Twenty Four Hours in Forty-Nine Thumbnails:
Pick a post at random, or follow the progress from eclipse (start) to fireworks (finish).
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Hey!And now…
Cue the John Philip Souza.
Toss confetti.
Pop open the champagne.
Nah, how about just sleep!
Good night (morning!) everyone, and thanks again to all my sponsors and commenters!
The ghosts of the forest stand tall though they never have need of sun. They are secretive, travel in numbers, and thrive in dark places. They whistle and rattle, but you won’t hear them. On certain moonlit nights, they turn their faces Westward and sing across the ocean. The echoes in answer circle the globe in a resolute wind.
Oy. Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. Is it over yet? Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. Oy. Oy,, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy. It’s five twenty-three A.M. Oy. Could I be any more meshugge? Oy, oy, oy, oy, oy, oy.
(The cast of Stephen Berkoff’s Kvetch at Storefront Theatre)
Beware the web’s voluminous smile.
Its dewdrops are deceiving.
Its mistress bears the rain with style,
And seldom stops her weaving.
(Jason and his countless Argonauts are safe, for the moment.)
Why does Chuck Norris even bother? Honestly.
Prairie Girl: So, do you actually own a mohair suit?
Elton: Well, yes, but I don’t wear it on stage.
Prairie Girl: Oh… What about the electric boots?
Elton: Don’t tell anyone, but they’re actually gas-powered.
(Special guest star script writing by Chopper. And yes, I really, truly did make an Elton John doll to go with my Prairie Girl doll. I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.)
There’s a well-beaten path to this place now. There’s signage. Even parking. For a while, it was lost to all but the few who remembered. It was our secret. The old-timers. The natives. And the ones we don’t talk about.
They’re all gone now, though nobody wants to say where. To some other island perhaps — a place without regular ferry service, without tourists, without quite as much daylight.
They’re gone, but they haven’t left this place. Not for certain. And definitely not at night.
Must rocks always remind us that balance is easier than we think it is?
Or is it harder and rocks are just damned clever? I’m beginning to suspect the latter and this is cause for concern. Think about the number of times we say “dumb as a box of rocks.” Then think about how many rocks there are in the world and how big and strong some of them are. Get the picture? Good. We’re screwed, aren’t we?
The tiny forest gnomes were incensed! A gnome’s home is his castle, not his burger fixin!
And only a lone tree knows which way is up.
Oh, my snugglykins, it does not matter that you are a shark and I am a large unidentifiable furry creature with no ears. It’s love, true love and you simply must teach me how to swim!
This one’s a beaut. She’ll take you all the way from Amarillo to Barstow. Only driven by a little old lady on Sundays. What’s that? Why’s the little old lady driving around on Sundays when she lives walking distance from her church? Well, hell, young man. Haven’t you ever heard of the “Sunday Drive?” Hop in. Fill ‘er up. Let ‘er roll.
I’m certain the falls were iced over yesterday. Or was that last week? My memory is failing me and I’m certain only that it was the day I went to the library. Or was that the dentist? A gray Suburban sped past, eastbound on I-84. I remembered it from last time — that distinctive off-color driver’s side door, the crimp in the front bumper where I’m certain it had tangled with an elk or possibly something larger and more dangerous.
Last time? What last time was I thinking of? The day the falls froze over and I was stuck on the highway? That wasn’t yesterday. It was last Tuesday.
But if that’s the case, then why have I taken so many pictures of the frozen falls and why is my camera still stuck on exposure number twelve?
I summon dogs with my karaoke. This is no easy feat, I should tell you.
It goes something like this:
I have tiptoed around the songs of my favorite punk band (the only band that matters, of course) for far too long. They’re raspy and filled with British punk testosterone and sure I’d sound like a silly little American girl fool singing them, but you know what? I don’t care. I love the Clash and I will sing the Clash.
Now, on the night I decide this, there’s a dog at the bar. Our bar, you see, is not one of those trendy, upscale nightspots, no sir. It’s… well, I don’t quite want to call it a dive, but let’s just say it’s “divesque.”
