not an odd number

i prefer 3s, 5s, 7s, odd numbers in general.

it could be that the triangulation of 3s is more pleasing to my eye. the power of the triangle, with its mystical veil thrown over it (a piano shawl over the baby grand in the corner), could not be more enchanting.

this morning i triangulated my position by first facing west and the setting moon and then east to greet the sun.

and then i turned north to head back home facing the triangles of the mountains. 3s seemed to be everywhere i turned, as if nature preferred the odd over the even.

and just before i ducked back into the house and the moon disappeared behind the western horizon, i stopped to consider, 1, 2, 3, (and took the fourth photograph of three objects.)

your thursday morning wake-up call

have you ever woken up a few minutes before the alarm goes off and decided to get up anyway?

when that happens to me, it always makes me feel more alive, even more awake as i swing my legs off the bed and plant my feet on the floor.

is it because you’ve finished your sleep cycle without being prompted?

this morning, because i woke up before the alarm clanged and startled me out of my early morning dreams, i had the time to get out with the dogs before sunrise and wait patiently for the sun to light up the eastern sky.  was it worth the 15 lost minutes of sleep?

clouds over the ocean (a challenge)

 

how often can you write about the clouds, the sunrise, the canyon, the bluffs, the palms, the pacific ocean?  when do you think  you’ve said, you’ve written, you’ve photographed these same things enough?

you’re not expecting me to answer those questions, are you?

aren’t these photographs enough proof for you that there is no limit to the variations, the subtleties, the grand gestures nature provides us each and every day?  do you not see beauty everyday?

i challenge you to prove me wrong.  tell me of the day you did not encounter one beautiful thing, moment, animal, word, thought, deed, action, heartbeat, kiss, look.

how to spoil an 8 year old’s christmas (but just in case i was wrong, coordinates provided)

30°  this morning, saturday, december 24, 2011, as i was facing south at 6:49 a.m. pst, the sun came up and spread a pink blanket of light across the ocean

-117°  when i turned to the east at 6:52 a.m. pst, its fiery heat lit up the sky in oranges licked with red which, for some reason, reminded me of…

…i don’t recall taking pleasure in spoiling my cousin’s christmas in 196_, at least not at first, although after his tears had subsided, no doubt assuaged by the mountain of gifts set before him by his doting parents, it may have come to me that speaking the truth may have unintended consequences — some that you can control and others that you cannot; you just need to remember to assess the risk/benefit factors before opening your mouth which is not always easy at any age (i speak from experience.)

banished by grown-ups to the rec room in the basement (or bored by the grown-ups we retreated to the rec room on our own) on christmas eve, he and i, never close to begin with, stood facing each other across the pool/ping-pong/foosball/game table and not knowing what else to say, but feeling pressure to say something, i blurted out, “you know, there is no santa claus.”

i stood there and watched as his face crumpled, his eyes welled up with tears, and a wail of disbelief left his lips, but by this time, just seconds after speaking the truth, my ears were burning and humming with blood, drowning out any sounds–watching him in pantomime then as he ran up the short flight of stairs from basement to foyer and up again to the living room (split-levels, you do remember them, don’t you?), the deep pile of sculpted carpeting like quicksand, all of this in slow motion, me following to see what would happen.

if only there were more to tell.  all i know for sure is that evening a shift in our relationship occurred and although we were cousins born the same year just two days apart, living in the same small town, we never really ever were friends.

ow, that hurts! (reflections on the act of thinking too hard)

i’d thought i’d tackle some big ‘idea’ this morning, but then the sun came up (as it does) and suddenly all thought of writing a manifesto for the revolution evaporated, poof!, just like that.  (you can thank me later for saving you from my feeble attempts at metaphor and the grand gesture.)

the effects of leafshine on your sunrise

this is what happens when you’re fogged in and sunrise is postponed (it’s realizing that your lover will not be making it to your rendezvous in spite of their assurances to the contrary and there you are, primped and pouffed — in the fluffy sense of the word, not in the anglo-derogatory sense, unless of course, you decide to ‘own’ it which seems to me counter-intuitive should you find yourself in the company of non-pouffers; it possibly has some use amongst your intimates, but never outside that circle–why would you perpetuate its use, i ask you?  the only time you can accept it, is when someone calls you that and you look them straight -lol- in the eye and say, “your point is?”), but i was talking about leafshine and although my spellcheck informs me that is not a word, i find it a perfectly acceptable portmanteau, a word that conveys exactly what i was thinking when i was squatting next to fallen leaves scattered on the driveway, the dogs wondering why we were stopped there — they do let me take me my photos without too much fuss — and i set the camera settings to 6 MP, turned off the flash, pushed the self-timer and waited for the exposure to absorb all of that color, just like the sunrise we were denied this morning due to the heavy layer of fog, and one that made me just as happy,  all things considered.

sunrise, saturday, august 27, 2011 (one of those inspirational hallmark® moments that we all wonder “who buys this stuff”, like we’d never, but still can’t help ourselves when it’s actually happening in front of us, and can’t help but admire and stand in awe of it anyway)

it starts innocently enough.  you set out in the morning with the intent to capture the sunrise, not only from your usual vantage point but also from the other side (eastern) of the hill you live on.

you’ve (wisely) put billy in his stroller and with joey on leash you make that first curve and see the far hills start to shimmer with the golden light of dawn (i am not guaranteeing that i will not resort to the occasional usage of well-worn descriptives, so hold on, dear reader — or look away if you must, i care not, for as long as man has watched the eastern sun bring the day to his world, he has thought these thoughts, my only hope as i type is that i will come upon some new way of expressing this moment.)

