Archive for ‘Photos you won’t see anywhere else probably’
78 items.
We woke up, made coffee, then stepped outside to watch the finish of the Peachtree Road Race.
10 or so cases of bottled water were sitting in the hall.
Above is the winner in the men’s division, Ethiopian Terefe Maregu. Yes, from the rear, but I was clapping as he came running by (we were one block from the finish).
I didn’t get a photo of any of the other winners because, again, I was wildly clapping.
But, hell, as far as I’m concerned, anyone who crossed the finish line was a winner.
55,000 participants, all shapes and sizes. Amazing how there wasn’t a uniform or predominant body type constructed by training…except for a set of twins who wore identical gear exposing apparently identical physiques. And, no, I don’t have a photo of them either because I was marveling at that exceptional similitude as they passed. The same way I was marveling at how un-uniform everyone else was.
The empty sidewalk is because the last block was, well, blocked off.
After the finishing participants picked up their t-shirts, some came looking for the train. But the street they needed to cross was blocked…because of the race.
When we came back inside, the 10 or so cases of bottled water that had been stacked in the entryway were gone.
”Comment
Though I have often thought of it as “silly overfull thing slopping water all over the place”, when an adult he will fondly remember the nail in a jar experiment that he kept on the side of the bathroom sink, retopping with water daily, for a full month and then some (as of June 24, 2008).
We went on the Taliesin West tour back in 2005 and did it again this trip. We all enjoyed that first tour. And I got some great photos, a couple of which I later used as a base for digital paintings. But this tour was conducted by an architect and former student of Taliesin West and I’m glad we went on it as his focus was different from the other tour guide so the experience was like same setting but a very different itinerary.
This tour guide’s name was Jason. Frank Lloyd Wright didn’t design for individuals as tall as Jason.
The first tour guide spoke a lot about the sculptures and other pieces of art at Taliesin. She was engaging and it was interesting but I frankly don’t like most of the sculpture at Taliesin West. Still, she was convivial and very friendly with H.o.p., who was the only child on the tour, and he listened with ardent devotion. She made sure to deliver facts to H.o.p. that might interest a child in particular. That tour was especially attractive for H.o.p. as he enjoyed the sculpture and the woman spent a good deal of time in the sculpture garden and spoke on the works.
Jason’s focus was on Wright and the architectural details of Taliesin West and Wright’s philosophy and the history of Taliesin West. He was knowledgeable and entertaining. He pretty much walked right through the sculpture garden without much commentary and I didn’t feel cheated. Some of the pieces in the sculpture garden did, however, seem to be different from our last go round and H.o.p., with his love for sculpture, told me later he wished he could have spent a longer time in the garden.
H.o.p., having previously been to Taliesin West, has since seen documentaries on Frank Lloyd Wright’s life. After Jason’s introduction, H.o.p. leaned over to me and asked if he should raise his arm and tell about the murders at Taliesin East as the guide hadn’t mentioned them, but Jason eventually got to that part of Frank Lloyd Wright’s life. He covered quite a lot in an hour and a half.
Taliesin West, Tour Guide, 2008
Taliesin West, Tour Guide, 2008
There’s H.o.p. in the background with his hat beginning to remind a little more of the Beverly Hillbillies than a Sergio Leone western.
Not long before this, the time came for H.o.p. to show off his knowledge on Taliesin West and Frank Lloyd Wright (which isn’t much as it has all been eclipsed by the murder story).
“Do you know who built Taliesin West?” the tour guide asked.
“Slaves!” H.o.p. excitedly answered.
Hmmm.
Yes, H.o.p. was off by a few years on that one but in relaying history and current events to H.o.p. I have, admittedly, tended to try to give a more 3-d view. H.o.p. knows that slaves still exist in this world, he doesn’t think of them as past tense. And I talk about people working for slave labor wages. Plus, he’s been on enough tours here in the Deep South and whenever someone asks, “Do you know who built…?” the answer is always going to be, “Slaves.” His was a knee jerk reaction.
The tour guide got a big laugh out of this. H.o.p. realized his error and said, “Oh, yeah, students!”
On the way out to Arizona, H.o.p. had piped up from the back seat wanting to know more about labor activist, Joe Hill.
Weren’t we surprised? Marty looked at me like, “Well, how about this?” I have never taught H.o.p. about Joe Hill. Nor has Marty. But H.o.p. had learned about Joe Hill elsewhere and something we were talking about had brought Joe Hill to his mind and so he spoke up.
So, that’s what was going on in H.o.p.’s mind. Who built beautiful place? Slaves! The unrecognized downtrodden worker!
Oh, yeah, students!
