Eyeball Central: Photos and Jibber Jabber

(New and slightly improved) Sabotage

2012-01-16T21:28:00.000-08:00

Soul Kitchen

2012-01-07T14:49:00.000-08:00

I did not create this video because Andy D hates The Doors. That would be childish of me. That he does hate them (and I know this because he told me this, oh, a thousand times our freshman year together at U.T.) is simply a delightful unintended consequence.

Cow Gone Bonkers

2012-01-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

Golden Girl II (Daydream)

2011-12-13T18:40:00.000-08:00

Golden Girl

2011-12-07T18:02:00.000-08:00

The Dream is Over

2011-12-07T16:56:00.000-08:00

Beautiful North Carolina

2011-09-26T16:36:00.000-07:00

Ain't No Grave

2011-08-25T04:30:00.000-07:00

Yellow and Orange

2011-08-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

Blue

2011-08-03T19:49:00.000-07:00

So I don't think of myself as much of a colorist, but it turns out I'm quite drawn to blue. Here I sample some blue photos in this video. I put this together very quickly (it took 2-3 hours, I suppose), and I wasn't going for interesting cuts, or even interesting sequencing, nearly as much as simply responding to the music. I came nowhere close to going through all my photos, but I did quickly survey most of my blog posts. I had a tough editing choice, as Rhapsody in Blue lasts some sixteen minutes or so. I knew my computer could handle about 3-4 minutes of editing, but I found the prospect of cutting out either the beginning or the conclusion of the piece simply appalling. So I made an editing choice and joined two pieces together in the best place I could find. I'm sure Claudia will faint from emotional duress when she hears how I butchered the piece.

Yet again, I struggled to come up with a fitting and strong ending. I decided to play off the title and give you some cheese with my final picture-- some "blue cheese," as it were. Despite its cheesiness, I think it somehow still works.

Hope you enjoy it.

Summer's End

2011-08-01T02:39:00.000-07:00

So it's pretty clear my last two videos--what, with their crazy rock n' roll and rap music and fast-cut editing--did not capture your fancy, beloved readers (excepting Justcurious). Here I've gone the other route. Quiet. Calm. Reflective.

And, in my opinion, very sad.

Just two images here, but together with the music they evoke loss, at least for me.

Artsy broken record

2011-07-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

Virtually every picture here is a repeat from elsewhere on the blog. It seems that each video is more fun to make than the last. I had too much fun making this for it to be legal. However, I swear I didn't know how to end this thing. Until I did. And I haven't stopped smiling since.

Oh, note that I slipped in one quick eyeball in one image near the end--though the video is not eyeball-y enough, in my judgment, to warrant an "eyeball" label. Does it make any difference one way or another? No. But must one have a hobby? Well, I don't know, but "I" do.

Let it Bleed

2011-07-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

My goal was to set images to the Stones' music sans vocals, focusing on the genius of Keith Richards and, to a lesser degree, Mick Taylor. What a messy effort this entailed, as apparently all these images were too much for the computer. It died, oh, only about seventy times in the making of the video. No, I did not take these failures, even in aggregate, as a sign to cease and desist.

Hear that? That's the sound of my arteries clogging.

2011-07-20T08:07:00.000-07:00

So here's something just disgusting. I recently returned from a two-week journey through the Midwest only to discover I gained eleven pounds.

Eleven pounds!

In fourteen days!

That. Is. Repulsive!

I was hoping that I had become pregnant, but the tests reveal otherwise. Drat it all!

Most of the fattage I gained at Andy D's house, for Andy and Tracey knew that I had been missing KC BBQ, and they served up sides of the stuff. Soon my vacation devolved into a contest between how fast Andy's smoker could produce food and how fast I could consume it. I began to measure my helpings not in portions but in carcasses. I regret to inform you that I crushed the smoker.

Technoprairie also fed us like we were royalty, and there's no doubt I ate just a wee too much there, too. Homemade ice cream, vegetables served within hours of being harvested, fabulous grilled meats. But by the time I left Andy D's and got to Michigan, the damage was done. My body composition was 12% recognizably human, 83% a combination of bbq sauce and smoked bbq meat, and 5% artichoke dip. My poor in-laws took mercy on me and constructed an elaborate dolly, puller, and lever system to tote me around a la a post-Godfather Marlon Brando. Frankly I was tyrannically Brando-esque with that thing.

"No no. Just dump me in the oversized hammock there. I need to catch up on my digestion. And bring me another homemade sundae and cheeseburger if you would."

Fortunately since I've arrived back home I have shed much (though not all) of the extra weight. And with, oh, another sixty pounds or so I'll be in fighting shape. I've got the fat and washed up part of De Niro's Raging Bull role covered. Now I just need to get to the lean-and-mean part. All things in their proper order: First the Bull, then the Rage. Should be easy as pie.

Speaking of which.....Mmmmm...pie. Yummy yummy pie.

Heavenly bees

2011-07-19T16:55:00.001-07:00

Okay, it's your job to eliminate two of these photos. Which ones go?

Too late. Jenni and Andy have chosen for us (in a manner), since I more or less just removed the ones I wanted to remove--just as you knew I would.

And Jenni, so glad to have you back! I've got to check out your blog now!

Tree of ignorance

2011-07-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

The Garden of Eden. God wants his children to be fundamentally ignorant--or at least to remain children, or moral infants. (Or perhaps I should rephrase that declarative as a question: Is there any religion that encourages adults to seek truth freely wherever reason and evidence takes one? Is there any religion that encourages persons to pursue their conscience without the mediation of a priestly class or without consultation to sacred writings?) Arguably all religions discourage if not punish persons for seeking knowledge of any kind, but especially for seeking knowledge suitable for adult living. Which raises a question about children. Can it be said that young children have any religion at all? How can they? Isn't religion an attempt to deal with questions that children do not have? When my daughters were wee ones, were they Christians? Were they Presbyterian? I hope not. Not that there's anything wrong with Presbyterianism, but there's something unseemly in my opinion about a four year-old adherent of any denomination. I think a lot of parents would be (rightly) disturbed if their young children considered themselves as firm Democrats or Republicans, so why is it so commonplace to expect our children to adhere to a religion? Perhaps the Southern Baptists, with their strong conviction in adult baptism are actually on to something smart.

So let this be known as the blog post in which I praise the Southern Baptists.

Great job, Southern Baptists!

And....I enjoyed Justcurious's commentary about the differences between the cover dish meal performances of the Methodists and Southern Baptists so much--and thought it so deliciously written--I thought I'd bring it forward here as a redemptive coda to my ramblings above:

"Having witnessed the Truth as it pertains to earthly sustenance in each of those denominations, there just ain't no comparison, bro. You clearly think you've been to the heavenly feast but I'm here to tell you, you've merely eaten outside the gates. Now, my points of reference are a small, country Baptist church and a small town but "downtown" Methodist church, so maybe this is more a study of expression of zeal or pride than cooking abilities, but here's what I'm recollecting... At the SB supper on the grounds, the tables were groaning under the weight of hopes fulfilled, obligations met, and culinary gauntlets thrown down. As preacher man gave the benediction and blessing all rolled in one (which must have also granted us protection from the botulism of all those dishes sitting outside for so long), there was much anticipation for the famous dishes waiting. The ten layer chocolate cake that Carol Ann would aww shucks about, the fried chicken that Sammi said was nothin', the deviled eggs and lemon ice box cake that Earlene kept secret tabs on to guage how much more they were liked than Sarah Jane's frankly also ran apple pie and deviled eggs without the relish (novice). We waited our turn in line, peering anxiously around those in front to see if the homemade yeast rolls were holding out, but no worry, as the dishes proved bountiful and saw the adults to sated, post dinner tea drinking and story swapping and the kids to sugar fueled running and chasing about. The stuff of pride and legend, time and again.

