Monday, April 29, 2013

True Crimes

Very cool...
I have been asked to submit my photo as a cover for a poetry anthology: The Lineup Poems on Crime. Seems that people are finding my stuff on the net and that always surprises me because the amount of information, including photos, that get uploaded and end up floating cyberspace every second is mind boggling.

This image is one of my contenders for the magazine cover.
Self portrait, of course.
One of my many homages to one of the greatest and most influential self portrait photography artists of all time - Cindy Sherman.

As with most of my best self portraits - this one was an accident - shooting blind is sometimes the most creative ways to shoot.




 (photo to come...)

Fat man, shitty place

Ext. Day
busy street.
4 lanes of two way traffic
mid afternoon

mom and daughter have taken the day to search for apartments

6.5, unheated, close to metro, bright and ideal for students. $950 unheated

Daughter rings the buzzer.
Sounds of running towards the door.
Door opens. A small mulato girl, 6 years old, opens the door. Wided eyed, hair in pig tails, liquid stains down the front of her shirt.

Daughter:
ah, can I speak to your daddy or mummy? I'm here to see the apartment...

Girl:
okay. One minute.

she slams the door. Feet stomping quickly down the hall. The echoes of "pappa! Pappa!" can be heard through the glass.

Door opens. Middle aged man. His girth fills the width of the frame. Glasses, broken hinges, held together with electrican's tape. Hair, grey and matted on one side. Sloping towards the ceiling. Navy blue tshirt. Punctuated with liquid stains down the front. A map of lunch, breakfast or perhaps, last night's supper.

Man:
are you here to see the apartment?

Daughter pauses. Mother lets out a slow aprehensive nasal sigh.

Daughter:
the 6 1/2? Yes.

The women follow the man up the stairs. Each holding onto the handrail with both hands. The steps quiver with each plodding step he takes.
Mother looks back to daughter - without a word, her face says: "this can't be good.."

Man:
When are you looking to rent?

Daughter:
(hestiating) Oh, not until June. Maybe earlier, but no earlier than Mid April.

Man:
That's soon. I already have a few people interested, so if you like the place, let me know as soon as possible...

Man knocks on door. Announces himself. "Landlord"
Door opens - a young man, 19, thin, clean shaven, studious looking, acedemic casual...
"got somebody to see the apartment".

Student:
Sure, come right in.

Mother and daughter pause in the doorway, on either side, a long narrow hallway. One end, the kitchen, the other, a living room with a couch and 40 inch flat screen tv.
Landlord:
Look around. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

Daughter slowly enters the living room. oddly asymetrical. Rectangular. Main window facing the busy main street. Crown molding wraps around the walls, and on each a row of empty beer bottles. Hundreds. Various sizes, colors, languages. Lager, ale, stout. Canadian, Belgian, German, American. Teenage tropies of surviving insulubrious evenings, binge drinking and marathon puking.
THe young man stands behind the mother. Beaming proudly, his boastful collection...

On the ceiling, the crown molding draws attention to itself. Stained brown and black from eroded water damage and the smoke from sparks, bare wires hang like dead squid tentacles from the gaping hole where a light should have been. Her eyes follow the vein of rot across to the other end of the room.

Sitting with it for a while...



I just had a fantastic session with my CBT therapist.
She came over to my house to sit with me during my re-examination of this Not Yet Home project; a project i have been avoiding for what seems like an eternity. We sat at my desk, at the computer, staring into the 1000 + photo abyss of images I had collected during the difficult apartment hunt last year, gauging my feelings, putting a percentage on these feelings of anxiety, fear, hope.
So many emotions inside - put it all in a blender on liquify = me right now. 
i’m trying to shift perspective and re-frame, realizing that this is not as horrible as it seems, reminding myself that in the end, everything did eventually work out. Even better than I thought it would and could.

And this too, shall work out in its own way. This project will unfold, take its purposeful path and come to an end. I will look back in retrospect, find confidence in my ability to push through the uncomfortable, the uncertain, turn a negative into a positive. Begin a journey, take the unknown road, then feel satisfied that not only have I reached my final destination unscathed, but am now filled with self awareness and renewed courage.

Nobody will die. 
No blood will be shed.
The world will not end.

And just like this apartment I now sit in, I will find myself a year from now, in a happier place, more comfortable in my surroundings, and able to look back on a situation that caused me an undo amount of stress, and know that i came through - completely.

