The Pride Of Frankenstein

My mom died.

I needed to step away from everything after my mom’s death.  I don’t have to explain that to any of you who have lost your parents at any age.  All the times I pleaded with them to “just leave me alone.”  Now they have.

I needed to step away from the blog and writing and try to find a voice in images.

So, I did.  Or I tried.

And I picked up my camera, went to the Wyoming Badlands for a bit this summer and photographed cowboys and horses (and cowgirls).

Wyoming.  The ranch life, the Badlands, the landlocked cocoon of the wide open, windy spaces took me outside of my life.  I felt invigorated and refreshed.  I got up before dawn to shoot sunrises on an incredibly different landscape and stayed up to learn how to photograph star trails.

This Is What I Did Last Summer Report (the short version).

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And dozens more.  I had a great time and met some fine people.  I didn’t want to come home.

I didn’t want to come home because I knew I have to face the fact that home isn’t home any longer.  That it never really has been.  That I have a lot of to-the-bone truths to work out, including the fact that no matter where I go next, I will be taking myself with me.  How dreadful.

Wouldn’t it just be brilliant if Dr. Frankenstein (that’s Franken-STEEN) had perfected his art, and you could have elective surgery to replace your funky brain that misfires with a better one that was more optimistic and talented, less turbulent and prone to bad thoughts?  And, if it’s not asking too much, maybe a little off around the middle-age waistline and a boob lift?

That would be work in which the good Doc could take pride.  I wonder if that might be covered under my ObamaRama Plan?

However Long The Night…

Eglon Beach Sunrise 2

I admit that I have been cycling downward for a while. Up, down, up, down, and occasionally, there is middle ground. When I’m in an upswing, I tend to get a lot done, or at least I start a lot of projects. Like three-quarter sleeves, however, I never quite make it all the way down to the wrist before the energy dissipates. When I’m on a downward trajectory, there isn’t much I can do but hunker down and ride it out. Because this is what I know — everything is fluid. Happiness, sadness, come and go like tides.

You don’t fight the beast nor do you give in to it. You meet it. And know it is impermanent. There is an African saying: “However long the night, there will be another dawn.”

I was there for this one.

The Falconer

The Falconer
(c) 2013 LST

Feeling better, but not quite upright.

This collage is a combination of elements of my own landscapes, vintage photographs restored and hand colored, and “drawings” created in Photoshop when I was learning paths. The bunny in the boy’s hand is a transformed photograph of a vintage bunny given to me by my great aunt after I was born (gasp) 57 years ago.

In A Blink Of The Eye

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Willow is now five months old.

I have been sick for a week. All the photos this week have been taken with my iPad, and mostly in my bed. Dogs make great hot water bottles when you are shivering with a fever. Time goes by slowly when you’re sick but seeing Willow’s snapshots and how much her body has changed from teeny puppy to small dog, time also speeds by like a bullet. Or a terrier running through the garden with your sock in her mouth.

I haven’t been able to do much to find an outlet for their rambunctious spirits. Therefore, three pillow cases, two wool socks and one lovely cream coverlet have become victim to what looks suspiciously like puppy gnawing rather than damage done by gigantic lunar moths from another planet. I’m telling you this on the q.t. I can’t complain to my trainer because none of them are supposed to be on or in my bed. Ever.

Martha has slept on the bed for 16 years. I’m not about to take that away from her now because the Bed Thing is spoiling the other two. It’s come one, come all, I’m afraid. Gah.

We did have the most amazing murmuration of starlings this week I’ve ever witnessed. Thousands of them swooped around the fields of my farm and around the garden like a symphony of notes of a Rachmaninov concerto. Incredibly choreographed by some instinct, they went to ground, then swooshed up in formations in the air around the house and fields until they finally flew away. I managed only to catch a quick shot of part of their last swoop. Oh, for my Nikon, a wide lens and a perch on the ridge line of my roof.

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