Cyclops

self-portrait

self-portrait

Self-portrait

Self-portrait

Fun with an Anish Kapoor mirror.

Ohhhhhh yeah, baby.

1451 feet into the clouds

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.

Four eyes

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.

Divided

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).

Self-portrait

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

I and the Eyeball

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.

Welcome to the Eyeball

Self-portraits in front of the giant eyeball.

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

Self-portrait in response to Andy D's latest comment

Also happens to be my Facebook portrait. I posted it preemptively, knowing it was merely time before I was described as an mfn moron sadist.

A sad (if inevitable) day.

self-portrait and wine

My daughters don't know what to make of a father with less sense than them. A curse. They reel and fret and call upon their mother to intervene on behalf of all things good and sensible.

But to no effect.

A while back I poured myself a glass of wine and brought it to the living room, which was brilliantly illuminated with evening summer light streaming in through the windows. Contrasts were sharp and dramatic. I set the glass of wine on the rug and grabbed my camera to take photos.

DAD!!! You're going to spill the wine and ruin the rug!!!

A warning which, naturally, led to my absolutely horrible on-the-spot rendition of Eric Burdon and War's Spill the Wine, a song which takes me back to high school. I was at Stevy Shanker's house preparing for an upcoming debate tournament. I didn't know Stevie all that well, but he had an older brother, which was kind of cool. We worked in the basement, and Sammy, the older brother came downstairs and put on this song. Then he made some cracks about reefer or weed and reggae. At that time I had tried neither weed nor wine, and I'm sure I thought reggae was a rated-R style of music. So it was all bells and whistles to me, but I did know that he was talking about something exotic and out-of-bounds, and that was cool. From a safe distance, of course. It was an adult moment, a rare one for me in high school.

Back to being an adult and exasperating my children. I brought my camera and took some photos of the wine being lit up by the light, but my mojo wasn't flowing. Probably because the wine was in the glass and not in my veins. So to jump-start the mojo, I decided to capture both the wine and eyeballs. I put the camera on the ground pointing up on the other side of the glass. I peered just over the edge the the glass so I could see the lens. I tried to position one of my eyes to capture the evening light. Once these pieces of the puzzles fit into place, I clicked. So you gots your wine and your eyeballs. Throughout it all, poor Eleanor was practically besides herself now, just convinced I'm going to spill the wine everywhere. I kind of ignored her and cooed and reassured her that there's no way I'd spill the wine ("I'm a pro," I said), without believing it myself.

I don't blame her; her concern makes perfect sense. Wine glasses should remain on tables or in the hand. We once hosted a sizable party and one of our guests put her glass of wine on the floor. I sort of fixated on that glass, just waiting for it to to fall.

It did.

Which leads me to note my only form of premonition. At least three times now in my life I have had had a premonition of a drink falling. Once wine, once diet coke, and once milk. The premonitions were vivid, realistic, and followed-up by the real thing within a few seconds of the premonition. There wasn't even time to worry about whether the vision would transpire. It's like it's already occured, and when the real thing happened it was nearly anti-climactic.

A different shot, this one converted to black and white.


Why don't I have premonitions about, say, what stocks will do in the future? A shame, really.

butt.head

Sometimes a picture says a lot more than a thousand words. Sometimes it says it all.

Self-portraits

Lydia and I missed our flight coming home from KC in January. The shuttle driver had apparently never driven in snow before, and she also refused to use the shuttle's GPS system to find the residences of other customers. So we had to take a plane that diverted us to St. Paul, Minnesota. The winter sun was at such a low angle it was nearly blinding. I unsuccessfully tried to wire-up at the airport, but inspiration came when I decided to take advantage of the extreme glare of the sun off the laptop's screen. These are reflections off the computer screen.

A Jonathan Edwards-inspired self-portrait

Stolen from Jonathan Edwards:

The God that holds me over the pit of hell, much as one holds...some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors me, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards me burns like fire; he looks upon me as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have me in his sight; I am ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. I have offended him infinitely more than ever a stubborn rebel did his prince; and yet it is nothing but his hand that holds me from falling into the fire every moment...

Physical Graffiti

This friendly little neighborhood sign greets visitors and passersby. The first time our family saw it, Juli, Lydia and I were all bothered by the absence of an apostrophe in the word "dogs." This house is on a route that I frequently use when I'm walking or jogging (i.e. shuffling along), and finally I decided something needed to happen.

So please note the blue apostrophe. Now as anyone who has read this blog well knows, I'm no grammatical wizard--or mental wizard of any variety. But action was necessary here. I felt the neighbor's indignation would carry greater persuasive power with the apostrophe. It was an act of neighborly love.

Now I've never defaced property before (and I'm not saying that I did it in this case either, please note), but I think the entire neighborhood is resting easier this evening. Certainly they enjoy greater clarity of mind.

I'm confident that one major question that troubled the graffiti artist was whether to make the sign say "dogs'" or "dog's." It was a tough call, and I hope your comments here don't force that person to go back and alter it to "dogs'." That would be a most unwelcome task. If so, the graffiti artist might have to carry a sign that says, "This body is not a rifle range target."

Self-portraits

self-portrait

I was walking the mean streets of Rome when I happened by a newspaper stand with a shattered window. Which, of course, I naturally took to be the perfect opportunity to stick my camera inside the box to take a picture of myself through the jagged glass.

Shattered glass, partial concealment--all in the name of self-disclosure. I mean, how much metaphor do you need?