500 Words on Pictures: Make It Then, Now Take It

Walking the dog this morning, a young guy passed in front of me, backlit by the morning sun on the thoroughfare.  He had on a short-billed cap with a hood pulled up half covering his head, and he wore a narrow goatee that he stroked pensively as he strode on.  Because I was listening to a podcast and had the capability in my pocket, the thought flashed through my mind to take his picture.

Most people don't want to have their picture taken by a stranger without permission, so I wondered if asking would do any good.  All this came to mind in the few perpendicular steps it took for him to exit my view and continue on with his morning.  I realized, as I turned the corner, that today we truly take pictures as opposed to one-hundred-plus years ago when pictures were veritably made.

Some cultures believe that the snapshots take a piece of the subject's soul; the photographic process itself, for these peoples, is a way to rob time or a slice of the spirit from a subject, even if permission is granted.  It's no wonder, beyond the pain and suffering of persecution, that photos of Native Americans in the late 1800's portrayed grim faces and steeled eyes, expressions of disdain, sometimes with a glint of fear, and almost always a sense of contempt.

 photo: library.buffalo.edu

To make a photograph used to be such an undertaking, as well.  The laborious process was methodical and painstaking, yielding a product that was a fine record of a moment but only after great effort.  Materials were rather costly, and venues for portraiture were relatively few (not the Glamour Shots in every mall or the portable digital ease of today).  But, the result of having your picture "made" was a lasting sliver of a life at that particular moment and something to be cherished.

Now we "take" pictures because it's just that simple and quick.  For the most part, there isn't any thought given to the process.  Of course, in terms of quality and realism, with the addition of color and high-defintion resolution, the photographs taken today can even venture into hyper-realism.  Even so, what are all those pixels worth if we can no longer see ourselves?

Would this kid be happier in hi-def?

photo: nationalcowboymuseum.org

I recently had a chance to sit for a portrait.  The process made me think about how I look to the rest of the world, how the mirror is only an estimation of my face, my identity.  I recall a Paul Simon lyric to that effect:  "...how I look to a distant constellation that's dying in the corner of the sky" or thereabouts. Maybe this is is what the Native Americans sensed; it was better to be as one was, without seeing from the outside, rather sensing oneself through the mind's eye instead of the camera's.

Cradle Wave

This wave is a momentous force
Bound always forward
In the cradle of civilization
It rushed toward the shore, toward disintegration

Inevitable is the crash, the foam
The roiling erosion of stone
Receding or proceeding
It carries away bones and misery, or

Inundating the land and the people
The wave risks all,
Never returning to the sea
Souls thrash under the flood

Grasping at freedom and anarchy
Yet hope and liberty remain submerged
For now looking up from below, still
Yearning for what they have not

The Western horizon trembles softly
Cowering with unknown contingencies
The fear of losing control, Revolution wrought by
The critical mass of inequality

A Wardrobe in Need of Bolstering

It's a luxurious thing to think that we should be covering ourselves in new, and more importantly, unique ensembles of textiles every day. It is maybe a purely Western thing that has consequently seeped in reverse, against the stream of emigration, back to even developing countries where the notion is all the more absurd. In my case, the fundamental problem is a tad lighter: I keep wearing the same damn clothes over and over and I always have. What's worse is that I have pictures, decades worth, that indisputably prove this fact.

If you went to public school in the U.S. you may recall picture day. For some kids, it was a day to shine in fine outfits, those normally reserved for church or holidays. My mom also did her best to send me to school looking decent that day. The on-going problem presented itself not on picture day but on the day when the prints were delivered.

It was a much anticipated moment; "Did I blink? Where there boogers? Was my hair sticking up?". These and other childlike doubts ran amuck as the overpriced prints were handed out. The photos inevitably came out fine, and my mother would be satisfied for that school year. The most embarrassing issue, though, was the fact that as I slid the prints out of the envelope, I would almost always be wearing on that day the very same clothing I had been wearing when the images were made.

I guess it was not enough to worry about during the first couple of coincidental "mirror image" moments. Other kids would notice (if I allowed the coincidence to be picked up) and before true, hormone-induced self-consciousness had set in, I wasn't all that perturbed. However, as grade school turned to junior high, high school, college and the official picture-taking opportunities grew, I noticed that what was once an infrequent happenstance had become a distinct trend.