Sometimes sitting with uncomfortable feelings is as important as sitting with the comfortable ones - detaching, observing, analyzing, realizing and letting go.
Just like the waves on the beach, follow the ebb and flow.
Breathing: catch and release.
A very necessary thing to do.

There's no place like home...



Indeed, we have found it. The holy grail of the center of our new universe: our casa, the sublime chez-nous. Home.
Now with feet firmly planted, we can move forward into this new life, knowing that we can always come back to rest in our safe corner of the world...

Bucket List

So it’s been a year last week since we got our notice to move out of our apartment.
I remember that day so well.
I don’t want to, but it’s hard to forget.


The only thing that really mattered to me was that my mother would be cancer free, my husband’s company would not go bankrupt on his watch and that we would find a nice place to live.



That was it. My bucket list.

Nothing else really mattered. 

I didn't want anything else. 

For me, the ability to lay my head in a place called home, without shitty screaming neighbhours, slumlords trying to pull a fast one, or a property whose tortured ghosts wailed through the night.

All I wanted to was to be calm. In my apartment. Find my center, rebuild my crumbling self esteem, battle weary body and fragmented soul.

And  now that I am in my new home, i can work on the real bucket list:


- A trip to Greece, swimming around the islands, scuba diving in the ocean, with the sharks, dophins
- Have a solo photography show that travels throughout Europe (and i of course, would travel with it)
- write my memoirs
- see a volcano up close
- make movies that make me respected, not necessarily famous (although that would be nice...)
- Cross (2 countries) country road trip by myself

I’m beginning to find and harvest those dreams again. This is only the tear stained, water damaged pages that survived the move. 

But I’m working on it.

Putting on a new coat of color and opening up the windows of life…

Nature’s Helicopters



I saw this foating from the sky, walking amidst a park with trees stripped naked by November winds. I held out my hand, and as if by magic, it landed in the center of my palm.
I will keep it until the spring, and then plant it. This new beginnings will begin with me…

Oceans Between Us






oceans between us


nautical miles separate the folds of reason
from the port of insanity

so desperately we hold on
until the storm passes


when will this
storm
pass 
us?

Portraits

I love taking photos. 

Despite my discouragment with the whole "scene", I still find some fleeting moments to be simply priceless





What sets professionals apart from amateurs is that the professionals can anticipate and capture a delicate fleeting pause, the small upturn of a smile in an otherwise stone face. It's the deliberate searching, waiting, then acting upon those magical moments when they happen which is a true skill, and a gift.

I think I still have that ability, and that keeps my faith that someday, something wonderful will happen and i will become unstuck and make a living at doing what i love...

Delicate Chaos



Today I was in the Zone - as director and cinematographer for a tv pilot.
Lots of things going on at once - multi-tasking on steroids, but I loved every minute of it.
It’s been years since my last gig doing both, but it was as if it had just been yesterday. I never realized how much I missed this delicate chaos, but quickly and delightfully embraced the intuitive knowing that said: “this is my element. I am most happy in this energy”.
This summer was all about new beginnings, but this fall is about moving into the directions of those new beginnings. I am finally embracing the uncertainty with anticipation, not aversion.

Life lessons for creatives

How to Steal Like an Aritst by Austin Kleon

So as I stumble through what has proven to be a rather emotionally and physically labour intensive time in my life, i ran across this today, and it made me realize that some of the most important lessons are the simplest...

i am woman, hear me roar...




this year has been a difficult one

kicked out of my apartment, wrestling with personal physical and spiritual demons...

for a long time, i feared that I had lost my way, strength, purpose, but that has all changed since we moved into our new home.

and indeed, it is a home that is surrounded by green everywhere. I wake up to the birds chirping, i fall asleep to the sound of only the wind in the trees.
Finally, i can hear myself think, talk down those demons in my head who mock and threaten me; calm the restless agitated soul and terrified wandering subconscious.

I have physically moved into a new space, and i feel myself moving into a new emotional/psychological space as well.

it's as if somebody has pressed the "reset" button and I am having a chance to revisit, relive and reform my so called life.


I had realized that trying to re-invent my own wheel while trying to stay in a home/situation/relationships that were toxic to me was only going to lead to failure and eventual disapointment.

The universe gave me the kick in the ass and keys to the new home i needed to find myself again.



As i sit here in my new office, surrounded by my ridiculously huge art photography book collection, staring into my shelves of cinema studies and then glance over to my acting/drama section, i have finally realized that I have all the strength inside of me to become the apothecary of my own artistic success.

A little dash of cinema, a pinch of acting, and a smidgen of photography to create a whole new direction in my life.


