And Summer gave way to…

Tags

Art, Autumn, Farms, Harvest, Pepperel Massachusetts, Photography, Writing

Well, it’s hotter than Baked Alaska outside and I am officially tired of Summer.

How dare you call me unreasonable! I don’t care if this is the first week of honest Summer weather we’ve had this year, I miss the rain, the chill of evening air, the smell of burning cinders on the gale. Give me Autumn or give me Central AC people! I demand it.

These are a collection of shots from the Harvest of last year. I have had these hidden away amongst family photos since last October and am truly tickled to find them on a day like today. Being reminded that the Apple Picking Season is just a couple months away, followed by Halloween, School, Irish knit wool sweaters, and crisp autumn mornings just awakens every cell in my body.

I’ll take a chill over swamp ass, anyday!

Oh, this picture is a shot down the corridor of a Tomato greenhouse. The tomatoes are in different stages of ripeness and overgrowing the walkway to a point that I felt itchy just thinking of walking down the path. Still, I thought it looked inviting, like another world. A tomato world, full of Vitamin C and ketchup, soft, mushy textures and soggy ham sandwiches. I love tomatoes, but only Beefsteak, thinly sliced, sprinkled with salt.

Yum…

This is a long line of I don’t know what. Cabbage?

Lettuce?

Malice?

Who knows, but I gather it was near ripe and delicious. The leaves were remarkable in the sun. I love the unique coloring of this plant, like this farm staple saw all the attention the flowers were getting and said, “Psh, I don’t need petals to look fine as hell!”

This plant grew in perfect lines with red peppers and a smug grin. I got myself well seasoned trying to capture this image. (My elbows are in the nutrient rich soil while I am taking this picture. Well, at this point, what picture have I taken where I am not knee deep in something? Exactly.)

I just realized how odd I am. On a family trip to the Apple Orchard to pick apples and enjoy the day, what do I do?

Take several hundred pictures.

I was still fun to be around, I just had another agenda on top of sneaking delicious, fresh from the tree apples on a crisp October day. My daughter understands, why can’t you?

I love this picture. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to catch a bee in flight without him looking like a thumbprint in molasses. The flowers are blooming from the same patches of color competitive vegetables, (though I’ve no idea what kind of vegetables).

And on a side note, I currently feel grimy! Like I need to wash my face. This is what the summer does to me, damn it. Autumn, feel free to arrive sooner than expected.

Am I the only one who finds white pumpkins unnatural?

Though they are quite beautiful.

I suppose nature knows better than I do, but still…explain to me why someone felt it necessary to genetically alter produce? The Plumicot, Peachtar, the Pearple, what travesties these creatures be. I was entirely content with the taste of my Apples and Plums before some busybody decided my palate wasn’t getting enough of a workout.

I’d like to meet that guy and genetically cross him with a Bush Baby. See how he likes it.

Back to the Future/Sex Love Sounds – Onward HO!

Tags

Art, Britain, England, Film Photography, Photography, Travel, Writing

Try to make sense of me (or more importantly, my thought processes in naming my blog posts) and you will lose your mind. Just a kind public service announcement from your friendly writer and Photographer. I just go with whatever comes to mind. Mindless dribble, really.

Shall we?

Let’s start from the South up. This is Dover.

Yes, you are correct, Dover is commonly considered a cliff ridden place, but this is the shoreline beneath the cliffs. There’s actually a small town there as well. This piece of water we’re looking at is often referred to as “The English Channel” or some nonsense. There was nothing on when I was watching so I changed the ‘Channel’. Oh ho! Snap! Television humor, word play…I can’t be stopped.

This is a pretty typical shot from me. I find lines and geometry very aesthetically pleasing. Might have something to do with the Golden Ratio, but I couldn’t honestly tell you if that is the case. I’ve done a lovely presentation in my time on the Golden Ratio, but it’s not like I understood it, really.

Anyway, on the other side of this bad mamma jamma is France. Calais is where the ferry arrives when you take it, otherwise, there is now a Bullet train that travels beneath the Channel. I personally think they should have called it the THUNDER train, or Lightning Train, or the Holy Spear of Zeus Train, but again…we return to the strange logic I seem to have when it comes to naming things.

Moving on.

Hey joker, take a BATH, why don’t ya?

(self satisfied chortling…)

Yes, this is a picture of the Baths in, you guessed it, Bath. I like how the Romans chose to name their towns; simple, sophisticated, enlightened, unimaginative, self explanatory. If I had been in charge it would have been called something like the Township of Steaming Ass and Fury.

God, I make myself laugh.