Now at the Methodist church, the minister would remind the congregation that the covered dish supper was coming up and that meant everyone should get to cooking. Please. Then the church would buy ham and some other things to supplement what they knew would be somewhat lean offerings. Families straggled in after the appointed time by which the dishes should be on the table and waiting, tossing their bag of Sunchips onto the dessert table as they got in line, apparently hoping the loaves and fishes line had been invoked earlier. Let's see, what's more appealing... the beans out of a can or store bought cookies. Hmmmm. No, no - put one of those carrot sticks back, there are more people behind you who need one. Everyone would ooh and ahh over the rare, homemade dish that appeared and rapidly emptied. There was always sweet tea, so I guess that's something."

if I were a superhero....

2011-07-11T04:25:00.000-07:00

Truth: I had a dream last night that I was communicating with a Supernatural Power. In English, and out loud. Sadly, I don't recall whether the power was God Himself (or Herself, as the case happened to be) or merely a paranormal entity. The divine voice was that of a young female, and she said "yes" to my questions. One question I asked her was whether I should communicate her presence to others. (And now I shall consider that obligation fulfilled.) In this dream I also possessed a measure of supernatural powers myself, and I used them to cause various objects to glow at my command--proving, I suppose, that I would be neither an evil villain nor an especially useful superhero. Rather I would just be me as I am presently with the added ability to indulge my desire to darken the room and cause certain objects to glow.

"Boys and girls, you may call me....Chiaroscuro Man!!!"

I also dreamed that U2's Bono told me if I want to be a rock and roller like him I need to practice without ceasing playing the drums on the Violent Femmes song, "Blister in the Sun." Then he bungied himself off of a building.

These were two of the best dreams I've had in years.

And then immediately after that I burst into tears in a third dream.

Well, at least my subconscious gave happiness a shot. Thanks, subconscious. I owe you one.

It's not so bad!

2011-07-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

In Andre Agassi's acceptance speech to the Hall of Fame, he notes how he discovered at some point that his problems were of his own making, a product of his own decisions. Put differently, a product of his character. You can try to run away from your problems, but you cannot run away from yourself. Sometimes a move to a happier place is necessary because external circumstances do matter. Life can turn on the things happening around and to you. But it turns in equal measure on what goes on within. We feel with our heart, and the heart is hidden. How we orient ourselves to the world matters surely as much as the state of the world itself.

I directed the following question to my friend, Janet: What percentage of our happiness turns on our attitude?

Janet's response, paraphrased: "I'd say about 100%. But how much of our attitude we can control is not clear to me."

I thought that was a brilliant insight. And correct. I’ve found that chronically cheery people are more than eager to say that life is at their disposal, that their attitude is a soft and warm clay ready to be molded and directed to their advantage. Look at me, they say. I've experienced hard times, and I just bucked it up, pulled myself up by the bootstraps and engaged in a score of other golly-gee-willikers can-do metaphors.

Maybe.

I have doubts. I suspect that attitude is more like sexual preference. There is certainly a measure of volition that contributes to shaping the persons (or things) to whom (or what) one is attracted. One can make decisions that reinforce or run counter to one's natural inclinations, but how much of those basic inclinations one can affect permanently is far from clear to me. I doubt that the percentage is very great. I mean, I find Johnny Depp as dreamy as dreamy can be. And I’m more willing to admit it than, well….everyone. Still, as dreamy as he is, he’s still a dude, and there’s something about his dudeness that means that Johnny and I can only be (pretend) platonic friends. And this isn’t a matter of a social taboo. It’s just basic and visceral. He’s a dude, and dudes are basically disgusting. Sorry, Johnny.

Similarly, how much of our attitude is given a natural bent is far from trivial.

A related upcoming post: Why argumentation is basically useless. Hold your breath!

Sweeping away the old

2011-07-09T19:48:00.000-07:00

Spent the past week with my parents, and in addition to joining my sister in assisting my mother and father in making arrangements for custodial care for my father and a surgery for my mother, I cleared out virtually all of the few vestigial elements of the house from my own childhood. Over the years I had culled and gleaned and parsed through a lot of childhood stuff, and what I owned that remained easily fit in a mid-sized Rubbermaid container. I tend toward nostalgia, but this was not a nostalgic trip though I imagine that had I given myself a spare moment it might have easily developed into such. It was a work trip, and a productive one at that. I imagine I'll have moments for reflection and nostalgia in the days to come. But for now, business had to come first.

A Minivan Country Song

2011-07-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

A Country Song....

We won't make it through the night

And we will not see the sun

Cars and bikes are flying by

Everyone but us in flight

And for this we bought Japanese

Sold out American workers short

Cuz we're stuck at the KC Toyota shop

Blame it on doggone Consumer Report

Turn the key now, freedom calls

Gathering speed on the ol highway

Then we stop to get some gas

And then it sputters and then it stalls

Minivan blues breakin' Juli's heart

Oh Mr. Mechanic, Josh, be the best

Putting Timekeeper's patience to the test

For your sake, Good Sir, I'd make that engine start

Mona in the glass sphere, inverted, right side up

2011-07-02T16:11:00.000-07:00

Like our eyeball, flippin' that thing around. And then our brain fools us into flipping it right side up.

Brain, thank you. Thank you for that lie, and for the many many many other lies you tell us to construct our self and reality.

Summer 2010

2011-06-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

I'm all about vivid colors, you know. Mr. Color, they call me. That and Mr. Chronically Cheery. And Dr. Organized (aka Dr. O).

From abstraction to apocalypse

2011-06-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

This summer I have enjoyed two happy and self-indulgent opportunities to spend time with friends in the Appalachian mountains.   I took two trips, and both trips were planned relatively late, which suits me perfectly. As I long ago noted in an earlier post, my two default temporal references are (a) the immediate next ten minutes, and (b) eternity.   Most of the time the future feels altogether fictional to me, a place like Narnia or Oz—a place that can be discussed with clarity and rationality but without reference to the real world and without any discernible path from this place to that.   As a general rule, I loathe talking about the future. I have a near-pathological aversion to planning; it entails a full-body visceral physical hurt. When I plan for some future event, rather than feeling a surge in power as I gain control over my (perfectly fictional) future life, it feels like dying, as though I'm relinquishing my soul piece by piece.  Attempting to control any moment in the deep deep distant future (say, a month or more from this point), feels to me a futile, vain and hopelessly excruciating exercise in abstract thinking.   And it remains as an abstraction, as a fictive concept with virtually no significant bearing on my course of action or my well-being.

Until.

Until the moment arrives.   And then.....