Taliesin West, Red Stairs, 2008
Jason didn’t do the hard sell but at the end mentioned three issues of the Frank Lloyd Wright Quarterly on sale at the back of the room, one on Taliesin West, another on Taliesin East and a third on the architectural school at Taliesin West, so I stopped by the table and purchased all three because the tour had me primed for purchasing them. Then we headed down to the gift shop where there was a book that wasn’t there our last time through and was just the book for which I’d been looking that first time through, “The Vision of Frank Lloyd Wright” published in 2007. A nice overview for a great price and I got that as well.
H.o.p. battles the Sentinel Snowman Knight, 2008
Unprecedented! A second snowfall in one week here! Seriously, this is quite something for Atlanta.
This snowfall didn’t have quite as large snowflakes as the first and wasn’t hurtling with as much vigor from the sky, but enough had gathered in a couple of hours for us to drag out a bucket and construct a snowman out of what we harvested off the cars. We’re not exactly equipped for it and very shortly our thin leather gloves were soaked and our shoes and pants soaked, but still we forged on, determined to complete the sentinel snowman knight.
Yes, H.o.p. says he’s a sentinel snowman knight.
We are quite pleased with our sentinel snowman knight, which I believe bears a spiritual resemblance (at least) to the Knights Who Say Ni. The snow had pretty much stopped falling by the time it was done, and is already quickly melting. We came inside, ate something warm, then went back out long enough to take some pictures, which is why H.o.p. is sans gloves and his overcoat here.
The Bench before Matisse’s “The Piano Lesson”
At the MoMA, 2007
Standing Bodhisattva, MMoA, 2007
Bodhisattva, MMoA
Subhutti: Is it at all possible, O Lord, to hear the perfection of wisdom, to distinguish and consider her, to make statements and to reflect about her? Can one explain, or learn, that because of certain attributes, tokens or signs this is the perfection of wisdom, or that here this is the perfection of wisdom, or that there that is the perfection of wisdom?
The Lord: No…
Buddha, MMoA
While Marty took H.o.p. to the restroom, I briefly visited this one room of the Asian Galleries.
Then it was time to eat and head on down to F.A.O. Schwartz.
Lego Santa at F.A.O. Schwartz
Oh! You better watch out,
You better not cry,
You better not pout,
I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town!
The Humiliation of Aristotle by Phyllis
Metropolitan Museum of Art
2007 December
The above was one of the more startling (and riveting) pieces of art I saw. First glance and I was transfixed by Aristotle’s seeming ecstatic yet serene expression and his surreal proportions. If there’s any humiliation involved with his plunge from the intellectual world into unreflective nature, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it.
At MMoA, we spent a good portion of time in the Knights in Shining Armor galleries, H.o.p. ogling metal and me taking dozens of photos for him since he’s been knight crazy for a year and I knew he’d want to be able to later study the different styles of armor…which is amazingly wrought but insane stuff dedicated to the game of battle as prescribed by the self-aggrandizing elite. At least that’s what kept running through my mind, the metal screaming at me the huge chunks of change devoted not only to their physical protection but the aesthetics of it. Fashion! These weren’t just tin cans.
Fashion!
Fashion!
Fashion!
My plan right now is uploading all these pictures and coupling them with links to essays at the MMoA website so H.o.p. will have them on hand for study. And doing this as well with many of the other things we saw. Which will take me some time (really is a labor, working on the pics then seeking out info at the respective museum’s website and linking to it) but seems a good way of integrating this wonderful trip and all its museum excursions into his homeschooling. We did some preparation before going up, but over the next few months we can can return to, for instance, the American Museum of Natural History website and review the literature and podcasts on the special Mythic Creatures exhibit which he’s seen and his experience will augment the material just as the material augments the excursion. Which is what we did the other day, reviewed the material on the Mythic Creatures exhibit.
Then H.o.p. came down WHAP with what seems to be the same cold that his grandmother and one of his uncles picked up while we were in New York. I had planned on an outing to the High Museum on Saturday (as I learned that Fulton county residents get free admission the first Saturday of every month) and hopefully that will still happen. He was over the low fever in a day but is now all congested.
By the way, before our trip I had looked up visitor info for each museum, for directions and what they allowed concerning photography, what special exhibits were going on, and I had read that a couple of the museums didn’t allow backpacks of ANY size, they must be checked. So our first day in New York I ran to Duffy’s (before our Macy’s outing) and found a huge purse, one that wasn’t all gaudied up with metal studs and buckles, because I certainly didn’t want to waste time standing in locker lines. I’d wanted a messenger bag but not finding one that I liked (in other words, not finding one exactly like I saw on the shoulder of a guy when I was getting my ID renewed the day before heading up to New York…and I still want it because it looked great for carrying around camera stuff) I settled on a great big bag that would house all my junk and camera etc. The bag is larger than my small back pack, but since it wasn’t a back pack I didn’t have to check it in. We were at MoMA and women around me were being stopped and asked to go check their back packs while I sauntered right in with my bag which was every bit as large, but by virtue of its being a BAG didn’t have to be checked.