Literally every time I had a picture taken, the image would reflect my attire at that moment and in future. So, as it turned out, my identifying documents then had an unmatched representative realism. If I were pulled over for speeding, I'm not sure if the officer would notice, but I'd be wearing the same striped shirt as on my driver's license. It was the same instance with my passport; I'd come to a customs official in an airport, and there I was, just as I appeared in the photograph.

I suppose it's remarkable that I'd have this innate, inadvertent skill of choosing the exact ensemble to represent myself in images as I would in person. After all, I stood in person to be photographed, right? It's almost as though I'd established a personal uniform, like we all do, but maybe this trend should alert me that my uniform has become just a little too uniform.

Blooms

Sitting here with a vase full of lilies. Orange ones, a few cut tall. When I brought them home there were three blooms open. Several others remained tightly shut like the part of a screw driver that bites the bit from three sides.

Now, seven flowers have spread out wide, pistils loaded with rusty pollen. One has gone as far as shedding all its petals, foregoing wilt, nature giving up under a spiraling force of gravity. What once flourished in glory and fullness is now a stalk of a stamen without protection. Its brothers and sisters still lean and reach for the light. In this inside air, there's not a chance that the pollen will ever find its target. Their attitude, nonetheless, is inate, if futile.

The first blooms suffer the effortless throws of entropy. Late blooms stand firm, as if inviting the world to embrace, petals outstretched like estranged friends approaching a happy reunion. But the artificial scenario is inescapable. The end will be in decay, maybe with a pungent smell, maybe not. Natural beauty, faint hints of honey and lightness and suppleness, becomes wrinkled, a withered pile of shriveled arms and hands. Still honor and memory balance in the air, as though the thought of the bloom alone were enough to yield a smile.

Disclaimer: Dimestore Wisdom Has Its Cost

Shouldn't we be calling this "Dollarstore" wisdom now? Whatever the name, these casual truths and observations have there place and sometimes, it seems, I think that place is here.

Admittedly, we're all wise and simultaneously naïve, so the net gain is nearly negligible. Does that mean I shouldn't comment here on the state of American malaise, consumerism, simple pleasures, or the like?

The answer to that and other questions posed here is of no real consequence. Therefore, I'll continue to spout off on whatever I dare and the lack of comment on any of it will speak more to its worth than could the words themselves.

In other words and with significantly more brevity, "Boo-hoo!"

Life is Banal: Isn't that Fabulous?

Typically, life is mundane and you probably didn't need me to alert you to the fact. Just think of the vast and numerous economies that have been fabricated and marketed to alleviate the excruciating boredom that some folks live with daily. I've been lucky in the sense that my mind tends to wander, taking me places via curiosity, thankfully keeping me from any kind of debilitating, introverted implosion. Others, the not-so-lucky sorts, have succumbed to the sirens of sulking and self-loathing. I've been that sort before, too.

So, life can be pretty boring. Fine. Taking out the trash, scooping the cat litter, walking the dog, doing the dishes -- they're all tedious and tiresome and if you let them, these tasks and the inherent drudgery could just be the ballast that sinks you into some form of interminable depression.

But if you try, and it's not that hard, you'll see that the sum of these activities, these daily challenges and chores, is life, and in some strange sense, that's a relief. There can be a subtle, quiet pleasure in the simplicity of it all. What's more, if every single day were filled with monumental events like graduation, marriage, childbirth, and the like, then just imagine the pressure that would befall you every morning. For me, the relief is in the satisfaction of knowing that today will hold at least some mild excitement. But, even if it doesn't, that's not going to be all that bad.

Maybe at the heart of all this is the midwestern sentiment expressed so succinctly in the following, oft-uttered reply to most greetings:

"How ya' doin'?" someone will ask, and you'll reply, "Not too bad."

And that's the honest truth. Really, life could always be a good deal worse. In Sweden, the sentiment has its own dedicated word -- lagom -- which means something close to "good enough". Okay, but clearly some out there are not going to settle for just fine and dandy and they're going to want more.

This brings me to the next attitude that people adopt to make it through the day, one I can relate to, but only barely. I'll call it the slant of the "hyperbolic sharer". This is the guy who comes back to work on Monday and when people ask about his weekend, he goes into some envy-inducing monologue about how spectacular were the things he did:

"It was fabulous. We took out the sunfish and criss-crossed the bay, doin' like six or eight knots, and just had a tremendous time! My kid did an amazing job at the tiller! You should've seen her! Just wonderful! How about you? What did you get up to?"

