Actually, this isn’t really catching up since I haven’t posted ANY May photos here and I’m only including the more recent days. But I have posted May’s photos on Flickr. The photos earlier in the month were rather boring, so I’m not bothering. These are a bit more interesting only because bourbon is involved…and possessed cats.
I won’t tell you what I think the master’s graduation hood looks like. (The hood is what drapes down the backs of master graduates.) It is so highly symbolic and makes sense, but we Americans, who are descended from the Puritans, titter at the thought. Oh, all right. I’ll tell. It looks like a vagina, especially Informatics’ hood because the color is blood red. I can’t go to a graduation ceremony without seeing all these heads sticking out the birth canal. But it makes sense! When the ritual ceremony for graduation was created, symbolism was de rigueur. We refer to our school as our alma mater, which means nourishing mother. So if we are leaving our mother’s womb and entering the world, why not fashion the hood (another euphemism) to look like the vagina? And it occurs to me that the person who hoods us is like a midwife. I love the symbolism.
One day while getting gas, I ended up in Lexington, Ky. So I thought, what to do? THE BOURBON TRAIL! I only had time for one distillery, though, so I chose Woodford Reserve.
Up until this time, I didn’t like bourbon. It burned! But I discovered that only the first sip burns. So now I can drink bourbon, but I still prefer rum. I’m a pirate. Aaarrgh, me matey.
If I’m going to include cats, they might as well be possessed.
One evening as I was reading in bed, I noticed that the folds in the sheets and the length of my legs looked kinda cool together. It’s like my legs are part of the sheets. The photo translated especially well to black and white, also.
In Irvington, I had ivy creeping across my porch. Yes, it inched towards the door, slowly, as if it didn’t want me to notice. Kinda eerie. Curious, though, I let it grow until it started creeping up the door. But this photo only shows it reaching towards the door…patiently waiting to consume me…in time. Someday the ivy will win.
May is iris month. I stumbled upon an iris show at Holliday Park today so it’s nice to find a photo of irises in my stash.
2006. March 2. Thursday night. Evening class ended at 8:40p.m. and I was able to speed-walk a half mile to the Capitol building where I would catch the #18 Nora bus at 9:10p.m. The Capitol building is well-lit and the implied eagle-eye of the government behind me makes it as-safe-as-or-more-safe-than waiting for a bus outside a police station. I’ve tried catching the bus on Ohio Street, but I met the strangest, and most frightening people at that stop, and I would only save about 10 minutes of bus-riding horror. Besides, the bus stop at Capitol is the first stop on the route so I have my pick of seats since most everyone else has disembarked.
Indianapolis does not have a great public transportation system. They’re trying. I give them credit for that. They really beefed it up for the Super Bowl, but over all it has yet to be a truly viable option for anyone outside of downtown or who can afford a car. I rode the bus for three years and I have oh-so-many stories—maybe I’ll tell them later. Oh, all right, just one.
A drunk guy sat next to me and said, “You look like the Queen of England.” I thought, Um, have you seen the Queen lately? I sure hope I don’t! (I’m much, much younger.) I knew he really meant, “I want money from you, so I am flattering you with the romantic notion of queenliness.” (I’d rather be a princess.) He got $1.00 from me (not sure how that translates into euro or pounds, but it is less than a bus fare). Then he jumped up and yelled at the bus driver, “STOP, I HAVE TO PEE.”
That being said, this particular night was quite uneventful. I was a little early so no one was there. Indy’s buses all come within a short time-frame, so it’s all or nothing. It’s the last run of the evening for most of the lines, mine included, so I had to make sure I was there to catch the bus.
While I waited, I noticed the benches. I pulled out my little Canon PowerShot S2 IS and tried to capture what I found fascinating about the bus-stop benches. This is the final image that I really liked and that caught the repetitive nature of the benches.