So, here we are at the bar, me doing everything I can to trash my voice ahead of time (because there’s no point in singing Joe Strummer when I’ve just warmed up to sing Sheena Easton), dog sitting a few tables away, and it’s my turn. I’m singing London Calling.
If you know how the song goes, you can guess the rest. I get into it. I mean really get into it. My voice is gone. By the time I’ve gotten to the part where Joe sings “I live by the riverrrrrr” and follows it up with a “Oo – Oo – Oo – Oo – Oo – Oo – Oo!” I am making some serious noise.
So serious, that, yes indeed, the Oo – Oo – Oos summon the dog. He is up from his loungy spot by the table and in the blink of an eye, he’s at my feet, eyes wide, tail wagging, ready — no, make that desperate — to be Mick Jones to my Joe Strummer.
I’m all set to let him sing the third verse, but much to my dismay (and to the detriment of this particular performance of London Calling) the owner comes up and totes him off by the collar. Poor pooch. I think he missed his calling.
First sunflowers, now this. Is there something you’re trying to tell me? It doesn’t have to do with that chip in your neck, does it?
They get like this and they frighten me. They start to resemble aliens. Can’t you see it? War of the Worlds? Those big pod things on stalks that look like — like street lamps or — or dead sunflowers? Can we leave now? Just take your picture so we can go.
Death, just slightly warmed-over, having a bad hair day, not entirely pleased with how that theatrical makeup class is going but taking a self-portrait nonetheless. Death finds this self-portrait years later, notes that at least her hair isn’t quite so stupid, then thinks, boy, I look kind of awake in that shot. Perhaps I need a nap.
Not just the sun and sky. Not just the ocean. Even the rocks. They held hands. She turned to him. “Perfect,” she said.
“Which planet was this again?” he asked.
1BR, SPEC LK VW, PRIV, DOCK AVAIL, PETS.
She wasn’t expecting the elf to appear that day. After all, she had her camera with her, and elves are notoriously shy. Her elves, anyway. Her neighbor’s elves — they were another matter. They’d pull stunts to get in the school paper. They dressed in orange. With polka dots.
This elf, he only made occasional appearances and only on this one particular bench. One summer, her father rearranged the garden furniture and the elf was nowhere to be seen. She dragged the bench back into its proper place (after rolling the stone birdbath out of its improper place), and waited, camera in hand.
The air shimmered, smelled of lilacs, and, after an abrupt crackle-pop (like pop-rocks, she noted), he appeared.
She slipped her finger over the shutter release and pressed down. He smiled.
“I know you’re not really my brother,” she said. “But I won’t tell Mom.”
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Narwhals in formation off the Laurentian Abyssal. Colossal squid in a dark ballet, lit only by the bioluminescent glow of their subsequent prey. Sea horses leaping coral reefs in tandem. All those moments, lost in time, replaced by beach balls and so much tasteless kibble.
The best part about the wedding was nobody minded that their clothes had no hems, or that the groom was barefoot and the bride had a rubber band for a belt. It was perfect. They were both radiant, so much in love, and their smiles never wavered.
I caught a tire once. Put it on my bike and rode off, just like new.
It’s the bone one! No, the abalone! No, the one with the anchor on it! Agggh, I don’t know which one! Too many buttons! We’re all gonna die!
(This completely frivolous moment brought to you by someone who really needs a nap.)
Boris was fond of microscopes. He thought, if only I could just get under one, hang out on a petri dish for a tick, then everyone could see and admire my luxurious fur. ‘Oh!’ they’d exclaim, ‘That Boris! He wouldn’t make a half-bad pet!’
Unfortunately, Boris was quite wrong.
“…wilt thou kneel with me?
Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers;
Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the sun with fog…”
—Titus Andronicus, III, i
(Alan Waldock as Titus and Debra Ann Lund as Lavinia. The first full-length play I directed out of college. A razor’s edge, a crazy moment in time. I wish I had it on tape.)
Because orange is such a friendly color, no one ever suspects them until it’s too late.
When she paints her face, she slips into a second universe. Her garland grows black with wanting to go home, but the girls there, they need imaginary friends too. They shout and squeal and she says, “Shhh. Later, when it’s dark as roses, I’ll slip from my hiding place and be the thing that glows in the corner of the garden while no one’s looking.”
