A Model Man – We Call Him Thomas

Tags

Art, Modeling, Photography, Writing

This…

…is Tom.

Or Thomas, as I like to call him. He is the first model I’ve had in a while (been focusing on Travel Photography) and he was retarded funny (and difficult) to work with.

Still, despite the difficulty of getting the spaz to sit still, I got this picture, which was exactly what I had in mind when I looked at his mug. That’s always a satisfying and soothing experience.

Though, at times, when you don’t get exactly what you had in mind, you get something unexpectedly awesome in its own right.

I like to call this the “Bill S. Preston, Esq.” shot.

Did you know that Thomas’ face is the work of a murderer? Of course you didn’t.

I did, though.

This handsome visage was once the sad patron of a hardcare vehicular assault. In the aftermath, surgeries ensued, all performed by one wife hating man.

After giving Thomas his chiseled features, the guy went stab happy and offed his ball and chain in a fit of doom encompassing lunacy.

Thank you for Tom’s face though, crazy man. I’m pro.

Something Wicked This Way Has Been? – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Art, History, Photography, Salem Massachusetts, Salem Witch Trials, Travel, Writing

My ability to title blog posts is extraordinary. Truly.

The final stop of my trip through the Salem township was the Rebecca Nurse homestead.

It’s actually in the town of what was once known as Danvers (which is actually where much of the real drama of the witch trials took place). It’s still called Danvers, but the borders of the towns have now changed, so who’s keeping score, I mean really?

I found this place by sense memory alone. The only help I had was calling 411 and hearing the name of the street it was on right as that very street appeared ahead of me. The homestead was closed (it’s only open on weekends), but the property was open. I drove in, parked and took pictures.

From what I hear, it is just as one would have expected it to be in bygone eras; farm buildings, fields, wooden fence posts.

The only bizarre aspect was the Jeep parked out front.

This building is off to the right of the driveway. It was built at some point in the 80′s for the film “Three Sovereigns for Sarah” with Vanessa Redgrave. Vanessa played Sarah Cloyce, sister to Rebecca Nurse and Mary Easty (both graves pictured in a previous post). Both her sisters were hanged in the witch trials, but Sarah survived the process and was literally ‘rented out’ to a random farmer in a nearby village where he kept her in a shack on his property, forgetting to feed her for months.

The prisons were so overcrowded during the trials that people were paid a fee to house prisoners in conditions one should not have to comprehend. Then, once the trials ended (because the crazy lunatic girls at the heart of the hysteria were accusing everyone including the judges, the governor’s wife, the governor, everyone) those in prison were forgotten, or worse, required to stay in prison because they couldn’t pay their imprisonment fees!

This building was used in the film for the scenes in the courthouse. It is a perfect replica of the original and is open to the public.

On weekends.

This is Rebecca Nurse’s homestead. The place is magical in my eyes, but I’m a raging history geek.

Standing inside this building, listening to the creak of the floorboards, the smell of the walls, moist with the humid summer air, the smooth, worn feel of the wood work and surfaces, treated by time rather than chemicals, it takes a person to places even the imagination would have trouble going. Contemplating the feel of a horsehair mattress on woven ropes is far different than actually touching one, sitting on one, lying on one with the open beams of the roof overhead.

Random fact: that’s where the phrase “Sleep Tight” came from. Before bed, you would pull the ropes that held your mattress up in bed, retying them at the their tightest degree. As one slept in the bed, the ropes would loosen, causing the bed to sag. A good nights sleep was often affected by the level of tension in the ropes.

Want another random and bizarre thought to ponder?

Someone actually lives here.

Though their section of the house is not open to the public, this house actually belongs to someone. While I was meandering around the property, taking pictures, there was someone inside, reading the paper, clipping their toenails, cooking their dinner. Not that I was peeking in the windows, I’m just imagining.

No air conditioners in the windows, just them and the home once lived in by a pious martyr.

I have come up with an idea for a book just now. Epic.

Imagine important life events peppered with the constant occurrence of people coming up to your windows and peering in to see your house. Put a regular person in that situation and you have GOLD! It’s my idea, don’t try to steal it, I’ve hereby written it publicly and can therefore sue you if you try to claim it as an original idea.

God, I’ve grown fond of guacamole.

I hereby close this visit to Salem…with a fence. Until next time, dear readers.

I love you all.

But especially you. No, not you. Yes, you. Smooches.