That's just fine; I'm happy for the guy, sincerely. But, did you notice all the exclamations? This is the person who's living life while consciously making every day something to rave about and brag about, like he or she had been just plain waiting for you to ask. I have nothing personal against this type of person, but this guy really makes it tough to measure up when you start to tell about your walking the dog or taking the kid to the playground.

Along with the happy-go-lucky, glass-half-full optimism of the "hyperbolic sharer", there is an accompanying sense that this person is better than you as a result of his or her actions which are always so supremely excellent and thus deeply gratifying and fulfilling on every level. When we converse, we compare ourselves to one another, consciously or not, and mostly this is natural and harmless. However, when the joyful, ego-maniacal narcissists come around, they can have a fairly toxic impact on others who aren't so self-assured.

In the end, if the Swedes were to weigh in between the aficionados of banality and the self-promoting embellishers, you probably could guess what they would say. Some statuesque blonds would smile, only slightly, and calmly suggest:

"Follow the Buddhists on the Middle Way and be happy...but not too happy. Lagom."

Chopsticks: Diner's Yield Sign

NOTE: This post had been read a lot, amazingly.  Thus, I must point out that it was clearly written from the perspective of a chopstick novice.  I've seen folks annihilate bowls of Phở with hyper-efficient scoops and slurps. In the intervening years since I wrote this, I've gotten a bit more adept with this utensil; I'm still slower than when using a fork, though.

If you didn't grow up using chopsticks at every meal, you may be just as slow at using them as I am. However, I'm realizing now that that's not such a bad thing. Anything that helps us slow down and appreciate life, in whatever way, must be a good thing (and no, that's not a Martha Stewart rip-off -- I'm simply stealing that phrase back for the rest of us!).

The clear truth is the more we hurry through life, the more we tend to miss. With chopsticks, and especially for the non-proficient operator, each and every bite is an individual process of combining ingredients (as the chef intended us to do) and then delicately but accurately delivering those items for tasting -- the best part!

How many times have you gotten that perfectly assembled mixture just millimeters from your mouth when - schlop! - the whole delicious thing plops back into your bowl or onto your plate? This is the crucial moment: If you sigh and let frustration dominant, then you've lost the battle with the noodle bowl, but if you concentrate and try again, you'll get it and all the careful picking with the chopsticks will have been a success!

Just imagine what this does for the ego of the eater; each bite that reaches the mouth is, in essence, a tiny "job well done" for the diner with its own built in reward. On the Western side, the fork is nothing short of forged, mechanical efficiency. There is nothing romantic about it and the task it helps the user to perform is completed with little grace or skill. Sure, the handhold is critical, as with the chopsticks, but even tiny toddlers can incorporate proper posture into this early expression of fine motor skills. For me, watching the same age kid handle chopsticks gracefully is a completely different, and thoroughly impressive accomplishment.





Even with the accompanying slurping and smacking, chopsticks and their efficient use help someone like me to slow down, taste and savor each bite for the world of flavors contained therein. If not for a little natural clumsiness, I might revert back to my primeval self and simply gorge without relish.

So, pass me the chopsticks, and I'll dive into the dish, even if it's only one grain of rice at a time! After all, I learned in third grade with a wonderful, patient teacher, Mrs. Fidler, and that was Cheerio by tiny Cheerio (yes, hooking through the center hole was considered cheating!).

NOTE: This post had been read a lot, amazingly.  Thus, I must point out that it was clearly written from the perspective of a chopstick novice.  I've seen folks annihilate bowls of Phở with hyper-efficient scoops and slurps. In the intervening years since I wrote this, I've gotten a bit more adept with this utensil; I'm still slower than when using a fork though.  It's always wise to slow down--just a little--and savor things.

The Smell of Dish Soap in the Morning

When I lived in Washington, D.C. for a time with my brother, sister-in-law and then 2 & 1/2 year-old niece, I learned that the commonly regarded task of dishwashing could be a pleasure unto itself. This quiet revelation on work in general gave me insight that I've since tried to apply to all manner of tasks. And why not relish these menial, day-to-day actions; however unromantic it may seem, cumulatively they amount to the whole of modern life.