And then abstraction is transformed like melting wax into utter shock, into complete disbelief that unreality somehow inexplicably--somehow altogether improbably--became real, a most unwelcome visitor to the concrete here and now in which I live.  A sickening horror infuses my entire outlook and life feels like a vertiginous spiral of impending doom.  At this tipping point, I rigorously interrogate my former self, asking him what grudge he held against my current self, who keenly feels like an innocent victim of an outrageous injustice.   What kind of gall my evil former self had to take my current self hostage!

No!

And thus I must face the day of rue-ing. For this is the day of reckoning.

The Apocalypse has arrived.

And such is how I live life day after day, decade after decade--as a long series of descents from abstraction into the apocalypse.

Stupid Stupid Pachelbel

2011-06-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

As you all know, Claudia was a Cool Cat right from the start, and I was forever trying to earn from her the Cool Cat Certificate of Coolness. Or at least the Cool Cat Certificate of Approval. Or I would have even settled for the Cool Cat Certificate of "I know who you are and know your name."

She has absolutely no recollection of this.

None.

Zero.

Because that's how the cool cats at the pinnacle of the inner circle roll (to mix four metaphors). In the economy of coolness, cool cats are universally noted but get to note others selectively.

I do recall that Claudia worked at Penny Lane records. In comparison to my peers I was far far more knowledgeable about classical music, and I decided to impress Claudia with my classical music savvy at one of my (many many many) visits to the store. Perhaps I could leverage this to win the Certificate of Acknowledgement. As Andy D will attest, at this stage of my life I was intensely (and profoundly unhealthily) enchanted by (obsessed with) the music of Mahler, and I definitely should have taken the Mahler conversational route with Claudia to establish my classical credentials. So very regrettably, I did not choose this path. Instead, I panicked. Pachelbel's Canon in D was being played over the store's sound system, and I immediately identified it to Claudia and--tragically---told her how lovely the piece was.

Her response?

"Ah yes, the Taco Bell Canon! Is this not the MOST overplayed piece of music EVER?! SO trite!!! I am SICK to death of this piece; if I hear it even one more time in a commercial or movie I think I'm going to get sick." And then she made the universal gagging gesture.

To which I just kind of smiled meekly and slunk away.

Stupid stupid Pachelbel!

Define the term and use it in a sentence!

2011-06-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

Today I heard someone use the word explitcific. Since I know this person and I heard the context in which it was used, I'm confident that this person simply merged two words together. But it's a great word, if also a new word. So your task: In the spirit of Oswald Bates, the character in In Living Color who reached a little too far and ended up speaking almost entirely in malapropisms, you are to:

1. Define explitcific.

2. Use it in a sentence.

Bonus points for tying the word to the photo.

Champagne Charlie

2011-06-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

From Andy (a comment from the last post): "Look boy. Don't make me repeat for the blog here what I told you (i.e., shouted at you, so the entire store heard) 25 years ago in Pennylane Records, when you dared question "who is that??!!" as they played Leon Redbone's greatest album and song, Champagne Charlie."

My response to Andy's comment:

I don't remember the song. That memory was discharged from me like a hairball from a cat. I do recall this: The Pennylane Records "conversation" was the verbal equivalent of walking into a buzz saw. No, wrong. It was more like Mike Tyson walking up to me and then belting me with a left-right combination because I had the audacity to ask him the time. True, I was puzzled by the song they were playing. Unenlightened rube that I was, I didn't recognize Leon's vocals as a musical style nearly as much as the drunken mumbling of a white New Orleans pimp caught on tape. Now I do not recall how much of this attitude I conveyed in my question to Andy, but I must have asked it in a very very very offensive manner. Because Andy’s (LOUD) response was merely three words. The first word being a quick "Well," and the ultimate word was "YOU!!!" I'll leave the penultimate word to your imagination, which need not be especially astute or creative--or even awake--to accurately guess.

Being the fighter that I am, my response to Andy's "suggestion" was to lower my head, quiver my lips, and splatter the floor of the record store with big plops of salty cry-baby tears.

Life does to us what she wants, and it turns out that nowadays I like Leon Redbone just fine. And Andy is correct: Champagne Charlie is a terrific little tune--er, masterpiece. But at the time I was young and ignorant and…well, what can I say? Oh how wrong I was. How so very very VERY wrong. At the time, I had not known that Andy was raised on Leon and that my question was tantamount to wishing leprosy on his family.

I didn't know. I just didn't know. Oh sweet Being in heaven, I just didn't know.

--- This video commemorates the Hunter Museum of Art (the New NOLA) and that lovely memory of the beauty of friendship from some twenty-five years ago.

Hunter Museum of American Art: The New NOLA

2011-06-17T14:38:00.000-07:00

Just when you are saying your thank you prayers that we are absolutely concluded with the year-old Hunter photos, I decide to bust out some last-gasp photos for you.

But I think we've pretty much soaked it for what it's worth. So that means that now is the time to move from the soaking stage to the beating of the dead horse stage.

Or to go all zombie on you: First squeeze all life from the topic. Then let it terrorize you as the undead.

It how I do.

p.s. As a side note I HIGHLY recommend "It Might Get Loud" for y'all. It's a fun little documentary about three generations of electric guitar maestros: Jimmy Page (my fave); The Edge; and Jack White. I especially commend the film to Andy D. It would serve as a salutary musical education for him as it somehow (shockingly!!!) locates showcase-worthy genius in the staggeringly vast space between the two bizarrely improbable musical antipodes--Eddie Van Halen and Leon Redbone--that constitute the entirety of his musical universe.

Okay, that's a lie. Andy recommended the movie to me a year or two ago, and I just now watched it. But it is true that Andy's music tastes are defined by antipodal exclusivity. Okay, that's a lie, too.

Comput-ah magic

2011-06-16T20:17:00.000-07:00

This is the original untouched photo. When I took this shot, I had been waiting for Lydia to come forward (she had been on the steps) so I could get her reflection on the ceiling, which was capturing the shimmering light off the waves.

Then I decided to crop most of the extraneous stuff and focus on Lydia and her watery reflection in the ceiling. When I took the photo I intuitively thought I'd flip it upside down--an intituion that I typically have with water reflections. (See, for example, my March 12 post.) Something about the flipped shot in a case like this feels visually truer and no real affront to our understanding of reality.

As I looked at this, however, I wondered whether the magic wasn't in the double mirror image but in the reflection alone I don't know, and I couldn't decide so I decided to include both images here. I lightened it up, too. I quite like this one below. It's more evocative, I think, and simultaneously simpler and richer, revealing more by concealing more.

Wisdom of the Aged

2011-06-14T15:39:00.001-07:00

So last Saturday morning Julianne and I met a lovely young couple who are engaged to be married in a few weeks. As part of their church-sponsored pre-marital counseling, one of their assignments was to meet with a newlywed couple as well as with a young couple with very young children. Lastly, they were to meet with an “established” couple.

In other words, with an “old” couple.

Guess which of these categories that Julianne and I satisfied?

Now to be sure, this couple is adorably fresh and stunningly handsome with impossibly perfect gums and lovely dewy skin. They are sweet and kind-hearted, innocent in demeanor, quick to smile and laugh, and just generally a cause for hope in the future of humanity. They are fit, skin golden from sun, muscularly toned, youthful nordic gods, simply pulsing with young-person life and openness.

