Through the Lens and Under the Scope

Mixed media has infiltrated our lives for over one hundred years in various forms. Whether it is newspaper, movies, photographs, internet or the almost forgotten realm of radio, media is a constant source of our daily lives. Almost everyone I know has a cell phone that takes pictures and videos that can instantly upload the information to the blue nowhere. All the while, in the corners of their houses sit video cameras, 35 mm cameras and digital cameras collecting dust. Newspapers accumulate in fire pits still housed in their weather protective plastic bags, forgotten and rotting slowly away to nothing. Books sit on shelves while their owners sit on couches with modern e-readers skimming through the latest best seller. In coffee shops around the world baskets which used to house loaner books have now been replaced by trash cans while the patrons open their laptops and surf the news websites for the latest disaster pictures which have been uploaded to the site not by paid professionals but by armatures who refused to leave the disaster zone under mandatory evacuation orders.

Am I guilty of this? Yes, I am to a certain extent.

I’ve been a videographer, photographer and to a certain extent a biographer over the years. Just like you and your friends have. But recently, well, as of a few years ago, I’ve slowly stopped photographing a lot of what goes on in my life. Instead I try to live in the moment and absorb what I am experiencing without having the barrier of a lens in front of me. An intentional immersion into what I am experiencing and the people with whom I am sharing the moment with. My senses got into automatic overload at my command, flooding me with more information then my brain can handle. I love it.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still take photos and I still upload them to my computer and sometimes to my facebook, twitter and google+ page but not like I used to. I try, and this is tricky, I really try to NOT record in any format what it is I am experiencing so that later, when I am alone on my porch, at my desk or even driving to work I can drag those memories kicking and screaming into my consciousness. Yes, sometimes these memories carry embarrassment, regret, the woulda's the shoulda's the coulda's but most of the time they carry smiles, laughter and a warmth that starts as a spark in my soul and passes through the rest of my body like a wildfire in a drought ridden forrest .

I can’t say as I’ve ever felt a true need to photograph my life in its entirety or even partially. I do remember when I purchased my first camera, it was a Cannon 35 mm and cost me $200.00 in the ships store onboard the USS Austin. I took a lot of pictures of foreign ports, sites and shipmates with that camera. I even trusted the development of the photos to the vendors in whatever port my ship happened to be in. It was an odd way of doing business, what a sailor or marine would do is go up to an authorized vendor, fill out a form with all pertinent information on it and give the film, form and money to the vendor. Then, when the ship hit the next port, your photos would be waiting for you there. I never really understood how this system worked but it did and everyone was cool with it. I am sure now, looking back, we broke all sorts of security protocols and I am also sure there is no system like this in place today.

When I gaze back in my history at the times when I was looking through the lens of my camera I have to admit, I was not fully living in the moment. I was concentrating more on the photograph and the subject of the photograph I was about to take. I was never fully “in the moment." My mind was unable to absorb the sounds, smells, chaos and order of daily life simply because I was concentrating on a particular feature through the microscopic lens of my camera. I missed stuff and I don’t know what it is that I missed. There are gaps in my memories because of these events. Words not remembered, laughter not heard, actions not observed, simply because I was living my moment in a plastic, metal and glass box.

Do I regret those lost moments? No, I mourn them but as a consolation I have photos to help remind me of what I thought was important then. Those help.

Where is this leading? Good question. I suppose in the name of complete exposure I should let you know that while over the past few years I have brought a camera with me to certain events, I never even thought about pulling it out and recording the moments of history in which I am an active observer and sometimes participant in. Instead I find myself sitting back and enjoying life as it comes to me. Just being a casual observer, and when I do find myself in the midst of the fracas and fray we call life, someone usually ends up recording me. This is a new experience, normally when I am involved in something I am the recorder not a contributor. All of which is a new experience for me, I’ve tried to not have photos taken of me and have attempted to maintain a low profile but now I am not so sure this was a course of action I should have pursued but it is one that has served me well in my past. It is also something I will endeavor to continue.

I’m not a fan of being in front of cameras, I’m more comfortable behind them, but when a friend wants their photo taken with me I gladly oblige. When a person wants to talk to me, I make a concerted effort to meet them on common verbal ground. Being under the scope of interest is fascinating and I’ve experienced it simply due to my fortunate career at the museum. And, while talking about trains, railroad history and toys is pleasurable it has taught me to actually live in the moment with the people I am with and I know will have me enjoying its memories for years to come.

Have a great week.

