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№ 75 Posts

Principium soberer: the uncorrected text

Strait of Juan de Fuca, February 2008

Good dag,

They had been the doomed passengers on a sinking rosewater, mingle it with a quart of cream, six had reasons, said sir charles. Quite natural ones. Sufficient light penetrated the place to reveal locked, our bodies intertwined, and that infernal m. Poirot! Cried jane. What is it? It is, said her room. A note was left addressed to the coroner.it would be taken direct to the hirondelle, so i say,’ answered rupert ‘i have just read miss and being cold, fill your poultry, either in cauls when the skullfaced man was taken away, it was and true men will not unfrequently damn their…

Can spam get any odder? This, to sell V1@gRa..The words seem designed more to trigger sleeper cells than sell pills. Like the line from The Manchurian Candidate: ‘Why don’t you pass the time by playing a little solitaire?

Although, I do especially like the doomed passengers on sinking rosewater imagery, as mingled with a quart of cream. I’m thinking of compiling a tome of spam abstracts for bedtime reading. But should I worry about copyright infringement? :p

A spacious split second

Rialto & Cake Rock, September 2007

I waited for over an hour for the tide to do again what I thought I saw from the corner of my eye. I’m always chasing peripheral impressions. But I waited more for me than the tide. I was about to pack it in when the cycle finally repeated. The next time it happened I was sure it would be too small, and so on..Must learn to count. How many second chances do I get?

Time to make the donuts

Ruby Beach, February 2007

Getting up really early, well it never gets really easy. But it does get tolerable. When I was younger and first moved to Seattle and worked in restaurants I used to get up to catch the bus at around 4 am. Of course I drank somewhat more in those days. Nothing quite like a whiskey hangover and the dim fluorescents of a metro bus at four-thirty on a winter morning in a strange new city. The desolation and futility of such an existence seems comically melodramatic now, but I’m still tethered to those days by slender threads of muscle memory, free association, and a knack for packing as much headache as possible behind one bloodshot left eye…

You can never truly forget such things, so sometimes when I flick on the kitchen fluorescents at 4 am I get an associative migraine. But the thought that I’m doing this for just for me is plenty to snap me out of it.

Gnawer of the moon

Salt Creek, December 2007

I only vaguely remember troll stories from kindergarten, but waiting under this bridge and the cold of the December morning was enough to debilitate me with childhood nostalgia. I remember the first time I noticed cold expressed as a distinct visual, some early winter morning chewing off the buttons of my winter coat, snot and drool alike getting cold, watching the rime star the leaves and glass. Waiting while my mother spoke with Ms Weintraub the kindergarten teacher, who was also a family friend. Of course it wasn’t the same day I heard Billy Goat Gruff for the first time, but the memory does exist in the same soft oculus that seems to illuminate all childhood memories. Anyway, I don’t remember being particularly impressed with trolls in general; though possibly with the peculiarities of their habits. Perhaps the cold, the gathering dawn light and the surreal glow of the frosty pilings conspired to hit me over the head in lieu of symbolic folkloric subtlety.

They call me Troll;
Gnawer of the Moon,
Giant of the Gale-blasts,
Curse of the rain-hall,
Companion of the Sibyl,
Nightroaming hag,
Swallower of the loaf of heaven.
What is a Troll but that?
-Bragi Boddason the Old


Spring fever

Ruby Beach, April 2008

I’m a little feverish today so I won’t dare risk rambling on, but still I wanted to post a weekly image. I think this needs to be a little moodier, but I’m already feeling plenty dark today.

Ping the depths

Ruby Beach, April 2008

The treeline at Ruby Beach is a recurring subject in my work. I must have 4 or 5 images posted so far. If I go to the coast and don’t at least stop by to have a look at current conditions it nags at me the entire drive home. I’ve gotten as far as the Upper Hoh road and turned back, so now I stop whether I think I need to or not.

It’s the one perfect subject I’ve come across; or at least recognized. The diminishing line is an ideal foil for all peripheral concerns- weather, tide, rock formations, or simple geometric study. A tree occasionally breaks rank and succumbs to the elements. There is such wonderful secondary design in the tining branches and lacework of the sitka bark. It all conspires to transform even rudimentary camera skills and haphazard composition.

I’d like to fill a volume with Ruby pictures. Even risking cliche, escapism and lipid sentiment… though if I even really want anything deeper it is increasingly difficult to say.

The remaining clouds

Crescent Bay, March 2007

I’m usually pretty exhausted when I come home from work, but I like to stop by Crescent Bay as often as possible. It’s only a few miles out of the way, and it’s a very short walk out, tide permitting of course.

There aren’t often such dramatic clouds to the northwest of us- much of the towering atmosphere seems to snag on the Olympic Mountains and the balance deflates and settles over Vancouver Island. But this was startling and quickly evolving as if in time elapse and I used a fast aperture to stop the movement, pushed the film recklessly and made four exposures to make sure I got something usable. A gamble, considering the cost of film and considering how b&w sunset shots of mine generally fare, ahem.

As such I don’t usually go for sunsets, but I like this because it had more structure than hue and doesn’t seem to suffer for lack of color. And the sea stack aimed like a schooner at the small sunburst along the horizon doesn’t hurt.

Hey, over here

Rialto Beach, January 2008

I’ve been sitting on this one, mainly because I have wildly disparate views of it- almost by the hour. Today it’s mostly unloved. I’m posting it in an effort to move on.*Alot of my work is more abandoned that finished, but this feels just a little more strained.

The day I took this I had been in a sort of ‘macro’ mood with tides and sand patterns and wasn’t really seeing anything more than 12 feet away. The irony is I spent several hours stooped over and semi-squatting trying to get the angle, selective focus and shutter timing right with tidal pictures and was rewarded with shite, fairly. Not to mention sore legs and back spasms. For this one I essentially stood up, yelped, and pointed the camera at it. Ack.

Retirement plans

Ruby Beach, April 2008

The stones lend a little illusion to distance at Ruby Beach. Gravel fans mount into dunelike mounds of cobbles nearing the woods, choking and entombing the snags there, while smaller rock and coarse sand seem to escape the tide’s notice altogether. The fine siftings frame the scree, as if meticulously arranged by size, and gives a haphazard sense of depth. It seems to suit the ‘awkward silence’ between the spalted snags and the distant rock forms.

I seldom wish that I had color film with me, but this would qualify. Maybe on some rainy Sunday I’ll have a go at hand coloring in all the foreground stones on a print of this. Heh, maybe some distant puff of senility will have me coloring in all of the work of my youth with somber-toned crayolas. I was half-thinking this as I was framing the shot when an older couple came crashing out of the woods behind me, slightly alarmed and winded, and asked where the trailhead was.

Her eyes are a blue million miles

Highway 101, Kalaloch, April 2008

I’m a big Captain Beefheart fan. His music tends to frighten some, but it has a rare disordinate beauty that works well in the spaces here, especially on crappy days like this. Almost insulting and confrontational at first (like any harsh weather here) it’s hard not to take some of the songs personally when you’re first accosted. But after a little acclimatization it’s easy to yield to things bigger than yourself.

At first I tried to compose the road out of this shot. My best intentions- postcard tendencies as I think of it- often work against me and I need to be a little more skeptical. I actually said ‘Leave the road in the picture, twit’ aloud and startled myself a little. Leaving the road in the picture is certainly a baby step as far as artistic expansion goes, but hey. Her Eyes Are a Blue Million Miles is certainly one of Don Van Vliet’s most accessible songs, but you really should start somewhere…

Then again, there’s always Big Eyed Beans from Venus. :- ]