It's a Sunny Day Kind of Thing

We have a bit of a standoffish reputation up here in the Pacific Northwest. Everyone avoids eye contact, interpersonal interaction is kept to a minimum. Among a crowd, you can truly feel alone. And it's always in a drizzle.

It's a "thing" up here, the way we are, much like Southerners are hospitable and New Yorkers are short and direct.

But I'll tell you this - when the sun comes out, Seattle is a different place. I'm sitting on my bike in an intersection and people roll up in their cars and just start up conversation. Everyone smiles at each other - it's an "I'm happy to be alive!"smile, or "look how beautiful this is" or I don't know, but appreciating everything life has to offer, so much so you have to connect with other people.

So, I don't think it's us - that we are so different. I think its the rain, and the grey and it just overcomes us, sort of a survival tactic. And as much as we can be ok with it, appreciate the rain, the grey and the wet, it takes it's toll.  Then thankfully, at some point in May, the sun comes out and reminds us.

It's a sunny day kind of thing.

Infinite Canvas

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I hope things are bigger and better where you are.

Archiving - 2011 Books

A good year of reading.

In terms of overall standouts, Small Furry Prayer and Within the Frame are the tops, followed closely by American Gods.

Clearly it was a year of photography, and true as well with the reading. Within the Frame, and David duChemin's philosophy in general speak to the kind of photographer I yearn to be, and in terms of sitting down with a beautiful book full of amazing pictures, beautiful thoughts, and great advice to think about (I have never so savored instructions on exactly how to get lost in a new city), it brought everything together, including the language and the photographs to

Circularly Linear

Somehow I've been contemplating fear and trying to figure out who I am and what I want to be when I grow up for over 15 years - perfecting circular thinking since 1998.

No one loves a photographer

Mamo Mary - her next words were, "don't take my picture!"

Then Sonnie says, "don't take my picture!"

And Cappie's next words? "Don't take my picture!"

Cheers!

Huckleberry daiquiri in Grandview (we call it "PGV", or "Pretty Good View") bar...checking out race results from Priest Lake tri, taking a break (sigh!) from the sun and getting an internet fix.

Ironical

...that when I stop training for races, I have more time to cook yummier food...

Fork.

My dad holds up his fork. We are at dessert, having pie, cake and coffee.

"Can I please have a fork that's straight?" He asks, noting the strange and significant curve to the handle. It looks as if it's had a bad run in with some telekinesis.

"Are you questioning the fork for its alternative orientation?" I question back. "Just because the fork has an alternative orientation doesn't mean it can't perform it's job just as well as a straight fork," I obstinately declare.

"And what would it's job be?" the Boy jousts back to me.

"Well, forking, of course...are you saying it can't fork just as well as a fork of a different orientation?"

Some questions probably shouldn't be asked, nor answered. And it was probably good that no one pointed out that spooning leads to forking.

Today

What is beautiful today?

...that I have so many people who love me more than I will know, even when I make mistakes (big ones sometimes) and am all the things that frustrate me about me - somehow they love me not just in spite of those things, but BECAUSE of those things.

...that I got to spend two weeks with my dad

...the few moments the sun breaks through the endless Seattle clouds

...the peace that comes from watching piles and piles of laundry get clean

Endless Loop

...taking a picture of you taking a picture of me taking a picture of you...

Pool

...and when I did sleep, I dreamt of a pool, a beautiful pool - black lanes of tile under aqua blue water, sparkling in the sunshine, stretching out a full olympic distance, wide and empty. Strings of triangular flags stretched above the lanes, moving gently in the nearly indiscernible breeze, begging, inviting me for a swim.

This was not the Y: short half length pool, crowded with other swimmers. This pool was perfect. I went to get my things and go swimming.

By the time I got back, the weather changed. The pool was indoors. It was cloudy. The breeze had picked up. I looked for a way to get into the pool. I had to go through a door. When I got in, the building was dark, the water no longer aqua, had taken on the darkness of the building and reflected the gray of the low light in the building.

