Why I Take Pictures

Many years ago, I was talking with a loved one about her jerk of an ex-boyfriend (for the sake of anonymity, I'll call him Idiot).  After she went through a laundry list of all the awful things Idiot had done lately, I told her this:  "Idiot is an asshole.  Assholes act like assholes.  When Idiot acts like an asshole, it's not news.  If he ever doesn't act like an asshole, tell me about that, because that would be fascinating."

If it looks like a duck & quacks like a duck, it's probably not a poodle.

Lately, the USA has been acting like the USA.  The populace continues to ingest huge amounts of toxic food and sit around getting fatter.  Folks utilize their religious beliefs to justify hateful judgments against others.  People in great need of dictionaries refer to basic human compassion as "fascism."  Leaders don't follow through on their promises.  Money is valued more highly than life.  White people get away with killing black people while women are locked up for defending themselves against men.  And so on and so forth.  Although all of this is a total fucking bummer, unfortunately none of it is anything new.  It's America being America.  Or maybe it's humanity being humanity.  I don't know.  Either way, it sucks.

And it's also why I take pictures.  

Taking pictures helps keep me from becoming 100% cynical and despondent, because capturing images of our world reminds me about this piece of reality:  there is so much beauty around us, it's ridiculous.  Beauty is everywhere, from the reflections seen in a tiny drop of water to the endless cloudscapes we admire from aiplane windows.  

Since I started photographing my environs, I've begun looking at the world in a different way, noticing with fascination both the simplicity and intricacy of each little thing.  Instead of rushing towards destinations, I try to slow down and observe all the tiny details of what's around me.  When you look at your surroundings that way, even flies become cool.

And there are lessons to be found in these observations of beauty, simplicity and intricacy, such as:

The tiniest thing can be perfectly elegant

Even before blooming, one can achieve magnificence, and...

If a tree stump can be happy, then so can I.

I once wrote a screenplay featuring a depressed protagonist with an elderly mentor.  His mentor's advice to him was to work on counteracting his negative thoughts with positive ones.  For example, if he saw parents yelling at their kids in public, he made himself think about how much he loved the smell of garlic frying in butter.  If he heard a news story about a bloody coup going on somewhere in the world, he'd think about how much fun he used to have going to monster truck rallies with his siblings when he was a kid.  Stuff like that.  He didn't ignore the fact that terrible things were happening.  He simply allowed himself to remember that wonderful things happen, too.

I feel like my pictures help me do something similar.  When I find myself thinking about the hundreds of years of structural racism that have led this country to the place it is today, I'll ponder that for awhile, and then I'll let myself remember that sunsets happen every single day, and they are fucking gorgeous.

When I read about yet another species going extinct or waterway being irrevocably polluted, while many Americans are more interested in what's happening with Justin Bieber or the Royal baby's due date, I think about the fact that butterflies exist.

 
And when I saw pictures of George Zimmerman smiling upon hearing the jury's verdict, I remembered the time I saw a piece of ice in the shape of a hummingbird.

Things are bad.  It's true.  But they're not all bad.  Love, hope, generosity, compassion, joy, and courage are still with us.  Sure, they have to share space with fear, cowardice, hatred, greed, and other shitty stuff, but that doesn't negate their existence.  It only makes their persistence even more wonderful.

So, in conclusion...

 
Smile, folks.  One day you may get attacked by a pack of wild dogs, but on a different day an adorable dog may see fit to lick your eyeball.  And I mean that in a good way, of course.

It's Good to Have Goals

I have a new life goal, and that is to emulate the amazing, millimeter-long tardigrade. This fascinating little beast currently holds the title for Al's Favorite Creature.

"I'm gonna shoot you with my little tank nose."

Not only are tardigrades ridiculously cute, but they're also totally badass. As Wikipedia tells us: "Tardigrades can withstand temperatures from just above absolute zero to well above the boiling point of water, pressures about 6 times stronger than pressures found in the deepest ocean trenches, ionizing radiation at doses hundreds of times higher than would kill a person, and the vacuum of outer space. They can go without food or water for nearly 120 years, drying out to the point where they are 3% or less water, only to rehydrate, forage, and reproduce."  

Wow! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!

I don't think I'm the only person who is enamored of the tardigrade. In fact, I believe someone created the Ostrich Pillow in an attempt to make humans resemble the beloved creature.
 

Because really, why else would this thing exist?

If I had to sit next to this guy on a plane, I would laugh myself to death.

In lieu of being like a tardigrade, just in case that turns out to be impossible, I would like to emulate Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks, in all of his classy, hilarious, clever, unflappable, free spirited glory.