Something Wicked This Way Was – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Art, Nature, Ocean, Photography, Salem Massachusetts, The Sea, Travel, Wharfs, Writing

This may not be the last, but it is close enough that I can taste it.

Boathouses haunt my dreams.

(And in reference to an older post, the most photographed building in Rockport Massachusetts was a boathouse and as a follow up to my claims, it truly is apparently the most photographed. People have come to this blog due to a search for ‘the most photographed boathouse’ or some malarky. So, kudos to Rockport. Or boathouses.)

This one isn’t record holding, sadly, but it is covered in ropes and whizbangs, which is just as good in my book. I’m no snob. I’ll shoot a regular old boathouse just as often as some hoity toity boathouse, that’s for damn sure.

The water was apparently lower that Methuselah on this day. Seaweed and muddy sand as far as the eye could see, framing the simple little schooners and yachts of local residents. Yet, amongst this docked extravagance, there lingered “The Peacemaker.”

Known for its tendency to stab and maim, the boat hovers in its own canal, away from his fellow sea faring vessels. He didn’t get his name by sticking flowers in gun barrels, ladies and gentlemen.

Were this thing armed with cannons, there would be no more Salem. The boat itself seethes with burning hate and a wrath no man can quell. Though, for a couple dollars you can climb aboard and enjoy the captains quarters and the lovely decor of the interior cabins.

Tall ships have always inspired me to set sail and head into the nearest hurricane, wait for St. Elmo’s Fire and ‘a red sky at morning.’ Sadly, since I gave birth to my daughter, I have the worst motion sickness ever and an inability to hurl, which is often the only relief of such a malady.

Don’t tell my lobstering Grandfather, Alan Dodge (may he rest in peace). He’d roll in his grave and say, “Quit fooling around and go to school. Get a degree.”

I AM Grampy! God, I start in a week or two. And…wait, I have a degree! So what if it is only an Associate’s, I still have one and YOU don’t! Who are you to…”

*cough*

Sorry. I don’t mean to air our familial tiffs here to all of you. *shakes it off*

Something about the sea brings up the ghosts, apparently. I miss him, though. And I miss the homestead in Maine. The smell of low tide always does that to me.

Focus, Caitlin!

All right, all right…sorry. Onward HO!

Mmm…seaweed.

Who doesn’t love a good shoreline visit?

I feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t know what those slippery bundles feel like squishing between your toes. Does that offend you?

You can’t harvest mussels on the shore if you aren’t willing to go get your feet wet. I have taken a skid or a dozen on rocks covered in this ooze. In truth, I’ve actually had some of my most terrifying swimming experiences as well as a result of this shit’s presence on the rocks of the shore. In Cape Split (where my family is from) the water is freezing on the hottest day in August and to get to it, you must launch yourself off of dry rocks during high tide, or climb over these in low.

After a long, freezing swim one afternoon at my Grandfather’s camp, I decided to finish my swim, the tide now pulling out from shore. With every wave, I was knocked back into the churning water, unable to grab onto a dry solid object. The only grip I could find was a fist full of this gunk and sadly, this gunk comes free with a good tug. It isn’t strong enough for an eight year old girl to pull herself out of the sea.

I was truly terrified, for about four seconds. Then the survival instinct kicked in and I started headbutting the ocean for bullying me. She tossed me onto the rocks with a well placed wave and I lay in the seaweed, thanking god. We have an agreement, mother ocean and I. One of mutual respect and headbutts.

I leave you with a wharf and the claim that apparently there is a restaurant on the wharf that has THE BEST Cheeseburgers…on the wharf.

I was unaware wharfs were known for their burgers, but I digress.

Until next time.

Something Wicked This Way Went? – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Art, Giles Corey, Photography, Rebecca Nurse, Salem Massachusetts, Salem Witch Trials, Travel, Writing

Call me a slacker and I will call you a liar.

Something I love about Salem, well, most of New England for that matter, is the tendency for these random, gorgeous, ancient structures to stand unscathed by time and progress in the center of the commercial world. This is the building that stands beside the Howard Street Cemetary. Now, given that I am a nerd, here’s a bit of history for you lollygagging readers.

The Howard Street Cemetary is the burial location of a certain man named Giles Corey. Know the name?

No? Really?

You disappoint. Anyway, Giles Corey was one of the people to perish during the Salem Witch Trials. Let me rephrase, Giles Corey was the raging BADASS that succumbed during the Salem Witch Trials. The guy was a grumpy, cantankerous, (wife beating, but who wasn’t at the time) goon who accidentally ratted his own wife out for witchcraft, but when he was accused himself, they found out the doofus was a genius. He knew the law better than they did.