Frankly we were chosen by this gorgeous vigorous and idealistic couple for having been sufficiently beat down by life. The young man had earlier approached Julianne and asked her, rather tactfully I thought, how old “your husband is.” When she told him my age (43), he knew he had hit the jackpot!

Old people central! Woo hoo!

He told us we were chosen because we could offer them “wisdom.” Wisdom. Yeah, right. We understand what “wisdom” is code for. Aged. Infirm. Old.

So we met them at Starbucks, and after we purchased our drinks, we sat outside in the baking and broiling sun. After a while I began to drift off a bit, preserving my mental energy impelled by the slim hope I might yet be able to avoid heat stroke. Both Juli and I promptly propped our elbows on the table and rested our chins on our hands, leaning forward to pop the straw into our mouths—typically requiring no more than three or four tries--engaging in precise calculations designed to economize our motions to save our strength for the rest of the day. We moved only to jostle with one another to fight for the drifting shadow of the umbrella.

Our young friends, in contrast, leaned back, ribs and muscles showing through their shirts, to soak in the rays. Later that day they were going to repair cars on the half-melted asphalt and go biking in the 98 degree heat.

Bless their hearts.

Our conversation went something like this.

Adonis: So what can you tell us to prepare for the transition to the married life?

Juli: Well for us it was actually blissfully seamless. We had dated for some seven years, and we were best friends. We knew each other very well, and we knew going into our marriage that our personalities dovetailed together. We were all eagerness, and marriage was like the flowering of an already beautiful plant.

Me: I read on CNN just yesterday that the people whom we find to smell the best—and to whom, it turns out, we unconsciously gravitate—are those whose genetic makeup for their immune systems are the most dissimilar to our own. Apparently the evolutionary advantage of this attraction is that your offspring will benefit from a blending of complementary immune systems. So that’s one useful warning I can issue--if either of you smells chronically malodorous to the other, that definitely does not bode well for your kids. I’m guessing they’ll have asthma. At least.

If your husband be funky, your kids be feeling punky!

Juli: MIKE!!!

Me: Right. Sorry. Juli’s right, the transition from dating to marriage was all good. But what did we know? We were so young. You’re young, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Look at you. Look at them, Juli! You are both SO gorgeous! Juli, were we ever that young? Really. We were ever as handsome as them? I don’t think so. This guy, I mean…..his arms are like pistons!

Venus: Okay then……I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bailey. But could you tell us about the transition from being married without kids to having kids?

Juli: That one is trickier to negotiate. When you go from a situation when you’re attending almost solely to one another’s needs to one in which you need to care for this other little creature who’s so helpless and so needy and so time and labor-intensive, it means that the relationship dynamics will have to be reworked.

Venus: That makes sense.

Me: People tell you all the time that love isn’t zero-sum but expands with each addition of the family. Bogus. I’m telling you right now, 100 percent bogus.

Adonis: I’m sorry?

Me: Okay, love does expand. You do manage to love each new member of the family. But you don’t get more hours in the day now, do you? Or more energy. Love expands, but it just doesn’t expand enough. Which is why studies show that married couples with kids are less happy than those without them. So it’s not 100 percent bogus. But it’s a good 20 percent bogus.

So stay childless as long as you can pull it off.

Juli: Mike, you don’t mean that. You love our kids!

Me: I’m not saying kids make you unhappy. I’m just saying they make you unhappier.

Juli: Mike?

Me: Look, I wouldn’t give up my kids for the world. I’d rather cut off my right arm and left leg with a Swiss army knife like that dude in the movie than see them get hurt. But I have to accept that part of the reason I think this way is because I’ve suffered from so much cumulative sleep-deprivation. And you know why? Because of them! You end up loving them because they’ll cause your neural wiring to fray.

Juli: Maybe we should move out of the sun.

Me: And don’t be pressured into having kids!!!

Adonis: What do you mean, “pressured”?

Me: Well, you know. In the secular world it’s considered bad taste—a sign of certifiable ya-hoo-ness--to have more than one or two kids. Have enough to replace yourself at most. To have more is to prove in plain sight that you’re unconcerned about our planet’s dwindling resources. You’re selfish. Each birth of your babies shows just how fervently you hate polar bears. But you’re not secularists. You’re evangelicals. So you’re going to feel pressure—mostly subtle but nonetheless very real pressure—to have lots of kids. To show that you trust in God’s providence to take care of you despite the fact that you’re broke and have no business bringing kids into the world. And to obey his command to submit the earth to your dominion and to rid the world of those pesky polar bears. You’re not really considered a real evangelical unless you have at least three kids, preferably four or more, and if you really have the Holy Spirit you’ll adopt a gaggle of children from regions of the world you learned about by reading National Geographic.

I’m saying this: Don’t buy either story. Bogus.

Juli: Yeah. Okay. Anyway, we’ve found kids to be genuine blessing.

Venus and Adonis (looking nervously at one another, eyeing their watches, clearly itching to go running and kayaking.) What do you do spiritually to stay close?

Me: Close to whom? To one another? Or close to God? Or close to God and to one another--the whole triangle business?

Them: umm….both to god and to one another?

Juli: Well, we’ve had all sorts of wonderful church experiences. We used to go to a really fine church in Austin that….

Me: They’re not asking that, Juli.

(Venus and Adonis look nervously at one another.)

Juli: We’ve done lots of great things, edifying things, over the years in church.

Me (to Venus and Adonis): You’re asking about our Walk With The Lord, right? The ol’ WWTL.

Them: Uhhh….well….really….we’re

Juli: He’s teasing. Ha ha. We are spiritual. We go to church. I love hymns. And…..and….soup kitchen…and…Sunday school.

Me: No no no. Our Walk With the Lord! You know! As in how we pray with and for one another. For our marriage. How we wake up early for our quiet time of prayer and bible study. As in how we’ve come up with family mission statement. How I attend Promise Keeper meetings. How you bake me casseroles. That kind of stuff.

So to answer your question, that ain’t us. We don’t do that stuff. Not that there’s anything wrong with it.

Juli: Mike, umm… I think that maybe here we ought…

Me: To be fair, Juli prays. And she sometimes wears an apron, too. I pray, too, you know, and no, not just when I lose stuff. I pray all the time. Some people call it muttering to myself, but I know better. And so does God. I love to pray when I mow the lawn for some reason. I listen to hip hop, mow, and pray. It’s one of my favorite things. Don’t know why, really. Must be something about the drone of the mower and the beat of the music that busts open the floodgates. Hey! I naturally pray when I shower, too! Something about being naked just…

Juli: Ok. Mike. Ok.

Me: You know, I didn’t used to go for this iced coffee thing. Seemed like a bad idea. I gotta say I’m a convert!

Them: Okay, well. Hey, this was great. We sure appreciate…

Me: I’ve thought of something else, too. Don’t do what other people tell you. Just live your life. Discover what you want and then do it. Do things together but have your own hobbies, too. Be polite to others. Listen to them. Be kind. But live your own life with one another. You’re not married to your parents. Or to your friends. Or your colleagues. You want twelve kids? Have twelve kids. There’s enough polar bears. You don’t want kids? Don’t have any. You want to live in Sweden? Go. Do what you want. Do what you want. Do what you want.