In ancient times, the reality of a task-based life was amplified all the more, and as such, one can regard monasteries, convents, priories, temples and the like as the blueprints for today's rejuvenating Yuppie-centered spas and retreats. The fundamental difference lies in the work itself; the modern spa culture promotes rest and glorifies the absence of work, whereas communities of old cherished the daily work that kept them running while incidentally nourishing their members' spiritual, physical, and mental well-being. The monks had it right as they kneaded the bread, broke clods in the fields, tended the vegetables, and combed their hairshirts. When no temptation glistens provacatively beyond the light of a day's work, then the work of the day becomes life and within that work sits the key to contentment.

So, Anna would tell me, as I tried to lend a hand after supper time, "No. Just leave it in the sink and I'll get to them in the morning." To my naturally obsessive side, this seemed contradicatory. Why not rest well knowing the kitchen downstairs sits spotless and ready for another busy morning? She explained that the task of dishwashing possessed some quiet joy, the warm water and airy foam, the repetitive motion of scrubbing, the cool and flowing rinse, that she relished as a way to awaken to the day. And it made sense but only after I started to be mindful of the secret profundity of the activity.

Yes, it is strange to talk about the act of cleaning bits of food residue or burnt, charred flecks of what was, just the evening prior, a phenomenal homemade meal, as something almost sacred and valuable as a daily practice by itself.

Note: The title was either that or "Zen and The Art of Dishwashing" but after a quick google search, I found a blogpost on some site that was actually proud to call itself "Redneck ..." something-or-other and so I'd rather the none-too-subtle allusion be to the classic, mystifying film set in wartime Viet Nam.

Jazz: Faces of International Pride amidst Domestic Pain

A recent article in the Christian Science Monitor does an excellent job describing a very unique situation in United States' history related to domestic equal rights and our international image. Read for yourself and see if this dichotomy is, for you, as striking and thought-provoking as it was for me.

The following rhetorical questions are emblematic of the article's general tone which describes the State Department's employment of African-American jazz musicians for government sponsored tours across what was then the Soviet Union and various African and Middle Eastern regions:

What was it like for these black musicians to headline celebratory concerts for newly decolonized African nations on the one hand, but still not be able to stay in hotels south of the Mason-Dixon line back home? What was it like to travel under the auspices of a country known abroad for, as saxophonist Paul Jeffrey was told in Italy, white men being the boss of black men?
(By Carla Murphy Contributor to The Christian Science Monitor
from the July 10, 2009 edition)

So, just as these musicians where escorted around the world to serve as an egalitarian, collective and creative face for the nation at large, the same talented and renowned citizens, because of their heritage and complexion, would have been discriminated against without a second thought in their own home country. Even with a fundamentally sound mission, the State Dept. tours were, at heart, hypocritical public relations campaigns designed to globally promote an American ideal that had hardly begun to gain momentum at home, regardless of the known fact that equality and inalienable rights had been and still are our constitutional guarantees.

Find out more about the traveling exhibition of photographs, called Jam Session: America's Jazz Ambassadors Embrace the World, that documents this fascinating international tour by some of the greatest jazz musicians of all time.

Gray Pride...

Although I've yet to achieve a full head of silver, I am beginning to realize that my notions on aging have begun to change. This seems to be happening in conjunction with the graying behind my temples and the gradually more frequent discovery of rogue, white strands hiding in my beard.

Somehow, it has become a part of my perception of aging that going gray is something to dread. That perspective may be rooted in childhood memories of my parents faces and the locks of family friends, having watched these people I literally looked up to begin to dimly glow from their heads even after dusk. Now, I'd say if one's mop transforms itself into a shimmer-in-the-dark type of bird's nest, then so it goes. That's how you'll know you've lived through struggle or simply walked through a less-than carefree life.

Unfortunately, I've lost most of my hair already, and the little I have left is starting to tell the tale of my past without any utterance on my part. Soon the salt will begin to win its battle with the pepper and that will be it! Maybe I don't fear this transition because of my early fondness for the comedy of Steve Martin or my juvenile attraction to a friend's buxom mother who began consistently frosting her hair at the first notice of a gray.

At its heart, I think the general "dismay at gray" for most comes not from the change in our superficial identity but the indication that the rest of the physiology stands on the edge of some wicked kind of tumble, an unstoppable, end-over-end plunge into a geriatric abyss with no hope of escape except by means of death.

It might be best to look to those who we regard to have aged gracefully - Paul Newman, for me, is one. He and Helen Mirren would make a lovely elderly couple, playing shuffleboard in slow motion, feathery, flickering locks waving in the breeze. For now, I'll choose to relish the debut of each new player in the drama between darkness and light that unfolds, daily and irreversibly, on my head.