Anyway, they actually let people swim in these baths up until the 1970′s when some buzzkill contracted Meningitis from the water. Now, it just sits there steaming and frothing and mocking while you think about all the hairy naked Romans that most likely peed in it nigh on a thousand years ago.

Good times.

And it’s a hallway! I declare with such gumption because I know my own hidden tendencies toward hallways, as well. Corridors are epic. They suck me in artistically as well as physically. If I am in a building and I cross a long endless hallway, I WILL run down it. Or at least meander, especially when alone or when I am not supposed to.

That walkway was along side the great infectious pool that was afore-pictured. Which brings me, suddenly to further self-declaration.

I have a tendency to jump off of things (as mentioned here), but more commonly observed is my tendency to jump into things. Be it swimming pools or mounds of whip cream on a Belgian Waffle, I dive in face first, ask questions later. This pool was one of those moments.

It was piping hot, so jumping in might have hurt, but it would have been something to tell the grandkids, that’s for sure. “Hey kids, gather round. Wanna here the story of how Nana contracted Meningitis again?”

There are potentially two descriptions of this picture. Give me a moment to remember…

OK! This is Salisbury Cathedral. (See, I couldn’t remember if it was the Cathedral of Steak or the Cathedral of Brains. I’ll explain those names upon posting pictures of Brains Cathedral.)

Salisbury Steak Cathedral required that I pay $2 for the right to shoot within its glorious expanse. Worth every penny. (Mind you, I couldn’t find the pound sign so I went with $. Call me lazy, but you’ll be lying!)

While here, I took pictures, roamed and meandered, then got into a verbal altercation with a group of women in French because they’d been talking shit and didn’t know I spoke their lingo. I believe I called them Pigs…not sure at this point.

God, I love French. Maintenant, viens ici que je te saute!

One of Steak Cathedral’s claims to fame is that it now houses a copy of the Magna Carta (thank you Prince John, phony King of England). That was an amazing thing to see given my love of antique documents, books, and maps. I have sworn to one day purchase and display a Tudor era map of the world in my library, but it’s only because my attempts to steal the Magna Carta have come to nought.

This is the courtyard of Steak Cathedral. Truly beautiful architecture. I often tear at the idea that structures, stonework, craftsmanship of this caliber is no longer being created. To think that men and women were creating these sorts of things a thousand years ago with the most rudimentary technology, and now, we have space travel but we make so little to truly stand the test of time in both beauty and structural integrity. For christ’s sake my grade school is a rotting husk right now, but these pillars and hallways still remain.

I’m pouting for mankind right now.

Back to the Future Sex/Love Sounds?

Tags

Britain, Double Decker Bus, London, New Years, Travel

This is taking us back a long ways; pre-birth. (Not my birth obviously, otherwise, I would have been a true marvel of the human race to have been able to take these pictures? Pre-my daughter, wiseass.)

My commentary may be a bit askew for these are over five years old.

During this period of my Photography ‘habit’ (I say that like one would refer to a crack habit, mind you) I was wielding a Nikon N70 with a 18-200mm lens. The cost to buy film and then develop it was enough to default on a mortgage, so though I once swore with the opening of my own veins that I would never go digital, when my N70 broke and Ritz Camera offered to rob me blind by sending it to Nikon for $170 (I can send it myself for $8 thank you. Read here for more of my disdain with Ritz), I gave up all hope. Paying $170 for it to be fixed was always in my future, but buying a digital replacement began rearing its ugly head when I had to pay $130 just to develop the pictures from this trip.

Am I right, or am I right?

I will always have a soft spot for Black and White FILM photography, but it ain’t soft enough.

Anyway, above is Saint Paul’s Cathedral, London. All the pictures in this series were taken from the roof of a double decker bus careening through London’s maze of streets.

I am utterly pro-cheesy tourist bus rides. Sure, you’re a travel snob and you want to ‘experience’ the local flavor. Well, get off your high horse and experience the local flavor AFTER you’ve seen the whole city while listening to some cheeky cockney tour guide who knows all the local places where the flavor is actually worth ‘experiencing’.

I take a tour like this everywhere I go, as a rule.

When you arrive in London, Paris, Berlin, Prague, Kazhakstan, where ever you may be, find a cabby (who speaks English comfortably or in an accent you can understand) and ask him to give you a tour of the city on the way to your hotel. Most would love the extra dough, know more than the average tour guide, and will end up charging you less for a private tour than the cost of your party on a double decker bus.

But then again, shut up and take the bus. It’s an experience everyone should have. In London, anyway.

Sorry, had to post this one. I am so nostalgic for London right now. God, I can’t wait to buy my flat in Soho.

