H2O photo challenge- hell yeah

October 10, 2016 § 2 Comments

One of my favorite things to look at, admire, touch, and of course take photos of has always been water. You may say I’m a bit of a water fanatic. A fanaquatic?

Of course I have hundreds of photos of bodies of water, and its incredible texture, but that was too obvious, I felt. Here are some of my experimentations with H2O in photo composition or abstract styles.

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Some “debates” I’ve observed.

October 9, 2016 § Leave a comment

argument.JPGWhen you’re debating with someone about a very sensitive and/or political topic, it is good to have some factual backing for your arguments. If you know you are right, however, the need for fact-based arguments diminishes considerably, and you can basically relax into dignified smugness and repetitive, evasive responses. You know the other is just a victim of brainwashing, or maybe he’s bigoted. Either way, clearly not someone to listen to. And if your adversary plays by the same rules, you may have a chance of winning via cigarette break or introduction of an unrelated third party into the conversation – but there are few other options. If your opponent is more flexible and open-minded than you, you may get a few points across, but you must keep your inner shield strong to avoid persuasion or manipulation that may sway you to regard their obviously wrong ideas as worthy of consideration.

A bit of editing goes a long way.

September 8, 2016 § Leave a comment

An elegant bird in a pond of glory.DSC_1193_lzn.jpg

The pain of beholding beauty

August 20, 2016 § 1 Comment

I can not keep my appreciation of beauty to myself.

We went cycling by the canal yesterday. It was the most beautiful day of the year and I didn’t bring my camera. We saw green and gold, crystal clear reflections on the water as we rode, but I didn’t bring my camera. We passed all the house boats with their tiny windows and low ceilings, tanned boat masters sitting on their mattress thrones amongst their flower pots. River boats floating along at a leisurely pace as men played oddly-shaped guitars for women. Everyone was feisty, communicative and jovial. We reached a locked gate at one point, and there were two kind young men sitting by it smoking aromatic herbs – the sunshine gatekeepers, I called them affectionately. They showed us the way up and around to rejoin the canal, as we had reached a mooring zone.

The canal is like a subway for pedestrians and bikes – far away and below the city with its dirty bustle. To find our way back we had to request the services of a gentleman on his confident cycling route home which happened to be on our way that we could not find. Like a quest in a video game, we suddenly had to pick up the pace and follow this man across quiet, winding roads until we reached a group of cyclists who all seemed to be on a similar mission. He left us with a wave and a humble “you’re welcome” as he sped off, his part of our little journey successfully accomplished. We followed the rest of the herd until, before we knew it, the canal was on our right this time, and the sun was at a fabulous low point in the clear sky. But I didn’t bring my camera. We passed rows of trees and their doubles in the lightly windy water, and then they opened up to reveal millionaire houses overlooking the most peaceful and glorious part of London. Great stone habitats with columns and professional landscaping. White, throne-like benches. Maybe their kids had their own boat somewhere nearby, for whenever they may feel like toughing it out with the simpler classes. Weeping willows, white stone houses, hilly gardens, but I didn’t bring my camera!

Then I saw it. I saw a reflection under a bridge a reflection so immensely riveting I had to turn back and gaze at it. I had to get a picture even if it was with my crummy phone. A sliver of light had eased its way along the wall under the bridge and found itself refracted inside the water, creating a slightly off-kilter line. The sliver itself was perfectly reflected on the surface underneath, and its continuation was reflected opposite in a slowly moving golden reproduction of the water’s surface. Gleaming thin lasers in constant movement on the upper left side of this perfectly formed oblong golden X on a charcoal background… and I didn’t. Have. My. Fucking. Camera.

Here’s what I immortalised instead.

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Dedicated to…

August 7, 2016 § Leave a comment

Some experimentation with poetic meter. Not quite regular but staying within 8 or 10 syllables.

I lie again with you tonight
And rub my face into your palmlukalegs.JPG
There’s nothing better to find calm
Than weep and die inside your arms

My limbs are weak, my feet go numb
This living wreck I have become
Is due to life and all its woes
Torments I know have just begun.

