Day 365 – The Last One and a Big Huzzah

It Bustles

Day 365

Finis by Dorothy Parker

Now it’s over, and now it’s done;
Why does everything look the same?
Just as bright, the unheeding sun, —
Can’t it see that the parting came?
People hurry and work and swear,
Laugh and grumble and die and wed,
Ponder what they will eat and wear, —
Don’t they know that our love is dead?

Just as busy, the crowded street;
Cars and wagons go rolling on,
Children chuckle, and lovers meet, —
Don’t they know that our love is gone?
No one pauses to pay a tear;
None walks slow, for the love that’s through, —
I might mention, my recent dear,
I’ve reverted to normal, too.

•••

At long last, it is finished.  I finished where I started as planned from the very first shot.  And I am stunned at how the quality of my shooting has improved.  I never realized I had so much to learn.

And a good riddance to this 365…

First shot and final shot. What a difference a year makes….

Day 285 – They Roll Them Up at Dusk

They Roll Them Up at Dusk

Day 285

U.S.A. (from Three Night Poems) by George Garret

Say, they roll up the sidewalks all over town
by 11:30 p.m. Lord, by midnight there’s nothing
moving, doing. Lone streetlights glare,
one-eyed, but do not dare to dance.
Here and there late lamps burn pale
fire to keep back the beasts of the night.
Somebody’s sick, you think (like Huck),
or, less innocent, project the lewd
fantastic, the cheap old beams
and images from broken movies
into frail naked rooms. Alas
for the cop on the corner who offers
a glass-eyed stare, and for the last car
weaving the pavement like a lonesome drunk.
Dancer, giants, heroes and dreamers,
where are you now? It’s a fact–
when a heart breaks it doesn’t make a sound.

•••

10:30 p.m. and not a soul on the streets except for me with my camera.  30 second exposure and not a single car to leave light trails in the frame.  Just the wind blowing, howling overhead, the sound of a trash can clattering on an adjacent street and dried up leaves chasing each other down the darkened sidewalk.

Is it any wonder that I love this small town so?

Day 258 – It Depends on What You Choose

It Depends on What You Choose

Day 258

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Choices. It is all about choices.  I have made one or two of those in my life:  Moving to this area with my parents as a young woman, taking a job at a department store, not pursuing a higher degree in favor of moving up the ladder in retail, living with a man who was unsuited to me, going to a bar with a friend on a cold winter night.  Had I not made those choices, where would I be now, I wonder?  Would I be living the life young Cyndi had hoped for in a large city pursuing the artistic dream?  Would I be jobless and homeless far from the family who loves me?  Would I be happy?  Would I even be alive?

One decision:  To move to a small town in 1990 brought me to this place – to a job that I love, to a relationship with God that I never dreamed possible, to two children whose love overwhelms me and a man who I hope to grow very old with.

I like to think I made the best choice in the world.

Day 245 – Casting a Golden Light

Casting a Golden Light

Day 245

A man saw a ball of gold in the sky by Stephen Crane

A man saw a ball of gold in the sky;
He climbed for it,
And eventually he achieved it —
It was clay.

Now this is the strange part:
When the man went to the earth
And looked again,
Lo, there was the ball of gold.
Now this is the strange part:
It was a ball of gold.
Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.

Last night didn’t offer me much in the way of photo ops – it offered me body aches and general malaise, but that was about it.  I managed to get a shot of one of the glass light globes hanging in the café at the church and stuck a fork in because I was done.  I think that is enough about yesterday, because if I write more, it will just be complaining and who likes a complainer?  Not me!

Day 202 – A Little Bit of Sharp

A Little Bit of Sharp

Day 202

Bells Of Gray Crystal by Dame Edith Sitwell

Bells of gray crystal
Break on each bough–
The swans’ breath will mist all
The cold airs now.
Like tall pagodas
Two people go,
Trail their long codas
Of talk through the snow.
Lonely are these
And lonely and I ….
The clouds, gray Chinese geese
Sleek through the sky.

Oh, how I love playing “catch up.”  I spent the two hours at the church while Sami practiced, editing Christmas concert photos, practice photos from last week for the production and two days worth of Christmas tree photos.  This is a crystal garland my mother has draped in one of her Christmas trees.  I liked how the lights made it sparkle…

Day 199 – Open Open Open

Open Open Open

Day 199

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 13: The half-shut doors through which we heard that music by Conrad Aiken

The half-shut doors through which we heard that music
Are softly closed. Horns mutter down to silence.
The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.
Darkness settles upon us. A vague refrain
Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain.
In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.Where have we been? What savage chaos of music
Whirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness,
Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.
We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming
A warm white moonlit shore;

Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight,
Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness,
Or a singing sound of rain . . .
We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness,
And enter our dreams again.