The only way into the pool was from the diving board. I put my things down and went to the diving board. As I looked down, the water was stormy - this was not the pool I went to get my things to swim in. This was not the pool that invited me.

I looked around to get off the diving board; the only way off was back. I considered turning around and looked down at the pool. Now, farther down, I was standing on the high dive. The water was churning under me. I had considered jumping anyway, sucking up my fear and trusting that I would survive. Looking down, the water was far below me, rough, and farther now each time I blinked. I could jump, but it would be too far to survive the fall, and the water was now a river, rapids below me.

Panicked, I turned around again to walk back, afraid that I would fall as I backtracked, terrified to move, to choose, to do anything, knowing I could not stay where I was.

I woke up with a start, staring at the ceiling, the doorway, the darkness...thinking about the pool and my fear.

Direction

195 days into my 365...

...I have a thought process for coming up with pictures for the day. Hopefully, something about the day inspired me to think about taking a picture, or hopefully something about the day before got me thinking ahead...but generally, it becomes evening and I haven't gotten a picture and I don't have a plan. In this case I look around the house, get bored with my thoughts of what to snap, and since it's summer and there is a lot of daylight, I typically head outside and up the street to see what's there, what the light is doing, and grasp desperately at anything that shows a hint of pulse over "boredom".

I always walk out of my courtyard and walk up the street. I turn left. Sometimes I cross the street, but usually I stay on the left.

It took me until 195 days into this project to wonder what would happen if I walked out of my courtyard and turned RIGHT.

Holy shit, people.

Nearly 200 days, how much boredom and skipped days for lack of inspiration, when all I had to do was look the other way?

The complete impact and meaning of this simple, basic thing, is staggering to me. Not just the 365 project. But how many times, every day, in every situation, in every relationship, do we have such a pattern of approach or perspective that it doesn't even occur to us to do something different? How many situations or life paths do we go down not even thinking we could go the other way (let alone blaze our own trail) even when it is right in front of us? (Or behind us, or to the right of us as we turn left, or across the street, or...)

Turning right, down to the light on the highway, then I can go right, or left, or across the street, and go right, left or forward...each path leading to a different path and different choices...I always turned left.

I know why I turned left. Turning right goes toward the traffic and crossing the major street. It takes 3 minutes to wait for the light to change. It takes longer. And really, generally doesn't seem quite as interesting. But as I walked up the street to take my pictures, soon walking 2 blocks didn't warrant any new sights or settings, so I walked 4 blocks, then 6...and then, waiting 3 minutes each way for the light might not be so bad, and just for something new.

Like most things, as soon as I turned right, more opportunities showed up, and new opportunities got me thinking of new things. Try a soft focus, try something urban, ooooh, how about a series of themes...

...I'm still absorbing this, translating it, understanding all it means...basic concepts can be so profound.

Living

Near my house is an old, abandoned Swedish graveyard dating back to the late 1800's. It sits on a hillside, nestled between housing developments in a mostly unimproved grove of trees. It is fenced with a split rail fence, now falling down, though not clearly resulting from the elements of nature or the elements of humanity.

Beer cans and soda bottles litter the graveyard, trash accumulating against the trees and gravestones. Teenagers have taken to hanging out, seeking solitude for their solitary group escapes from the rest of society. I wonder how much thought they give to the uninvited guests laying below them, and whether there is an implicit invitation...suspecting the answer is a bravado joke or lack of thought at all; certainly there is no respect for this place I seek for quiet contemplation.

The headstones are old, and looking at how the moss covers and owns them, destroying the identifying engraving differentiating one life from another, I realize how impermanent even the most permanent seeming things are. We seek to immortalize ourselves in one final, lasting way, and within a century, even the most lasting thing we come up with: carving into a solid rock, we are washed away - a mere blink in the moment of universal time. Standing here, my body - this "me" - is even less lasting.

