I bracketed my heart out this afternoon, and as it just so happens, I like them better when they aren’t High Dynamic Range treated. Makes me think harder, frame better, concentrate. Here they are in their original format.
I’ve put up the HDR test shots on Flickr for reference. They are watermarked because I am using Photomatix on trial, which succeeds in being very user-friendly and fast.
I am living for the 20 minutes after five o’clock that are not utterly dark; ricocheted sunbeams eeking through the Laurier wind tunnel, cement still warm from the memory of direct sunlight. I cannot yet make it home before the sky turns uniform and grey, but for those 20 minutes, life is good.
Life is also just a little bit better for Ottawan Arev Manoukian, who recently won LG’s 5-minute short film contest. I watched it last night; worth it just for the lighting, and really, haven’t you got 5 minutes? You do, don’t you?
So, the bank account is on its usual winter prorogue, but if I had money I wanted to spend, it’d be on a new Crumpler camera backpack; I have been goaded into taking the D90 on the upcoming Central America mixer. Why else do you have it, wife? He asked. To look cool on the streets of exceptionally clean developed countries where there is no risk of banditos? I retort. Bids on whether and how this becomes a kind of stupid idea welcome in the comment section.
Other things I’m thinking of doing that are kind of stupid: The 100 Strangers project. Question: What is the likelihood that perfect strangers on the street will a) consent to being photographed and b) let me post their photo on the internet? Are you even reading this anymore? Have I not proven my point? Defeated on the starting line: Curse you, paranoid Ottawa.
For your walk home, sunshine or not, I recommend: Dire Wolf, Girlfriend, and Mr. Richards, that saucy boy.
I could start with vague platitudes about how last year was a year of discipline, of steady but tedious progress in parts of the astrological chart more strictly in line with society’s vision of … what? I don’t know. But I hear it comes with a mortgage.
But the truth is, in my heart, I am a traveler. And much of the hard work I have done in my life has been motivated by that burning passion.
And when you’re lucky enough to know your passion, you better not be stupid enough not to pursue it. Doggedly. No matter how much your parents want grandchildren.
Three weeks. Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica.
Finally, I am free again.
Monday morning’s commute in the rain destroyed my umbrella.
(I suppose that’s only funny to Canadians.)
Today, back to snow:
I hear Apple is going to take over the world tomorrow. I could think of worse leaders.
Also: Brownie, Red Apron. That is all.
So, sometimes, I really pick the wrong shoes.
When: Tuesday, January 26, 2010
What:
Shirt: RW&Co. black 3/4 sleeve jersey shirt
Skirt: Banana Republic
Tights: H&M, and getting a bit old, I see
Shoes: The Only Ones I Had Lying Around, Payless
Cat: Adorable.
It was a reason not to study. The far grounds of campus on a sunny, soggy April evening needed to be seen first-hand before the end of term sent us back to the prairies for four months. It would be tragic if we had not fully profited from the views. English exam be damned.
There are odd little monuments down the path along the river behind Carleton, an architecture project gone wrong, or maybe the engineers. Beyond that, a muddy field leads eventually to the bridge over the Rideau river, and a steady feed of traffic heading south, to the airport. We took the bridge over, but turned into the park on the far bank; we might have left the books behind, but in our hearts as in our minds, we were looking for it. Ezra Pound in treetops. Ginsberg under stones.
The river was flush; springtime turns the sleepy creek behind campus into something rather formidable. And perhaps it was a desire to feel formidable, to escape the nerves of year-end exams, the rush of new knowledge. Perhaps it was simply foolish. But when we came across the wooden railroad bridge that spans the river, fenced off against imprudence, the balance of reason tilted firmly away. “Let’s cross the tracks,” I said. “….ok.” said Keri.
The tracks were not in use back then. Looking down between our feet, the river beneath the wet wooden rungs churned angrily, and the sudden realization that the gaps were easily wide enough to swallow us whole brought us back from the grips of poetry.
And in my memory, the scene replays from the bank of the river; two girls, arms spread wide, laying one foot in front of the other, high above the water. Petals on black boughs. And blue, blue sky above.
I’m feeling rather taciturn, a decidedly bad adjective for a bloggeuse, but there it is. Half-finished thoughts scribbled madly on scraps of paper litter the space around my computer, hoping in earnest I have the appetite to take up some desperate allegory to the permanence of deep fried oil sweeping across Centretown. Poutine, and other Canadian myths will have to wait.
January 17 – the day most New Year’s resolutions come to a crashing end – did not fail to disappoint; I did not go swimming. I resolved to do so once a week as a way of testing the water (zing!) for future forays into things that rhyme with… tri..ath….alon?