Agent Cooper and I already have quite a bit in common. He's calm in a crisis. He loves nature. He's adventurous ("Harry, I have no idea where this will lead us, but I have a definite feeling it will be a place both wonderful and strange"). He understands the power of a good cup of coffee.

Agent Cooper regularly practices yoga, explaining the benefits like so: "The pain retreats to a cul-de-sac in a distant suburb of my conscious mind." I also practice yoga, and it just so happens that I grew up on a suburban cul-de-sac. Coincidence? I think not!  I'm telling you, we're practically twins already. We even use the same earplugs. ("Diane, it's 6:42 a.m. Rough sleep. Dreamt I was eating a large, tasteless gumdrop. I awoke to realize I was aggressively munching on one of my air pillow silicone earplugs. Hence the tastelessness.")

Best earplugs ever.  Not so good for eating, though.

(Just as an aside...Agent Cooper's gumdrop dream reminds me of a dream my friend had right after she got her wisdom teeth out. She dreamt she was eating a giant bowl of garlic mashed potatoes, then awoke to discover the post-surgery gauze halfway down her throat.)

Agent Cooper has taught me many things through his overt awesomeness. For example, he taught me what to say in the face of praise, which is something that has always been a challenge for me: "I am honored beyond my ability to express myself." Perfect!

I adore Dale Cooper.

But not this much.

My first step towards meeting this goal is to find my own version of Agent Cooper's Diane. I already have a wonderful friend named Diane, but I very much doubt that she would want to listen to endless recordings of my daily activities (e.g., "Diane, I am now upside down"). Maybe I'll start recording all of my thoughts and observations, anyway, and just pretend that I have a Diane who's listening and responding to them. I think I'll call my Diane "Jacques." 

"Jacques, I have just returned from walking the dogs. It's a hot one today. Remind me to tell you about the one-eyed squirrel that observed our passage from the high branches of a Douglas Fir. I am quite certain it was trying to tell me something. Many thanks for sending the Grand Marnier-filled bonbons as requested in my last communication."

How random is this??

So yes, between the two options, I think it would probably be easier to model myself after Dale Cooper, rather than a minuscule polyextremophile. However, I plan to forgo the get-possessed-by-an-evil-entity-and-smash-my-head-into-a-mirror part of emulating Agent Cooper. Because that wouldn't be very cool at all.

Grosser Than Gross

When I was in third grade, my teacher told the class that he would give a prize to any student who could make him laugh.  He sat us in a semi-circle around him, and we all took turns telling jokes and doing silly dances, but no one could get him to laugh.  Finally, after about twenty minutes (which felt more like ten hours to my eight year-old self), one of my classmates told him this joke:

Q:  What's grosser than gross?
A:  When you open the refrigerator, and your rump roast farts in your face.

Well, that did it.  The teacher laughed so hard he fell off his chair.  I didn't find the joke very funny, especially since I didn't know what a rump roast was, but it was pretty awesome seeing my teacher collapse on the floor in a fit of hysterics.

This experience has been brought back to mind because I just discovered what is really and truly grosser than gross.  And here it is:

When you open your mouth guard case and find it crawling with ants.

"Hey, did ya hear about the delicious new snack in the bathroom?  Follow me!"

Yes, indeed.  I think I'm going to have the heebie jeebies for the rest of my life.  Or I may just die now from a revulsion overdose.

A Lesson In Fairness

I'm walking my dog in the park this morning and see two boys who appear to be about five years old.  One of them has a ball, and the other doesn't.  The boy without a ball stops the one with the ball and says, "You have a ball and I don't!  It's not fair!"

There's a moment of silence before the boy without a ball repeats, "It's not fair!" 

The other boy, clutching his ball to his chest, lowers his head and quietly says, "I know."

And that's that.  The boys stand there for a few seconds saying nothing, and then they kind of shrug and run back onto the field to play.

There's something about their interaction that really hits me.  I suppose it proves something that I learned during all my years as a counselor:  validation, in and of itself, is a very powerful thing.  All that kid needed was acknowledgement that it sucks not having a ball (particularly when faced with someone who does have a ball), and he got it.

Also, there are few statements more valid to humanity than "it's not fair."

Ain't that the truth?

Nope, it's not fair.  But if we keep playing with each other, maybe we'll figure out some answers.  It's when we stop playing that we're completely & utterly screwed.

Because a world of Cartmans would be a very bad place.

Puritanism Is Not Serene

Right now my life is in a strange, in-between place.  In a few months, I'll move across the country, and everything will be new and different.  But until that happens, I don't have much going on, and this state of affairs is quite weird and uncomfortable.  Ordinarily I feel like a pretty productive person.  Lately I've felt about as productive as a sack of slugs.