I am planning to spend New Year’s in Ireland and I am hoping to find some sort of tour similar to this, only lead by some devastatingly handsome brogue dribbling Irishman. It’s only right.

Oh, and another thing! On the top of a bus you have; the wind in your hair, the sights described by goofballs of a different nationality than you’re used to, and the ability to shoot from a perspective you’d otherwise be deprived of, while at the same time, taking utterly goofball pictures of your travel companions.

What more could a jackass want?

This is Katie; my travel companion and sister (by choice, which is BETTER than blood!). She and I destroyed London single-handedly. Or would that be double-handedly? No matter! The great fire that was once thought to have started in a Bakery was truly started by we. Tell no one!

Man alive, I’m hungry!

Moving on…

Big Ben is not, in fact, the name of the Tower. It is the name of the Bell. (which from the tour I took, was named after a guy who was quite tall, but that is all I can remember of that anecdote, sadly. I’m slacking, I know.)

I believe I may be delirious from hunger right now. It’s a dangerous place to be, my friends. Woozy with starvation! Makes my writing a little tainted with thoughts of Bison Burgers and White Chocolate Molten Chocolate Chocolate Cake. Choc-o-late…

Alright Caitlin, Focus!

I have a severe travel bug that somehow nested in my brain when I was young. I have been to England so many times, we may be looking at double digits, here. I have also been to France, Russia, Belarus, Venezuala, Wales, Ireland, China, Puerto Rico, and for less than a few hours; Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Italy, Estonia, and Latvia. Of those, I will be returning to…all…save for maybe Venezuala. No, wait. They had REALLY good Tomato soup there.

Caitlin FOCUS!

Yes, you will notice that a good number of these pictures are of the mighty Big Ben. Well, I like him. Though, to be truthful, upon visiting London for New Year’s one year, Katie and I may have learned the truth of the icon. He may be a wee bit overrated.

Don’t get huffy, let me explain. It happened when we decided to hit up the square beneath Big Ben to hear him chime in the New Year and perhaps watch fireworks.

On that evening, we met an Italian girl who shared her cigarette with us, which turned out to be Hashish, we bought glow in the dark whizbangs, counted down with the locals and heard…nothing. That’s right. Big Ben was broken. He didn’t chime. Everyone stood around confused and bewildered, glancing at each other in hopes of an explanation. Apparently in the confusion, the one retard armed with a firework got agitated and shot his arsenal off in a huff, which resulted in the rocket careening up into the sky and slamming into a building across from Westminster Abbey.

Oh yeah, London knows how to party.

It was at that point that we decided to skedaddle for fear of future broken arrow explosives being shot by chimpanzees.

Then on the way home, my friend Katie had to shield, stiff arm, power block, and drag me out of the clutches of several different men, of different nationalities, all hell bent on kissing me a Happy New Year. The frenchman who attacked first threw me off guard enough that I side dodged and kissed him on the cheek. The rest I ran from screaming.

(Especially that very short drunk Scotsman in a leather coat.

He was aggressive!

I’ve heard that about the Scots. Hence the kilt wearing without undies. Am I kidding? You never really know, do you?)

All right, this concludes my trip down memory lane. I may do this again with more England or perhaps last year’s trip to Virginia and Disney, but we shall see. So many photographs, only so many days in the week, friends.

Vermont (E. Pyth-) No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

Tags

Art, Covered Bridges, Photography, Travel, Vermont, Writing

Took me awhile. In fact, I nearly forgot to finish this series. Shame on me.

This is what I like to call ‘a Vista.’

That’s right, Microsoft, you don’t know bupkis!

The long convoy in which I was driving along was headed up by a Masshole-turned-Vermonter who saw this view as we careened around a corner and very thoughtfully pulled the cavalry over to the side of the road just long enough for me to jump out and take a couple shots.

I saw the shadows cast by the clouds overhead slinking their way across the mountain side and was at the ready with camera to blindly shoot out the window, without looking, just praying to catch an image I could be proud of. Instead, I was allowed to stop.

I am concerned that our daring leader and I may be linked telepathically due to this experience, but I dare not ask, or think to ask, in his presence.

I fear knowing.

We’d just left this ancient Wooden Covered Bridge and I was giddy with the idea of there still being  structures like this in the not too distant vicinity of my life. Walking down that bridge on foot sent me to a bygone era in my mind, of days when the only way across was by carriage or foot. The sound of echoes inside the Bridge made me wonder how infinite a trotting horses hooves would sound with the gritty roll of wheels.

The ancient sign over the bridge entrance read “Two Dollar Ticket for Traveling Faster than a Walk.”