Mostly just don’t listen to advice. Really. Except for this: Try the ice coffee. Excellent stuff.

Them: Yeah. Okay. Well….you know. Hey. Thanks.

Us: You bet!!!

And that was that. So I’m thinking they’ve got a pretty solid marriage ahead of them. Not entirely thanks to me.

Just mostly.

Southern Gothic

2011-06-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Lydia's pose reminds me of a Degas sculpture. Maybe you know the one. I am thinking of Degas, right?

My three favorite rock stars

2011-06-11T17:38:00.000-07:00

Just posing for their album cover, photographed last summer at the Hunter Museum of Art.

Perspective

2011-06-10T14:58:00.000-07:00

I've seen this photo rotated at every 90 degree angle, and they all make about the same amount of sense. This is how I photographed it.

Hunter Museum of Art, Chattanooga, TN.

Good times with the kids.

Big time good time.

Big time.

We're still recovering.

Just an innocent post about art

2011-06-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

Hey, whataya say we take an edifying and innocent stroll down the corridors of some art galleries? Gee, that sounds delightful, doesn't it? And, to repeat, it's merely a perfectly innocent endeavor. No ulterior motives whatsoever.

Ulterior motives? Nah, that ain't me.

Well let's see what we have here. Hmm....it's a beautiful Matisse I saw in the AIC!

Matisse is always described as a "supreme colorist." Supreme colorist. Not a good or great or masterful colorist. Supreme. Well, perhaps rightly so. What I like about this painting is the contrast of that big splash of color against the black background. Oh and you know I love that light/dark contrast. Okay....so let's see what else we discover.

Isn't this just good clean innocent fun? Oh goody, I'm having such a delightful time!

Now looky here, an eyeball, also in the AIC. I can't recall who the painter is, though if I had to guess by the looks of it I'd say either Magritte or Duchamp. (If you know who it is, let a white boy know.) Now a couple of things strike me as interesting here. One is how we know it's a female eyeball. The markings between male and female eyes are incredibly subtle, surely, and yet we have no trouble whatsoever discerning that this is a female eye. Apparently a lot of our brain is devoted to making sense of faces. Another interesting feature is how we know that this painting is perfectly complete. Why do we know this?

Well, I'd love to talk more about this but for the sake of our little journey, let's move on.

Hey, what do you know, here's a rabbit!!!

Isn't this grand? A rabbit actually depicted not in death but in life! And not just alive but joyously so, dancing on an anvil, a nice juxtaposition of light and heavy, of spirit and body. This bunny practically screams life and innocence, doesn't it? So cute, so sweet. I can't remember the artist, but I suspect it's that contemporary English dude, Barry Flanagan, whose trademark is the metal hare. (Does he have competition in this genre? I truly do not know.)

All I know is that this sculpture is so very very innocent. Let's keep moving.

My lord, what is this?! How did this slip in here?

What kind of twisted mind chooses to depict bunnies in such a state of carnage?

Ah bunny! Ah humanity!

Wait.

Those bunnies aren't slaughtered lumps of cold flesh. No. They are merely sleeping happy little creatures, resting peacefully, enjoying each other's company and body warmth. They're pulsing with life, these bunnies. Much like how this little guy, here below, isn't slipping into eternity in a pool of his own spilled blood. No way!

He's just a happy little innocent bunny.

So very innocent.

So very not dying a horrible and cruel death.

49 Rings (This boat is sinking)

2011-06-04T21:40:00.000-07:00

Like Poe's shaft of light on that deformed eyeball (oh you know what I'm talkin' about), the word "images" at the beginning of the video is driving me rapidly to madness. I inserted the word as a "placeholder," as I had yet to come up with a title for the piece. I intended to change it to a more video-fitting word or introduction but forgot to do so. And then only after I saved the piece and uploaded it to the blog (a process which took about twenty minutes or so because the file is so large) did I notice that "images" is still there.

The madness.

The raving lunatic madness of it all.

It's time for a caption contest!!!

2011-06-03T01:23:00.000-07:00

What's the right caption?

Mine will win because of its historical accuracy and trenchant social commentary.

What Emma was saying was this, "Daddy, I just LOVE art museums!!! Nothing causes my heart to pitter-patter with joy like stepping inside an art museum with my family. Especially when you have your camera, Daddy-O. It's like.....Nirvana! I feel SO badly for those poor kids whose parents refuse to take them. I'd much rather forgo Disney! I pray to soften the hearts of those mean parents."

It's a longish caption to be sure, but it's a good one. But if brevity must win out, then I'll reduce it to this: "Daddy, I just LOVE art museums!!!"

Another point. My camera blows. That makes me sad in my heart.

And a question. Why won't my wife allow me to buy a better one? Sure, she'll tell you she's been begging me for years to buy a better camera, a point she'll corroborate with "witnesses" who'll claim they've heard her tell me that. And sure, she'll tell you a thousand dollars in the checking account has been earmarked specifically for a camera. But I know that the government has banned earmarks. Just part of big conspiracy to prevent me from buying a better camera.

Cuz the one I have blows. (If you don't believe me, read "another point" above. It backs me up here.)

Big ship, bigger shins

2011-06-01T03:50:00.000-07:00

I cropped but otherwise did little to alter this photo. Just more of my obsession with reflections.

Alice in Wonderland

2011-05-31T19:07:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture of my big girl and her two little sisters. Lydia's a great babysitter to them when we're out--responsible and a good decision-maker!

Under the Bridge

2011-05-31T18:48:00.001-07:00

Lest one might have begun to think my blog featured lots of color (see Tulipalooza), I thought it best that we restore order by throwing in a dash of gray.

Tuliptopia

2011-05-30T06:24:00.000-07:00

Macbeth's Spaghetti

2011-05-29T17:29:00.001-07:00

Okay, you food bloggers out there: Would this photo work for your blog? Or, is there too much thought of death here and too little thought of culinary delight?

Just askin'.

It

2011-05-29T14:11:00.000-07:00

What Lies Beneath

2011-05-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

Andy D: Welcome to the Bean, my friend. I think you'll like this place. Anyone who's been fully beanstalkered never looks back.

For what it's worth, this photo nicely captures how I truly do view the world most of the time.

Christy refuted (once again)

2011-05-27T19:07:00.000-07:00

So Christy, you can't see this and say I don't take my kids to fun places, like this park with scenes of yummy Chicago being devoured by bizarro long-tongued red creatures and plastic dinosaurs.

Wait, I didn't take them here.

Still, they BEG me to take them to art museums. That's a lie, they don't.

Still. I definitely take them to fun places.

Like art museums.

Building emerging from a rock

2011-05-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

1451 feet into the clouds

2011-05-27T06:06:00.000-07:00

This will forever be the Sears Tower in my mind, not the ridiculous "Willis" Tower. As my dear father-in-law would say, "Come on! Gimme a break!"

I considered calling this photo, "Eraserhead."

And some flags in the wind for you pleasure sans crazy-a$$ hair.