When asked if he was a witch, he remained completely dead silent. He refused to even answer the question. He knew if he said no, they would just try him and find him guilty and hang him anyway, thus confiscating his land from his family. Yet, if he confessed to save his life, they let him go, confiscate his land anyway.

Fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.

He did neither. To the point that they took him out, splayed him on the ground, laid a door upon his chest and started piling rocks on top of him in order to elicit a plea. As the man’s chest began to cave in on itself after two days of torture, they asked him one final time, “What is your plea?”

This badass motherfucker’s response? “More weight.”

Then he died.

Only man to have his family’s inheritance remain intact despite the accusation of witchcraft.

The above fence was closed with a sign beyond that said, “Not Open to the Public.” Yes, I completely ignored it.

The picture to the left here is of the monuments erected to the victims of the witch trials. Apparently, Salem decided to kill two birds with one stone, because their monuments are also benches. What a magical means to accommodate lazy reverence.

Oh, shit! I hear my delicious quesadilla beeping from the microwave.

A pause on your house! (Get it? Play on the word Pox? No? I’m such a geek.)

Yum….cheesy.

Moving on!

Another one of the poor bastards to go down in a blaze of pious glory; Rebecca Nurse.

This poor woman was so old, she had to be brought into the court room for her trial tied to a chair. The woman couldn’t so much as stand. When they hanged her, they had to carry her up a ladder, prop her there while they wrapped the noose around her neck, then they shoved her off.

This is where the turn of phrase “Pull My Leg” comes from. During this early era, when someone was hanged, they didn’t die from neck snappage as was later intended, they just dangled there suffocating for hours if not days. If you were one of the lucky damned to have loved ones, they would come forward and hang from your legs to add to the weight on your throat, in essence, ending your suffering swifter.

No, I’m not pulling your leg.

And despite the utter tasetlessness of this segue, here’s a picture of rope.

The next location I headed to was the wharf so it makes sense, but yes, there was a morbid humor to the choice of photograph. It’s not my fault, I’ve had some pretty dark conversations the past few days so I’m a little tainted in that department today.

The wharf smelled of low tide and burgers, which was an interesting combo, but I won’t go into that now. That will be saved for tomorrow. And now that I think on it, we are getting close to the end of this week. It may be time to take my day trip to Concord in preparation of next week’s hurrah.

Hurrah?

Yes indeed. And despite how overwhelming it may be, I think I may do Boston in the next couple weeks. Now that will be an intense bit of “How’s your father,” won’t it.

Woot!

Until we meet again…

Something Wicked This Way Goes? – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Art, Laurie Cabot, Photography, Salem Massachusetts, Travel, Wicca, Witchcraft, Writing

We’re getting closer to the end of this road, my friends. But close only counts in Grenades and Horseshoes.

I think this will be another smidgen of the downtown area, perhaps more focused on the kitch and caboodle as opposed to the tourism and nonsense of the witch hunt and its lore.

This was a lovely, $500 wall hanging for sale in the Witch Museum Store. I loved the wee bastard and, to be honest, would probably happily hang him in my home or on the outer wall in my garden. He made me smile before I took the picture of him gazing out the gorgeous window to the streetwalk beyond.

Despite waiting to see the sun himself, he remains quite jovial for a shaded wall gargoyle. Hurrah for gargoyles and their endless positivity.

I would love to take a trip to the UK right now, armed with my new camera (I haven’t been since the days of my Nikon 70 laden trip to London) and shoot gargoyles. With a camera of course, they don’t allow guns in UK. I ache to go back. I’d never gone more than a year or two without leaving the country before my daughter was conceived. Now, I haven’t been anywhere other than Disney World since. I swear to travel to Paris with the man of my dreams…

I just gotta convince him to get off his ass and take me!

Oh no, Salem doesn’t misrepresent witchcraft in the slightest. So you say.

Well, what the hell is this then, wiccans? They flock to live in this town and then complain about the stigma. Sounds like a load of bunk to me. For every ounce of me that is pagan, I cringe when I see the Wiccan stores a lot more than I do the tacky tourist shops selling hats and t-shirts that say “Life’s a witch and then you fly.” At least they know how to have a good time. At least they don’t take themselves too seriously.

Seriously.

Besides she looks just like Laurie Cabot. Stereotype can’t be that far off.

And what the hell is she shooting there, splashes of hot wax?

“Don’t cross me boy, or I’ll drip on you!”