Look. I’m serious. You do not want to mess with me. See those waves back there? You think they’re just crashing against the shore because they’ve got nothing better to do? No. Those waves are trembling at my presence. So, I’m giving you one last chance. Set down your bag of trail mix and I will let you walk away.
Time for a brief check in!
For those of you joining in for the first time, this is Blogathon 2007, and I’m blogging for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. But, since I do a terrible Jerry Lewis impersonation, I’ve chosen not to spend time writing about the cause, but rather just spend time doing art. After all, preserving our right to do art as we see fit is part of what the EFF’s all about.
To read more of what the EFF’s about (and follow some damned funny exploits to boot) drop by L’Enfant Plaza Metro Station. Proprietor Fuzzface is doing a bang-up job as EFF spokesman for this year’s Blogathon.
Now, if you’re new to Belly Timber, you might be asking yourself: Who the hell IS this crazy person and isn’t this supposed to be a food blog?
Well, truth is, we started as a food blog and now (because I’m a firm believer that niche blogging is so last year) we’re more of a whatever-we-damn-well-please blog. The “we,” I should note, includes the husband, the dog, two live cats, and one very persistent dead cat who insists on posting from beyond the grave.
A few of our favorite past posts include:
The Christmas Cookies of Cthulhu
What’s for Pud: Figgy Dowdy (In which we cook Jack Aubrey’s favorite dessert.)
Piggy Goes to War (Which should further explain the two American Camp themed posts I’ve put up today.)
and
Mighty Cheese Warriors: An Historical Perspective (A glimpse into the future archives of the great nation of Gastroblogia.)
A huge thanks to all my sponsors (and there’s still time to join that happy crowd), and to everyone who’s stopped by and left comments so far. I’m going to attempt to catch up enough so that I can actually reply to comments, but I can’t guarantee I’ll ever get there. Seriously, if I get a spare moment, more than likely, I’m heading for the fridge. There’s a jar of peanut butter in there that’s threatening to rebel and feed itself to the dog if I don’t retrieve it this instant!
Having great time.
Sandcastle contest a blast.
Kite flying weather perfect.
Come soon.
Bring boat.
(Long Beach Peninsula, Washington.)
And after she set them free, they floated on a breeze to a far off land where all was good and buoyant, and nothing ever popped.
The early morning sun turned the water to a golden mirror and I, with only black and white film at hand, turned the swamp into a scribble.
Four years before the Charge, and on the other side of the continent, he built a fence. No one knew quite what it was supposed to keep out. The rabbits had their run of the place, and folks knew all too well what happens when you try and fence in a pig.
But, he built it anyway, sent it at right angles across the parade grounds, over the hills, through the gullies, and down toward Grandma’s Cove. Grandma used to look out at it — this was long before she was Grandma and back when she was washerwoman to the troops — and say he’d built the darn thing to keep the trees in line. The soldiers were never all that good at lining up, but those trees, by God, they were regimental.
(American Camp on San Juan Island, where George Pickett served before he became a general in the Civil War.)
Oh, Billy, Billy, Billy, don’t ever change.
Those other Idols, they’re just idle. They’ve got nothing on you. You don’t have to warble, sing five notes when you only need one, strain yourself with inappropriate covers of Celine Dion doing inappropriate covers of some other singer we’ve all only heard at one a.m., karaoke night, when no one’s paying attention and the KJ’s desperate.
Billy, you’re still the bomb. My main ’80s man. Well, except for those other guys, but we don’t have to talk about them. They never learned to work the camera like you, all flirt and sneer wrapped up in one.
Felines have disrupted my work flow. They threaten me with trips to the zoo to meet their larger cousins.
Breathe. The day is wide as sand, but not beyond reach.
Dad, Gandalf, — yes, I know you hate it when I do that (I can’t help it, wise, bearded one) — don’t go yet. You’ve still got secrets to whisper in my ear, and I — well, I was stupid. I didn’t listen often enough. I yawned at stories. Left the room to play with my dolls. I never sang along with Down in the Valley, and sometimes, sometimes when I was all too rude, I asked you to stop because I thought I’d heard it too many times.
