
So, what's next? I'm not sure. Obviously this isn't the end. I can't just snap my fingers and be the way that I want to be. I know it's not that simple.
But now at least now I can draw my inadequacies back to something. It has meaning. It allows for a more substantive kind of optimism than I've felt in a long time.
I can finally answer that question posed by my father. I now know what happened to his talkative little guy.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
One of the Irregulars
A few times in my life I have gone through the blogspot/blogger network and clicked whatever the button is for 'next blog.' It had been a bit of a weird experience every time I'd reach one that was updated sometimes 3 days in one week, then 2 months later, then 6 months after that. There was no real common thread to the entries.
I'm beginning to understand a little bit better now just how that can happen.
The first blog I had, had a dedicated purpose. Granted, it took me a little bit longer to finish the blog than the trip that it was devoted to, but I no longer had designated time (or wireless internet, for that matter... it wasn't quite so ubiquitous in 2006) for such activities. It made sense to me though, that I had a point to what I was writing.
Now, I find that I don't really have a point. Sometimes I think of things that I'd like to write, but I'm not sure how I'd like to treat them. Once I get an idea of how to approach it, something else has come up, and I fail to make even the attempt at entering it. It's bizarre.
Another question that I raise quite frequently with myself, is just how I want to treat this blog. I think I may have referenced it in a previous entry (one of the few, I know), but is it something that I want people to read? Is it some kind of personal diary intended to be private that I have somehow 'conveniently' forgotten to set as such? I'm not planning on writing anything too personal or explicit, but to bare my soul and even my innermost mental meanderings, questions, insecurities, etc--even in a vague way--is sort of a big question. And believe me when I say this, there are a lot of the aformentioned. Don't get me wrong though, there may not be any more than the average person, but my mind gets bogged down. Maybe other people just handle them better.
Speaking of bogged down minds, part of the reason the idea of how to treat this comes up is because I feel like I need an outlet for them. Sure, I could write them down in a journal stuffed in a corner near my bed and peruse them at my leisure later, but there's very little danger of another human being happening upon those deep, dark thoughts. Here, there's a little danger, some mystery, a fear of the unknown that's creeping in/out (whichever). It's still true that I haven't told anyone to 'check out my new blog!' and that is unlikely to ever happen. But I have, and still occasionally do direct people to my road trip blog. In the back of my head I know that anyone who goes there and checks my profile will see a link to my other blogs. I could probably figure out a way to disable that, but I'm internally at odds with that. The part that wants to leave that window open (perhaps the lazy part, as well) is winning, obviously.
All of this being said, things in my life are finally starting to make some strange kind of sense. That doesn't mean that I have the self-confidence that I should, it simply means that I don't feel quite so out of place. In the puzzle that is my life, I still definitely feel that there are pieces either missing or turned around. It's extremely difficult to suss out just what it is that's not right when all that you've got is a vague feeling. I mean sure, there are obvious things, but those don't matter as much when stepping back to see the whole picture.
Or maybe they do. Maybe it's addressing each one of the small things that can clear up the big picture. Maybe what I just realized is that in the puzzle analogy, I need to examine each of the pieces to ensure that it aligns properly with the adjacent pieces. Maybe in so doing, the big picture will resolve itself.
Here comes the cynic:
Or maybe I'm just a self-centered American who feels a giant sense of entitlement toward the happiness that the media has for so long promised.
Well, I know this much for certain: I don't know. Both are probably true, to some degree.
Sometimes it seems that Socrates had it all right. He claimed that he wasn't wise, but was in the pursuit of wisdom. He would question people who did claim wisdom until they realized how foolish their beliefs really were.
I'm all over the place tonight. It occurred to me that I have a rant about shades of grey, but maybe that'll be for another time. I feel like this has been in some way productive.
Thank you, internet.
I'm beginning to understand a little bit better now just how that can happen.
The first blog I had, had a dedicated purpose. Granted, it took me a little bit longer to finish the blog than the trip that it was devoted to, but I no longer had designated time (or wireless internet, for that matter... it wasn't quite so ubiquitous in 2006) for such activities. It made sense to me though, that I had a point to what I was writing.