Sounds sexy, if you ask me.

To top the whole experience off, take home a gorgeous picture of yourself as a sister of Satan. Yes, I did capitalize Satan. He was God’s favorite once, was he not? And yes, I did just capitalize God as well. Trying to be equal opportunity here.

I am actually tempted to go get one of these pictures taken one of these days. One of those, “you haven’t truly visited a place until -” sorts of things. Much like the Tower of Piza and the quintessential picture of you holding the tower aloft with your bare hands. Some things are better assimilated than fought against, I’d say.

Much like the Borg, ladies and gentlemen. Resistance is futile.

This is the book store.

This is an utter clusterfuck of a book store.

How this bookstore exists without the Fire Marshall ten inches up their ass, I have no idea.

It was literally books upon books…upon books. There were signs floating over the piles, tags stuck between books within the piles stating the section and price of nearby hardcovers, but in essence, this was a sea of words with no map.

The aisles were claustrophobic, but alluring. I had to go in despite my terrifying visions of an avalanche of ten tons of Nora Roberts novels tumbling down onto me with the only signs of life a single hand left visible above the debris. If I wiggle my pinky, it means I am still breathing.

The only book I saw in this store that intrigued me (or that I was even able to hone in on despite my utter visual and mental overload) was the biography of Michael J. Fox. Why did I spot that bad larry above all others, you ask?

Because.

It was in this window. I saw it from the street. You can actually see it in this picture. Man if ever I were to buy a book I would truly love to buy it from a place like this, but how the hell would I ever find it? And do THEY even know what they carry in their massive and senseless inventory?

Only God knows.

Or Satan for that matter.

(note the capitalization)

I’m just sayin, I’m equal opportunity. And much like Satan, I’m always hiring.

Something Wicked This Way…Wait, it’s here – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Art, Photography, Salem Massachusetts, Travel, Writing

I seriously almost just forgot how to spell my own state.

Epic fail.

I believe I will be truly pleased with the post. Chronologically the pictures I took between two locations were truly radical.

This is a fountain. A badass gnarly fountain. Though, in all honesty, does a body of water without any spouting cherubs or gargoyles count as a fountain? There is a strange pagoda looking thing in the middle, but I don’t think water pours from anywhere here. Just sort of a water hazard in the pedestrian walk of Salem. A truly awesome water hazard though it may be, I don’t want to over glorify it by calling it a fountain.

Though, why am I being so judgemental, feck it. It’s a fountain.

There was a gaggle of children hopping from stone to stone across the water, as was I when I took this picture. That’s not half as bad as when I was lying on the sidewalk taking…

…this picture.

I think I was just inspired to do an entire series of Pictures Taken from the Ground; Caitlin Carrigan Lies Down on the Job. Tell me that ain’t the sweetest series title you’ve ever heard and I will call you a stinking liar!

Not sure what I want to take pictures of for that series, but I am taking volunteers if anyone wants to be seen in public with me while I do it.

Wusses.

We were roaming around the downtown area with bellies full of Pizza Hut in sweltering heat around supper time, so a good amount of the tourist locations were closing up shop for the day, sadly. The Peabody Essex Museum was one of said culprits, though I still busted in there and took pictures I will be posting momentarily.

Isn’t it architecturally intimidating? I love this museum. Unlike the MFA in Boston, the Peabody Essex actually has a photography section. Apparently, the Museum of Fine Arts doesn’t feel Photography is a Fine Art. Yet, the garbage paintings that Munch farted out during his early years of his career are somehow truly brilliant works of art. I’d like to stab that guy in the face.

Which brings me to his one work of art that I truly respect; The Scream.

Why do I respect it?

Because it is pretty much chalk on cardboard. Or pastels…on cardboard. He literally painted what is considered by Norway to be one of their national treasures, on a piece of a cardboard box while squatting in an empty tenement building. Herein lies the lesson to all artists, writers, creators, humans for that matter; greatness is not decided by where you start, but where you end up.

It also teaches us to quit being lazy excuse-giving jackasses who claim we aren’t creating national treasures because we haven’t the capital, tools, supplies. Go to the dump and sculpt epic rad and shut the fuck up!

Fittingly, this picture is one of my favorites that I took on this trip and it is of the discarded museum passes on the way out the door of the building. What will I think is art next?