Dad, Merlin, sing it in my ear again. That one, or maybe the one about the monkey and the weasel and the carpenter’s bench because I promise I’ll screech in surprise at the end just like I did so many years ago.
Dad, Obi-wan, don’t go yet. I won’t even tease you about the robe we gave you that made you look like a Jedi (okay, too late for that), and you can sing all your favorite songs. The valley, the carpenter’s bench, and even the one about acres and acres of clams, alive alive-o.
When the words don’t flow, imagine only that the words can’t flow, that restraints contain you from all sides, that you’ve been denied expression. Jaws held shut. And one little thing screams to get out. A simple idea, as simple as reaching up to a clothesline and hanging a blouse in the summer breeze.
A flower blooms for each one she’s left behind. She’s lost track now. The centuries shamble by. The garden riots. Foxglove and nightshade cry for attention, but always, always the bleeding heart wins.
A block away from the theater building at Portland State, in a space we all shared. Stop. Talk. Listen. Oh, the stories.
I’m feeling it — weathered, that is — already.
The project: sort, scan, blog old photos.
But, sadly, far far too many of my photos from this early era are failed experiments in the darkroom, photos damaged by the ravages of a leaky basement, and photos discovered only in contact sheet form. I have many of the latter, and though they don’t scan well — they’re too small and the texture of the photo paper too apparent as I enlarge them — I will post a few anyway. Think of it as peek behind a weathered old door, but a door that only opens just a little because the hinges are so rusty.
They’re all trying to make deals with the devil. Sometimes the light hits just right, and those chords ring out, and you have to wonder: successful, yes? Oh, hell yes. And you say, thank you, Mr. Devil, for being such a damn good dealmaker, and then you kick back and enjoy the show.
(The Confidentials, 1984)
I had to look twice. Photo so beat up, so grainy, you’d think it was from Krakatoa, not St. Helens.
We missed the big one. Our whole class was down in desert country, Malheur, bird watching. I remember the teachers filing into the cavern where we’d gathered for lunch. I remember the tall ceilings, metal beams, caged light fixtures.
She blew, they told us. Helen blew.
And we, panicky school kids, spent the next twenty-four hours convinced Portland was completely buried under mountains of ash.
When you first see the harbingers of the candidate, you have trouble counting how many eyes they have. Maybe it’s the rain, slick, too shimmery, or maybe it’s how tightly they move in formation, or how they blink in unison at every corner.
Seven, you think it is. Red, blue, two orange, two a sort of silvery brown, and one white hot, dead center. Don’t look at that one. Look down. Just listen to the soothing buzz of their approach. The harbinger’s buzz. I hear it tells you things you ought not know.
(Presidential candidate’s arrival, 1988)
There is a Santa troll.
What he’s doing out and about in July is anyone’s guess.
(I have a hunch he’s here to help me with a few housekeeping duties. Do you think trolls know how to make coffee? Tinker with WordPress templates? Cook eggs? Stop time? I’ve heard rumors…)
Kaiser Wilhelm stood at the base of the stairs. “This fuss. It was about this, yes?”
His clerk nodded. He brushed a bit of rabbit fur off his sleeve and made for the first step. The Kaiser held him back.
“No, no,” he whispered. “I want to gaze at it a while. Out of astonishment, you see.”
“Astonishment?”
“Well, the stairs. They go nowhere. Where is the end? Why does one fight for such things?”
The clerk was silent. In the distance, another pig rooted for potatoes in the fresh snow.
(Stairway at American Camp, San Juan Island, WA)
That shadow, I remember it.
Flew over the hills like — what was that horse?
Secretariat.
That’s the one.
All of us filled with oohs, aahs.
Yawns, too.
It was early, wasn’t it.
Even for a school night.
Tuesday. I think it was a Tuesday.
English teacher made us write poetry.
Mine sucked.
Mine too. I rhymed “penumbra” with “slumbah.”
Got a picture. Don’t quite know how; thrusting that camera in the sky, not looking.
Eh, if you can’t see the sky, you can look at the picture.
Still do, from time to time.
(Eclipse, Goldendale Washington, 1979.)