I freakin love old shit!

Hence my fate of marrying a man who loves to travel. I am destined to cart an adventuring character around the ancient ruins of Greece, the palaces of France, the Soldiers of Xian, the Church grounds of Norway (look up a Norwegian Church and you’ll understand), all so I can take pictures of him in front of the shit with a goofy grin on his face.

Sure, I get to enjoy the history and the tales of ancient heroism, tragedy, and mysticism, but he’ll get to prove to everyone he knows that he’s been there and that he looked handsome while at it (sorry, I pride myself on the ability to make people look sexy as hell).

Perhaps I should marry a man with his own digi camera, so I will be in a few of the pictures.

We shall see whether he can capture me looking like something more akin to a woman than a sand shark, which is the common outcome of most pictures taken of me. Something about having a camera pointed at me by a goofball makes me act like a goofball.

Uncontrollable side effect.

And we all know how weak in the knees I am for travel loving goofballs.

Tell me this picture doesn’t scream Cheddar Cheese and I will call you a callous, two timing hussy. This farm was just aching to be shot from the gravel, by me. (I am not lying on the ground with my hair in the dirt for this one, but the one before it, I was.)

There was a donkey on this farm that apparently lead the pack as far as horse motivation is concerned. Whereever the donkey went, the horses would follow. The farmer would release the ass first and then just let the rest of the horses follow him without leads or human companions, so completely did they trust their leader’s whim.

I find that inspiring.

With the right attitude, even an ass can lead the masses. (There is a President Bush joke in there, but I am going to keep it to myself right now, because…well, political commentary is not my bag.)

This here is apparently, the Longest Covered Bridge in Vermont.

I walked down this one, too. Much higher traffic level, but truly worth chancing lunatic drivers just to experience the sound created within these walls. The sounds of engines humming, wheels barreling across wooden planks, the water churning beneath the bridge, all echoing off the beams overhead; it was a truly unique and surreal sound.

I miss craftsmanship like this. The same way I want hand made adirondack chairs on my porch, hand woven caning in my rocking chairs, hand carved bedposts and cabinetry, fresh blueberry pie, my own homemade fudge; it’s all relative. Without the respect and reverance of one, we lose sight of the glory and worth of another and in time, live like robots on microbiotic diets with surrogates leading our lives for us.

Am I jumping the gun?

I have a tendency to do that.

Just remember, when you’re eating your food pellets and listening to your soothing classical music in futuristic hell, how truly breathtaking a hand carved violin sounded, before the robots took over.

SKYNET!

Nahant Your Momma’s Island

Tags

Art, Graveyards, Locations, Nahant, Nature, Photography, Shrubbery, Travel, Writing

Sorry, ladies and gents, I had a bit of a slack attack. Pictures I have aforementioned remaining hidden in the drudges of my ordinateur. My apologies.

Shall we?

There isn’t much here, people. It is an island with one road leading in and out and an ape ton of large and beautiful homes, that from what Gina told me, will be underwater in 200 years. Thank god I only plan to live to 143.

I’ve recently had a few dreams that involved me living in a house by the sea. I refuse to believe that it could possibly be Nahant given that the view in my dream was of the sea and the sea alone. (Nahant has a view of Boston which would be truly stellar on the fourth of July, but otherwise, is just asking for voyeurs to see me traipsing on my back porch in my skivvies. That’s for my husband to see and enjoy alone, thank you.) Though this little conclave on the shore was a lovely nest of gorgeous goo, it still doesn’t cut it with me in the grand scheme of things.

I’m a seaside snob, what can I say?

This is one of the many bushes that kept me from my chosen path of rock outcroppings into the water. Where I hail from, the shore is all rock outcroppings ending in swaying tufts of seaweed just beneath the surface at high tide. The hours I have spent climbing those rocks, slipping along in the seaweed in bare feet, hunting mussels for dinner, only to come home and have my Aunt cook them while I bandage my eviscerated feet (seaweed has a way of hiding barnacles) will remain some of my fondest childhood memories.

Well, despite that time I realized I’d climbed too far out and gotten myself stranded during High Tide. Anyway…

It’s in my bones, the will to scale…well, anything really, but especially oceanic rock formations. I was in flip flops at the time, wouldn’t have stopped me, as clarified by the aforementioned evisceration of my bare feet.

Now that an opportunity presented itself and I didn’t partake, that urge is going to remain until it is sated. Where might I find unguarded structures of stone and sea? Anyone?

Don’t know why, but I just liked this picture. Seemed so out of place in both season and location, like having a tiny dew drop of Autumn well before her arrival. I await her arrival with bated breath.