The End of an Era

Last week it was announced that one of the online forums I am a member of is being shut down. And if you don’t know what an online forum is, I am truly sorry about this fact and you should probably stop reading right now and do a google search on online forums. This news would normally not affect me since there are so many other forums out in the great blue nowhere to access, but this particular one was not related to trains, toy trains, or how to repair toy trains. Nope this one was strictly for my amusement, and helped nurture a particular interest of mine that just could not be filled by some of the other online message boards. If you’re wondering what the message board was about I’ll gladly tell you… it was mainly about books.

But it was also about so much more…

This was the first forum I found where I met like minded folks who shared in the joy of horror literature, movies, music and underground press. People from all walks of life were on there and all of them were as accepting and open about their lives as a person could be. I made a lot of friends who introduced me to some amazing writers and musicians and for that I will forever be grateful. I met people who opened their homes and hearts to other folks in distress and help complete strangers through some of the toughest times in their lives. People who may look mean, dirty, ornery and nasty on the outside but with some of the biggest hearts I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.

I know in the future we will still keep in touch, it is the way things are amongst us, but it will not lessen the blow we all feel with the closing of the doors to the home where we met. It’s been a fun two years for me on the forum with all my fellow F.U.K.U’s and I look forward to seeing them in the future whether in person, on twitter, facebook or even google plus.

One last note, I’d like to thank my old shipmate and salty dog Brian for giving us a meeting place to have fun.

Have a great week everybody.

American Dream?

I know, I know. I should have had a new blog ready days ago and in my own defense, I did have one written. I just never posted it. And I probably will never post it. Why? I don’t know, there is no real answer for that question. But then again, I have a bunch of blogs, finished and unfinished on my hard drive. Some good, some not. This seems to be the way of things.

You see my dear reader, lately I’ve taken stock of my writings, both fictional and non-fictional and I am at a loss of time to be able to both effectively. It sucks.

My work schedule seems to be demanding more and more of my time and when I get home in the late hours of the day I am so wrecked I can’t even see straight let alone think coherent thoughts long enough to write down the drivel I’ve had coursing through my brain all day. Oh, in case you don’t know; I work approximately 64 hours a week between two jobs. Both jobs require my brain to be pretty active which, if I were 10 years younger wouldn’t be such a problem. As for my days off? Well, lets just say I don’t get 48 hours off in a row a week. I survive at a maximum of 24 and in those hours I like to spend time with my family or just sitting on my porch watching the world float by on four wheeled exhaust spewing machines and listening to the sounds of my neighbors live the life of the American Dream.

American Dream… that’s funny…

What is the American Dream in this new century of ours? You see, if we look back 100 years and take a snapshot of life in America in 1911 we would see the birth of air travel, there was no interstate commerce. Nor was there internet, cell phones, electricity in most houses was unheard of. Toy trains had just started to become a fad. No World War I or World War II. No Nazi’s or Al Quieda. No bottled water or decent plumbing. Life was lived at 25 miles per hour and people could keep up with the daily activities that consumed them. Hell, we were still on speaking terms with Cuba. Germany was still one country and as far as nuclear war, no one even knew what plutonium was.

Most Americans, at least from my research, just wanted peace and quiet and the ability to live their lives in the land of freedom and hope. People traveled by trains to get from one state to the next and usually spent their vacations with family for over 2 weeks. (I don’t think I want very many members of my family staying that long at my house but it worked for 20^th century families.)

In the art world, there was no Piccaso or Warhol or Pollack. In the music world, the Blues and Jazz had yet to take its stranglehold on the likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Miles Davis, John Coletrain and Billy Boy Arnold. As a matter of fact record players were not even in most homes nor were radios or televisions.

People went to work, school or stayed home and took care of the little things that built this country into what it was to become. If you wanted the news, you read the newspaper.

Today? Hmm, everyone wants the latest and greatest gadget on the electronic market; news is fed to you through the screaming fools on television and the internet. If you want facts you either google it or check Wikipedia and everyone accepts it for what it is. Cars race by with people in them at 70 miles an hour and no one has time to form coherent thoughts or sentences.

And maybe that is what we are becoming… mindless electronic addicted zombies who don’t even know our neighbors names. Friendships that were once based on the place you were born are now based on who you talk to online and when you see the latest pop movie at the multiplex. Real connections to folks are done through 140 characters or less. The American Dream of 1911 died with the advancement of technology and its innate ability to shrink the earth to a community the size of a small town in rural America where everyone knows everyone’s name.

I’m having a tough time with this right now; I’m trying to find my American Dream and I can’t seem to figure out what those two words mean. If you have any suggestions please let me know.