We all love a good fire, especially at night. It keeps us warm and encourages campfire stories; tales of suspense, or intimate confessionals. It’s a time to respect the wonders of nature, for we all know how devastating uncontrolled fire can be. And so we gather around the campfire…or the bonfire, in this case…and tell our tales while tending the wild flickers of flame.
At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s not how it was for this fire. I was living in Irvington (a subdivision of Indianapolis), in a small bungalow belonging to a bonafide slumlord. I came home late from work one evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon so it was apparent that there was a fire in my backyard. Frantic, I ran out back to find the slumlord feeding the old dilapidated barn into the fire. Irvington is a historic district so any kind of demolition done to a property must first pass through the historic society. He didn’t do this. Granted, the barn was dangerous and of no historical value so he could very easily have obtained a permit to take it down. He just didn’t do it. He wanted it gone and a fire was the easiest way—not the sneakiest, which would have been something he may have considered—but the easiest.
Since a fire is a good opportunity for a photo, I went into the house to get my camera. When I came back out, the slumlord was gone. I figured he would be back but he never returned. He left the fire blazing and I was the only one there to tend it; me and the snow and cold. I was incensed! I stood out there in the dark in the cold with my camera and watched that fire burn. I watched smoldering embers float up in the air, drift across tall grasses, and land sometimes on snow, sometimes in bare grass. When the floating embers drifted into my neighbor’s yard, I was anxious. The distance between my house and my neighbor’s house is about 15ft. A fire could easily destroy the neighborhood. My stomach knotted in fear and anger, knowing I was now responsible, unwittingly, for the fire. I could only hope the lingering winter and cold were enough to tame any possibility of an outbreak of fire because I had no way of extinguishing it except to call 911.
The night wore on. My toes started to freeze. The flames no longer flickered high into the air but had burned low. Embers, too weak to feed into a flame, crawled across seasoned wood. Nails that once held boards in place, tumbled from charred ashes to the ground. I went inside and up to my bedroom where, from the window, I continued to watch the glow of embers as they slowly died down. At midnight, I finally gave in to sleep and went to bed, letting the snow and cold tend what remained.
Why didn’t I call the police? Why didn’t I report this? My Irvington neighborhood was notorious for having the police visit (specifically because of my next-door neighbor). I didn’t consider this a police affair since it wasn’t arson. Now as I think about it, I should have called the fire department, but I didn’t. I felt a relative sense of control over the situation because of the wintry conditions. What really stopped me from calling the police or fire department though, was my financial predicament. I needed to live in that place because the rent was cheap and if I brought in the police or fire department, the slumlord would have evicted me. So I monitored the fire and hoped for the best.
Living in that house was such an interesting time. I lived there for three years and I have three years of stories to tell. Now that I’ve left it, I don’t miss the place. I feel safe ensconced in my new neighborhood where my landlords take care of any problems the minute I ask and where I have not even heard the sirens of a fire truck. How nice.
A nice cold day to stay in, curl up by a fire, eat chocolate and drink wine, and enjoy family and friends.
I spent cold days in January looking out windows. For three years I lived in a two-story bungalow in the trashy part of Irvington (a subdivision of Indianapolis). And although the neighborhood offered up frightening experiences, the view from the windows always comforted me. I watched steam from my neighbor’s chimney rise into the cold, evening air, teasing the moon with puffy, tender touches. This view is from the bathroom window, the room where the tub could at any moment fall through the floor down into the living area. The winter view compelled me. In spite of the horrors of that neighborhood, I discovered snatches of beauty. Wherever one goes, beauty exists.
Do you know how it is to get your very first digital SLR camera and you want to explore all of its possibilities and one of those possibilities is abstract, night life photography? Well, that’s what I did.
Night descends along with the rain, but under a lamplight a golden oak leaf gleams, floating downside in a muddy puddle.
I smile. My intent was to capture the tail lights of the cars in front of me, playing with the concept of night lights. Instead, I uncovered a parking conundrum.