With each passing disruption, disappointment, discordance, i stand defiant and say: "Go ahead, try to bully me. I'm not afraid of you anymore..."

I am woman, hear me roar...

black form paintings






Silence is so accurate
Mark Rothko

Isolation




Be clear every day, every evening
It calls here aloud from above
Carefully watched for a reason
Mistaking devotion and love
Surrendered to self-preservation
From others who care for themselves
But life as it touches perfection
Appears just like anything else
Isolation

~Joy Division

Faith beyond a reasonable doubt



Faith beyond a reasonable doubt No matter how difficult the journey, how excruciating the cancer treatment was, no matter how many doctors said she would not be strong enough to survive, or no matter how infinitesimally small her odds of survival were, she kept on.
Her faith carried her through, and today, once again we made our pilgrimage/visit to St.Joseph's oratory, and to the tomb of the newly canonized St. Brother Andre. It is said that he preformed many miracles when he was alive, but we firmly believe that he preformed one from beyond.
Almost 2 years and mom is cancer free. Amen to that.

Melancholy for a place that's not home



I loved this color.
Loved the painterly technique I used to achieve the underwater effect on the bedroom walls.
Now that I don't live there anymore, I kind of miss it. My melancholia is replete with an avoidance of the now. Living life out of a box, and trying to coax a masterpiece out of a blank canvas is not only frustrating, it's unrealistic. But that has not deterred me from banging my head against a wall, trying to turn this space into a livable comfortable one.
I'm so tired. Too tired to sleep, unfortunately my compulsion to wax poetic about the past is the only autopilot trajectory I know right now...

the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth...

this is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.




a phenomenal time to be living in the digital age, but at the same time, a scary time for any photographer who grew up, learned and broke into the scene using a film camera.

and I'm proud to be guilty of being such a person.

For many "old school" photographers, the ease and practicality of digital photography casts a dark cloud over many who have recently taken up "the camera", and decided to call themselves "professional photographers' with little or no training.
The web is bedlamized with these people and their sites. Their claim to fame and ruthless bid for your attention.

The market is now over saturated, but perhaps in that plethora of 'Wanna Be Richard Avedons' the true gems really shine.

Those artists who truly have a vision, a unique way of viewing the world around them, these are the people who can take a square metal box, some photo sensitive plastic and turn that into pure magic.


Thank you to a wonderful fellow photographer who knows what real film is all about for reminding what it's all about and why i can't live without my box of plastic and metal...

Moving through an iPhone

Not Yet Home...

Trying to make sense of this chaos.



Trying to understand why I get so easily attached to homes that are not mine, but potentially could become mine, but in the end, for one reason or another, are not.



Trying to push through this gut feeling of impending doom; fear of living in a shitbox that I will despise because, when it came down to the wire, we had no real choice, had to take what was left behind.



Trying to beleive that my art will save me, and that while I'm capturing, documenting through my unique, intuitive way, photographically analyzing this world and life in transition, I will be able to push through, be at peace, and find my creative soul again...




disappear



Separation penetrates the disappearing person like a pigment and steeps him in gentle radiance





I'm very sad to be forced out of my home...

10 years of memories: days and nights lived, awake, asleep.
Tears and laughter released from my eyes, my mouth
I find myself paralyzed with fear. This unwanted separation from my comfort zone during a time in my life when what I truly needed was peace;  a desperate need to feel grounded on the foundations that I stood upon.

Through wishful and forceful thinking, my ineffective rationalization through this chaos: 
perhaps this is a shedding of old skin. A decade of physical and psychological debris that has been gathering around and inside of me, needed so desperately to be purged.
Nature and the universe shook me by the shoulders and slapped me hard.
Sloughing off, re-emerging new.

repetition does not make it more believable
repetition does not take away the pain
repetition does not
repetition does

This self portrait was taken during a period in my life when I believed my future held endless possibilities. 
And that stepping out of the present, into the unknown was a necessary rite of passage towards growth.

Separation penetrates the dissapearing person like a pigment and steeps him in genltle radiance

let the separation from the past and the present pigment of experience fill me with light, wisdom and courage to move forward into the unknown once again...



image © Kathy Slamen Photography  2010

Not Yet Home


Not yet home...

Saw a place, loved it, but was aprehensive at first.
The fear was a of fear of change.

Went back to see it.
Fell in love all over again.
Took 24 hours to be sure.

24 hours later, the landlord turned into a monster.
Took back his offer.
Now back to square one.
We don’t have a new place to live anymore.

