I love Ford’s expression in this shot; he looks like he can see the future and while he’s not sure what to make of it yet, he’ll be ready to receive it once it’s here. And then there’s Grandma Cookie, doing what she’s done since I was even tinier than Ford: cheering on her favorite people, taking joy in their possibilities and delight in their presence here and now.

Ford’s eyes are worth a larger look. Just click the picture, then select “all sizes” above it when Flickr loads. Oh, and have I mentioned how much I love this lens?  My Sigma 50mm looks like a giant eyeball behind coke-bottle glasses, but oh, the things it can see.

Damn, it’s only day 2 of this post-every-day nonsense and I almost forgot. I suspect these “every day” posts might be as regular an occurrence as the “daily” photo. But hey! I come bearing Llama. Lloyd’s the OG quadruped at my friends’ farm outside of town. As far as Big Ll’s concerned, if you can see it, he owns it, and the one next to it, whatever it might be. He’s quite the supermodel, as well, nosing his way into every shot when I went out there on a rainy Sunday morning a couple weeks ago.

It’s funny to shoot in the rain. I had to hold my lens down as much as possible, but I love the colors you get when it’s grey and wet. Maybe it’s just spring, but it seemed like the grass that day was extra full of chlorophyll, putting on an emerald show for me.

The farm is a real working concern, and it feeds a bunch of slow-foody Lincolnites via a weekly organic CSA box. Every wednesday, when people come by Ross and Barb’s house in town to pick up their haul for the week, they tend to stick around for hours over beers and conversation, nourishing the soul as much as the belly. In fact, even though I’m still peeling around the eyes and cheeks, I think I’m headed that way soon for a little neighborly exchange. I’ve got some empty egg cartons I’ve been saving and a cold bottle of rosé I’d like to share. I’m sure I’ll see some of you there; wish the rest of you could join us…

Don’t Mind Me, I’m Just Miffled
My brain invented a new word today, and that word is “miffled,” which describes the sort of pissy confusion I’ve been feeling all week. It’s a conflation of the word “miffed” and “baffled,” but you probably already figured that out, you big smarties. The urban dictionary calls this “word-bining,” but I’ve just decided it’s really called “blording,” which you pronounce with the “ur” sound of “blur” and “word,” not the “or” sound of “lord.” And “lord” have I “blorded” two new words today? Color me “miffled.”

For Messy, with Love & Squalor
My housekeepers are here right now, and let me tell you, if I didn’t pony up the ducats for their biweekly cleansing regimen, producers from high-channel cable stations would be scouting my ass for their new show on Those Who Live in Filth. And honestly, if they paid even marginally well, I might consider it.

For Mushy, Who’s Just Miffled
I took a bunch of pictures last night and about five out of 500 are crisp at 100%. The others are a warm bath on a hot day, which is too bad because there are some ruined gems in there. Sigh. I kind of miss the half-assed cameraphone days, when it was the light leaks and vignetting that made each shot special. Now I’m getting all picky, picky, picky. Sometimes knowing more means enjoying less. (There must be a word for that. Let’s make one up…)

Via

I ran into a reader last night (hi, Andy!). “You got out of bed!” he said. And that was odd, because I’m not sure I consider the fact that what I say here is also out there, that what I write can be read by anyone with an IP address, seconds after I hit the publish button, or months and years later. It’s easy to imagine that because I type this into the machine when I am mostly alone, it stays singular somehow, as though I’m really only talking to myself. But there is no private anymore, is there? And there’s that big button that says “publish,” even though I forget what it means sometimes.

When a character addresses the audience directly on television, it’s called “breaking the fourth wall.” But what is this I’m doing here? Reaching through the screen? One-to-some communication? Blah-blah-blah-blogging? Help me out here, we need a way to describe this act, with its strong strain of jacked-in loner-dom and its possibility for community, which is something I’m only beginning to realize (hi, commenters! Thank you!).

PS: My sister told me she was glad I was doing this post every day for a month thing. “You need a little push,” she said. “You were getting off track there.” I think this was her way of calling me lazy.

But two posts in one day is extra credit, right? RIGHT?!?

And my Canon G10, of course. If I was even marginally competent in photoshop, I could make them even lovelier. But shhh, don’t tell me what’s wrong with them. Just appreciate them as really excellent snapshots of a dazy, dozy little girl, tired from too much cake.

I post stuff on Flickr right here, if you’d like to see more. It’s basically a festival of neph over there…c’mon by!

Last night, TSB and I caught part of a BBC documentary on body dysmorphic disorder, wherein otherwise bog-normal, even attractive people are convinced that they are fairy-tale hideous, that no one can stand to gaze upon them (although they spend a lot of time looking in mirrors, cataloging the horrors). And while this is extreme for anyone, I know there’s a tiny tincture of this tendency in many of us—a sort of homeopathic dose of obsession, where we view ourselves with unkind eyes.

The way it plays out for me is not so much in three-dimensions as in two: I don’t flatten well, and my fear of photographs is so extreme I get physical symptoms at the thought of snapshots: my throat closes, my heart races, my breath gulps and skims.

A painter friend once explained that I had odd angles which read fine in real life, but weren’t always captured well on film. I found that somewhat comforting, but mostly depressing—did this mean parties would forever be a game of avoid-the-instamatic? Would photos of me never match the way I felt like I looked, in the same way our recorded voices never sound the way we think they should. Luckily, when I take a picture of myself through a mirror or some other reflective surface—when I bounce the image into a flat plane first—it sometimes comes out okay, even to my unreliable, unforgiving eyes. I’m sure there’s a reason for this, and probably even a name for the phenomenon. Anyone know what it is?

Anyone else have these experiences? Do you like yourself in photographs? Can you look in the mirror without wincing? And how does aging change this process for you? Is it better, worse, or do you just say to yourself, awww, fuckit, you still look hot, you gorgeous old troll, you?

Keep yr. cool: Be badass with a wink.

mcqueen peace sign, taped sister, patti on the tracks, long shadows, monkey bargains, riding the tortoise, hold tight

Why yes, I did run down my cameraphone battery taking pictures out the window, rendering my iphone an inert lump of no-way-to-reach-out after the flight. Modern problems, and all that. I’m all juiced up now.

In other news, I’m here! It’s clear and lovely! And gah, do I feel clobbered! I could use a nap, followed by some prophylactic sake.

Mary and I spent Saturday morning wandering around the Mission, my venerable old hood, where every inch hits me hard in the hippocampus: this orange and pink turret, that fading mural, this piss-stink SRO doorway, that taqueria with burritos as big as a Duralog, this 99-cent store, that 17 Reasons sign, this hipster bar, that yupscale boutique. I grew up here, I played hard here, I settled down here.

So rambling around with Mary yesterday was a real treat. See us in the picture above? I’m the tall one in the hat with the camera. I’m going to post some shots from our wanderings in the next few posts, but if you wanna, you can see the entire set here.

Archie looks like an electrical impulse, some sort of kinetic force, in these shots. (Which is not far from the truth; he’s a real Captain Asshole when he catches sight of another dog.)