(Upon having had a conversation today on my ignorance of this phrase’s true spelling, I looked it up. It is Bated. Also, it is Beck and Call rather than Beckon Call [though, Beck is a shortened form of the word Beckon, so technically the phrase was initially, in 14th century England, Beckon AND Call. And that concludes Caitlin's boring trip down the memory lane of the English language. Sorry everyone, I'm an English major. You'll get used to it.])

I did not pluck this leaf from its perch, though looking at the picture now, the temptation arises in hindsight.

No matter!

Cemeteries lay in wait for us all, they say. Well, except me for I am too be a bonfire, but again, “No matter!

I went through a bit of a phase as a young woman; hanging around in cemeteries, wearing all black, fishnets, dog collars, had more than mild obsessions with death, the dead, the morbid, and the curious. I grew out of the outwardly apparent aspects of that phase. I am still a little od, though.

Somehow, that time in my life leaves me utterly abhorrent of the idea of taking pictures in a graveyard. I find it cliched and formulaic. I realize now that the truly morbid and dark images are nestled quietly and unassumingly in places one might never guess; the circus, the zoo, the Middle School.

Having been such a raging Goth kid, (despite never allowing anyone to call me that at the time. I listened to Siouxsie and the Banshees, Cocteau Twins, and The Cure. I accept it now, I was goth. Sigh.) I seem to have sworn off my former self so fully, that the idea of having a gravestone in any of my shots made me cringe and grumble.

That last shot is the closest I got to morbid.

Whatever happened to me?

If you ask to read the right short stories of mine, you’ll know.

Rockport – OR Rock (and Roll) Port!

Tags

Art, Beach, Filters, Locations, Nature, Photography, Polarizer, Rockport, Travel, Writing

This post may be a little difficult for me to walk away from without serious nitpicking and heinous remorse, but I am taking a huge step into the world of honest educational photography. Not that I wasn’t always honest, but…well.

Let me explain.

I went to Rockport, Massachusetts and found a lovely little nook of a place called the Camera Corner. I went inside, driven like newfallen snow, chatted up the older, knowledgeable gentleman behind the counter, and then proceeded to blow $115 on a Rodenstock Multi Coated Circular Polarizer Filter for my lens. (After taxes, it was $120)

Why did I blow that much money on a lens filter, you ask?

That’s why.

This photograph is completely untouched, exactly as I took it. The colors, the clouds, the image is in everyway, richer and cleaner (in my eyes) than that which would been taken before purchasing this filter. What this picture shows is an effect that would have taken me several minutes in the Camera Raw mode of Photoshop to achieve. I’m ready to dance the hurly burly here, people. I’m ecstatic.

And yes, often times they say you pay more at the Mom and Pops locales, but truth be told, you pay for knowledge; you pay for banter. Places like Ritz Camera are like asking a monkey to balance your checkbook. The people are there to sell you the Hummer, whether or not you asked for the Prius. So, how much more did I pay for the knowledge of this gentleman who’s been running a Camera shop for 50+ years? I paid -$8.00.

That’s right, price on Amazon, pre-taxes and shipping = $120.

So to celebrate, this entire post will be un-rawed, unedited shots taken post filter purchase.

Huzzah!

Apparently, this is the most photographed building in the world. Now, don’t take my word for it, it was the word of others, but why question? They seemed truly sure of its status. (And, upon hearing such info, I was determined to take a picture no one else had ever taken! Not sure if I achieved that, but we shall see.)

I have a soft spot for buoys. (Ha! Replace buoys with boys = jokes! Keep em to yerself!) I take pictures of them whenever I see them. Something about the sea gets me all goofy with the point and click.

Man, there are things I want to do to this shot, but I have sworn..( SWORN!).. to leave them be.

It’s already getting difficult. Please, someone hold me.

Not sure if you can tell, but notice how you can see into the water in this shot? That’s the filter’s work. The previous shot included the white reflections of light due to ripples. Polarizer people, I’m telling you. It’s like Barry White’s voice slithering all warm and foxy through your ear canal.

Now, from what I have read, having a filter doubles as a source of rampant AWESOME as well as being a lens protector. Break a nice filter, get set back a hundred bucks. Break a nice lens…yeah. Not so much.

Who knew I was so deprived before now? I did.

Who knew I was so impulsive as to drop Benjamins on a day trip to Rockport? Well, me. And the cosmos. I figure, I can afford it, so why not? Invest in my art and the things that satisfy my soul, right? Right.

Now, you do the same!

I love the sea. Goddammit! I also love sailboats…STORYTIME!