Exhaustion beyond belief.
All faith stripped away.
Left a little part of our soul behind - 
residual shells - the worn ghosts of hope.

Need time to rest. Need time to get lost.

Need time to forget that we're
 not home yet...

Pinar Yolcan - nice to meat you...



Pinar Yolacan is a visual artist based in New York. She takes portraits using a variety of unusual and unexpected meat and poultry products to accesorizes her sitters with.
Pinar was born in Ankara, Turkey in 1981.



Pinar Yolcan    Nice to meat you...



I am floored. Seriously and utterly floored.
This woman has taken, God, I don't even know what this could be called, to a new and mind-blowing level.
Now this is what photography should be all about - evoking strong emotions, questions, discussion.
And that is what all real honest and brilliant art should do when you look at it, and then experience it


My not-by-blood-but-by-soul brother is casting a brain for me as well as some chicken skin.
I'm getting my fake lady gaga slabs of meat next week.

Picking up some chicken feet in Chinatown when the rest of the fake flesh is ready.
And then, an old sack of potatoes, some onion bag mesh, some fake blood.
And with my flesh and blood, I'll be digging deep to find the guts and balls to create a self portrait series that will push the self established boundaries that I have given myself as a photographer, as an artist - out the window.

Stay tuned. 

This is gonna get weird.
and it's gonna be fucken awesome...

shine like you are

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others .
(Timo Cruz)



and if we had the chance to do it all again, tell me would we? Could we?



Some people tell me: "I would not want to go back to my 20's because what i know now, 20 years later has given me a whole new perspective on life. I made a lot of mistakes in the past, and knowing what i know now, would not want to repeat them..."

I agree, to a certian extent.

But after scanning all these old negatives, I'm getting nostalgic.

Sure, there are things that I'm happy that I will not have to do twice:

gut wrenching/heart breaking breakups
stupid miscalculations/bad decisions

but for the most part, I wish I was 20 again. Even 30. The world was my oyster. I had such hope for the future. So much joy about the wonderful possibilities in what life was about to share with me.
The sky was the limit. There was nothing I could not do. Doubt had not yet become my nemesis. My brain disease.
I was not crippled by fear that comes from the regret  of things left unsaid, places not visited, stones left unturned.

I've gone through many breakdowns in my life. And i've come through each one like a champ.
Bruised, and scarred, but still swinging.
A little wiser, but looking a little more tired each time.

When i look at this picture, i remember a time when photography was my dream. My vitamin in a film canister.  There was nothing going to stop me from being the best.
It was from the first series of my self portraits.
Back in the days when you had to wait to get your film from the lab to see what the results would be.

But now, everything is instant.
Now.
I miss that joyful anticipation of hand developing a roll of film, pulling it off the roll still wet, and looking at something negative, and turning it into the possibility of a positive image in my mind.

Back then, I had nothing but time.
but 15 years flew by so quickly.

And now I am here, 3:30am. Wide awake. Getting lost in the drone of the scanner motor.
And time does not seem so finite anymore.

I wish I could go back to the day I took this image.
I wish I could go back, and take what I know now, and apply it to back then.

Backwards,
forwards,
each little step, we move closer and yet further away from ourselves...


Stones from a river




Give me silence, water, hope.
Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.

Pablo Neruda


I saw the most wonderful documentary tonight. A good friend of mine was the producer behind this gem called BAS! Beyong the Red Light.
Truly a film about hope, despite the struggles of 13 courageous young women who lived and subsequently escaped from a life of prostitution in Mumbai.

Pablo Neruda's quote was the first thing that came to mind after seeing this documentary.

silence, water, hope: peace, fluidity and faith.
struggle, iron, volcanoes: bravery, courage, and passion

all metaphorical elements that played throughout the lives and words of each girl in the film.

I took this image when i was camping (my forray into the low-fi/no-tech Lomo world)
It seems so aproppriate to draw a parallel between it, what saw tonight, and the life i am living now.

Despite the rocks, the harshness the environment, water maintains its continuos motion in harmony of its surroundings, eventually wearing down the surface of stone.
Perhaps its all about being stronger than adversity. Being able to live life in a forward trajectory, moving on, pushing through.

These elements - so prevalent in each of my days.
I work with change, i will welcome difficulties, I am not afraid anymore...

Just keep going...

There have been many times when I've sabotaged myself, for reasons I can only equate to being afraid of the future and the possibility of failure along that road.

I would carry memories of past hurts as tattered mental luggage, busting at the seams with regrets, yet in some sort of sadistic melancholia, pine for the good old days, when in actuality, the good old days were pretty shitty.