A Book Review

Ok, so I don’t normally do reviews for books or movies or even television shows. I have a simple reason as to why I don’t. It’s because everyone has their own preference and taste in what entertains them. And, I hate it when I read a review of a particular entertainment media that is negative or even positive and then I go and experience the shenanigans for myself and I walk away with a differing opinion. But I have to make an exception here. Simply because I really dig this story and the master of prose who wrote it, so if you don’t want to read a book review by yours truly, feel free to skip over this blog and continue on with your life. But… If you really want to hear about a crazy read filled with amazing characters… By all means…

Read on.

Sampson and Denial by Robert (Bob) Ford

This story takes place in Philadelphia and the characters that Bob has created in the less then genteel world of economic struggle are unapologetic in their raw grittiness of humanity. Or in some cases, their lack of humanity as the fight for survival in a world that is shrinking faster than the fall of Presidential G.W. Bush’s approval ratings in his last year in office. I’d like to be able to pinpoint this tale into one particular genre, but I can’t. It’s filled with suspense, love, horror, crime, supernatural and self discovery. The 128 page novella never seems to give the reader a chance to catch their breath as they become engrossed in the tapestry that resides inside the mind of the main character and his quest to save himself from certain doom. As the hero traverses in and out of crime ridden areas of a city where the only way to survive is to become top rat in a world of cutthroat villains, I found myself looking over my shoulder just to make sure I was in a safe environment.

The manner in which the tale unfolds, told through first person with a nice blend of flashbacks to fill in the reader of the hero’s motives is seamless. Only to bring you back to the modern day futile struggles of a man seeking to do good in a world that wants him to be bad. This gives the reader a chance to connect with the protagonist as he slips ever deeper into mindset of revenge and rage on his quest for a more redemptive life. There seems to be something for everyone in this story and I hope that you go out and get yourself a copy.

Oh, I almost forgot, the book will be available from ThunderstormBooks.com

P.S. I’ve read this book twice and I am going to do it again… real soon!

Front Porch Visitation

A few weeks ago a buddy of mine asked me if I would like some company on my porch. And before I knew what I was saying I said “Sure Irv sounds good. Just remember, you can’t smoke my last cigar and I may break out in song and dance at anytime during the evening’s festivities and if I do, you are obligated to join me.” To my surprise he agreed to my terms.

We picked a date, right in the middle of the heat wave that has gripped our nation for weeks and he backed out. Just as well, because on that particular night I did celebrate the pagan dance of heat stroke and sweat induced catatonia, which I believed worked. It was a good night for me. As for the rest of the nation, I have no clue. But then Irv called and rescheduled… for the following week and once again I agreed to give up my sanctum sanctorum in order to share time with a fellow traveler on this ball of compressed dirt.

My pal showed up promptly late but in his defense he was laden down with fried chicken and a cooler full of refreshing, frosty beverages which are designed to not just produce a stimulating and sated sense of comfort but also fill a person with a significant “reality is a falsehood” mentality. (God Bless that Pal-O-Mine)

We promptly loaded up his vehicle and went for a ride. A ride in which I knew the end result but he insisted was a surprise. (The curse of brain power) After our scouting mission we returned to the solitude and sanctity of my front porch. Thus commences the conversation… most of which I refuse to reveal to you all here. Simply for the fact that what is said on my porch stays on my front porch. So, if you have any deep, dark, repressed secrets and confessions that beg to be released from your soul, feel free to stop by, and know that your revelations will not go any further than what the crickets in my neighborhood can convey.

The conversation we shared never waned and served us both richly and deeply. Yes, Irv comes from a completely different background than I do. For example, he was raised in the Deep South by a set of parents. I was raised in the north by a broken family. It seems his financial struggles were minimal at best while there were times in my upbringing where I didn’t know if I would eat another meal for days to come. He is college educated and I went to the University of Uncle Sam.

Yes, there are many differences between Irv and I, but there are many similarities as well. Similarities that I just can’t write about right now; which is pretty tough for me since I would love to be able to get some of the codified knowledge of a person whom I respect and like down on paper. But, I feel if I do so it will lessen the bond we have come to share.

You see, and for most of you this will come as no surprise, I don’t like to write too much about the people in my life. Sure, I mention some folks in passing or throw in a minor descriptive blurb about someone I am in contact with but this time I feel it would do a severe injustice to the friendship we have cultivated over these years. And, since you kind folks will most likely never meet Irv for the simple fact that he is more protective over his down time than I am about mine, it just seems to be pointless for me to even try and describe the inner workings of a man who if you meet, you just may underestimate the depth of the person he is because he is wearing a pink shirt, shorts and flip flops while complaining about being eaten alive by mosquitoes. (Damn run on sentences!)