The last time I set foot on a sailboat, it was as a young teenager with my mother and her friend from work. At the time I was twelve and had completely forgotten the previous sailing expedition with my mother, when she’d capsized our boat in the middle of Forge Pond, but I digress…

We’re coasting out in the Boston Harbor, enjoying the day, when suddenly dusk approaches and the wind turns. We find ourselves searching for a gale that will combat the tide and literally spend an hour in a 20 yard area of the Harbor, doing the sailing equivalent of pacing. The lights of the city reflecting off the water as the sun disappears, us trapped at sea with little to NO real sailing knowledge, and it happens. A good gust, the right wave, and my mother pulls her famous maneuver of capsizing the boat.

At the moment I feel her shift, I launched myself up from my seat and threw my whole body into the opposite side of the boat, giving her enough of a push to steady us long enough for my shipmates to do the same. We remained upright, but just barely.

Moments later, the rental workers roll up and tow us to anchor.

The boat in the distance reminded me of that. Sorry.

Most photographed building in the world, you say?

I don’t know if I buy it.

Yet, there it is again.

Hmmm…

I’m not sure if I will ever venture to Rockport again. The traffic/parking situation was appallingly wrong and the shops were quaint and lovely, but surely less epic than expected. A few galleries on the walk caught my eye, but I am such a perfectionist with my own photography that when I see something I wouldn’t be proud of being sold for $300 on a wharf, I think, “I could take that with a disposable camera and I would say just the cost of development is STILL too expensive.” I’m a photography snob, but only when it comes to overpriced bologni!

It’s a staircase. I know, what do you want from me! I thought it was rad.

Did you know…the gray shingles commonly seen on seaside houses are not, in fact, a decor choice?

The graying of shingles takes places on houses by the seaside due to the salt in the air. Despite paint and stain, all wood shingles will turn this texture and color if left untreated. The more you know…

It is a pretty rad staircase, though.

Ok, I feel I have shared enough to walk away and feel satisfied, despite wanting to futz with these pictures even without an outlet to share them.

I could do a before and after piece, but who would benefit from that other than my inner perfectionist? No one.

Though, moral of this story/post; buy a filter for your SLR. I suggest Polarizers over UV because they give a richer effect, but buy MULTI COATED! Single coated won’t show up with Digital Cameras. Thank you Camera Corner for that nugget of info.

Vermont (E. Python) – Part Deux

Tags

Art, Guilford, Photography, Travel, Vermont, Writing

“It just keeps getting funnier every single time I see it!”

(Name that movie quote)

I told you I had too many pictures to cram into one post. Hell, this might not even be the last one.

We’re still just at the Guilford rest area on Route 91. I took more pictures in their ‘backyard’ than I know what to do with. Such scenery, such an amazing sky on this day. New England knows how to deliver the beauty, it’s just my job to carry a camera.

Yeah…It’s farm equipment, you get the idea. Do I really need to explain old, rusted antiques of a bygone era? No. You get it.

I often wonder who was the first genius to put a rusted farm contraption on their front lawn and call it decor. Thousands of long dead farmers are probably grinding their teeth at the idea of perfectly good tillers being left to rot in the sunshine. Yet, it caught on like gangbusters!

Who doesn’t have a tractor in their yard now? Nobody.

Now, this one on the otherhand, I may actually talk about. This is one of those instruments you start cringing at on sight while watching the 25th installment of Friday the 13th or some such. This contraption screams accidental headbutt if ever anything did.

I took a few pictures of the whizbang, but in doing so, I focused entirely on the doohickies attached to said whizbang. Why do you want to see the seat where some farmers ass once sat?

You don’t.

Exactly.

Seriously, this tool was just a stool with hateful death attached to it. What creep child of the corn rode this bad larry into the fields? MALACHI!!

I hereby nominate the Guilford Rest Area as the prettiest rest area in christendom.

Prove me wrong! Toss your nominees and we shall do earth rumbling battle.

I can’t believe that this post is turning into, literally, a photographical journey of a bladder relief post on the causeways of America. The place was lovely, damn it! Nestle a heap of scrap metal smack dab in the middle of these vistas and it’ll result in the most breathtaking Tetanus shot you’ll ever receive.

Aces!

Which brings to mind how awesome it would be to find a beautiful vista under a pristine cloudscape surrounding a gorgeous field with an old fashioned, crescent in the rusty hinged door, wooden outhouse right in the effing middle of it.

I’d take that picture!

I’d take the shit out of that picture! No pun intended.

Who didn’t know that, though?

Short but sweet here, people. Just like me. Well, no. I guess I am not short, but I’ll pretend for the satisfaction of the word play. Andre the Giant would have found me short! That’s all that matters.