Now, I find that I don't really have a point. Sometimes I think of things that I'd like to write, but I'm not sure how I'd like to treat them. Once I get an idea of how to approach it, something else has come up, and I fail to make even the attempt at entering it. It's bizarre.
Another question that I raise quite frequently with myself, is just how I want to treat this blog. I think I may have referenced it in a previous entry (one of the few, I know), but is it something that I want people to read? Is it some kind of personal diary intended to be private that I have somehow 'conveniently' forgotten to set as such? I'm not planning on writing anything too personal or explicit, but to bare my soul and even my innermost mental meanderings, questions, insecurities, etc--even in a vague way--is sort of a big question. And believe me when I say this, there are a lot of the aformentioned. Don't get me wrong though, there may not be any more than the average person, but my mind gets bogged down. Maybe other people just handle them better.
Speaking of bogged down minds, part of the reason the idea of how to treat this comes up is because I feel like I need an outlet for them. Sure, I could write them down in a journal stuffed in a corner near my bed and peruse them at my leisure later, but there's very little danger of another human being happening upon those deep, dark thoughts. Here, there's a little danger, some mystery, a fear of the unknown that's creeping in/out (whichever). It's still true that I haven't told anyone to 'check out my new blog!' and that is unlikely to ever happen. But I have, and still occasionally do direct people to my road trip blog. In the back of my head I know that anyone who goes there and checks my profile will see a link to my other blogs. I could probably figure out a way to disable that, but I'm internally at odds with that. The part that wants to leave that window open (perhaps the lazy part, as well) is winning, obviously.
All of this being said, things in my life are finally starting to make some strange kind of sense. That doesn't mean that I have the self-confidence that I should, it simply means that I don't feel quite so out of place. In the puzzle that is my life, I still definitely feel that there are pieces either missing or turned around. It's extremely difficult to suss out just what it is that's not right when all that you've got is a vague feeling. I mean sure, there are obvious things, but those don't matter as much when stepping back to see the whole picture.
Or maybe they do. Maybe it's addressing each one of the small things that can clear up the big picture. Maybe what I just realized is that in the puzzle analogy, I need to examine each of the pieces to ensure that it aligns properly with the adjacent pieces. Maybe in so doing, the big picture will resolve itself.
Here comes the cynic:
Or maybe I'm just a self-centered American who feels a giant sense of entitlement toward the happiness that the media has for so long promised.
Well, I know this much for certain: I don't know. Both are probably true, to some degree.
Sometimes it seems that Socrates had it all right. He claimed that he wasn't wise, but was in the pursuit of wisdom. He would question people who did claim wisdom until they realized how foolish their beliefs really were.
I'm all over the place tonight. It occurred to me that I have a rant about shades of grey, but maybe that'll be for another time. I feel like this has been in some way productive.
Thank you, internet.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Second Thoughts
Maybe I was a little overzealous at the idea of a second blog. I've been writing more in my long-term project and haven't really had the time to do with this that which I had wanted.
That's not to say that it won't ever happen, just (and this is as much to myself as it is to whomsoever may have decided to be interested in this) don't expect too much.
The above being said, I still feel the need to add something more substantive to this post. The inherent pun in the title is too good to not make good on.
Lately I've found myself on a bit of a musical journey. There are really two things that I've been doing to that end. First, I've been listening to huge amounts of Pandora and last.fm on my phone--partially inspired by the fact that I didn't feel like I was getting my money's worth out of the data plan that I am obligated to pay for given the phone that I use. Secondly, I found a website where you can pretty much search for any song you can listen to, and stream it right then and there.
It is a pretty amazing thing. I've known about it for a while, but only used it to listen to well known songs that I had no desire to listen to repeatedly (ever again?).
Since the increase in usage of Pandora and last.fm, however, I've found myself wanting to listen to specific songs that came up in the shuffle. This way, I am able to do so.
I have always like various sorts of music, and at one point either late in middle school or early in high school I said to a friend that I could like just about any kind of music if I listened to it enough. I also said that that didn't mean that I would like every song, nor did it mean that I liked all kinds of music at that point. I was also heard to remark that there were specific sorts of music that I didn't like and knowing the dangers, I avoided because I had no desire to incidentally start liking them.