We stayed up late, that night, past my normal bedtime, and talked ceaselessly about the problems in our cities, state and country. As much as I’d like to say we solved the problems we discussed, I can’t. Simply because we both agree that it comes down to an individual’s choice to make their lives successful and right.

The time spent on my porch was truly a gem in my rough and tumble life and I hope and pray for more times like this. Since that night I have opened my porch up to all who wish to sit down and spend some quality time talking, sharing a cigar, good beverages and just enjoying the simple act of communicating in an uninterrupted manner that we seem to have lost in this day and age of high speed communication and 140 character snarks on twitter. I have become less protective of my time alone here and if any of you care to stop by, pull up a camp chair or even sit on the porch swing, please know the porch is open 24 hours for business. And who knows, you may even get lucky and be able to enjoy a beautiful cotton candy sunset over Scott’s Creek.

Have a great week.

Stormy Weather

Its 2221 (10:21 pm for all you non-military personnel) Saturday, July 23^rd, 2011 and I’m sitting on my front porch once again, listening to the crickets chirp in joy at the glorious dampness that is currently falling from the sky and cooling our city off for the first time in days. Yes, we have gotten a reprieve, however short lived, from the oppressive heat and humidity that has held not just my adopted city and state but the entire country hostage for the past few weeks.

Life here has been, at best just two millimeters from insanity. The heat has driven folks past their short-fuse-I’m-irritated-cause-I-just-saw-the-devil-buying-beach-front-property-to-open-up-a-new-level-of-torture-for-the-masses. Folks just seem to lose their mind over every small thing, for example, while I was standing in line at the grocery store I saw a lady pick a fight with another lady just because they were wearing opposing High School Alumni shirts. Now, if these ladies had been in their early to late twenties I could almost understand the angst they felt towards each other, but they were both clearly in their forties. Or, they had lived such a rough lives through partaking of legal and illegal substances that their bodies had aged prematurely twenty years since they graduated in early June.

Sidetracked…

What I was saying, the point I was trying to make is, it is hot! Very hot. And the rain was a much needed and welcome visitor. I can’t tell you how pleasing to all my senses the rain is. My ears marvel at the sound, my skin crinkles into gooseflesh in joy at the feel of t, my eyes are drawn to the prismatic laser show that is created as the droplets come between me and the light from the street lamps, my mouth is filled with a fresh, sparkling cleanliness that makes me smile, and the smell, oh the glorious scent carried down from the heavens by miniscule droplets of atmospheric bliss that holds no pollution of carcinogens because they were born at an altitude where our human debris cannot reach. A pureness that negates the invading aromatic coarseness of my cigar as I sit here and enjoy the gift of an earth reborn and refreshed from the heavens above by a creator who knows what he is doing, although at times it seems to us he is an absentee landlord.

You see, I love the rain and the storms that occur here on earth. The forces that congeal to create the temporary madness, mayhem and anarchy in an ecological system we as its caretakers have so blatantly tried to corrupt, control and coax into a manner that makes sense to us is purely a pipe dream we’ve been selling to ourselves since the first Neanderthal drew pictures on a rock wall. If you don’t believe in the amazing powers of our earth all you have to do is look at the devastation the storms create. Hurricane Hugo and Katrina, the tornados in Joplin, Tsunamis in the Pacific… I could go on and on and on but I know you get my point.

But to me, and this is a Skipism, I truly believe that the devastation a storm brings to a community it also brings out the best in people everywhere. One only needs to look at the brave men and women ready to go in after the carnage and clean up in the aftermath. Or even in the eyes of the people who selflessly give of themselves during the wreckage. A man who normally would turn his back on his neighbors just so he could get a good parking lot at the mall will risk his life to save an elderly person stuck in car about to be washed away by rising flood waters. A drug addict with nothing to live for will free a city councilman from under the wreckage of a building not for glory or money but because it is the right thing to do. These to me are miracles and with each passing storm, no matter how brief, the memories of the people who have lost their lives either trying to survive or trying to help others survive are brought to the fore front of my cerebral cortex.

Is it a curse, A blessing, A freak of nature, That I experience these things… I don’t know. But I am grateful for them. Simply because it proves to me that mankind as a whole is truly Man Kind and that regardless of the heat index, the storm surge height, the monetary value of devastation, we as a codified existence on earth are all connected to each other.

And that thought alone gives me hope in the survival of mankind. Who knew that a simple raindrop on a steamy night could stir such emotions and introspective thought from a guy who gets paid to play with trains? Not me that’s for sure. But as someone once said to me… “You are not as shallow as you want to be.”