I tend to stop here on my longer runs. Perhaps it is simply a lazy way to take a quick break and catch my breath, but in the gentle stream of thoughts in my head, it serves as punctuation. I recognize the juxtaposition of my living, my exerted breathing, with the lack of breath...a brief acknowledgment of my final destination beyond this run and the next, a bit of reminder to actually live in the time between now and then, and several moments of gratefulness that I am here, now, doing this, thinking this, being lucky enough to stop and think these thoughts and have these feelings.

I share this moment, and the next, I snap a few pictures, trying to capture these thoughts in a visual 1000 words, but for once, the picture cannot nearly convey all the thoughts I bring, and so I add these words.

100 Words: Tired

An ache...

Something in me weighs me down, Kryptonite in my veins. I know it will drain slowly as I drag myself from bed to bathroom counter, but the momentary agony pulls my eyes closed one more time…just 5 more minutes of eyes shut denial of morning and the new week and all that it brings with it…just 5 more minutes of the cozy warmth of my bed: down comforter, pillow, sateen sheets pulled up to my ears…

…5 minutes gone…and now for real…

I hear the alarm one more time, and turn off feeling, flip the blankets back and rise.

Change

How many times have I callously, daringly, seriously joked about volunteering for a severance package to get away from corporate America, dive into my own dreams or even look for another angle on the corporate package?

Now the news comes that yes, there will be a merger. Is it a merger? A buy out? Apparently we were bought. I don't know what it means - there are regulatory hurdles, monopoly accusations to assuage, red tape, bureaucracy and negotiations between now and that eventuality, but the invisible ink on the walls is become much more clear.

I'm off to Tampa tomorrow, to meet with my team and leadership - separate, and awkward but potentially fortuitous timing - it feels odd to pack knowing there is a 12 month timeline on "life as we know it", knowing that life as we know it has already ended. Annual goals about issue management and issue SLA suddenly seem out of focus...

Having jumped online and read the news, logged into my webmail and read the communications from our CEO, it is not a done deal, but the hit is done. The perspective has changed; there will be other changes - we just don't know when.

I sit here, rather stunned. The news is the news - and I grasp at what it means: to me, to our life, to my team. I wonder about the job market; I wonder about the job market with 30, 000 of us hitting it at the same time. I wonder who will be kept and why. I jump to the worst conclusion - corporate nepotism knows no bounds.

Our CEO encourages us to leverage the corporate values as we continue to provide excellent service but don't we all know how futile it is to expect people who are scared and willing to do whatever they have to in order to protect themselves to abide by some higher value, especially something imposed by a "government" that has little loyalty to them. Obviously. Little loyalty.

Change.

My Boy reaches in the cabinet, pulling out a wishbone. "It's probably a good time for this," he says. As I reach for it, I realize I don't know what to wish for. To keep my job? Is that really what I want? For everything to turn out ok? What is that anyway?

We put the wishbone away. I will wish when I know what I want.

For now?

The unknown; change.

Outside

I am always on the outside; I keep to the outside.

It's freedom and it's isolation - wanting to be included but staying aloof.

It's a choice and a rejection and I can never be sure which came first and begot the other, or if they are like two sides of the same coin, entwined so completely one could not separate them into their many parts. It must be of many parts because composition is never one thing and another, singularly, rather, always: one thing and many others all interdependent, holding each other up while keeping each other down.

So every time I linger on the edge of something - parties, work events, flickr photo groups and work discussions - I wonder who I'm waiting for permission from, while knowing that it's only me and my dance with rejection ~ staying safe in isolation and pondering the hazard of committing to participation.

Doctor

"In the case of the Department of Pharmaceutics vs. the Boy, in the crime of being qualified to graduate, would the defendant please rise?"

The defendant rises.

"State your case."

"I submit the following as evidence: The role of the nucleoside transporters in the absorption and distribution of the nucleoside drugs ribavirin and gemcitabine." The defendant drops bound book of research on the table in front of the panel of judges.

The defendant walks to the front of the room and begins to speak.

"...and in summary..." He finally concludes.

The judges confer. Question the defendant. They retire to deliberate. After interminable time, they return, somber faced and stern, entering in single file, one by one.

The verdict: "GUILTY as charged!" They proclaim.