You tell and tell me not to worry
How do you do it, you’re so calm
If around other men my mind revolves
You keep it off its guilty pathlukaatwindow.JPG

If a dilemma I need to resolve
Your words will always lead me home
It’s not such a big deal, you always say
Your lips make choices go away

Your eyes of deep, dark brownish hue
Are so immense and full and bright
They know me better even than you do
I could fall into them all night

Enough’s enough, my time is up
I have surrendered to your touch
This much at least I hope is true
That you love me like I love you

Nighttime crises.

July 31, 2016 § Leave a comment

tiredcow

ain’t nothin but a tired cow, yawnin all the time

Ever get that feeling, when you’re trying fitfully to fall asleep, that your closed eyes are merely wide open, lidless eyes looking up into darkness? I’m getting that right now. It’s somewhat disturbing, I decided to give in to my body’s evident desire to keep me painfully awake. As I look at the screen, it’s kind of shifty, blurry-like. Maybe that’s a sign I need to go to sleep. Ha! Called your bluff, body. I know you won’t let me. Wanker. I know you’re a wanker ’cause I’ve seen it myself. Another thing you like to do without asking my opinion first. Well, I’m pushing it a little. You know I’d never stop you from doing that. Except maybe that time I really didn’t feel like it, I was reading that awful article, you know? About American politics and how frightfully clownish it’s all gotten? And you just had to go and… anyway. Let me bloody sleep already.

And I feel I should do something productive, like finally get around to writing an outline of a story or something, only I feel that would only wake me more and intensify my budding headache on top of it all. So I suppose I should go on with this “stream-of-consciousness” nonsense, excuse for a writing style, and maybe lull myself to sleep that-a-way.

Go on, body, you know you need it, you need it bad. Well, not bad, per se, I’m not like, sleep-deprived or anything. Just well, I will be if you don’t hurry up and let me go, ’cause mother’s gonna wake me up early tomorrow. And you know we don’t like that, neither of us. Particularly me. You’re just a sloppy mess, and I have to put up with it. So don’t, just, don’t, okay? Christ!

Hm. God, you know what’s really embarrassing and absolutely sinful about my inner self? I am so angsty about literally every single last one of my old friends doing some fancy master’s degree after brilliantly finishing their fancy bachelor’s degree, back in the fancy old town where I grew up. I suppose I’m pretty brilliant as it is, but couldn’t at least one of them go off the rails a little like me? Can’t they make me feel like my decision of “doing a crappy little music degree and then moving on to NOT study further and just live some sort of life” was not such a terrible one? They are all so sorted, you know. So… employable. I can’t see myself in any sort of high-paying job, none. I have no skills to offer the high-paying. Except, of course, my body, she said with a tinkling laugh and eyelash flutter. But god no, I suppose it’s too easy, and also too shame-upon-the-family-name-ish.

Families. Don’t get me started about families. In fact, I won’t start. Really, my family’s pretty all right. Like, I’m pretty god damn blessed. God damn it, I’m so god damn blessed, I could so have had a cushy masters degree in my old cushy town in its cushy country with its cushy free higher education. And here I am with my blessedness running down the side, kind of glooping off into a puddle on the table and then leaking, just one long gushy drop of blessedness, leaking off the side of the table onto the floor. Just beginning to stain the floor, only a small section of it, but it’s a slow and terrible process which I’ve been in the process of beginning ever since I decided to do that stupid art school foundation year and then that even stupider music school diploma year, and then that stupid degree which I should have known would be stupid.

Look on the bright side, though, I’ve met some awesome people and been through some awesomely exciting stuff, at least compared to my old town life. Ehh… even that’s not convincing me so much. All my most deeply-rooted nostalgic memories are of that old life, growing up. Though I know the mind is so tragically deceitful, and I know when I move on somewhere else, I’ll have those same nostalgic thoughts about my life right now… and I’ll only ever be happy in retrospect. Curses.

…Only ever happy in retrospect. Good theme for a song (NOT a theme song), or name, or something. Or a bo–

No. I have not one idea for a good plot. I can only ever write what pops into my muddled brain, or whatever someone tells me to write about, provided the necessary materials. (Any newspaper peeps hiring? Nudge nudge!)

