Nose Flush

setting focus, F-stop and exposure

screwing my courage to the sticking place

"Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide"

This is why you must stir the salt in - if it's not well dissolved it'll burnd

Strategic Retreat

Regrouping

Mustering my manly courage

First a trickle. . .

. . .which leads to the flood

Laundromat

The laundromat--a place like no other. The doors are never locked, the lights are always on, and it is almost totally vacant on Sunday nights. I almost had the place to myself, but there was this lady--who I think must of thought that I was some odd art student on drugs--there.




I’ll do things and go places with a camera that I would never do or go to without one. I’ve stood on tables, got on the floor, climbed into and on top of equipment, opened doors that I should not have, walked in hallways where I am not permitted, pushed my gear and myself farther than usual--all for the sake of a shot. I found myself back in that place on Sunday night. I had slept most of the day after church and was cooped up in the house for way too long. I needed to get out.




So how does a sick, college grad get out? Not by going to the laundromat – for there you find not escape, no you don’t lose yourself in the colors and whites, in the soup and stains. No the laundromat is where you sit and process - where in the quiet hum of washers and dryers your thoughts drop out of solution and crystallize. There in that still nursery, ideals form, they are looked at – examined – inspected – questioned – struck down and build up. No music this night, just me and the sluicing sounds of laundry being renewed. Just me and my camera, looking for angles – trying to get it just right – trying to get that shot I like best.




So, how does a sick, college grad get out? Not by going to the laundromat--for there you don't find an escape. No, you don’t lose yourself in the colors and whites, in the soup stains. No, that is where you sit and process, where--in the quiet hum of washers and dryers--your thoughts drop out of solution and crystallize. There--in that still nursery--ideals form. They are looked at, examined, inspected, questioned, struck down and built up.




There wasn't any music this night. It was just me and the sluicing sound of laundry being renewed. It was just me--and my camera--looking for the right angle and getting the shot I liked best.



I've been asked, “How do you take pictures?” and I've listened to photographers describe how they take their pictures. They talk about how they are trying to express some bigger, grander thing and how there is something that they are trying to capture--some essence, some fragrance or truth.




Maybe this is what marks an artist from a hobbyist: I just try to get a shot that I like--one that I find interesting, one that I want to look at again. Oh, sometimes I’ll go on a hunt for reflections or certain colors, but the only time I think people can capture more than that is when they take pictures of people--of their faces, when they are able to capture moments of moving emotion, when the picture causes others to feel something. That is what I would like to capture someday. And I think that capture is the word, because we rarely let that side of ourselves be seen.




Dang, that was a ramble. Sorry :)

Photocontest . . .

So a few days ago a friend of sent me an email in regards to an upcoming photo contest that the school is holding -

Hey,
I hope you have heard about this. You should definitely enter. You will undoubtedly be come famous-er.
Check it out. photocontest.wsu.edu
Toodle-pip,
Jane

So the hard part becomes what to enter?

I've made a short list - I can enter up to four, they have some very specific rules so I've picked those that I think meet their criteria - please feel free to leave any suggestions as to what you like the most - commenting is easy, you don't have to have an account to comment, so please feel free - thanks again and I'll keep you posted.

Camping on the Clark Fork

Canoeing on the Clark Fork

Sunrise on the Palouse

Palouse Pre-Dawn

Moscow Mountain Creek


Early Morning Snail

Half an hour of hard work

Evening on the Coast

Frosty Pullman Mornings

Frosty Pullman Mornings 2

Later we ran into a badger

Back Road Exploring

Early Morning Light

Again thanks for any input you have and I'll keep you all posted as to the results.

Sick and tired . . .

Well what's the damage so far . . .

Lost two thirds of a roll of toilet paper

It is looking like two and a half days of work

I'm being a bit of a suffer baby in this post - not the flowing prose I had hoped for.

All in a days work

Ugh. . .

Found out that self portraits are hard at 4 o'clock in the morning, especially when you can't see what your shooting at, and the camera is having a hard time determining the focal plane, and the light is in your eyes, and you are trying not to laugh, and trying not to wake your roommates, and your eye itches, and you can't see because you don't have your glasses on and your contacts are not in,

and like I said - suffer baby.

Not having insurance really stinks sometimes

Knowing Smiles

Middle of Moving Mess

More of the Same

Finally!

A place for everything

I don't know if this story will resonate with any of you. I hope it will make some of you smile; I hope it will make some of you laugh; I hope it connects and clicks, and that you know and understand. I hope it's happened to you--and if it has not, I hope that someday it will.

It was subtle (most changes in life are for that matter and this was like no other), so subtle that only myself and those directly involved were even aware of it. As I was walking into church this Sunday, making my way up the icy sidewalk, a little, nice old lady--I think those of you who know Suzie Flack will agree with my description--spoke to me.


"Hi Neil," she said.


Now, why did this make me smile? Why did it please me so? Why did it make me want to jump and laugh and sing lines out of old Broadway musicals?

While you think about that, think about this: I reached the door and Jack Brossman held it open for me. With a huge grin he said,"There he is." As I said "Good morning" and walked in, his wife gave me a large smile and said "Good morning" as well.

I spent the remainder of the morning smiling and here's why: I've been attending E-Free for at least two years now and there are so many people I still need to get to know--lots of good, solid people I want to know. I have never spoken to Suzie. I've spent time with her husband and gotten to know him over the past two years, but she has never said "hi" to me before. (She's not avoiding me. We just have never been introduced and never crossed paths.) Furthermore, I've never talked to the Brossmans. I wasn't even sure they knew who I was.

So what caused this shift? What caused this interest? What was its source? I believe I know. . .


It is so much fun seeing the consciousness of a large group--seeing it shift and change in a way that is almost palpable, seeing people I know giving me knowing smiles and asking about my weekend plans. It is so much fun having people I don't know seeking me out--wanting to get to know me and sizing me up--and having older men, with their approving smiles, telling me to treat her well because she is one of their favorite people.

To be pursuing and dating one of their daughters is an honor. It feels good--so good--to see how she is loved by the people that know her. It makes me proud of them and the way they look out for her. To be invited over to dinner to tell the story, to be greeted in the parking lot, to receive the support and direction of older and wiser people who know and love her is such a blessing.


As I drove the van to pick up any early-rising freshman who might have braved the cold, as I sat in traffic waiting for the lights to cycle, I thought and prayed for my church. I found it sad that I had not talked to Suzie before, asking myself, "why did it take so long?"

Forgive me, because I'm about to go off on a rather large tangent, but it will tie back in. Ages ago I was reading a collection of mystery stories entitled "Murder for Christmas," a great collection by some of the best mystery writers. In the first story--I forget what it was called and who it was by--the antagonist repeatedly states, "When he comes to me I will forgive him," over and over again, stressing he, me, I and him.

When he comes to me.

Why do I wait on others when it comes to stuff like being nice? I would love it if the Brossmans invited me over for dinner but why am I waiting for an invitation? I live somewhere with a table--or at least I used to. (I've just moved into a new place so I don't have one at the moment.) I should have them over. I would love to talk with Suzie. Why do I wait for her to come to me? I should go to her.

So often I find myself waiting, wanting things to happen, rather than taking the advice I was given as a little kid to go and say "Hi," start the ball rolling and be who I would like them to be to me.

When I go to them, they can tell me.

When I go to them.

It starts with me.

It starts here.

Now.