We lost someone close to us this last week, and all too young. On that Monday, when we gathered to celebrate her life, the joy she brought to everyone around her overflowed. It burst through the walls of the church and tumbled home after all of us with a playful whisper — an echo of the laugh we loved so well.
She was an artist, a painter, a creative spirit. She reminded me of dreams I’d long forgotten. Her whisper, as it kissed the air above the hot sidewalk while we made our way home, spoke of inspiration and of remembering her not for how she died, but for how beautifully she lived.
I set things aside far too often. I bring fear to the table when I mean to bring joy. I hate that. There’s not much worse than the gut feeling of knowing you’re just not living.
Just three days ago, I stumbled across an announcement for Blogathon 2007. I remembered last year’s event (and Sam’s delicious farmer’s market exploits over on Becks & Posh), and I thought to myself, no. No no no. I can’t do this. It’s too scary. I’ll run out of things to say. I’ll pass out over the keyboard. I’ll make an ass of myself in forty-eight ways.
And then this little whisper — many whispers actually; whispers from every creative soul I’ve ever known and loved — said, do it, you idiot. Get off your chickenshit ass and do it.
Deep breath.
Okay. I will. I promise. To all of you I’ve lost, I promise.
I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do for this. Write about food? Auugh, no. I hate to break it to my food blogging friends, but I think I’d burn out on that in two hours and two plates of summer salad.
No, I’m going to try something a little different. It begins with a trip to my basement and the hauling upstairs of many boxes of old photographs.
In the years before I owned (and then broke) my first digital camera, I had a love affair with film. Black and white, mostly, home developed and printed in my basement darkroom. I photographed everything from woodland fungi to sweat drenched punk icons. I carried my trusty Nikon everywhere. I ended up with stacks upon stacks of photos, contact sheets, negatives. All now in boxes. All unsorted.
I intend to remedy this situation. I intend to sort my photos. And while I sort them, I’ll pull out random images, scan them, post them, and write what comes to mind.
I may write a memory. I may write flash fiction. Maybe a lyric. I won’t know till I get there. Forty-eight unexpected photographic adventures. Without fear.
Blogathon, for those who aren’t familiar with it already, is blogging for charity. For this part of my adventure, again, I gave it a great deal of thought and at last settled on an organization that I believe does vital work for artists in this digital world. I am blogging for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. The EFF does so much good work in so many areas it’s hard to put it all into a short paragraph. So, I’m going to quote two snippets. First, from EFF’s About page:
EFF broke new ground when it was founded in 1990 — well before the Internet was on most people’s radar — and continues to confront cutting-edge issues defending free speech, privacy, innovation, and consumer rights today. From the beginning, EFF has championed the public interest in every critical battle affecting digital rights.
(www.eff.org/about/)
And second, from EFF Fellow, Cory Doctorow:
EFF are canaries in the coal-mine, the first responders of cyberspace, building coalitions and briefing lawmakers, users and companies on the risks coming down the pipe. This is a critical job: if the resistance to these issues only mobilized once their risks had percolated out to the wide world, it would be too late. You need to start work on these issues as they are born, not when they are about to mature.
(From BoingBoing.net, January ’06)
Just a few of those issues: Intellectual property, fair use, censorship, and bloggers’ rights. Visit the EFF’s site to learn more, read about their case victories, and check out their current campaigns and projects.
And if you like what you see, sponsor me in Blogathon 2007.
You can pledge a flat amount, or a dollar amount per hour; whichever you prefer. EFF’s donor page doesn’t require a minimum, but I will note that larger donations come with cool swag.
A couple of important notes: You may sponsor me (or any of the other terrific bloggers in Blogathon 2007) through the duration of the event, so if you’re reading this post and I’m in the thick of it, it’s not too late! Also, if you want to donate directly to the EFF and not through the sign-up page on the Blogathon website, just let me know and we can arrange for a “proxy” pledge.
And now, I really have to rest up a bit and if not get my ducks in a row, so to speak, then gather all those whispering voices beside me so that I might launch into this with the sort of wild abandon I think our lost loved ones would appreciate. Jo, and Dad too, this one’s for you.
Oh, yes she is.
Details in a jiff…