But some memories, even the shitty ones, brought me some sort of pathetic comfort to an already forlorn outlook on life. Those memories I'd hoard like a worn out blanket - stinky, thinned out over time, but that illogical silly sentimental attachment through the back roads was the detour that rerouted me to a mental landscape when in the possibility for change was hope, not apprehension

I realize now just how may times fear has made me slam on the breaks of a life in perpetual motion. I'd fall into the ditch, exhausting myself from the climb back onto the asphalt. In the middle of a highway, rush hour, not being able to merge with traffic - false starts only to start again. 

Car will not turn over. Battery corrosion in the terminals. The arc between now and then is not complete. The ignition. That fundamental switch that gets everything in motion again is my only hope.

Replace the dead battery, and resume my trajectory.

New directions, new hope, new me...

 

As we drive along this road called life, occasionally a gal will find herself a little lost. And when that happens, I guess she has to let go of the coulda, shoulda, woulda, buckle up and just keep going.

Carrie Bradshaw

 

Ks

 

Dreaming of me

I love it when I remember my dreams, even the disturbing ones. But they are not the ones I go back to on a regular basis.

Dreams are my mental housecleaning. I often take images that I encountered in my dreams and try to turn them into photographic pieces..

This image didn't come from this dream, but it could have, for so many reasons...

(an excerpt of a dream log and letter to a friend...)





This dream, it started off weird. I was in the ocean - my mom was warning me about going out too far - that I would surely drown, but i went farther anyway.

The sea was turquoise. Tropical blue. Cuba blue I call it. I was so buoyant, the buoyancy became almost a meditative state. I floated past a hanging tomato plant (saw one on tv the night before...) in the middle of nowhere. The vines were filled with these beautiful succulent tomatoes. Next to it floated a man - who told me I could eat one. (garden of eden perhaps??) and i did. It was not as sweet as I had hoped, but more meaty. He said something that I wish I could have remembered because it seemed to be some sort of life lesson thingy, but he did give me a blessing to go across the ocean.

And so I did. 

Looking into the horizon, it soon began to morph into a cityscape, and at the foot of that cityscape, a beach with people bathing, enjoying the heat. I swam faster in anticipation. The depths were varying in degrees. Spots that should have been at least 100 feet, were only 2, and others vice versa. I could not make sense of the discrepancies, but was not scared anymore. Regardless of depth, the other side was visible. There was no longer an "ocean between us"...

I walked onto the beach - literally, another sea of people. Side by side, back to back. A sandy metropolis of chairs, oiled bodies and chatter. The sidewalk seemed so close, the skyscrapers leaning over the people. I walked to the bustling streets, looking for a phone.

I was carrying something, i don't remember what, but it was perishable and needed to be protected from the elements. I asked a street vendor to hold it for me, but refused. After that, it quickly became night so I entered a coffee shop/pastry boutique, white haired ladies buzzed behind the counter. 

I leaned over and spoke in french to a sweet old woman who was also from my city and took pity on my situation, and gladly said she would hold onto my "package" until I came back from my meeting with you. I was releived. 

I walked outside - and it seemed to be a mix of what i imagined LA to be (from what i see on tv LOL) and new york. Metropolitan hustle and bustle. I walked to a pay phone and become despondent that I had forgotten your number at home and began to panic.

Reaching to pick up the telephone book, i saw a photo of you - smiling, and holding your camera, looking up to a tall building. It was on the bottom part of a phone - sometimes a space used for giving useful information on emergency numbers, how to dial international numbers etc. I could not believe it! What were the chances!! I called the operator, explained my situation to her and told her who you were (and that you were on the phone box) and she immediately connected me to you, and as if by magic, you appeared!!

Oh we were so happy to see each-other! We jumped and hugged like two 50's school girls who had just scored tickets to see the Beatles. "we have so much to catch up on - so much to do!!" you said, as you led me by the hand into the heart of the city. I looked behind me and saw the ocean again - both sides of it - the new and old shore, both there, open, waiting for me to return, wishing me well on my new journey...



Oh my dear friend. I know that we have more journeys to take together, so many lessons to learn and teach each other and so many photographs to take.  it's all a beginning, and perhaps is something that will never end. Some people I have met in my life I know I will meet again - soul travelers i call them. Please stay well. I know that life is difficult for you now, filled with melancholy and uncertainty, as is mine too, but as long as we can see both sides of the shore, we know that floating in the middle of the ocean is never a finite thing :-)

Wilderness - a return to the beginning

Today's lesson...

