Self-portrait

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

Remorse of a hearing person

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

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

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

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

broken wine glass

Tenebrism, pt. 4

A broken wine glass in front of a lit candle.

Tenebrism, pt. 3

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

Tenebrism, pt. 1

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

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

A Day in the Life of Chicago

"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

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

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

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)

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

New Question

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?

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

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

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?

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)

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

snowfall

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

Eyeball State of Mind

Eye(ball) in the Mirror

Where is My Eyeball?

Somewhere Over the Eyeball

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

Eye in the Sky

"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

Like a Rolling Eyeball

So beautiful. So so beautiful. So Beautiful.

Magic eyeball, thank you.

With a Little Help From My Eyeball

Dark Side of the Eyeball

Smells Like Eyeball Spirit

Welcome to the Eyeball

Self-portraits in front of the giant eyeball.

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