Glass, wood, and woman ascending

2011-05-26T19:13:00.000-07:00

I completely forgot about these photos from over a year ago, and when I went to the AIC this year, I took yet another set of photos of a woman in this same area.

Hmmmm......not only am I not original in my photos in the broader world, I'm not even original within my own photo sets. (I'll display those soon.)

Four eyes

2011-05-26T19:09:00.000-07:00

Photo of my image reflected at the base of a (middle-sister) Lindholm vase. The solid glass of the base reflected a separate image from the hollow glass at its core.

I wasn't going for creepy. Creepiness goes out of her way to seek me out.

Railing

2011-05-25T19:17:00.000-07:00

The statue is the same, captured from different perspectives. These photos are a year old. I have a lot of catching up to do.

Bounce

2011-05-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

Though this shot is just over a year old, Lydia looks so much older now. Sigh....

Divided

2011-05-24T19:17:00.000-07:00

More reflections. These taken exactly a year ago today when I took the kids to the Hunter Museum of Art in Chattanooga. There is a fabulous piece of art that's essentially nothing more than a billion and six little mirrors. I'll be posting more in a day or two (and perhaps I've already posted some already).

Four Square

2011-05-24T19:04:00.001-07:00

I'll likely take this photo down. I like the idea of it but I just executed it poorly. Lots of clutter I didn't think about in the photo. I had the camera over my head so I just guessed what would be in the screen, so I suppose I'm lucky to have captured what I did. Still, luck don't make it good.

Happy fractures

2011-05-24T18:55:00.000-07:00

Taken (against rules, natch) at a certain art gallery in GA. My kiddos and one of their friends from school. Lydia is barely discernible on the far right side about two-thirds of the way up the photo.

Self-portrait

2011-05-23T18:55:00.000-07:00

My most insightful self-portrait! (Or not. I don't know.)

Remorse of a hearing person

2011-05-22T19:06:00.000-07:00

Here below is my revised and sanitized discussion on the hearing impaired:

"If genetics are determinative, someday I’m going to lose my hearing. My attachment to Led Zeppelin and Radiohead will surely prove counterproductive in my future struggle to forestall the inevitable.

The end."

Rabbit of prey with murdered victim

2011-05-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

Yet again we regrettably note that rabbits are inextricably associated with death--and death of a particularly gruesome and grim variety. Last summer I was minding my own business at the Montgomery Museum of Fine Art, thinking my typical cheerful and well-adjusted and positive and upbeat and encouraging and life-affirming thoughts when, tragically, I happened upon this bird-destroying (and presumably bird-devouring) work of art.

Prior to this experience, I had always considered rabbits as hapless victims of murder, as exemplified--if you recall--by my mother-in-law's cruelly realistic depiction of a rabbit in its last frightened moments, shivering in terror in a pool of its own blood.

Since that time, I've noted the theme of rabbit death in countless other works of art. Why are artists so cold-blooded, so fixated by poor Bunny's death?

I do not know the answer to this question, and this makes me sad in my heart.

But here at least, we see the rabbits are not taking their deaths lying down. They're fighting back. I was shocked by this particular rabbit's brazenness.

Artists, lock your doors at night. Because it starts with birds, but who knows who their next victim may be!

Thoughtful reader Andy D. reminds us that history is replete with examples of killer rabbits. You likely recall when President Carter was attacked by a trained bunny assassin. This photo of the event was released only after he scurried from office to take refuge in his rabbit-proof bunker.

And here is a rare film capture of one of our most notorious killers, a medieval rabbit of profound unholy intent.

In memory of Hank

2011-05-02T19:37:00.000-07:00

Hank (AKA "Hank the Tank" and "Hank the Happy Dog") was the dog--more puppy than dog, really--of Andy D. and his wife Tracey. Hank has a special place in my heart not only because he was the sweetest, happiest, most loving, most rascally dog one could ever want, but also because he was the dog that taught my youngest daughter Nora that she need not be afraid of (all) dogs. Dogs can be good, and Hank the Tank was a terrific boy. When Andy D informed us the other day that because young Hank was suffering badly from cancer and slipping quickly and they had to let him pass, Nora was, along with one of her sisters and one of her fathers, simply torn up inside. So in honor of that lovable rascal Hank I decided to put together a little tribute to him with some happy (if also tender) music.

Nora told me that "Dad, I hope they get another dog as nice as Hank, but you can't replace Hank." She also told me that she loved Hank for four reasons.

1. He always remembered her and her sisters when they visited.
2. He was always happy.
3. He was always loving.
4. She taught him how to dance.

Admittedly, I have no idea what she means by this last point, but it's neither the time nor place to interrogate her. I'm sure she did teach him how to dance.

The last thing she said was, "Dad, I want to keep Hank in my heart."

Me too, honey. Me too.

Storm of April, 2011

2011-04-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

I already posted this video on FB--and I hadn't thought about posting it on the blog--but Carrie (Dr. baker) asked me to post it here so some of her relatives who are not on FB can view it.

The song is "Storm" by Jose Gonzalez.

Ode to the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

2011-04-22T19:34:00.000-07:00

broken wine glass

2011-04-21T17:25:00.000-07:00

Tenebrism, pt. 4

2011-04-20T16:36:00.000-07:00

A broken wine glass in front of a lit candle.

Tenebrism, pt. 3

2011-04-20T15:29:00.000-07:00

One of the blog's visitors refers off-line to Juli as "The Mythical Julianne" or, at times, "The Mythical Creature Known as Julianne"--presumably because Juli features so rarely on the blog. Her default photo disposition is: "SMILE!" Crazy, I know, and certainly not a trait to be encouraged here.

I do not know whether these photos will enhance or detract from her mythical-ness.

Tenebrism, p. 2

2011-04-20T14:38:00.000-07:00

Tenebrism, pt. 1

2011-04-18T18:54:00.000-07:00

I originally set a few photos (most of which I will post individually) to music, but putting a photo to film degrades their quality and I couldn't bear to ruin the images.

The infinite patience of my friends

2011-04-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

The setting was a frozen fountain in Atlanta with a hole in the ice which virtually begged me to position my camera at water level and then capture something sliding across the ice and plopping into the hole. And that something I chose to be my sunglasses. The victim--er, friend--to assist me in this project? Brian Carroll. His patience was great--as he is an expansive man--but I sensed its limits. We were perhaps both equally relieved when the sunglasses, in a "Once in a Lifetime" moment, complied with our demands.

Transitions

2011-04-10T19:45:00.000-07:00

A Day in the Life of Chicago

2011-04-05T18:11:00.000-07:00

"Tomorrow Never Knows" came to mind while I was filming Cloud Gate. Genius! The World's Easiest Video. Then I thought of adding other video pieces from my trip to Chicago that did not fit. At the same time I (also) decided to add Beatles songs that (also) did not fit together. Or fit with the video pieces. And my computer crashed trying to sort it all out. Twice. So never have I experienced such a (tragically) high inspiration to execution ratio.

Such is life.

Disney Trip

2011-03-20T05:35:00.000-07:00

The song is "Trip Like I Do" by The Crystal Method.

When I saw the pulsating lights that you see at the beginning of the video, I actually heard in my mind the opening pulsing of the song I use here. Then when I got home and decided to see whether in reality the two fit, I was very pleased to discover that they do.