"Case closed. The defendant is free to go. Collect your declaration of parole at the door. Bailiff, release the defendant from his shackles."

The defendant rises, feeling his shackles fall away, stands taller than he ever has as the weight of the world slides off his shoulders. He collects his belongings and walks out the door into the bright sunshine of the rest of his life - the future is indeed bright.

Boy - you are a graduate.

That's DOCTOR Boy to you!

Birthday

Various memories of my mother’s birthday creep into my mind: of wrapping Windham Hill instrumental CDs in aluminum foil and decorating with Sharpie pens for creative wrapping paper, to surreptitiously stalking the perfect fake fish aquarium at the teeny-bopper store in the mall to surprise her with. I would sneak off on my bike to the nearby store to buy her flowers and a card, trying to think of something nice for her birthday and trying not to raise suspicions by being gone too long. When we lived in Spokane, Grandma would cook her dinner – for some reason I am remembering pork chops but cannot confer with anyone to confirm, now that Grandma is gone too.

Always a maraschino cherry cake – that was always her favorite. Grandma always made them for her, except one year after she had moved over here and I entertained in my condo and had to make the maraschino cherry cake for the first time. I remember being incredulous at the recipe, for some reason. I don’t know why I didn’t believe that what she was telling me was accurate, and I remember remarking at the cost of the extra ingredients and more complex process. And the 7 minute icing, or was it called Dream Whip?

So Mom, wherever you are, happy 65^th – or, happy anniversary of your appearance here on this plant 65 years ago. I do wish that I had the opportunity to have made you that cake again this year. I think you would have really appreciated that your birthday was on the eve of the Boy’s defense, and even now, I think you’d appreciate that you are still part of our lives, how we celebrate, how we remember and how we honor.

Strategy

When faced with making a tough decision, I think it's very important to choose the best strategy for making that decision. Relocation is a good example of the need to select the proper criteria and evaluation method.

This seemed a lot like Tic-Tac-Toe, and we kept tie-ing.

So I had to try another method.

It still wasn't quite adding up. So I tried a little something different.

The more I thought about it, well....

And finally I settled on the only choice that would allow me to truly take into consideration all of the factors, weighted averages, criteria, feelings, finances, pain in the ass efforts, oranges, carrots and bumblebees I had to consider.

This should DEFINITELY make things easier.

The Finger

You know, the best thing I ever did creatively (no, it wasn’t that post about intangibility, or the one later about tea) was to get mad. My friend, who is very talented both as a writer and photographer – she might not believe me, but it’s true – and even as a business analyst, mentioned this quote from some asshole about writer’s block meaning you shouldn’t be a writer. I wonder if that guy knows he inspired me by being such an asshole. M mentioned this in passing, in an email, and it so angered me that I felt I had to prove him wrong. And I started blogging.

That was 4 years ago.

I’m still blogging. Maybe not as often, maybe not always with the quality I’d like, but I’m still doing it, and I’m still honing my craft. Why? Because I got mad.

When I was a kid, I watched my mom get mad every time someone told her no, every time someone told her that I had an issue. I watched it spark her energy and get her going; maybe it’s a bit of her in me – don’t you tell me I can’t because I WILL GO do it, just to spite you.

Somehow, over the last 4 years, creatively, I’ve gone through some cycles – the post a lot cycles, the creative spark cycles, the boredom with my voice cycle, the journalistic reporting of my current events, a few efforts to redefine my vision.

I think I’m in one of those cycles now – a combination of stagantion, indecision, and crippling self doubt – and perhaps that’s what I need: some good old fashioned anger and spark to prove someone wrong to get me going.

Motivation is good, and I can’t tell you how amazing I feel inside when I get a comment or an email that something I wrote, or photographed, has touched someone, or helped them see something in a new way. But, it is a lot harder to live up to something amazing than it is to flip off something awful and say, “Fuck you!” by doing that very thing and intending to show up that critic, be it internal or external. Apparently, my inner critic really backs down to that kind of treatment.

Writer’s block, my ass.

Here we go again!