(the full experience here - Wilderness - a return to the beginning )


Childhood holds so many promises and dreams.
Adulthood often illuminates the faults and premises in those promises.

I have been doing a lot of soul searching lately.
Looking back to what was, what is now and what will be.

I had one reiki session during which the therapist found a great amount of blocakge. Right in my solar plexus.

We keep a lot of deep emotional memories stored there.

I began to cry, for reasons I could not explain.

see your younger self. How old is she?

six

is she happy?

yes, very

what does she want to tell you?

She is sad because older Kathy is sad.

why is older Kathy sad?

because she has stopped believing in herself. I wanted to be an brain surgeon, airline stewardess, singer, director, actor.

And what happened?

Life became harder. People began to leave her. She got sick and her mind stopped working. She gave up hope.

And now, what do you want to tell her now?

Never to give up. Never lose faith.  You really can do anything you want to. Don't stop dreaming because you can make your dreams come true.

and with that, the love and energy began to flow again.

And life began to change.


Today, a fellow warrior artist shared this link with me on fb.
Little did I know that i would bring me right back to myself.
Right in front of my old house.
And just like that - I was six years old again.

And I wrote a letter to her, and she smiled.



Thank you Betty for the detour :-)
Thank you Arcade Fire for the trip :-)

The Hold Up

Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy - the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much in hope and expectation.
Eric Hoffer 




strange how difficult situations seem to bring out either the worst in people or the best in people...

Today was case in point.
FB is a great networking tool but at the same time, you can see the level of people's ignorance and insensititvity when it comes to other people's sufferings.

Collect your fucken farm animals. Meanwhile, back at the REAL ranch, some calf is bleating, in pain, needing help.
Virtual world, save me from my responsibilites! Facebook! TAKE ME AWAY!


f-off
u know know who you are.

From The Archives...

where she came from...

 

A_wv

 

 

 

This was taken from my Blue Series. Looking back, this was a sadder time, a lonelier time.  I can remember this like it was yesterday.

 

The other day, I decided to revisit these pix and give them a bold new look, a makeover of sorts. I was surprised with this - the final product.

 

It's quite strange how much this transformation mirrors my life right now - I am bolder, a little rougher around the edges from wear and tear, but it's a good thing. It has made me stronger.

 

The duotone is a more stream-lined look; intense but focused. I don't look as sad anymore, perhaps a little angry; the kind of anger that bubbles just below the surface. The kind of anger that propels you to get things done.

 

we are not alone, says Drake

N = R^{\ast} \times f_p \times n_e \times f_{\ell} \times f_i \times f_c \times L \!

 

where:

N = the number of civilizations in our galaxy with which communication might be possible;

and

R* = the average rate of star formation per year in our galaxy
fp = the fraction of those stars that have planets
ne = the average number of planets that can potentially support life per star that has planets
fâ„“ = the fraction of the above that actually go on to develop life at some point
fi = the fraction of the above that actually go on to develop intelligent life
fc = the fraction of civilizations that develop a technology that releases detectable signs of their existence into space
L 
= the length of time such civilizations release detectable signals into space.

[edit]

according to the Drake Equation, we won't be alone for too long...

the general function of dreams

The general function of dreams is to try to restore our psychological balance by producing dream material that re-establishes, in a subtle way, the total psychic equilibrium.
CARL JUNG, Man and His Symbols

Dreams
I have a lot of them and remember most of them.
The past few have disturbed and perturbed me.
Now comes the task of transcribing my morning ramblings from my voice recorder.
But they will be worth the wait.

This is how I feel when I wake up from a disturbing dream: still in its web...








The power of photography, and coincidences

Call me sentimental, but I do believe that things happen for a reason. That there is something more than cosmic glue that holds the universe together, that there is truth behind the mystery of "the butterfly effect", and when these seemingly incoherent illogical yet lyrical rivulets flow into my stream of consciousness, i am filled with a deep appreciation of being alive, and so very present in second it happens...

I began to scan some really old photographs: friends, family, myself, all serving as visual reminders of a fleeting moment. Looking at each one, i seemingly instantaneously recall that exact moment in great detail, which then leap frogs me into a whole other sublime haze of wonder of that particular time. Oh the joys of hearing the shutter click, the sounds of plastic emulsion being pulled away from its tight spindle inside the body of the camera. Indeed what fond memories they were.

erase the bad, highlight the good...