It’s another contraption framed by the sky. I KNOW, you’re bored with the pristine glory of farmhanded beauty, but damn it! I need to organize my shots, otherwise there would be chaos! Chaos!

“Dogs and Cats living together! Mass Hysteria!”

(yet another quote for you to claim knowledge).

Vermont (E. Python)

Tags

Brattleboro, Guilford, My Shit List, Skidding out, Snow storms, Spongebob, Vermont

My relationship with Vermont has been a long test of my inner strength and my ability to forgive. (The state tried to swallow me whole a few years ago, but I defeated the bastard with cunning and mad driving skills. I may share that story, it will depend on chance and whether a picture merits its telling. We shall see…)

Alright, so technically this isn’t Vermont, it’s Massachusetts, but it is the beginning of the trip shots and given my penchant for chronological order, we begin thusly. This is Quechee Gorge or some such. Wait, in checking for the correct spelling I find myself mistaken. It IS Vermont! Booyah!

This spot made me quiver and shiver like autumns leaves still clinging to wintery branches. This was such an enormous drop. It inspired every ounce of terror and curiosity I had to muster.

My fear of heights is a bizarre one to say the least. I don’t fear falling off of great heights, I fear the inspiration of voluntarily jumping. Not in hopes of injury, but in search of experience. Literally, every great object there was to scale as a child, I did so and then dangled haphazardly off the outside of it. Be it train bridges, water towers, pine trees, you name it I climbed it and in some cases fell off of it. This bridge, in another time of my life, would have been added to that list. Hence my stomach dropping with every glance to the water below. I wondered how deep it was, how long I would fall before I splashed down, how tightly I would need to clench my buttocks to take the hit without internal damage.

I’m a strange girl, we’ve gone over this.

Good example of a moment when I thought, Wheee!!!

(Wheee!! = stomach droppage much like that experienced right before going over the first crest of an epic rollercoaster.)

My daughter was with me on this bridge and it terrified me further. My own former irresponsibility makes me super aware of my daughter when I get close to railings and high drops.

If I had it my way, she would never climb higher than four feet off the ground; no staircases, no jungle gyms, no pogo sticks, nothing!

Yet, who am I to limit her tomfoolery when mine was so truly epic?

Her mom, goddammit!

Get off that footstool!

The bridge was under construction so there were interesting objects to be ogled and shot. You guys should be used to the weird images I tend to come back with, but perhaps you’re all hopeful that one of these days I’ll just start being normal.

Ain’t gonna happen. I signed a contract with god, people!

I believe this stone comb is used to wedge two large pieces of structure together with malice and permanence. Sadly, it was laying about not doing its job when I arrived. The pile of rubble resulted in my daughter walking away from Quechee Gorge with a pocket full of dirt and pebbles. Smashing! They added a nice bit of ambiance to the floor of my minivan.

(I can currently hear the word Chocolate being screamed from the television in the next room. Spongebob Squarepants, how he haunts my dreams.)

Don’t think less of me, but here is a self portrait before the grand expanse of Quechee Gorge. I feel it is only appropriate that you meet my gnarly radness in picture/person.

So, to share the tale of woe that Vermont left me with, it began on a snowy night in Burlington. Carbon Leaf was playing at Higher Ground and we’d hightailed it up there for the show, chilled with the band a while afterward, then headed out into the late night flurries. Nothing to worry about in a Massachusetts winter, but apparently in Vermont, they don’t salt or plow unless there’s two feet of snow on the ground…slackers.

So, I’m heading down 91, tank of gas incredibly low, searching desperately for an open gas station, and with every highway exit, I find the local station closed, return to 91 praying we don’t end up stranded in a snow storm, and head for the next exit, each further away than the last.

Suddenly, the asshat in front of me decides he missed his exit and slams on his brakes in protest, on a downward slope on an unpaved snow covered highway by which dozens of cars are stranded in the ditches, and what happens? My car skids out, I careen into the breakdown lane to avoid hitting him, gaining speed as I pass, attempt to pull back into the highway before hitting a guard rail, and my car starts spinning down the hill. All I see is headlights, flurries of white, headlights, flurries of white, headlights, flurries of white. In that moment, I remember to turn into the skid, straighten out and come to a stop, facing the wrong way on the inside lane of 91. He passes me without a thought. Fucker.

That right there would have been enough, but no. Upon trying to turn my car around, we slide into the ditch in the middle of the highway, in the middle of nowhere, with a car running on, literally, fumes. I manage to zig zag my way up the slope in about ten minutes, but was only able to pull out on the other side of the highway, meaning I now have to drive the EIGHT MILES back to the previous exit, turn around and continue south to what I have heard is the ONLY gas station in Vermont that stays open past 7:30.

