Thursday, May 25, 2006
"i really dislike nikons though - i've never held one that wasn't horrible," he said.
he may have been bantering. he may have simply lacked enlightenment. but if he hadn't been sitting safely in another country, a good swift tug on his beard would have been my instinctive response.
as it was, i merely bleated.
Monday, May 22, 2006
i had no idea, when i took this picture a few months ago on the haarlemmerdijk, that the subject matter would ever say more to me than "lime window, lime bike"; now, however, it does.
this funky little gallery - an annex of galerie buuf - is where the participants of the europephotobloggers 2006 meetup (september 22nd-24th) will get acquainted, and exhibit their photographs, and toast to an inspiring and rewarding couple of days together.
if you have a photoblog, you are van harte welkom: you can read more, and sign up, over at the wiki.
please do; more is definitely merrier, and amsterdam - as you may have guessed - can be a veritable photographer's feast!
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
a smooth exit here, and a supple entry there - just two weeks from now - rather hinges on me doing my daunting duty: sifting through stuff, endless stuff, so much stuff, and making it all shiftable.
i'll get a move on, then, shall i?
Friday, May 12, 2006
"i had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society."
- henry david thoreau (american essayist, poet and philosopher, 1817-1862)
a found friend, fine and fortuitous; a faceless twist of happenstance:
i am a happier person today than i was a month ago.
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
my mother always told us stories.
while she stirred, and sewed, and sang, and brewed lemonade-from-scratch, and spun the clothesline out to the far edge of the garden, she told us stories, and this was one of our favourites:
she and her two teenaged sisters shared a room in their ottawa home, and they were - all three - desperately untidy.
my fiery little grandmother soon tired of the total disarray.
"i will take measures," she warned them. they paid no mind. they shed their finery, kicked off their pretty pumps,and went their merry adolescent way. "if i find it on the floor, it will fly out the window", my grandmother reiterated.
snow fell. they began to miss things: a blouse here, a scarf there.
"where is my blue sweater?" my mother asked. my grandmother shrugged. "whatever happened to my tweed skirt?", demanded her sister. my grandmother shrugged again.
their wardrobe continued to diminish. my grandmother continued to shrug.
and then spring arrived.
and the snow melted.
and the thaw revealed a garden splashed with sodden garments, strewn with ruined footwear. the lost had been - uselessly - found.
my grandmother? she, a woman of her word, shrugged, and clucked.
happy 80th birthday, mom! (i usually call her ma, but for this one time.)
i wish you were here. or that i were there.
Tuesday, May 2, 2006
the errant strands of auburn, the comely curve of ear, the glimpsed gold, dangling, delicate: he stops short.
"margaret?", he whispers.
and when he stumbles, and she turns, he realises.
he feels old, and flushed, and foolish, but oddly exalted. she was so near, and she has been so far away for such a long time.