The XX - Crystalised

In Columbus, we always have Begger's Night on any night but Halloween. No one seems to know when this started and why this persists, but it does. Last night I gave candy to a Satanic Mechanic, a murdered Catholic school girl, a very young vampire, and many storm troopers. Just when you though that creative, hand-made costumes had gone by the way-side ...

When I was little, stores didn't really sell Halloween costumes, so you had to make them from scratch. I can recall being Pippy Long-Stockings, a Gypsy, an Indian Princess, and some kind of robot made with cardboard boxes and lots of aluminum foil. I applaud those diligent parents who have fun with their children, dressing them in outlandish outfits for one night in the year!

Happy Halloween, friends!



I like the layers in this music, don't you?

Solitude

I was agonizing over this week's photo assignment of defining my 'muse' when I serendipitously received an article in the mail from my dear friend Leann. The article was a speech given by writer William Deresiewicz to West Point graduates on solitude and leadership. I read it and reread it with interest. You could have easily exchanged the word 'leadership' for 'creativity' and, there it was, I had my muse.

I thought about solitude and its role in creativity. Mind you, I like people. I like talking and laughing with them and sharing ideas. But one needs solitude to create; time to digest and contemplate the day, the world around you, and define one's own relationship to it all.

The assignment required that I not only photograph with this muse in mind, but write a poem about, or to, the muse. I took photos from my weekend project (102310) and converted them all to infrared images, which always appealed to me because of this otherworldly quality it brings to images.

My project:

And my poem.

To Solitude


I was alone when

You sat next to me so quietly

I hardly noticed you approach.

Taking my senses into your pale hands

You walked with me

Silently, pointing to little things

We noticed in unison.

We allowed things to go unsaid;

The smell of coffee at the breakfast table;

A snail’s glistening trail;

The silver laughter of children playing;

The worn gilding on old leather books; and

A gentle breeze rustling the midnight trees.

We spent our days getting drunk

On the music of crickets and cicadas

And the rapid drumming of rain on the roof.

You guarded the door against intruders

While I inspected the filigree of frost on a window pane

Where time was distilled into this single moment.