Showing posts from February, 2015

Personal Style: At the Metropolitan Museum

In time something that was once very uncomfortable becomes easier and even fun. When I started the project of shooting myself for my personal style section, I was quite uncomfortable and it showed in some of my pictures, it got even more awkward when I took it out of doors.  It is one thing mounting a camera atop tripod and running back and forth to press the shutter button and pose frame after frame indoors; outdoors it feels like making a fool of yourself, unnecessarily, while inviting the judgement and criticizing eyes of everyone.  I found myself, often, questioning, is this personal style thing really important? Is this helping anyone? Is there really anyone out there who gives a farting cow what my personal style is? No, not really. The world will go on without my personal style photos. But it is my belief that there are people out there like me, who love fashion and styling it in their own unique ways. Maybe someone out there appreciates this (in fact, someone shared with me ju…

Between the Pages of "To the Lighthouse" by Virginia Woolf

Mrs Dalloway is the only Virginia Woolf novel I have read. When I am done reading To the Lighthouse I will have read my second. Do you have a recommendation for my third? Here is the thing, I just really started reading. I am still within the first pages. I do not even know the little boy's name. His mother is still knitting that reddish-brown stocking for the Lighthouse keeper's little boy. She is optimistic about the morrow's weather. But the father has spoiled his boy's hope of having fine weather. His daydream about visiting the Lighthouse has been rudely interrupted and he is now absorbed in violent feelings for his father that seem very Freudian.

So my plan is to come back here, maybe today, or by the end of the week and write some more because I would have read some  more by then. I have been doing a few new things and for the moment it has become a little more challenging to make time for everything.
So until later. Stay warm (if you are also suffering winter) …

Poetry: Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden By Major Jackson

Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden
by Major Jackson

                                 1 When you have forgotten (to bring into                Play that fragrant morsel of rhetoric, Crisp as autumnal air), when you             Have forgotten, say, sunlit corners, brick             Full of skyline, rowhomes, smokestacks, Billboards, littered rooftops & wondered    What bread wrappers reflect of our hunger,
                                 2 When you have forgotten wide-brimmed hats,             Sunday back-seat leather rides & church, The doorlock like a silver cane, the broad backs                Swaying or the great moan deep churning,             & the shimmer flick of flat sticks, the lurch Forward, skip, hands up Aileyesque drop, When you have forgotten the meaningful bop,
                                 3 Hustlers and their care-what-may, blasé             Ballet and flight, when you have forgotten Scruffy yards, miniature escapes, the way             Laundry lines strun…

Photography: Bare

Walls and windows fascinate me. I spend a good amount of time studying windows: looking at them, inside them, through them. I examine ceilings, the crevices and angles in walls, the texture of still lives and things alive, the shadows on surfaces, the geometric silhouette of nature and man-made things. Shapes, textures, light, shadows, contrast. In a renewed effort to be more present I am not only paying more attention to these things but trying to feel them: their use, their current and past positions in my memory; in comfort or discomfort, pleasure or pain. Photography is storytelling. What one frames is one's narrative. I am hoping to narrate these interests by capturing them in frames. 
Bare is an awareness of space, silence, time, solitude, and thought. -- Jane

Opinion: Who Should Celebrate St. Valentine's Day?

You would celebrate Valentine's Day if it appeals to you.  I have not always been a fan but I embraced it last year and wrote about it here.  Yesterday, to remind myself and some of the people who add meaning to my life that I appreciated them,  I sent some Happy Valentine's Day messages.  I have not asked, but I think my best friend does not celebrate Valentine's Day. She goes on, often enough, about how materialistic we are as a society. When I wished her, I thought she sounded a touch awkward with her response of "you too."  I was amused. Then I wished a Parisian friend and she wrote back saying "in France, St.Valentine is only for couples. In the US do you wish a Happy Valentine's Day to everybody?"  I did not think, I just answered with "Oh yes..." and before I knew it I was on a rant; attacking the notion that St. Valentine's Day is only for couples.

It was not even apparent to my stream of thought that it bothered me that some …

Between the Pages of The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

The feeling of late is that there is not enough time to see things properly through.  It is like the morning comes along with the night.  I look up from a project  I feel I had been sitting with for mere minutes only to learn that it had taken a whole day.  I am trying, though, to not neglect my reading; despite my inability to make time slow to a pace of my own.  This week, I am taking trips into the world of William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury.  My first Faulkner was Absalom, Absalom!  It was for a class in my grad school program.  My professor, a beautiful soul with a wicked sense of humor, said to us, "I want to introduce you to some good authors, so you may find some new favorites."

Absalom was a hard read, but it still did not prepare me for The Sound and the Fury.  I was extremely confused for about the first twenty pages in, then the language started becoming familiar and the book more interesting. I am within the second chapter, "June Second, 1910.&qu…

Poetry: Dreams by Langston Hughes

by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Listen to my reading of "Dreams" below:

Photography: Smokers' Pole

-- Jane

Experiment: Dying in February

Around early January, a thought visited with me and I have been hosting it since.  Every now and then, I take it out for a walk and we float around each other.  I shared a little of it with someone I thought would understand,  but I was unable to explain myself and I feel he dismissed it.  Here is what it looks like.  Based on all that we know, unless something changes, we are all going to die.  For every lung that breathes, for every heart that beats, there is a single second on a future date when the activity of "living" will cease. The last breath, the last pump.  The music will evolve into something else that we do not yet know.  If this is so then we are in a sense already dead.  We are in a sense ghosts flitting about.

Because that future will come and pass, in a sense it already has.  One is dead the moment one is born.  Here is what makes this a little interesting: if we are already dead, then what are we afraid of? Actually dying, duh! But it is guaranteed based on…