All of my metaphorical toys are stuck under my figurative refrigerator

My idle mind, in the long-term, is not a very pleasant place.  For the first few weeks of unstructured existence, it says, "Hooray for free time!  Focus!  Be disciplined!  Work on your books!  Envision your future!  Count your blessings!"  But come week four, it turns more to thoughts like:  "Why aren't humans better?  Why are we complicit in our own oppression?  Why is mortality so fucking depressing?"  When I tell myself to stop thinking that way and focus only on things I can control, my mind shifts immediately to:  "What if every single one of my decisions turns out to be a huge mistake??"  And believe it or not, that's not a fun mind space to occupy.  I need some goddamn distractions.

Because of the nagging Puritan work ethic provided by a New England upbringing, my current state of non-productivity is torturous.  I find myself searching for messes just so I can clean them up.  "Oh, look!  Six unwashed towels.  Should probably do a load of laundry.  Uh-oh, there's a dish in the sink.  Better wash it.  And then clean the floor.  And then re-clean it."

As much as I'm trying not to be bored, I've got to admit that I'm getting pretty damn bored.  It doesn't help that I've heard people say, "Only boring people get bored."  What a shitty expression.  Like it's not bad enough fighting boredom without having to question my character and self-identity.  But I know I'm not really a boring person.  I just don't have a whole lot going on right now.  Whenever someone offers me an opportunity to be productive, I pounce on it like a drowning person clinging to a raft for dear life.  "Ask me to do something!  I'll take care of your kids!  I'll re-shingle your roof!  I'll help you across the street, even if you're clearly capable of doing it yourself!  Just PLEASE let me be useful!"

I ask only for a sense of purpose.  Thank you.

A few days ago, I turned to the internet for some ideas on how to tackle boredom, and I discovered this marvelous quote:

"Boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity, that nothing is."

Ah, serenity.  So easy to define.  So hard to achieve.

I love that.  It's as if the author - Thomas Szasz - is offering me permission to be still and appreciate existence instead of looking around frantically and thinking, AAAAAHHHH!!!!  I'm having no impact!  I have no right to live!  I should burn myself at the stake!  Sometimes, having no impact is fine.  Fuck the Puritans.  What a bunch of jerks.
 
As it turns out, Thomas Szasz not only has an awesomely-spelled name AND shared a birthday with my cat Sid, but he also said lots of of other smart things, such as:

• "Clear thinking requires courage, not intelligence."

• "The stupid neither forgive nor forget.  The naive forgive and forget.  The wise forgive but do not forget."

And, probably my favorite:  

• "Doubt is to certainty as neurosis is to psychosis.  The neurotic is in doubt and has fears about persons and things; the psychotic has convictions and makes claims about them.  In short, the neurotic has problems, the psychotic has solutions."

This bear, for example, probably has some really good, definitive ideas.

So now I feel like I did something productive - learned about someone I'd never heard of and the interesting things he believed - while simultaneously being reminded of the value of serenity.  That seems like a nice balance.  I think I've discovered something profound from my introduction to Thomas Szasz, and that is this:  when in doubt, turn to radical, Hungarian psychiatrists.  In my experience thus far, that strategy works 100% of the time.

Al's Utopian Vision

In general, I don't have a problem with bathroom graffiti.  I imagine it gives some folks a vague sense of importance or permanency in an otherwise shaky and unpredictable world.  It also provides reading material while one is sitting on the toilet, and on rare occasions it can be pretty funny.

I captured this lovely sentiment in a public bathroom last year.  What says "I love Jesus" better than scribbling on a bathroom wall in ballpoint pen?  The smiley face caps it off perfectly.  "He died for me!  Yippee!  That makes me so happy!  Hooray for crucifixion!"  AND someone agrees.  Bonus. 

This cheerful fellow was drawn inside a port-o-potty near one of my favorite trailheads on Orcas Island.  I love the look on his face and the flower sprouting out of his head.  Seeing him made my post-hike pee even more enjoyable than usual.

Yesterday was the first time I ever wrote on a bathroom wall.  I was inspired by a sight my poor eyes have fallen upon maybe a million times in my life:  a puerile sketch of a penis & testicles.  And it was humongous.  It took up an entire fucking wall.

I'd much rather see this.  Or nothing.  Nothing would be good.

On a surface level, when I'm faced with that image (as I am so frequently), I just think - Ew.  But on a grander scale, I become filled with annoyance at our society's stupid belief that depictions of male genitalia are infinitely hilarious and should therefore appear every-fucking-where.

I thought for quite a while about how to respond.  I considered simply erasing the drawing, since the bathroom walls were blackboards and doing so would've been easy.  I thought about drawing giant fallopian tubes and ovaries over it.  I also considered putting a big circle around it and then a line through it, or drawing an arrow to it and writing "I hate you."  But I don't hate penises.  I just hate having to see a million crappy drawings of them.