What memories do the storms of nature and life bring you?

Bonding in the Electronic Age

Monday was a good day, right up until I had to go to work. Now, as many of you know I love to ride my bike. It’s a great bike, a Gary Fisher Tarpon that I bought three years ago and on its saddle I’ve had some of the best rides in my life. These rides, while some have been solo the best ones are with my daughter. And Monday was no exception.

It was a rare day off from one of my jobs, not both, just one. The rarity of me having a whole day off free from responsibility to the task masters of my daily life are few and far in between. And the opportunity to spend those brief hours with my daughter was an even more rare circumstance. A serendipitous chance for a great ride and time to reconnect with my daughter of eleven years, that just could not be passed up.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, I live in Southeastern Virginia, in an area surrounded by water and there are times where you will literally sit in traffic for thirty minutes just to move one city block. Traversing from one city to the next can take you anywhere from ten minutes to three hours. But, and here is a genius idea, from my city to the next city there is a ferry boat that you can take every half hour. It’s brilliant and I often use this as a mode of traversing the Elizabeth River. Not only does this ferry take passengers but they allow you to bring bicycles onboard. Mensa Level Genius I tell ya!

My daughter and I ventured off into the great unknown wilds of our city with an idea of making a trek to places we had not seen before on our two wheeled adventures. I can’t speak for my daughter as to what she expected to get out of what we did, but I can speak for me. I wanted; no I needed to spend time with her sharing my passion for riding and seeing the sites of my adopted community at the leisurely pace our legs afforded.

We rode about a mile, past the oldest Naval Hospital in America, past sail boats berthed in modern marinas and homes that had housed troops during the Revolutionary War and Civil War. We rode past a Starbucks and a 7/11 and other modern shops and antique stores only to stop at a genteel bank to pay a bill. When we came out of the bank we saw the Ferry sitting in her berth and decided to ride to its next stop. Six dollars and twenty minutes later we were the proud owners of two round trip ferry passes and in the city where everything is available to anyone who knows where to look for what they want.

What did we want? Simple, we wanted to ride! Enjoy the beautiful day, the sunshine, the breezes, the cool shade of tree lined streets and the freedom of being in a country where anything is possible. We rode past schools closed for the summer, colleges with students attending summer classes, and teachers escorting summer camp students around various parts of the city. Sandwich boards that littered the sidewalk created an obstacle course for pedestrians and bikers alike and as we navigated the mine field of the city streets we talked to each other, and more importantly we listened to what each other had to say.

I won’t go into the details of our discussion because they are gems for my soul and sharing them with anyone seems to be a violation of Father-Daughter priviledge.

It seems we both look forward to these rides. Me, for the opportunity to relive my childhood in Green Bay and the freedom that having a bike gave me as a kid and my daughter for the chance to spend time with her father in a nontraditional paternal manner where I am barking orders all the time. (Yes, I bark orders like a drill sergeant in boot camp. I blame my Navy training for that manner of communication.)

We made the occasional stop and took a photographic record of some of the cool and secret places we came across. Like a hidden garden with a pond that had the coolest and bluest water we had ever seen. We made plans to go back there one day for a picnic and to soak our feet in the water. We found an old bicycle that had been painted pink and made into a planter. The night club with a graffiti painted entrance and a school that was built in the 1950’s with 100 foot columns. By the time we reached our destination, a really sweet comic book shop, we were hot, tired, sweaty and in desperate need of some cool, canned air and a refreshing beverage.

We didn’t stay long, just enough time cool down and buy some comics, quench out thirst and then it was time to hit the road. We had four miles to cover and several more sites to see. We stopped at a pawn shop so my daughter could see the glamorous world of used goods bought and sold as portrayed on television. When we left the owner of the shop walked us out to our bikes and asked us to come back soon.

We road to our lunch rendezvous and enjoyed pleasant conversation, good food and a relaxing 45 minutes of self indulgence in a friendly atmosphere with good people. But the afternoon was fading and I needed to get home to get ready for another shift of part time indentured servitude. We raced to the ferry and got there just before the river boat departed. As for who won the race… let’s say it was a tie.

Once back in our home city we rode straight home talking about all the wondrous things we had experienced in our four hour journey of local and personal discovery. It seems to me we created a deeper bond between our rolls in each others life, me as a father, her as my daughter and our relationship as a family grew richer for this experience. If you, my dear reader have an opportunity to share or even pass on a personal passion to your child, I highly recommend you take the time to teach them your particular past time. You will be thankful for spending the time now and be rewarded later.

Have a great week.