So, I am really, really stretched thin right now.  I really had planned on pulling out some photos from the archives to post.  I just can’t do it.  So here is the view from the outside looking in on a dark, cold night.  The wind chimes were blowing; pretty but it sounds as cold as it feels outside at night right now.  I am a day late in posting, which I really do not like to do, but oh well!

Day 197 – Taking Chances

Taking Chances

Day 197

Glass by Robert Francis

Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.

Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.

If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.

Today is a banner day for me.  I have set up accounts at three stock photo sites.  This is a huge personal risk for me.  I have never sold any of my work, and though I have done maternities, weddings and family shoots, I have never charged for any of those services.  Call me insecure, but I have just never felt my work and my equipment were worth charging for.  Well, I was told today that “time is money” by a photographer and friend whom I admire greatly.  If I sell anything, well, I will be upgrading equipment in an effort to make my craft easier and to improve my results.  But I am very, very nervous…..

Day 196 – Big Night in a Small Town

Big Night in a Small Town

Day 196

The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus by Ogden Nash

In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn’t anybody’s joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.In school he never led his classes,
He hid old ladies’ reading glasses,
His mouth was open when he chewed,
And elbows to the table glued.
He stole the milk of hungry kittens,
And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE.
He said he acted thus because
There wasn’t any Santa Claus.

Another trick that tickled Jabez
Was crying ‘Boo’ at little babies.
He brushed his teeth, they said in town,
Sideways instead of up and down.
Yet people pardoned every sin,
And viewed his antics with a grin,
Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,
‘There isn’t any Santa Claus!’

Deploring how he did behave,
His parents swiftly sought their grave.
They hurried through the portals pearly,
And Jabez left the funeral early.

Like whooping cough, from child to child,
He sped to spread the rumor wild:
‘Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes
There isn’t any Santa Claus!’
Slunk like a weasel of a marten
Through nursery and kindergarten,
Whispering low to every tot,
‘There isn’t any, no there’s not!’

The children wept all Christmas eve
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez’ ribald mocking.

He sprawled on his untidy bed,
Fresh malice dancing in his head,
When presently with scalp-a-tingling,
Jabez heard a distant jingling;
He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof
Crisply alighting on the roof.
What good to rise and bar the door?
A shower of soot was on the floor.

What was beheld by Jabez Dawes?
The fireplace full of Santa Claus!
Then Jabez fell upon his knees
With cries of ‘Don’t,’ and ‘Pretty Please.’
He howled, ‘I don’t know where you read it,
But anyhow, I never said it!’
‘Jabez’ replied the angry saint,
‘It isn’t I, it’s you that ain’t.
Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn’t any Jabez Dawes!’

Said Jabez then with impudent vim,
‘Oh, yes there is, and I am him!
Your magic don’t scare me, it doesn’t’
And suddenly he found he wasn’t!
From grimy feet to grimy locks,
Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy with springs unsprung,
Forever sticking out his tongue.

The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.

All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,
The saucy boy who mocked the saint.
Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

This isn’t the photo that I had planned for the night, however my Michael had a small concert (surprise, Mom!) at Free Church Park here in town tonight to welcome Santa to his little home away from home.  The middle school band played a few songs, the high school choir sang a carol or two and Santa’s helper read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.  Lots and lots of rugrats running around nipping ankles and otherwise behaving like the children that they are – they straightened up the moment Santa came out and told the powers that be to turn on the Christmas lights.  All in all, cold, damp, noisy and satisfying because my baby boy was part of it.

Christmas Lights - Radial Blur and Twirled

Day 194 – There Must Have Been Some Magic…

There Must Have Been Some Magic...

Day 194

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Samantha built this snowman yesterday after the big snow.  He is sightless, voiceless and sniff-less – she couldn’t find stones or a carrot to give him a face.  But I think he is lovely nonetheless!

Day 193 – Tomorrow is Another Day

Tomorrow is Another Day

Day 193

little tree by e.e. cummings

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don’t be afraid

look          the spangles

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i’ll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed

you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they’ll stare!

oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we’ll dance and sing

“Noel Noel”

Just one of those “tree shots” you see so many of this time of year.  It has been a very long day – 8 hours locked in my office working on a large scale backdrop for a Grinch event at the library (my brain and eyes are strained) and then off to the church to cut out a whole. lot. of. snowflakes.  Oh well…. In the words of Scarlett O’Hara, “Tomorrow is another day.”