So, even though I've liked various sorts of music in the past, and believe that I am susceptible to like most sorts of music at some point in the future, I have stuck fairly consistently with indie rock since high school. The notable exceptions, in my opinion, are a slowly gained familiarity with classic rock (ie Led Zeppelin) and Neko Case.
It is also noteworthy that I don't think I bought any albums from bands that I wasn't already familiar with between 2005 and this past January.
For the last month or so though, things have become quite a bit more varied, and the forecast is for even more change, I should think.
It was the Pandora station for Interpol that got this whole ball rolling. Several songs from The Arcade Fire came up in the rotation, and I liked those songs quite a bit. So, I did the logical thing and moved on to an Arcade Fire station. That led me to Band of Horses, which was a good find.
Some random day at work, a coworker mentioned that a neat band had played on Saturday Night Live the previous weekend. The band was called 'Them Crooked Vultures.' When I found out that former Led Zeppelin bassist and all around instrumentalist John Paul Jones was playing in that band, I decided to look up Jimmy Page and Robert Plant to see what they were up to these days, as well.
The next thing I know, I'm on this crazy bluegrass kick because of Robert Plant's duet album with Alison Krauss.
A noteworthy result of listening to the station for Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, is that Alison Krauss has been a part of a whole lot of musical efforts over the past two and a half decades or so, so a lot of the music that was coming up in the Plant and Krauss rotation included her other works.
Another band that came up fairly often was The Cowboy Junkies. So far I don't like all of their stuff, but whenever anything gets played in conjunction with P&K, I usually like it.
So the musical adventure continues, I'll keep trying to expand my horizons, and I have a few different avenues to take to do so.
There. That was a mundane adventure (of sorts), right?
That's not to say that it won't ever happen, just (and this is as much to myself as it is to whomsoever may have decided to be interested in this) don't expect too much.
The above being said, I still feel the need to add something more substantive to this post. The inherent pun in the title is too good to not make good on.
Lately I've found myself on a bit of a musical journey. There are really two things that I've been doing to that end. First, I've been listening to huge amounts of Pandora and last.fm on my phone--partially inspired by the fact that I didn't feel like I was getting my money's worth out of the data plan that I am obligated to pay for given the phone that I use. Secondly, I found a website where you can pretty much search for any song you can listen to, and stream it right then and there.
It is a pretty amazing thing. I've known about it for a while, but only used it to listen to well known songs that I had no desire to listen to repeatedly (ever again?).
Since the increase in usage of Pandora and last.fm, however, I've found myself wanting to listen to specific songs that came up in the shuffle. This way, I am able to do so.
I have always like various sorts of music, and at one point either late in middle school or early in high school I said to a friend that I could like just about any kind of music if I listened to it enough. I also said that that didn't mean that I would like every song, nor did it mean that I liked all kinds of music at that point. I was also heard to remark that there were specific sorts of music that I didn't like and knowing the dangers, I avoided because I had no desire to incidentally start liking them.
So, even though I've liked various sorts of music in the past, and believe that I am susceptible to like most sorts of music at some point in the future, I have stuck fairly consistently with indie rock since high school. The notable exceptions, in my opinion, are a slowly gained familiarity with classic rock (ie Led Zeppelin) and Neko Case.
It is also noteworthy that I don't think I bought any albums from bands that I wasn't already familiar with between 2005 and this past January.
For the last month or so though, things have become quite a bit more varied, and the forecast is for even more change, I should think.
It was the Pandora station for Interpol that got this whole ball rolling. Several songs from The Arcade Fire came up in the rotation, and I liked those songs quite a bit. So, I did the logical thing and moved on to an Arcade Fire station. That led me to Band of Horses, which was a good find.
Some random day at work, a coworker mentioned that a neat band had played on Saturday Night Live the previous weekend. The band was called 'Them Crooked Vultures.' When I found out that former Led Zeppelin bassist and all around instrumentalist John Paul Jones was playing in that band, I decided to look up Jimmy Page and Robert Plant to see what they were up to these days, as well.