The woman's spoken vocals in the song were lifted from one of the band member's answering machine messages left by a woman he met at a club. At least that's what my omniscient friend Mr. Wikipedia tells me.

Upside Down Reflection in Water of Mary, Mother of God, With Floral Halo

2011-03-12T08:20:00.000-08:00

Or at least that's what I see.

I don't know who (or what) the sculptor intended to portray. My guess? Mary, Mother of God, with floral halo. But you already knew that, didn't you?

Shoot, you knew that's what I'd see even WITHOUT the title.

Cuz I be seeing Mary everywhere. That's how I roll.

Evocations--images in the ice

2011-03-01T17:27:00.000-08:00

Our eye is trained to find form where none exists. Here I see a creepy hunched-over-dog-like creature. The creepy hunched hound-like creature of the Baskervilles, as it were.

And here I see a creepy ice skull.

And here I see a remarkable likeness in pure ice of a creepy corporate building.

Question for Technoprairie and Timekeeper (TK)

2011-02-23T03:11:00.000-08:00

Why was your mother so angry at me in my dream last night? WHY??!!! Cuz she was scary mad. Way scary.

New Question

2011-02-21T04:46:00.000-08:00

Was the last post politically neutral?

My wife says, "absolutely not." She seemed shocked when I pointed out that I did not note--not at all--who boobman might have supported.

"But you DID!" she said.

"Didn't."

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

And it went on like this for quite a surprising amount of time; it began to resemble the Monty Python "Argument Clinic" skit.

Finally I said, "No, YOU read the politics into it, thus confirming my only implicit point--that culture reveals politics. But I nowhere suggested how plastic-boob guy voted. Your sureness that I did simply reveals the obvious--not about me but about him."

And she concluded, "Sure. You didn't say it. Just as Fox and Glenn Beck don't *say* that Obama hates America or that he is a Muslim or was born in Africa or whatever. But they imply it, and you hate their ridiculous stance of plausible deniability. And I'm just saying you did the same. Which is fine with me. I don't care. I like what you wrote. But you should be honest with yourself about it."

So reader, Am I right or what???

.....I ask, perfectly neutrally.

Obama or McCain supporter in 2008? What say you?

2011-02-19T09:10:00.000-08:00

I observed this charming ornament--and testament to the virtue and sophistication of American culture--hanging from the back of a giant-work-monster-action pickup truck.

Parked in the handicap space of my daughter’s ortho building.

As you can see, the license plate (I digitally changed two of the letters) is from Alabama, and based on what I overheard in the truck owner’s conversation, I gather the truck’s owner drove around forty-five minutes to come to the bustling metropolis of Rome, GA, where the miracles of modern medical care are readily available.

( )

There. That parenthetical space is for you, dear reader, to insert your own far-too-easy and cliched joke about Alabamans [Alabamians(?)], their teeth (or lack thereof), and the need to drive out-of-state to receive orthodontic treatment.

(Okay, I can’t resist a good cliche. Here’s mine: How does one straighten a tooth?)

In the movie Amadeus, there is a fabulous scene in which Salieri, who has heard of Mozart but has yet to see him, entertains himself by winding his way through the attendants of a grand gala to which Mozart is a guest, carefully studying the faces before him, searching for the face of pure genius, challenging himself to discern Mozart’s identity by Salieri’s own conception of what genius must look like.

I thought it would be pleasurable to play the same manner of game. As I walked from the parking lot into the waiting room, I wondered whether I would be able to correctly identify by appearances alone the person with the sensitivity, refined taste, and gentle classiness to be the proud owner of a plastic boob ornament?

Is the face, in fact, the window to the bosom of the soul?

Unfortunately, the game turned out to be a bust—in a manner of speaking. The room only had three people in it. One person was a professionally dressed middle-age woman. The other people were an older man and a young teenage boy, presumably the man’s grandson. The boy was wearing a t-shirt that said “Feelin’ lucky?” on the back, but unfortunately I did not have the pleasure of seeing the front of his t-shirt.

Alas. And if that was not disappointing enough, the conversation I overheard simply gave the game away.

The older man spoke to the woman, and the following dialogue ensued:

“Yuh from Rome?”

“Nearby. Silver Springs.”

”Huh. Ya know’f Rome’s got a Dick’s Sporting Good Store?”

“It doesn’t. Probably the closest one is in Kennesaw.” (Kennesaw is a suburb of Atlanta.)

“Kennesaw?! ……..Huh. I don’t get around to Kennesaw—wait, no, I’ve been there a cupla times to go to some gun shows. Where’s the Dick’s at?”

(The woman explains where it’s located.)

“Huh….I reckon that’s near the new Walmart. Yeah, we live in Alabama. Gotta big ol’ creek we overlook.”

”Oh, that must be really nice. Is the creek large enough for kayaking?”

”Kayaking?! I suppose. I know this much. It’s called a creek, but when folks see it the first time they say, ‘That ain’t a creek. That’s a river!”

“Oh, that sounds lovely.”

“It’s nice all right. Suppose you can say this boy here (pointing to his grandson) pretty much lives in Paradise!”

“Hmmmm…..I suspect that may be a matter of opinion.”

At which point I nearly laughed out loud.

We can’t play the Salieri-Mozart game, but we can play a different one. Do you have enough information about this man from the little I’ve shared with you to confidently guess his politics? So here’s my question to you:

Who did this man support for president in 2008 and how much money would you be willing to bet on your guess?

This is not a trick question. I do not know the answer. Also note: I said “support,” not “vote for.” Obviously since the man is American there’s a good chance he didn’t vote.

Judgment Seat

2011-02-13T08:08:00.000-08:00

It was either "Judgment Seat" or "Angry Chair." Bible? Or Alice in Chains? Bible? Alice in Chains? Hmmmmmmmmmmm.....and the Bible wins!

I and the Eyeball

2011-02-01T05:16:00.000-08:00

Temporary name change in the blog in honor of a friend who refers to our blog in shorthand--quite winningly--as "The Eye."

So yes, Lydia has seen the blog. And a certain father-in-law, though I won't mention whose, wrote me an email the other day and noted that he, too, had seen my eyeball series. His assessment is best summarized in his own words: "Not sure what to say...."

Oh, I think that says it all.

Hey, this is interesting. Lydia has asked to type a special message for Shinigami-Sidhe. Well I don't see why not. Sure Lydia, go right ahead:

"Thanks Dad! You're the BEST!!!

Hi, this is Lydia. I want to write this note to Shinigami-Sidhe, who my fabulous and first-rate and simply lovable father has informed me was one of the most clever (former) students he had the pleasure to teach! In particular, I want to respond to your kind offer from a few days ago, when you wrote this: "Lydia, if you are reading this and have any awkward questions, I will totally answer them!"