This is like the first purse I’ve purchased in decades. I’m not joking. All for sake of museum going.
Ten years ago, on December 1st, I ambled into the hospital toward midnight, having begun labor at 7:30 pm. This is what I looked like on the way out of our place. A neighbor thought to grab a camera and memorialize the moment.
This is what emerged from me on December 2nd, towards midnight.
H.o.p.’s two days old there.
Not long after I’d discovered I was pregnant, I’d made the resolution to not try to have any expectations, so that I would prepare to accept my child just as he or she may be. Then about a month or a couple of weeks before H.o.p. was born, I dreamt that I was meeting him for the first time. It was a wonderfully happy meeting, as one might imagine…and in the dream he had a full head of dark hair and blue eyes. The dream was one of those very real dreams, and when I woke up I realized that because Marty and I had both had light blond hair as children, I’d been unconsciously expecting H.o.p. to have light hair. I was surprised to be as surprised as I was that H.o.p. might have dark hair and was rather glad to have had the dream so that I could realign those expectations. Because I can’t say that I didn’t expect anything–one can’t fully extinguish expectations.
So, I now expected H.o.p. to have a full head of dark hair, while trying not to expect.
The birth, which I’d hoped would be natural, wasn’t uneventful. H.o.p. was stuck behind my misaligned pelvic bones. I remember a blur of activity as they rushed to set up the room for a forceps delivery.
H.o.p. was pretty much born wailing. They placed him on my chest. He immediately stopped crying.
Yesterday, H.o.p. pulled out his baby book, asked for the story about his birth, wanted to know if there was blood and gook all over the place, and asked to see the scab of his belly button.
His nickname, H.o.p., stands for His Own Person. I gave him that nickname not only because he’s always been decidedly “His Own Person”, but to daily serve as a meditation for me.
This past week, out of the blue, H.o.p. also asked me if I was an alien from an exoplanet. Without hesitation, I said, “Yes.” He looked at me a moment then said, “No, really, are you an alien from an exoplanet?” I said, “Yes. Why do you ask?” Again, he looked at me a moment, then giggled and said, “Nah. You’re like me. You’re a spirit wearing a body.”
He may be His Own Person but it goes without saying that if I’m an alien from an exoplanet, then he’s at least 1/2 alien himself. There’s some parental baggage you just can’t shed. Which H.o.p. may have realized, this week, and decided it would be best to start–for sake of His Own Person and that parental baggage which can’t be shed–to get to work remaking me in the image of something with which he might easily live and not be too embarrassed by.
H.o.p., happy birthday. For the time being, you may have decided I’m not an extraterrestrial, but as you grow and continue to cultivate your own world and independent spirit, you may have occasion to conclude otherwise. Just know that a not too unhealthy amount of embarrassment is character building. And that differences are a good thing and teach…well…tolerance and acceptance.
Much of this, I learned from you.
I mean that. In a good way. Even on my dimmest days, I’m a better person because of you.
I love you, H.o.p.
Bowling at the Brunswick 4
Originally uploaded by idyllopus
Went to a kiddie’s birthday bowling party this weekend. Out in the suburbs. H.o.p. had a great time. I took photos. Of people bowling. Yes, you who were there who will never find your way here, I was the older lady squatting on her haunches with a camera or right down on the floor of bowling’s beach, between bowling’s counterpart to ocean waves and the sunbathers soaking up the UV rays on their towels. Thankfully, people ignore me.
Not as ignorable was H.o.p. I don’t know if he took his queue from me pretty much lying down on the bowling beach (how else was I to get this shot) or if it was just the natural rebellious performer in him (“I’ll show you and your paltry rules”), or whether he was overcome by the blue Cosmic Bowling lights, but at one point he went parading down the beach, blithely interrupting bowlers and their goals, taking in the sights, not very worried that one of them might irritably make a pin of him. Marty went running after because I was too incapacitated with laughter to do anything parental and useful at the moment.
I noticed the American flag (as seen in the above photo in larger versions, click thru for those). There were no people, of course, bowing to the flag or saluting or even acknowledging its presence. People were just bowling, intent on the ball and the pins and their form, except for those part of the numerous birthday parties and they were going to be focused on keeping the kids under control and not tearing up the place on Coca-cola and birthday cake sugar highs.
Though I take for granted that many probably don’t even register consciously the presence of the flag marking territory, it certainly is part of the scene and carries a message.
Americans still need their flags everywhere, only I wonder how many now need their American flag lording it over even hobbies and purchases for less gung-ho crowing than wistful reassurance. Though I may be wrong on that. I have some of the bowling photos up at Flickr and another one shows an enticement for bowlers was winning a World Wide Entertainment (wrestling) style summer bowling party. The near human-sized ad featured a WWE “Superstar” by the name of Mr. Kennedy, a “heel” who has risen to evil greatness. I’ve a photo here.