Anyway, here we go, pip-pip, off with me, the coyka* is calling.

*my personal little russky addition to the Nadsat dictionary, meaning bed

Ode to Dog

July 30, 2016 § Leave a comment

There is practically nothing more precious to me than this little being, so delightfully alive. She makes my heart cry just to see her big black eyes, so suspicious as she looks up at my mother and me after we betray her with yet another bath, or eye-cleaning, or other intrusive procedure. She makes my heart burst with laughter to see her cocky stance and pouted-out black lips as she looks at my mother, ready to prance and bark her heart out at nothing when given the command.

She’s lying there, looking at me with some bemusement and distrust in her eyes. She doesn’t trust anyone as much as my mother, and particularly not me, as I was young and impatient and tried to train her with all these techniques I learned online. I was the obnoxious parent always trying to “do what’s best” and not earning her favor in the least. It pains me to this day, but I am so happy to see what a beautiful relationship she has with my mother than I’ve stopped minding so much.

She’s the flightiest little creature I’ve ever met. Unless you have food, good luck getting close enough to so much as touch her on the back. She doesn’t need attention or cuddles, in fact, she’d rather be left alone, except by my mother. She has bouts of absolutely unbelievable playfulness, digging in the covers, pushing pillows off the bed with her tiny, thin, black muzzle and her tiny, thin, wet, black nose. When playing with toys, she gets possessive and almost aggressive, but always seems to come back for more; I’ve yet to tire her out. Only her doggie friends have managed to do that.

Twelve years of life is no obstacle for her, I still can’t see symptoms of ageing. I like to think I helped with that by insisting on feeding her a raw diet throughout her life, though recently she’s been demoted to (high-end) kibble due to stomach troubles. I didn’t listen to vets’ and friends’ fearmongering and read numerous books and sites on the subject, and I’m so happy to see that BARF is becoming a mainstream thing in pet nutrition.

But I digress.

She is so funny. Afraid though she may be of strangers, she is a bossy little napoleon when confronted with big floppy dogs like her friend Kikko the Pitbull or Bratan the Doberman. Bratan whines when she is under the dinner table because it’s a no-access zone when she’s down there. She seems to respect dogs her own size a bit more, but still tries to hump ’em good (for dominance reasons), in spite of sometimes dangerous remonstrations. On a walk, she’ll avoid any dog in her way; she’d rather not talk to strangers, thanks very much.

She’s so fragile and small. Such a tiny skeleton under all that fluff and attitude. What nightmares I have had about her being in danger. Children just don’t do it for me; but I know what a strong mothering instinct I have when I think about her. I had it since I was a teenager and she’d sleep in her crate in my room; the tiniest noise of distress from her little bed and I’d be awake and fretting. And I’m no light sleeper. I can’t count how many times I’ve woken up to be heavily disappointed at missing an awesome thunderstorm that morning. But this little creature… even now that I haven’t lived with her for nearly five years… she still haunts my dreams with her sheer preciousness.

And finally, her smell. My god, that smell! I will choose my next dog by smell and smell alone. There is nothing to calm me quite like that homely aroma that just rolls off her when she is quietly sighing in her crate as she sleeps. Nothing like that gentle aura of warmth, for it is the absolute definition of warmth, to me. When I hold her and she gives in despite the annoyance of being held, her flexible, full and bony little body just emanates this warmth and this smell so powerful that I can hardly distinguish one from the other. It is THE smell of love, and cuteness, and warmth, and body heat, and life. Call me crazy? Yes. You probably will. I wish I could capture that essence in a bottle (without having to do anything gruesome like Grenouille in Das Parfum) and keep it with me at all times… although maybe I wouldn’t, because the smell is just so connected to the body and the being, and the WARMTH!!! How many times can I use the word warmth in one paragraph? Count and see. Even the word “warmth” is lovely and represents well what I’m trying to describe.

Warmth, warmth, warmth. Nothing better! God, I love warmth. God, I love this dog!

Just how can anyone resist?

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