But I’m not giving up. In fact, I’m doubling my efforts, upping the ante to two workouts a day where necessary. While I don’t recommend this approach for anyone with children / dogs / any semblance of a life, it is, in fact, a perfectly logical way to burn the same amount of calories without the heavy onus of getting to the gym EVERY. DAY.
Which is hard, you know? Because of the poutine.
When I’m not guilt-tripping about missing gym workouts, I’m probably hogging the camera. We are in dangerous “not a hobby anymore” territory.
Next:
When: January 14, 2010
What:
Scarf: Hand-embroidered kashmir, Leh, Northern India $45
Shirt: RW&Co.
Pants: Mexx black suit pants
Belt: Barcelona souvenir
Bracelet: Turquoise rough stones, Annapurna range, near Poon Hill, Nepal, $3
I am in awe of women who can pull off gracefully-draped shawls. I move too much, so I use a belt to fasten the damn thing to me. This shawl sells for considerably less at the source, even if the wonderfully-endearing salesman totally fleeced (zing!) me for it, charging an obscene $45. It is one of the few precious things I acquired on the road, and I wear it only seldom. And never near ketchup.
The National Arts Centre is full of shockingly beautiful glass, wintry and Canadian, like its muses. (That’s us!)
While this outfit is largely inspired by Danish aesthetic, the kudos are decidedly local. For instance, we were right here at home when my wonderful husband gifted me with a Georg Jensen infinity bracelet (or Smykker, in Danish, which is too ridiculously fun a word not to take out of context.)
By chance, my mother also spoiled me with a stunning Danish-designed skirt – with props to the excellent Green Tree Eco Fashion shop, new to Westboro. Owner Sarah knows her stuff, and the clothes come with a degree of social responsibility, too. (I may have a mild crush on Sarah. For the record.)
The top, by Montreal designer Jean Ellezam, was a fantastic find this summer; versatile and flattering.
When: January 7, 2009
What:
Shirt: Jean Ellezam, $49 on sale
Skirt: Part Two, silk print, gift
Tights: Spanx, convertible leggings. (Ladies: find these and buy them. They are the best. I’m looking at you, tall girl.)
Bracelet : Georg Jensen infinity bracelet, gift
At the risk of blowing your mind, let me handily sidestep all discussion of perogies (thou shalt not blog about politics and/or your mother) in lieu of a far more convenient example. Hartman’s is doing away with its public piano. So long, staggeringly bad renditions of “My Heart Will Go On.” I am flummoxed to admit I will miss you.
Enter new media and civic engagement. There’s a Facebook group for that, too. So with one simple click, I become one of the dozens of “concerned citizens” and can, with significant moral riteousness, brag about it on my blog. Application of new media? Sure. Measurable good? The formula is complicated, but if you carry the variable, and maybe add an exponential number or something, then draw a little chart here….yep, like that… and… result is… 0. Yes, zero. Zero, people. Zero.
BUT!
That doesn’t mean it is not, in fact, the first step towards something entirely measurable.
Say, cold hard cash.
Which is a theory recently put in practice by a group at MIT who won the DARPA Network Challenge. DARPA (they invented the internet) wanted to know exactly what rolls the internet and social networking can play in the “timely communication, wide-area team-building, and urgent mobilization required to solve broad-scope, time-critical problems.”
The mission? To find 10 tethered red balloons placed around the U.S.A. as quickly as possible by using the web.
It took MIT eight hours.
The deliverable is that, by using the prize money as a financial incentive to get ordinary people to help, the internet can actually be harnessed for good. And this kind of follow-through is exactly how we transform the nebulous and occasionally obnoxious discipline of “new” media into something entirely measurable.
I think they call it “hope.”
Other things that give me hope:
Hello there, shiny, happy new year. So far so good.
Did you know I have a tattoo?
Hi, mom.
Creeping back from the edge of too much information, let’s just add for fun: Happy Birthday, Little Sister. I would add I’d rather be where you are right now, but the truth is, I don’t. This is your journey. You’re doing fine. Xo
What, no pictures? Alas, none. I’m being stifled by the cost of Photoshop, and a stubborn interest in high dynamic range photos. Both of which greatly exceeding whatever brain power is left after so. many. sweets. Sugar delirium, Christmas ‘09.
A perfect state in which to write the five-year plan. (And the one-year plan, but that is different, and relates mostly to an imminent need to buy some swimming goggles.)
It was five years ago that I turned to Darcy and said “let’s travel the world.” And we were young and not too bright and too quick to write it down. Probably in crayons. And we laughed when we remembered that a year ago, we were battered, broke and unemployed, and the thought of a five year plan smacked more of punishment than of picket fences, blue-eyed kids.
But there you have it; the pen is indeed the mightier. There is no other explanation for the sudden caught breath.
This speeding pulse.