and then old sol starts to push up above the horizon, rays of light the burst of horns announcing his arrival (i often think of those rays at this very moment as the horses pulling apollo’s chariot, do you not?)

this is the way you make an entrance should anyone ever ask you:  tease your audience (think gypsy rose lee) with just enough of what will be to stop them from chattering, clearing their throats, and blowing their noses, so that all of their attention is focused on you, and then i recommend taking a deep breath, all the while resisting the urge to pop through the curtain in all of your liquid, molten pour of yellow, gold, ochre,  and hot white splendor and then just when you think they might be turning blue from holding their breath, you step through the curtain and stun them with your diamond brilliance.  the shock of which…

…forces them to avert their eyes–even for the briefest of seconds so that they may try (failing, of course) to regain some sense of decorum and perhaps stand a little straighter, adjust their bow-tie, brush off their lapel in a gesture designed to hide the fact that they are actually wiping the drool off their chin.

you see, once you’ve made that entrance, all eyes will be on you, people jostling for position to capture a moment of your brilliance so that later that day (minutes, hours, maybe even tomorrow) they will say, “i was there when the sun rose.  i saw its magnificence.  you would not believe what a singular moment it was, i wish you had been there to share it with me, because words fail.”

and now, as you stand there, mouth agape, you realize that the crowd has regained its voice and a tumultuous song of praise (this then, that hallmark® moment) has burst forth from the very essence of their being (you would not recognize the language, for it is the language of the soul.)

and you know that for at least one tenth of a second or perhaps one heartbeat, you had witnessed a miracle (the one everyone is always nattering on about.)

a sunday morning w/saturday photographs (foreword)

if you’re not careful, one day can run into the other quite easily out here.  the weather, on saturday for instance, was not that different from the weather on sunday, he said saturday night at around 9:50 p.m.  he’s even said that there are subtle differences between one sunrise from the  next, & we all know that that is not really true.  for evidence, please note photo above.  that is the sun rising on the right.  need there be more explanation?

but if you are paying attention, there are details that change everything one day to the next.  that statement is not true.  please direct your eye (& what else would you direct?) to the seascape in the photograph directly above this paragraph (a paragraph you’ll note that has no indentation, it’s only considered a paragraph because he has said it is, but that does not make it so, the reader is advised to maintain their distance & to not impose their own righteousness upon the text,) but back to the photograph, what was to be said?  the sea, the sky, some vegetation framing it.  a political act?

you would think not, but you would be wrong.  the very existence of the image is a revolution, a fight for freedom, & even this trite saccharine scene (a tree fern frond unfurls its edwardian moustaches) embodies the power to upend the status quo.

this then is the message that you will find throughout this forthcoming group of posts, a book, serialized if you will, that begins today & ends this coming friday.

miracles (art)

“It’s a miracle!”  How many times have you said that or heard someone say it over the least of triumphs?   When I photographed the sunrise this morning I thought it was a miracle.  I thought the very existence of a sunrise was a miracle; its inexplicable being (of course, we know that the earth revolves around the sun, that our earth spins on its axis, plunging us into darkness & into light every 12 or so hours) but its being seems so much larger than just the truth of it, the scientific/physical explanation of it.

When I photographed the sunrise this morning  I thought it was a miracle.   I hope to never need to know the explanation of a miracle.  Or the reason a miracle occurs (other than its logical explanation.)  I want to believe that miracles occur for no reason & for all reasons  & for reasons that I will never understand or will need to understand.  I want to believe in miracles just for themselves; for their mystical, magical selves & without the organization of fools loftily declaring the sanctity of miracles.   “It’s a miracle!”  How many times have you said that or heard someone say it over the least of triumphs?

When I photographed the sunrise this morning I thought it was a miracle.  Not the act of  photographing it, but the very fact that the sun rises (every morning.)  Artists create miracles everyday.  They write, they sing, they dance, they paint, draw, sculpt, film, they perform, they act.   It is not their fault, they have no other recourse but to create miracles (little bomb explosions, miracle terrorists they are, because they hold us hostage to their craft, their wiles, their inexplicable beauty, ugliness, truth, fiction.  Their expression is a miracle–their battle, their argument, their rage  is a miracle.

Reading (a miracle,) looking (a miracle,) listening (a miracle, ) touching (a miracle,) feeling (a miracle.)  Artists are there to make us pay attention to the miracles.   <Insert your list of miracle-makers here.  I have mine.>

“It’s a miracle!”   How many times have you said that or heard someone say it over the least of triumphs?

welcome spring

We all bow to the coming of spring.  It brings with it the excitement, anticipation & joy of passing through the darkness of winter; its rain, snow, winds now (hopefully) behind us.  Birds trill their welcome song.

Sunrise slowly spreads its warming fingers across the cool valley, reaching, stretching (a yoga position ‘greet the sun’) radiating good cheer.

What was indistinct just seconds ago, starts to emerge, the magic of an etch-a-sketch limning the hills & coastline, it’s graphite gravelly & raspy against the screen of your viewpoint.

The heat of the sun rolling up the backside of the mountains in the distance, pushing the chill of the night ever westward, scrumbling the blanket of night to the foot of the bed of the earth.

What promises have you made today?  What secrets have you revealed?

Spring cleaning, whisk away the cobwebs of winter, the heaviness of early darkness & late light in the morning.  Brush the hair away from your face, stop hiding.  It’s dawn.

Stand tall against the light, bathe in its warmth & thrill to its rejuvenating touch: blossom, flower, seed, put your arm around a friend, a lover, for god’s sake, a stranger.  Reach out, reach out, reach out.

Slough off the death of winter, reject it.   Rise up in friendship, in love, in kindness, in deep devotion to life.