Dad loved it. And because of him,  i grew up with it, and as I aged, it too became my all consuming passion. That film canister did not fall far from the Kodak tree.
As well as the guitar. But the film/movie machine became my bread and butter maker...

Could it be a strange coincidence that while perusing the Barnes and Noble site this evening, (and after seeing this, be on the precipice of suffering a fit of seizures from sheer excitement that) they are having a 50% off Criterion Collection DVD/Blu-Ray sale (!)  that our of sheer curiosity, I click on a title of a film that i have never seen before called "Everlasting Moments", that unbeknownst to me, was a story about a woman who finds solace and peace in photography?

I saw the trailer and almost wept at the utter beauty of this synchronous moment.
Me: reaching for memories of better times through photographs.
Me: searching for a connection to other through photography
the universe: teaching me that photography has been, and will always be, a very big part of my life.


I did a quick search on the web to find out more about this film that i had never seen, but now wanted to rather urgently, and came across this review. Once again, the timing and message were that of divine intervention because nothing can be so perfect as this moment.


A Real Heartfelt Flick about the Empowering Quality of Photography
13 January 2009


Author: eugenetard from Los Angeles
This movie was an enjoyable surprise to me, really worth watching. I don't speak Swedish or know of the director. I just saw it at the Aero in Santa Monica, where they screened the foreign film Golden Globe nominees, and I'm so glad I caught it.

It's set in Sweden back in the day, before and during WW I, and it follows the life of this Wife and Mother, and her family. This woman is a rock, and she's the soul and center of this story. She's got hardships out the wazoo, mainly an ever-growing number of mouths to feed during a war, and a drunken, philandering, impulsive, and abusive husband to deal with. 
She won a camera in a lottery before she was married, and, never having used it, tries to sell it for the cash. The old gentlemanly proprietor of the camera shop sees a chance to share his passion, and sets her up with film and developer and whatnot. Thus begins a friendship, maybe a platonic love-affair, between the two based on the power and beauty of picture-taking. 
And, as any film concerning photography should, this one looks Just Great. It's got a grainy sorta washed-out look that really takes you away to that time and place. But it also serves the tone and feel of her story really well. It takes you with her inside, into her picture- taking.
This is what I dug so much about this movie, was its take on the possibilities provided by photography, and Art in general. Where making art can take a person. This woman has such a bunch of trials and troubles, her family life is so stocked with drama, set against a backdrop of World War and labor strife. And yet she's able to transcend to some higher levels, and get something out of it, maybe make a little sense of it, whenever she takes out the camera and uses it. 
The different reactions and repercussions to her taking up photography are awesome. And the moments where we witness her really starting to get into it are so cool. The actress is so so good, and while she's a more-or-less ordinary-looking woman, when she's seeing her results of her picture-taking, her eyes just light up with such a subtle fascination and beauty. It's awesome. 
And for this stuff, the movie's a Must-See for folks who are into Photography &/or Film-making. We get to witness this woman's entry into her Artistic Space.
The photo-shop proprietor looks at her pictures and says "It's not everybody who really has the Gift of Seeing."
If you're down with that notion like I am, then See This Movie.



I have often told people: "When you don't listen to what God is telling you in a whisper, he hits you with a hammer on the head. "Hammer on the head! Some details and signs are just too obvious to be ignored!"


And tonight, before releasing the button on the shutter, the universe left it open long enough for an indelible image of my purpose in life to be frozen in time. A snapshot for me to look back upon and say: "Yes, I remember this moment, a moment in the raw."











I wonder...

I wonder if this will work. This process that is self discovery.
Looking, wandering, wondering and moving forward. Stumbling towards a better understanding of myself.

Hopefully...

Suburbia - where no cars go...

Saturday afternoon. Sunny. Warm. The first whispers of spring in the air.
Ville St. Laurent

Residential sectors used to hold the stigma of being staid, unified, cookie cutter boring areas to live.  Moving to the ‘Burbs’ was a middle-aged rite of passage. Upon acceptance of the newer, more remote postal codes, this meant that gone would be the 10:58 Saturday night -  “I’m not in a panic to get beer before the depaneur closes, because its just a short jog down the street” moments. Lost are the “let’s meet at that cool internet/shish smoking cafĂ© around the corner after work” events. Practicality, functionality and acknowledging that cockroaches were not normal household nuisances meant that acceptance of these things meant you were finally becoming an adult. That is why expanding our radius of acceptable places to search began to widen. We would be safe. Surrounded by baby boomers and their backyard gardens, young families with swing sets in the yard, perhaps we could finally find some peace. We embraced a world where landlords looked to rent to responsible individuals, inadvertently propagating the stereotypical myth of suburbia.