The next thing I know, I'm on this crazy bluegrass kick because of Robert Plant's duet album with Alison Krauss.
A noteworthy result of listening to the station for Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, is that Alison Krauss has been a part of a whole lot of musical efforts over the past two and a half decades or so, so a lot of the music that was coming up in the Plant and Krauss rotation included her other works.
Another band that came up fairly often was The Cowboy Junkies. So far I don't like all of their stuff, but whenever anything gets played in conjunction with P&K, I usually like it.
So the musical adventure continues, I'll keep trying to expand my horizons, and I have a few different avenues to take to do so.
There. That was a mundane adventure (of sorts), right?
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Mkii
The other day I made a pizza. That may not sound like much to whomsoever may read this, but it was kind of a big deal for me. I've never really been one much for cooking, but I've been trying to do more things lately that I haven't really been 'one much for' in the past. Thus, a pizza was created.
It's not really the pizza that prompts this newest of writing endeavors, however. It was the fact that I was proud of my pizza, and felt like sharing my (mundane) accomplishment. Once the pizza had been fully cooked and partially ingested, I was struck by the need to write up a bit of a story concerning my trials and tribulations of pizza cookery.
The subsequent email that resulted (to my Mom, whose recipe I followed) was probably the equivalent of 3 pages. I had taken pictures (one just before oven insertion, and one just after removal from said oven) of the pizza, and those were both included in the email to said maternal unit.
Writing that email about a mostly ordinary event in my life felt good. Hence, this nascent blog was brought into this world, kicking, screaming, and probably unwilling, but it had to be done. I have lots of things that I want to write, some of which I actually am, but in writing that email to my Mom, I realized that there was sort of an untapped creative reserve.
Sometimes I have trouble finding motivation to write. Often it's because what I'm thinking of writing is too monumental to even really start. I say that because I have long thought of writing, but only recently have I really gotten anything going. Last Spring I was pretty well dumbstruck by an idea that was nearly a complete plot from beginning to end, and I began working on it in earnest in August. Right now I'm at about 40,000 words, and I keep getting stuck. I know what needs to happen next, but it just seems so overwhelming a task, that I keep putting it off. That, or the opposite happens, and I think that since the over-arching idea is so clear in my head that I think it will practically write itself. But then, when it doesn't, I get discouraged and go another week without adding hardly anything at all.
I know that I'm using the word 'I' too much, but that doesn't seem like it can be much helped for the moment. This paragraph was intended to be about something else, but the writer of said paragraph had had a realization that was deemed worthy of comment.
I can't say that I'll add an epically mundane story of my life every day. I can't promise that everything will make grammatical and correctly spelled sense. I can't guarantee that I'll tell anyone about this work in progress.
What I can say, is what I'm hoping for and intending right now. Put simply, I want this to be a kind of reserve. A place where I can write what comes into my head. It doesn't have to be connected to anything. For now, I assume it will mostly be nonfictitious events from my life that may or may not have been enhanced or altered for the purposes of levity; both my own and anyone with whom I may or may not share this. It may end up including works of fiction, I don't really know. What I really want out of this is a place to get some writing out of my system. Something that makes it a little easier to write for the projects that have long been in the making, but seem so daunting for such little reasons.
Also, I hope to add pictures where reasonable/applicable.
In closing, a couple of explanations are in order. Be they for myself only, for the purposes of the historical records, or for newcomers who are trying to figure me out (good luck with that... and if you should succeed, please explain me to myself).
The idea of this 'blog came about the day after the event with the pizza. Now, I had written a 'blog back in '06, which detailed a fairly epic adventure I had taking state highways to Chicago, driving Route 66 down to LA, then taking the Pacific Coast Highway back home. That 'blog had been (and is still) entitled 'the adventures of capcoy.' I'd had thoughts of just continuing that one but decided that I would leave it alone and intact. An encapsulation of a time that was (which you can find conveniently enough at capcoy.blogspot.com). This work, being about more the every day for me (hence the 'mundane' in the title) is something separate.