Where I'm From...

As universal as the phrase may sound, to me, the lead in "where I'm from" will always evoke the lyrics of Brooklyn-based hip-hop group Digable Planets. Their song by the same title is an ode to their native NYC borough with many a reference to Flatbush Ave, flamboyant street vendors, Jamaican hairdressers, idle kids finding innocent trouble, and the inevitable heat of summer in the city.

For me, where I'm from conjures up an entirely different brand of memory. My native land is one of subtle beauty, nothing as grand as the peaks of the Colorado Rockies, the temperate rainforests of the Olympic peninsula, or the vibrant coral reefs of Kauai, but somehow equally remarkable. No, where I'm from is filled with gentle hills, shady valleys, old beech-maple groves, and most of all, miles of crystalline, fresh water coast.

This is not to say that my place of origin beats anyone else's ~ far from it. We all have different roots and these are shaped, in part, by the landscape of our individual childhood and adolescent experiences, the places where we first howl with laughter, kiss, pray, cry, love and tumble down the knoll. In my life, I've loved the glimpses I've gained of the homelands of others, places that seem warm and welcoming in a way that is familiar but not native, not ingrained in my cells like the fair view of whitecaps carrying pollen and algae from another peninsula.

No matter what locale I may inhabit at present, it is my past that continues to define my identity. Someday soon I hope I will be able to relate to a new land in the way that I relate to the verdant place of my birth. Each place I go seems to hold its own unique features, the features that make it dear to those who've grown there. Down here in the South, it seems to be the lazily flowing rivers, deep green forests snarled with Kudzu and ivy, and the iron rich clay hard under every step. More so, here, I get the feeling that what defines this place are the muggy nights swinging on the porch with a glass of cool tea, the strolling through the neighborhood under a canopy of live oaks and mistletoe, all the while delighting in the cicadas' cacophonous serenade.

Social living is the best...

The title of this post comes from a song of the same name by the reggae artist Burning Spear (a.k.a. Winston Rodney). Somehow, I'd listened to the song for years without ever realizing what it actually meant. Maybe I never had any way to relate to the message of the track. Now, it seems, I'm becoming familiar with the essence of the lyric.


These past years have been a concentrated time for me and my partner of five years. They've been good years but ones with the requisite struggles. One such struggle has been the challenge to branch out into the thriving social scene where we live, an art/pop/rock/university scene with more than its share of hipsters and critics. Even so, it has been a decent place to live and truly one of the only urban places in which we could ever live in this state.



Remarkably, after many months of malaise and near petrifying self-consciousness, we're venturing out into it again. It feels good to meet people, find some commonalities, and realize that you can't 'click' with everyone, that not everyone has a judging eye. I may be the one with the critical bent, frequently sizing up and then internally cutting-down passersby and acquaintances. It happens much, much less with the latter as I discover the individual talents and interesting quirks that almost all of these folks possess to some degree.


As Winston Rodney sings, "Social living is the best". His way is the way of our nature; to talk, look, relate, laugh, listen, think and smile...together. So, in the context of a real society is where I'll endeavor to live, facing insecurity daily and surmounting fear just as much.

Pegged...

In reading some Michael Pollan, I quickly realized that I could be easily placed into a descriptive category of characters, as we all could if we were to appear in print, engendering a very certain gamut of qualities. The introductory heading I always wished I embodied would have to be the "slim and severe" also known as the "ruggedly handsome and strong" brand of John. However, and this is where Pollan helped me to see myself, I probably tend to somehow fall into line with the gads of the "softer and rounder" types. In a way, this is how I've always been yet my internal dialogue has never seemed to agree with my outward appearance. Now, as the decades multiply by a growing factor, the gap feels to have widened even further from where I saw myself to where I've landed, with a thump.

The landing is not to say that another flight isn't already on a slow taxi though.

It should be bare...

Letting those early posts marinate these past couple of days, I've realized that this process really is meant to be a soul-baring one. I heard someone say that the best writing is the kind that exposes the reader to the raw emotion of the author, be that to the reader's benefit or abhorrence. Oh well, this may be the nature of things for this blog. I'm hesitant to strip away all my social protective gear, but in the coming weeks I'll attempt to be less self-conscious, at least in this realm.