Whoo

Not much to say tonight, just some photos.


Right, that's all for now. Going camping with one of my classes this weekend, but I might have some shtuffs for y'all later.

Y'all being ... 2 people? Maybe? Anyway, ciao for now.

Got myself in stitches

Actually, I've never had stitches. But anyway.

Walt Stricklin, art director at the Birmingham News, has been doing stitched together landscapes, which are coming out quite nicely. So I figured I'd give it a shot. The first couple are from Providence Canyon, GA, and the last ones are in the Learning Center at the University of Georgia.



Yep, yep ... kinda fun.

Late night, thigh highs, gypsy girl -- it just happened

The photo, I mean.

Sigh. Women are the biggest hindrance to my happiness as well as the key to it. They're the most frustrating desire and the most rewarding struggle. And they. Make. Me. Crazy.

All of them. The last one ... eh, never mind.

Sigh

Some mornings are better than others. Some mornings, I wake up and think that I'll kick some kind of ass today. Other mornings, I wake up and immediately find an article about an 18-year-old commercial photographer who is flying around the world on a monthly basis. And it's just depressing.

Sigh.

Anyway.

This is over in Irondale -- just testing the camera before an assignment. The shutter release on the battery extension only works erratically as of late.

Hey, it was there

It's outside the Irondale City Hall and I was there, waiting for somebody. Wheeeee.

The King

No, not Elvis. King cotton. From a couple weeks ago.

Warning: Nostalgia to follow

The last time I saw her, we spent an afternoon at the park. She was joining up with the Navy and her recruiter told her two things: chew gum, and start running. So we ran and walked, and chewed gum, and talked. We went to high school together, hung out, but I can't remember if she's two years younger than me, or three, or what. Don't ask why or how it came to it, but I threatened to throw her shoes over the baseball fence, to which she responded, "go ahead, I'm Mexican; we're good at climbing fences." A couple minutes later, as we walked around the park, she giggled, ran over to a drainage ditch and jumped it. I looked at her sideways and raised an eyebrow. "We're good at crossing rivers, too."

Whenever the word 'Mexican' comes up in a conversation (or on the radio, or television, or in print), some little part of my mind snaps straight to her. Some sizeable part of my heart goes there, too. I try to not regret the things I've done and try to not do things that I might regret, but I can't help it with her. I regret losing touch with her. I regret not being closer to her. I regret a lot of things when it comes to her.

We brought in a Colombian woman for portraits this morning for an upcoming article, and there was just something about her that threw me. I can't help thinking about her right now, and thinking about her means feeling that slow ache of regret. I wish I had a picture of her somewhere, and I might, but it'll be on film, which means it's somewhere at my parents' place. Mrs Pomare, I believe, is what she'll look like in ten years or so.

Janet, I miss you.