I very much appreciate the offer, and I want to respond accordingly. Before I proceed, however, I want to assure you that this really is Lydia. Really. Believe me. This is NOT my father typing out a phony reply posing as me. That would almost be wrong (though charmingly clever), and my father is a most excellent and honorable man. What a guy!!! But back to the letter. I want to assure you that, first of all, I don't have any awkward questions. I don't even think them. Not ever. And I won't think them in the future, either, or at least not until I'm about, oh, 28 or 29 years old. I think nothing but happy innocent (precocious) child thoughts, and in particular I chiefly think thoughts about just how lucky I am to have such excellent and loving parents, who have devoted their lives in recent years to chauffeuring me around God's green earth without ceasing, completely sacrificing their own happiness for my own. (I should add: And cheerfully and without complaint! Man, they really are the BEST!!!) Secondly, I also want you to know that were I ever to stumble upon an awkward question, I will just stuff it deep down inside where it belongs, hidden in the dark recesses of the heart, buried under layers and layers of good Presbyterian guilt. If I MUST ask an awkward question, however, I will consult my parents or, if they are not available, maybe--just maybe--a very happy and contented nun. I will not consult my friends or peers. Ever. Actually, I will consult my MOTHER because though I know my father to be wise beyond measure, I would not want to embarrass him with awkward questions. That would be unfortunate. But thank you, S-S, for volunteering me your ear. How very kind of you.

Yours,

Lydia and NOT my father"

So how 'bout that?! Lydia has spoken.

What's that, Lydia? You want to write Mr. Andy a note, too? A note about how you stand by your assessment of my writing as "profound"? Well, why don't we wait for another time, ok? He's a little....busy.

A sip of forever?

2011-01-29T17:32:00.000-08:00

From a brilliant and fun art exhibit at the Nelson-Atkins Art Museum. It was by the British ceramics (and conceptual) artist, Clare Twomey, and its purpose was to prompt viewers to consider perpetuity, and perpetual responsibility. I signed up to take home one of the cups (for forever) but, alas, it was given away to some unworthy--to some person who probably never gave eternity more than a moment's thought in his/her life.

http://www.nelson-atkins.org/art/Exhibitions/twomey/index.cfm

Well it was bound to happen. Lydia has found my blog. Lydia was at the laptop and I was on the desktop computer. Out of the blue (or so I thought) she said, "Dad, you are a profound writer." Wow. That's really nice to hear from anyone and especially from one's daughters, especially given that that daughter will be entering teenagerdom less than a couple of months from now and that may be the last compliment I hear for some good long while. So I asked her, "Why do you say that? What are you reading? "Oh, your blog." "Oh....what are you reading in particular?" "It's your post about pleasure. You say you like the feel of washing your hands." "Alrighty then! Umm....why don't you stop reading there, honey, and read something else?!" ("Something," I was tempted to add, "that's more family-friendly." D'oh!!!)

Winter of 2010-2011 (thus far)

2011-01-23T16:21:00.000-08:00

My goal, dear reader, was to bring you pain from beauty or, if not from beauty, then from cold.

snowfall

2011-01-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

Hey, no attempt at creepy here. I aimed for beautiful.

Eyeball State of Mind

2011-01-17T11:34:00.000-08:00

Eye(ball) in the Mirror

2011-01-16T10:21:00.000-08:00

Where is My Eyeball?

2011-01-15T13:28:00.000-08:00

Somewhere Over the Eyeball

2011-01-15T10:03:00.000-08:00

Photos of the double-rainbow taken the same day I took the photos of the (glorious) eyeball.

Eye in the Sky

2011-01-12T21:05:00.000-08:00

"I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Not a perfect fit, but I've been wanting to post that quote for years. I finally broke down and did it.

All the eyeball photos in this glorious eyeball-rific series are from photos I originally took of an eyeball sculpture we saw in a sculpture park in St. Louis. [Yes, even the "Pop Goes the Eyeball" eyeball, which (obviously) I cropped and reduced in size.] We were driving from Rome to KC to visit my parents, and though the drive is nearly 800 miles, and we completed the trip in a single day, I insisted on stopping at the park specifically to visit the giant eyeball. One must pay hommage where hommage is due, no?

We spent a good hour or two there walking about and taking in the weird sculptures.

Oh, glory.

Pop Goes the Eyeball

2011-01-12T18:22:00.000-08:00

Like a Rolling Eyeball

2011-01-12T17:11:00.000-08:00

So beautiful. So so beautiful. So Beautiful.

Magic eyeball, thank you.

With a Little Help From My Eyeball

2011-01-12T17:07:00.000-08:00

Dark Side of the Eyeball

2011-01-12T05:58:00.000-08:00

Smells Like Eyeball Spirit

2011-01-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the Eyeball

2011-01-10T10:10:00.000-08:00

Self-portraits in front of the giant eyeball.

Prepare for more eyeball photos, friends. And....Happy New Year to you!!!

2010 in Review, pt. 6

2010-12-23T12:46:00.000-08:00

I need Oswald Bates' help here. Evocationism through abstractionism?

Affirminaction!

2010 in Review, pt. 5

2010-12-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

Positively revelling in contrast?

Yeah, you know me.

2010 in Review, pt. 4

2010-12-22T20:01:00.000-08:00

Photo of dead butterfly hanging from a spider's web tilted to give it the look of taking flight?

This is what I do.

2010 in Review, pt. 3

2010-12-22T19:36:00.001-08:00

Irony discovered at the cemetery? Of course.

This sign on a gravestone nearly took my breath away. I suppose I should have read it as a symbol of loving devotion, but instead it immediately read to me as a bitter jab at poor mother for having abandoned her child.

2010 in Review, pt. 2

2010-12-22T19:23:00.000-08:00

Shadows?

Check.

Found in me creek: Manatee!!!

2010-12-21T12:23:00.000-08:00

Arr, me hearty!

Ahoy!

When I be looking for booty in me backyard tortuous creek (me creek o' death, as it be), lo and behold, what think ye, matey, that I stumble upon with me sprogs?

Nay, not a mermaid, ye superstitious scallywag!

Arr, it be a manatee.

In me backyard.

Now it be true that I did reassemble its bones just a titch, but merely a titch.

Arrrrr!!!

2010 in review, pt. 1

2010-12-19T14:22:00.000-08:00

Stinging creatures? Natch.

And freaky little eggs? Fo shizzle.

---
And my real goal? To post more photos from NYC and Chicago! Respeck.

Bike in the water

2010-12-19T14:12:00.000-08:00

Just remembering the good times of 2010. Remember Nessie, Jonbon?

White moth at Ms. Wanda's place

2010-12-18T18:30:00.000-08:00

Oh creepy Santa, I will NOT sit on your lap.

2010-12-15T18:50:00.000-08:00

I'm back.

You miss me?

Death Battle of the Bands: Trumpet FTW

2010-11-16T06:48:00.001-08:00

Readers--

Here's a question I posed to my good friend, Jeff, husband of Justcurious, as prompted by the very odd appearance of BOTH the UNC and V-Tech marching bands joining the football field to perform together.

Question: If you had to go to battle armed only with a musical instrument, what would it be?

Assume your opponents are also armed with instruments. You may use more than one type of instrument. You may do a MacGyver and jerry-rig instruments (and instrument parts) however you'd like. It is a battle to the death.

Discuss.

Answer: Trumpet

Cloud Gate

2010-11-15T18:54:00.000-08:00

The sculptor of Cloud Gate is Anish Kapoor. And the ever-trenchant detector of subtle irony is Andy D.

Oh, it on!