This duplex, from the outside, looked extremely well kept. High end aluminum windows, a manicured lawn, and topiary trimmed hedges. We rang the doorbell, and in confirmation of our supposition, a middle aged French man, who must use the same lawn stylist for his hair and clothing, opened the door. Well educated, well spoken, he seemed happy to see us. “You’re older than what I expected. And that’s a good thing…”
Following him up the stairs to the 2nd floor, he stopped midway, turned around to us with trepidation in his eyes: “I must warn you, the current tenants were an exception to my rule. I rarely rented out to students, and after this, never will again…”

If you have never been hit in the face with a dirty litterbox, you will be hard pressed to understand the stench that raped our nostrils the moment the front door was opened. The level of ammonia in the hallway was enough to cause instantaneous tear duct explosions. The landlord cowered, lowering his head ever so slightly while looking back at us. “I said no dogs in the lease, but okay to cats. Well, one cat turned out to be two, and now two equals 7. So I hope you can understand my trepidation when you ask if you have any animals.”
While E tried to reassure the landlord that our cats were domesticated and toilet trained, I took a deep breath, and moved past them to see the rest of the house.
If I lacked a sense of smell, this apartment would have been ideal. Completely renovated – modern bathroom and showroom kitchen, 3 bright bedrooms of nice size. There was obviously attention to design and upkeep. But what it had become as a result of some teenage ignorance, soaked in apathy could not be easily repaired. The carpets would have to be ripped out. Completely. Wall to wall, spanning from room to room.  And perhaps even the wood paneled floors. Beautiful old varnished floors, ruined and stained with asymmetrical circles of territorial feline markings.
“Because our cats are indoor, and have never come in direct contact with other cats, they would traumatized because of the smell.”
Scrambling into damage control mode, the landlord quickly spoke: “Oh, we’re planning on having professional cleaners come in and clean the whole house with industrial floor/carpet machines.”
“Humans may not smell the cat urine anymore, but our cats will. The only way we could take this place is if you rip out the carpets.”
“Oh we don’t want to do that. It provides insulation from the sound of people walking upstairs from us. And with 5 students, it gets pretty noisy.”
I was going to make a counter argument: we had since long graduated from university, and a quiet couple of two; but the shame in this man’s eyes was so painfully obvious, he knew the moment he opened the door that nobody other than advantageous students would see the practicality of this place: cheap rent, within walking distance to two of the city’s biggest colleges, and a landlord who is nothing short of a doormat. And because of this, I then gave myself ample leeway to be nosy; opening closets, peering behind bureaus, checking for bed bugs…

What had quickly been established was that these kids had no shame or conscience. Besides, they were simply too immersed into their World of Warcraft games to even notice us walking around them.

A distant delicate symphony of squeaks came from the closet. At first, I thought it was part of the soundscape from the computers, but to my horror, deep inside was a box of 10 newborn kittens, writhing around like hairy snakes. No sooner did I motion to E to come and see, a huge black cat strutted into the room, and sat at our feet.  Even on the most instinctive primitive level, something was being watched over and cared for. But sadly, it was not the actual apartment.

The last room was a shared one. Two girls, old enough to be away from home, but still hanging onto the last vestiges of childhood: electric pink thongs thrown over gigantic stuffed animals. Wonder Woman pajamas on the unmade bed, and a dozen bottles of nail polish on the nightstand. Judging by the time of year, they were in the middle of their final exams. Papers covered the floor. Wall to wall notes, scribbles amidst unopened letters and bills. And the state of disarray in the dusty pink room also made me wonder if they were spending their all nighters studying, partying or perhaps both.
And tucked away in the corner, near the window, adjacent to the wall heater was a cat box. A half empty bag of litter on the side, a box of baking soda to neutralize the odors (which was obviously not working) and little links of cocktail wiener sized pieces of shit. On the floor were dried pieces of crap sprinkled with granulated clay. Inches away from that muddle, a food bowl. These kids were living like the animals they barely cared for. It broke my heart and hope for the next generation…

After E and I exchanged some high arched brow raises and deep eye rolls, we agreed that we didn’t want to add insult to injury by telling the landlord something that he already knew - what a mess he had on his hands. By the way he was cowering in the hallways behind us, I think he knew that already. So deciding to be diplomatic without being graphic, we thanked him for his time and said that the cat smell was a deal breaker. He nodded, as he spoke into his chest:  “I know. And it will be for many…”