I guess I can go back on the comment of Munch farting stuff out, because this is a shot I just farted out and I love it. I guess what I am really trying to say, in essence, is I fucking hate Munch. His paintings offend me. In truth, so do some of Van Gogh’s works. It seems every artist has a long line of failures to stand on when they die and have a couple pieces stand the test of time. Sure, Sunflowers was great, but have you seen his bedroom? Would that painting be a classic if it had been painted by Joe Schmoe MacGee? Probably not.

So, apparently you have to be willing to create crap in order to finally create gold. Unless you’re Monet. Then you fart diamonds.

Here’s the last shot of Peabody Essex. There are more Slame (typo of Salem, keeping it) shots to come. I am planning to do one a day for a week, then start the next location. Did I already say that? Am I repeating myself?

No matter!

This is another one of those abstract reflection shots I seem so fond of. Makes me smile, ladies and gentlemen.

Oh! Peabody Essex is amazing. The last time I went (when they were open) they had an entirely original traditional Chinese house, deassembled in rural China, with every piece marked and shipped to the US where they put it back together in their courtyard. I am unsure if it is still there, but when I visited it, it was one of the most amazing things I’d ever seen…outside of China.

The museum knows how to impress me, I’ll give em that much.

Stay classy.

…and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Something Wicked This Way Comes – Salem Massachusetts

Tags

Beets, Paganism, Salem Massachusetts, Tourism, Travel, Twizzlers, Wicca, Witchcraft

There’s nothing like a little bit of overzealous paganism to get your day going.

Hey everybody! It’s Samantha.

You know, Samantha from ‘Bewitched’. She was a witch, on…uh… ‘Bewitched.’

Yeah, I really don’t know what it has to do with Salem either. Sure, there’s a shit ton of goofballs running around Salem being all wiccan or some other such nonsense, but truly, what did Samantha ever do to those wiccans to get herself bronzed forever in the square of a town she’d most likely never visited until they erected a statue to her. Hell, there isn’t even a Kerouac statue in Lowell, as far as I know, and he’s their most famous resident.

Come on, Salem. You’re reaching.

A woman named Laurie Cabot likes to declare herself “official witch of Salem” and was amongst the witches of Salem when this statue was going up and the local ‘witches’ were complaining about how it was a misrepresentation of their culture or some bologni. Yet, upon meandering into Ms. Cabot’s store I found a whole section of ‘Harry Potter’ wands for sale. You know, for the kids.

I’m just going to say it. Hypocrisy. Moving on.

Look! Apparently Salem has ice cream. Now, if that right there isn’t reason enough to go, then you’re a lactose intolerant homebody.

I thought this display was interesting as we approached the central pedestrian square of downtown Salem. When we rounded the corner, it turned out it was Thursday. Who knew?

What? You mean you didn’t know there was a weekly farmer’s market on Thursday in downtown. Me neither.

The smells of the square were amazing. An earthy undertone framed by the smell of onions and chard. There were bushels in the arms of all the passersby, overflowing with fresh Romaine and root veggies. I realized as I took close-up shots of the soil still clinging to the Radishes that I want to return here on a Thursday and procure my own bushel of chard, romaine, white onion, corn, and golden potatoes. Ideally though, I’d rather just grow it myself.

Good thought.

Hungry? Me too.

And I ate half a Pizza Hut cheese pizza today. Damn…my metabolism must be through the roof.

I make a mean baked ‘fried’ Zucchini. It truly is one of my greatest creations. Gives the flavor of fried Zucchini without involving any of the hot steaming oil and grease. Yet, why give up the fried aspect of the food. It’s a vegetable. Vegetables should be freakin good for you even if served in Razorblade Soup for christ’s sake. Do better vegetables, your reputation is at stake.

Is it just me, or does purple lettuce just look delectable.

Maybe it just seems like it is delectable because it is the color of one sixth of my entire wardrobe. (For those who are curious; berry/burgundy, teal/blue, cocoa/taupe, black/white, and misc make up the other five sixths)

As I was snapping shots left and right in the smorgasbord of color, a nearby folding table suddenly collapsed onto itself, nearly sending their cash drawer sailing into the night. I was nearby, as were several other people. The woman at the table caught an edge on her knee and was about to lose it when neighboring onlookers glanced over, stared for a moment in complete doofy glory, then, after a moments delay, no less than seven people rushed the couple of feet to her aide.

I laughed later at how universal the human delayed reaction time is.

Exactly four seconds.

…….hey! Look, radishes!

If I ate these, I would be salivating right now. I don’t. Or have yet to find a Radish I liked is perhaps a better representation of our relationship. Though, Radishes and I are best freaking friends when compared to the malice and derision Beets and I hold for one another.