Also, the above paragraph should help explain the URL to anyone I may have shared it with, or anyone who happens upon it, I suppose. The 'm' is for mundane, and the 'ad' is for adventure. Plus, and this was purely a coincidental benefit, you can change the spacing in your mind's eye, and make it madcap coy--which works too.
Also, and probably finally, the title of this current post is Mkii. In and of itself, it should probably make sense given the fact that I've stated this is my newest and most second blog ever! But I probably didn't actually need to explain any of that to you. You're either me, or exceptionally clever.
It's not really the pizza that prompts this newest of writing endeavors, however. It was the fact that I was proud of my pizza, and felt like sharing my (mundane) accomplishment. Once the pizza had been fully cooked and partially ingested, I was struck by the need to write up a bit of a story concerning my trials and tribulations of pizza cookery.
The subsequent email that resulted (to my Mom, whose recipe I followed) was probably the equivalent of 3 pages. I had taken pictures (one just before oven insertion, and one just after removal from said oven) of the pizza, and those were both included in the email to said maternal unit.
Writing that email about a mostly ordinary event in my life felt good. Hence, this nascent blog was brought into this world, kicking, screaming, and probably unwilling, but it had to be done. I have lots of things that I want to write, some of which I actually am, but in writing that email to my Mom, I realized that there was sort of an untapped creative reserve.
Sometimes I have trouble finding motivation to write. Often it's because what I'm thinking of writing is too monumental to even really start. I say that because I have long thought of writing, but only recently have I really gotten anything going. Last Spring I was pretty well dumbstruck by an idea that was nearly a complete plot from beginning to end, and I began working on it in earnest in August. Right now I'm at about 40,000 words, and I keep getting stuck. I know what needs to happen next, but it just seems so overwhelming a task, that I keep putting it off. That, or the opposite happens, and I think that since the over-arching idea is so clear in my head that I think it will practically write itself. But then, when it doesn't, I get discouraged and go another week without adding hardly anything at all.
I know that I'm using the word 'I' too much, but that doesn't seem like it can be much helped for the moment. This paragraph was intended to be about something else, but the writer of said paragraph had had a realization that was deemed worthy of comment.
I can't say that I'll add an epically mundane story of my life every day. I can't promise that everything will make grammatical and correctly spelled sense. I can't guarantee that I'll tell anyone about this work in progress.
What I can say, is what I'm hoping for and intending right now. Put simply, I want this to be a kind of reserve. A place where I can write what comes into my head. It doesn't have to be connected to anything. For now, I assume it will mostly be nonfictitious events from my life that may or may not have been enhanced or altered for the purposes of levity; both my own and anyone with whom I may or may not share this. It may end up including works of fiction, I don't really know. What I really want out of this is a place to get some writing out of my system. Something that makes it a little easier to write for the projects that have long been in the making, but seem so daunting for such little reasons.
Also, I hope to add pictures where reasonable/applicable.
In closing, a couple of explanations are in order. Be they for myself only, for the purposes of the historical records, or for newcomers who are trying to figure me out (good luck with that... and if you should succeed, please explain me to myself).
The idea of this 'blog came about the day after the event with the pizza. Now, I had written a 'blog back in '06, which detailed a fairly epic adventure I had taking state highways to Chicago, driving Route 66 down to LA, then taking the Pacific Coast Highway back home. That 'blog had been (and is still) entitled 'the adventures of capcoy.' I'd had thoughts of just continuing that one but decided that I would leave it alone and intact. An encapsulation of a time that was (which you can find conveniently enough at capcoy.blogspot.com). This work, being about more the every day for me (hence the 'mundane' in the title) is something separate.
Also, the above paragraph should help explain the URL to anyone I may have shared it with, or anyone who happens upon it, I suppose. The 'm' is for mundane, and the 'ad' is for adventure. Plus, and this was purely a coincidental benefit, you can change the spacing in your mind's eye, and make it madcap coy--which works too.
Also, and probably finally, the title of this current post is Mkii. In and of itself, it should probably make sense given the fact that I've stated this is my newest and most second blog ever! But I probably didn't actually need to explain any of that to you. You're either me, or exceptionally clever.
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