We made it, to make a long story short, and my friend in the backseat slept through the whole experience because my response to the danger was to quietly whisper, “whoa.”

My driving skills are unparalleled. And despite being lovely, Vermont is still on my list.

Frozen in Time

Tags

Art, Ice Storm, Nature, Photography, Snow, Winter, Writing

Given the recent weather and the many complaints I’ve heard, I have decided to post these older series, just to remind you all that it could be a lot worse. So, sit back and listen to the rain fall and the thunder roll, and pipe the hell down.

This was a little wooded alcove on the side of the road between Lowell and Hudson, NH. Yes, I do pull over on the side of the road to take pictures. I’m not ashamed.

This was one of those truly spectacular snow storms. It was in March, the weather was past that point of frigid and angry, so the snow fell in a wet and sticky form that clung to every object and every surface. This was also the kind of snow that would fall in huge clumps after resting in treebranches for an hour. Plop!

I managed to catch it in the one to two hour period before it all fell to the earth below. I think tiny clumps were already dropping by the time I got out there, but still, not enough to deter awesome!

This is the view from the Country Club entrance bridge along the same road.

I’ve had these pictures since March and earlier and I’ve done nothing with them (save for the banner above). Sad, really. Part of the joy I get from this blog; it’s an outlet for the enormous collection of photographs I continue to amass with every passing week. I am a portrait photographer by trade, that is what pays my bills, but this is the kind of work I have done for years and…well…I have a soft spot for it.

I’ve only ever painted a couple of times; watercolors, if you must know. I wasn’t completely heinous at it and it brought me a good deal of satisfaction, but nothing compared to this. Can’t explain it.

Though there were many pictures from this series, I am only going to share a few. It is wintery and an interesting memory when out my den window I can see the rose bush in bloom. Gnarly.

Tell me that picture doesn’t scream Bob Ross. God, I miss that afro-ed bastard.

Added this picture, thought I might delete it after I added it, but for some reason, my loyalty to it refused to budge. Why, I am unsure.

And here is the worse of the weather options I chose to share today. (This is near the church whose bells I hear every Sunday morning. My life is blessed.) These are from the great ice storm of 2008 (as I will call it). This storm layered the world in crystal, took down the mightiest trees, tore apart telephone poles for hundreds of miles and left an enormous population of New England without electricity or heat. My home remained toasty warm and high powered (hence the sudden in flux of nightly company).

My neighborhood was pristine and beautiful on this morning as I ran outside in bare feet to take photographs of the world before it began to melt in the morning sun. You could hear the tiny chips and twigs breaking free from the trees overhead as they shattered on the street below. There is something utterly magical about New England weather, despite its hazards at times.

Worth it.

This was the plant outside my back deck. The world had turned into a wonderland, my friends. The people who complained about losing their power were the subject of envy for me. Spending a week without power, sitting by the fire with a book and a cup of cocoa, that is a blessing we rarely get to experience. Whiners.

Especially having someone to curl up with, there is no need for complaint. Yet, every hotel from here to New York state was jammed to its breaking point with the displaced masses, all looking for some TV and a warm shower. Poor bastards.

Read a book! There is nothing more attractive than intelligence. Even if you are far from an Einstein, carry the right book and you can fool a lot of people into thinking you are Einstein. Think about it. Just think about it.

This picture  is of the street outside my house. I walked a ways into the overhanging glory, took a few pictures, listened to the trees groaning under the weight, watched as a few good sized branches snapped free from overhead and exploded nearby, then thought, “Hmm…perhaps I should stay out from under the raining death. Good thought.”

Then we have the picture below; a simple, innocent, unassuming shrub encased in ice forever. Or, well…for a half hour at least.

I thought this looked infinitely cool. Frozen droplets of water running across the surface of the waxen leaves. You couldn’t purposefully create this kind of awesome.

Well, I suppose you could, if you had a lot of money and time on your hands and wanted to build a studio with a sprinkler inside a freezer, but if I were gonna go that far, I have some far more interesting ideas.

Though we are only just welcoming the month of Julius Caesar here in the world, I am already looking forward to the Autumn weather, the bright colors of the trees and the costumes of Halloween. And we haven’t even had a truly hot, humid, New England summer day yet. This may very well be my favorite summer of my lifetime. Rather than breeding swampass, this summer is breeding cool breezes and gorgeous skies. I will miss the rain when it gives way to heat. I will miss it dearly.

All right, think I am done for the day. Just needed to get that out of my system and now, moving on.