Frozen

There will be points in life when it is impossible to see the good in anything.



The falling snow -- once a symbol of playtime, beauty and innocence -- will mean cracked radiators, middle fingers and two hour commutes.




There will be buckets of rain for every beautiful sunset, a dozen tears for every smile and newspaper headlines that ache to the core.



There will be times -- entire seasons -- where every phone call will end in a sigh.




Times when you will plead for news to be untold.




There will be times when it becomes impossible to love or live as you should



times when the fear of everything prevents you from doing anything.




Oh, yes, there will be times.




Times like today when you think of everyone who has passed in this, the most deplorable of winters.




And you will think, hanging up the phone, of the terrifying news to come.



You will swallow, and swallow, the lump in your throat gathering into a whimper.




You will limp to your car in the morning, slave away the day and spend your nights wondering where the day -- where the time, where this life -- has gone.




You will obsess over what you cannot control. You will give into the meaninglessness of everything, marveling as the world seemingly drowns in alternating currents of vitriol and apathy.





You will see all that remains to be done -- everything you have failed to accomplish -- and you (like Buridan's ass) will do none of it.



You will starve. And you will wither.



You will sit painfully and idly by, immobilized by the future remembrance 0f inevitable loss.




And you will forget, as so many people do, that life goes on.



Whether or not you truly live it is up to you.


But the question remains: how do you focus on the now...




on the moment...




when in the end



there is so much to lose.

Snippets

•I was told recently by a male co-worker that -- aside from differences in hair color -- I bear an uncanny physical resemblance to this woman:


I don't see the similarity, but I'll take that as a compliment until further notice. Besides, not a day goes by that I don't wish I could drive 150 mph to work.

•Speaking of work... I continue to be baffled by women who:

A. Hover above the toilet seat despite the presence of seat covers in each stall.
B. Fail to make sure all of their "bidness" is properly disposed of.

•The gallery reception went OK, thank you for asking. My photograph was marked as "2nd Place," which was a bit of a shock in large part because I didn't realize awards were given (of the 40 or so photos in my category, there was one 1st, one 2nd, one 3rd and one honorable mention).

•I feel unbearably hollow.

That is all.

The Walk

The host looked at me, half-concerned as I said: "Just for one, please," solitary in a light summer dress.


Minutes later he passed my table (a booth in the back), handing me a copy of the day's Tribune.

"I thought you might like this," he said.

I smiled and thanked him — in spite of myself — knowing full well the reason for his generosity.


But I was grateful, in a way, scanning the front page to busy myself from thoughts of the day, my eyes immediately consumed by the juxtaposition of two lead stories.


There was, above the fold, a photograph of three Burmese infants (one sleeping, one eating, one crying), filthy and homeless in a devastated nation.

And next to them: a story about how the slowing economy and rising gas prices have forced one Lincoln Park tricksy out of Saks Fifth Avenue and "into Forever 21."

[Though, she later confessed, she refuses to cut back on her Dulce & Gabbana perfume.]

Seeing that story next to the world's-away photo somehow increased my sympathy tenfold for the children so-pictured. And it was funny, in a way, how that picture meant everything to me precisely because the nearby words meant so little.


And so I started to write, my thoughts interrupted by the clop-clop-clop of an elderly woman's shoes [bright red dye job, and even brighter lipstick]. Nearby at another table, the sound seems to disturb a Fragile X boy as he shrieks to cover it — noise upon noise — his parents quieting him with a gentle hush.

Soon my waitress stops by, laughing and moving on when I tell her about the eggshells.

But I wasn't kidding, I thought, There are shells in my eggs.

[Breakfast for dinner is among my favorite treats.]

But she was on to another table, a family, smiling and catering because — as we all know — there are better tips at bigger tables.


And so the nature of my visit hits me: rising later and paying my bill, not stiffing her on a tip despite her poor service.

I walked, then, on to the gallery's reception and decided that — no — now was not the time to enter.

So I grabbed my camera and retraced my steps to take a picture of a plastic bag competing with the American flag for airspace.


Marveling at how, all around me, disparate worlds seemed to collide.


But there was no avoiding the evening's objective: no sense driving home when I'd yet to accomplish what I'd set out to do. So I walked, ever-so-slowly, overcoming my nervousness — my hesitation — just as I realized it had nothing to do with where I was going.


And everything with how I was arriving.

Shudder Bug

I have never fancied myself a photographer. A writer, sure, but a mediocre one at best.

And my approach to photography has long been one that would make the professionals shudder:

I believe in quantity in the hopes of a mere sliver of quality.

That is to say: I take a camera with me just about wherever I go, and take pictures (sometimes several) of things that strike me as... odd. Or beautiful. Or even better yet: anything that qualifies as both.

From neon signs


(Some with bulbs out, leaving an unintended message in its wake)



And ironic church marquees


To shots full of empty things...



(The meaning derived from what's missing.)


...and city streets in medias res.


But this is all out of habit — and perhaps a hobby — but I've never intended for it to go anywhere.

Even as I searched for my name on the scroll — that list of photographers selected for an exhibit at a local gallery — I had no expectation of finding my name among the rest.

And yet, still,

There it was.

Dangling at the bottom (an alphabetical consequence) as though the faintest breathe might forever shake it from the page.

Big in Japan

I'm world famous.

OK, so maybe not world famous. But at least pretty highly-respected in this city.

Or, I mean, I soon will be.

I take that back. Most people in this city won't even know that the photos they see up in a popular establishment were taken by yours truly.

And, yeah, maybe I don't get any credit for them. Or even any additional pay.

But at least *I* know they're my photographs.

And somehow, in someway, that's actually enough.

But here's the sad part: they're going up in one location first, and then a few others city-wide over the next few months. I was all "excited" about this debut — even planned on showing up and taking pictures of my pictures (yeah, I'm that lame) — and then I found out the address of the first location.

"You kidding me?" I said. "I wouldn't feel safe in an armored vehicle on that street corner."

I then made a very inappropriate comment about maybe doing a "drive by" (but not that kind), and actually felt kind of ashamed of myself.

But, hey, I'm famous! We famous people get away with all sorts of things. Just ask Michael Richards.

Oh, wait...

Always the Photorapher's Assistant,Never the Photographer

And for good reason. See below for details.

Though, I did take a few shots that were in focus AND included people's faces. But I didn't figure they'd take too kindly to being exposed on a random blog such as this.

And, never fear, the "real" photographer got some great shots the newlyweds are bound to love. I mostly just help carry around equipment, and then take a few random shots here and there.