Seriously, just last week I received a letter that consisted of a collage of letters cut from different magazines that read: “I’m the reason that Twizzler you just ate is red.” I didn’t sleep for a week.

Gorgeous building on the pedestrian walk, apparently called the East Indian Marine Hall. They had an enormous anchor outside the front of the building. I asked them how fast the bastard could clip if they were to raise the anchor and set sail. They looked at me funny.

Why else would they anchor a building, I ask you.

Illogical bastards. They should have someone like me working for them. Then they’d at least have a few sails on the roof to give the behemoth a bit of a fighting chance.

I loved the flags, really. I am unsure what is inside, whether it is a marine museum or just a colonial era Hall, but it was beautiful in the afternoon sun. Reminded me of trips to Concord, Massachusetts or Lexington, for that matter (both to be the subjects of future weeks worth of blogs, I am sure).

Lastly, below is a picture I captured on a side path near the Peabody Essex Museum. (which will be in tomorrow’s blog. Oh yes, Salem’s only just getting started, boys and girls.) The man struck a chord with me. He is unaware I took this picture, but I am sure he wouldn’t mind if he were to find this during his hour long stints of blog reading every night after he gets off work at the cyber cafe.

I have over fifty more pictures from this day trip to share. Expect them over the next few days.

Just don’t tell Beets. I don’t want him knowing what I am up to.

Guilt!

Tags

Acton Arboretum, Art, Autumn, Nature, Photography, Writing

I feel like one of those horrendously neglectful mothers who live with the knowledge that a Nanny or other distant relation is raising a child in their absence. I’m sorry sweet blog, I’ll never forsake you again.

Despite the fact that, yet again I am without fodder for a new travel/location post, I will make due. Oh yes, I will make due.

There is a bridge by my house that suffered a near year long constructional undertaking, causing one lane of traffic to be closed off intermittently for months and months. Apparently, the town didn’t think local drivers would enjoy careening through the rusted, dilapidated bridge to the active train tracks below.

I don’t know why people are so picky about that kind of thing. Though it reminds me, I have never lived out of hearing distance of a train. In Acton, Westford, and now Chelmsford, I hear the distant howl of a train whistle in the evening like clockwork. It always inspired wanderlust when I was young, that sudden curiosity of how far that specific train would go, of what cities it would take me through if I just acted on my impulse and hopped into any one of the open doors of the railway cars.

The potential Hobo friendships I missed out on will always haunt me.

Can you tell I still have Autumn on the brain?

This was taken last year in the marshes of Westford, a place I once lived a stone’s throw from. A swan couple inhabits this marsh every year, sometimes visible in the distance on a foggy, chilled morning.

I took my kayak out on these waters for closer inspection. I never found them or their ‘lair’, which is probably a good thing, given that swans, though beautiful, are pretty well known for their homicidal tendencies. Stories of lost kayakers who fell to the razor sharp steel beaks of an angry cob or pen haunt these waters to this day.

(Cob = male swan. Pen = female swan. Just looked that up. And yes, I have a geeked out grin on my face right now. I love that kind of shit. Did you know a female fox is a Vixen? OR that a female duck is a…Duck? Fuck.)

I loved this picture when I first saw it. Something about the ethereal feel of the flowers in the distance when this plant was a tiny little bushel by the side of the path.

It’s an interesting goal I’ve adopted; trying to find ways to make the commonplace seem epic. I exhibit the tendency in my photography as much as I do in describing my day.

Regular Person: He took out the garbage.

Caitlin: He took that garbage out like a prom date with a burning vengeance and taught it a lesson it will not soon forget.

This may be why I am such an acquired taste.

Like spicy food, some fear me, others want me, then devour me and suffer for it from heartburn and indigestion. The weak swear me off until the end of days, but for those few brave souls, what happens the next day? They order me again…and you love every minute of it! And bring Tums.

I’m sure I needn’t tell you, don’t eat these.

I have no idea why I am posting this picture, something about the glimmer of the red flesh seemed to peak my interest today. An otherwise utterly commonplace shot, given a year to fester and congeal has suddenly become visually interesting to me.

I have no excuse for myself, really.

Anyway, to clarify, this week I will be taking trips to Concord and Salem and posting travel photo blogisms, but until then, I pray this tides you over. You have no idea the guilt I felt when I signed in today for the first time in nearly a month and found I’d still maintained traffic everyday. I wronged you all! (*runs sobbing into the night)