Finally, I took a piece of chalk and printed this simple statement very neatly under the picture:

I dream of a world with no cock & balls drawings.

Ahhh.  Even just imagining the possibility fills me with happiness.
 

Oh, you know it.  I'm well on my way.

My Little Quack

I've had a 2003 Toyota Echo for the past eight years and driven it well over 100,000 miles.  Its name is Quack, because at the time I bought it, I believed the only sound in nature that didn't echo was a duck's quack.  I later found out that's an urban legend and was quite embarrassed that I'm so easily duped.  I mean, why the hell wouldn't a duck's quack echo?  But urban legends are funny like that.  Someone makes up something ridiculous, tells other people, and they tell other people, and soon enough it's common knowledge.

"Your silly beliefs fill us with shame."

However, by the time I found out that quacks echo, Quack had been Quack for years, so I decided to stick with the name.

Quack gets excellent gas mileage, fits in tiny parking spaces, and hardly ever gives me any trouble.  The only issue with my car is that it's so narrow, tall, and lightweight that it acts kind of like a sail in heavy winds.  In fact, a strong enough gust can blow it all the way over into the next lane of traffic.  But, hey - that just keeps things interesting.

Last weekend, some dumbass shithead rear ended my beloved Quack (injuring my poor husband in the process), then took the coward's route and drove off.  Since then, said dumbass shithead (I'll call him D.a.s.h. for short) has taken no responsibility for the accident, while I've had to deal with cops, insurance companies, mechanics, and the DMV.  Meanwhile, it appears that D.a.s.h. - utilizing the brilliant strategy of ignoring cops & insurance agents until they go away - is going to get off scot-free.

If the arms were ten million times longer, this would reflect my true feelings for D.a.s.h.

The problem with having this happen when I'm unemployed is that I have way too much time to feel enraged about the situation.  My thoughts are mired in the icky, gooey tar of righteous fury and helplessness, and I don't have the option of throwing all of my energy into work, which is usually a convenient distraction at times like this.  So instead I find myself drowning in crappy thoughts like:  D.a.s.h. thinks he can pull this bullshit and get away with it because he CAN!  He's fully supported by a culture of selfishness and unaccountability!  He's probably sitting at home laughing at me RIGHT NOW!  AAAAHHHHH!!!  Die, D.a.s.h.!  DIE!

And yes, that train of thought leads to some pretty unpleasant revenge fantasies that spew out liberally in all directions.  I want to go to D.a.s.h.'s house and smash his car to shit with a baseball bat.  I want to use my slingshot to peg the roofer next door with a rock because he's making too much noise.  I want to punch every white male I see in the head, because D.a.s.h. is a white male, and I'm convinced they're all in cahoots.  Even in my most benevolent fantasies, I imagine myself wandering around town, smacking these stickers on people's cars:

You know you're in a poor state of mind when you want to threaten families for no reason

To keep myself from dwelling endlessly in this draining and not-particularly-helpful mindset, I decided to shift my focus to my new pal, gratitude, and upon brief reflection, I realized I'm very grateful for these things:

1. I have a good car.
2. Quack escaped the accident relatively unscathed.
3. When purchasing a car, in no way did I factor in any need or desire to obtain a "status symbol" type vehicle.  If my car had cost a kabillion dollars, I'd probably be even more pissed off about this situation.  

In fact, there are lots of reasons I'm happy I don't have one of those "status symbol" type cars.  In stark contrast to Quack, those cars not only cost a shit ton, but they also tend to have terrible gas mileage, huge repair bills, and get stolen a lot.  So while their owners hope they exude the message:  "My owner totally rocks!" these cars are actually saying:  "My owner makes bad decisions!"

Hey, check out my ridiculous car!  It looks like a battleship!  I'm the King of Stupidville!

I generally don't take the status symbol factor into account when making purchases, not only because I can't afford to (which I can't), but primarily because I don't agree with all that crap.  If someone were to ask me to name something that truly signifies one's success as a human being, I would say this:  "Kids and dogs are happy to see you."  Because if kids and dogs get all squealy, wiggly and excited when you come around, you're doing something right.  Next to that, cars, clothes, jewelry, tech gear, home decor, and all that other crap are pretty damn meaningless.  And you know who I bet kids and dogs are NEVER happy to see?  Who causes them to cry, growl, tuck their tails and run away?  D.a.s.h.  That's who.  Rotten, good-for-nothing bastard.

Speaking of dogs and status symbols (and in the interest of concluding on a more positive note), I don't believe it's a sign of personal success to own a hamster-sized dog so you can carry it around in a gaudy, $20,000 handbag.  A good dog looks like this:

A good dog helps you do your homework and looks super cute doing it