I was going to write about how I don’t think WWE and bowling worshipers would like to think of themselves as using the American flag as a wistful, sad comfort blanket reassuring them of greatness, but my mind went POP when I saw the avidly worshiped WWE superstar was a Mr. Kennedy, and an evil heel. Not knowing what to make of the minds that dream up worlds such as these, but certain they have reasons for what they piece together toward the creation of manic fandom, I thought I’d just give a nod to this cultural mash-up rather than attempt a dissection.
All I know about anything is that money rules all.
No, no. I’ve been tagged again on the Eight Random Facts About You Meme. This time by Lavonne at Born Famous. I’ve done it before but will give another shot at randomness, supposing my mine of randomness hasn’t been exhausted.
1.) I keep on my desk what used to be a nice Orchids of Hawaii, made in Japan, surfer girl “mug”. I always thought it was a vase but I found info on it online and it’s described as being a mug. I don’t care what they say online about it, I still think it is a pottery vase. At one point it was knocked over and broken and is now badly glued back together.
2.) I’ve never been to Hawaii. Though I hear it is beautiful, I don’t have a crying need to experience it in person.
3.) I keep on the bookshelf by my desk, “Scenes of the Plateau Lands and How They Came To be” by William Lee Stokes. It is illustrated with little drawings, rather than photos, and informs that a boulder is any rock over ten inches across. I rarely look at this book but I keep it beside my desk because I like plateau lands.
4.) I took a look at Country Joe’s website Sunday evening. He maintains a Florence Nightingale Tribute Website which children use as a resource. I never think of Florence Nightingale without feeling a golden cage there somewhere, because when I was a child I always thought of Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Nightingale” tale in association with her name.
5.) I prefer eating ice cream with a fork.
6.) I used to pick all the pecans out of a container of pecan ice cream. I used to pick all the strawberries out of a container of strawberry ice cream. I don’t do this any longer because pecan ice cream now has very few pecans in it and strawberry ice cream has very few strawberries.
7.) I was the best at the high jump in my 4th grade class and amazed the phys ed teacher with how high I could jump. Then I moved down South and they didn’t have high jump. They had softball. I was no good at softball at all.
8.) Marty last night watched Jacques Tati’s Mon Oncle with H.o.p. I love that film and would have been watching it too but I’m writing.
So they watched the delightful “Mon Oncle” which is 50 years old now and all about community and (by extension) sustainable living as versus…well…as versus what Tati conceived of as the ultra modern, emotionally disconnected, humorless, communityless future, which Jacques Tati conceived of as looking like Ikea, which was then absurd ultra modern and is now…well…Ikea.
And while they watched “Mon Oncle” I was writing a conversation about “Night of the Living Dead”.
I’m feeling more like “Night of the Living Dead” around here than “Mon Oncle” but we needn’t go into that.
Our bathroom is like a cross between the two. I’ve explained before how we live in a 100 year old apartment building and we chose to live here because we liked the landlord and it was within walking distance of shops etcetera (and it was affordable as in cheap). Our landlord is also a not so closet junkman. And the building has its eccentricities because of it.
Like our bathroom.
My initial response to these two medicine cabinets and the not-a-towel-rack beneath the right one (which is a piece of thin painted molding jammed into what looks like two old hanging flower pot holders, the ultimate junkman’s keep-it-and-use-it-somehow version of an improvised towel rack) says too much about me.
Initial response: “Whoa! Not one but two ancient medicine chests? Disorienting! They’re not pleasantly aesthetically arranged either.”
Secondary response (or way of excusing things): “This is an example of the landlord’s values, trying to extend the life of things. I will take this as a positive rather than a negative example, because the prospective landlord seems quite nice and has done a lot of volunteer work as an environmentalist.”
If we didn’t like this landlord, like we didn’t like our previous NASA engineer landlord, I’d have perhaps thought: “Cheap son-of-a-bitch.”
That’s an example of how kind of absurd we humans are, that Person A can do such-and-such and because of circumstance and character sundries you can think of their behavior as a positive, but Person B can do the exact same thing and because of circumstance and character sundries you’re inclined instead to condemn them for the very same actions.
I suppose any other normal person tenants would have torn these medicine chests out and put in a new big one from Ikea. But our money is needed elsewhere and I have this perverse idea that if we tore these things out we’d be messing with the integrity of the building.
I used to think I’d convert these two old medicine cabinets into art so you’d walk in our bathroom and you’d think “weird, two ancient medicine cabinets” then open them and find maybe little alien dollhouses, but life and a need for storage gets in the way.
P.S. In case you’re wondering, those are a packet of Dr. Spock ears sitting above the second medicine chest. For H.o.p.
