Will Write for Prizes

If this is your first visit here, I suggest reading this and this. And maybe this. Because this post? Let's just be honest: It's not my best work.

Man, NaBloPoMo is really killing my street cred. You know, my street cred as a crazy-good writer-blogger. 'Coz I knows all-y'all come here for my mad writin' skillz! And here I am, about to post a cat video because it's late and I don't have time to write a good post. In any other month, I'd just not post on a day like this. But there are prizes involved in this National Blog Posting Month. Prizes, people! And to win, I have to post every stinkin' day. Besides, it's looking like I won't "win" NaNoWriMo by finishing my novel in the next 10 days. So I'm trying to save face by posting every day and sticking to NaBloPoMo.

...Actually, it's not about saving face at this point. It's about the prizes. If it were about saving face, I wouldn't be about to post not one, but two cat videos.

Wait! Don't go. The cats -- they are funny. They are worth it. Watch these videos in order to get the full effect. (They aren't duplicates.)

We're Gonna Have Roast Rabbit!

Day 19. I'm stuck here on this NaBloPoMo island, surrounded by a sea of language. Words, words everywhere and not a drop to write. Sometimes I think I can see other blogs and even commenters from here, but then realize it's all just a mirage. I've started to dream of writing beautiful, long paragraphs, full of nuance and meaning. It's a sad shock when I wake up and find out that it wasn't real.

Our rations are running dangerously low. Words and punctuation are in such short supply that I think we're starting to hallucinate. Earlier today I looked at James and thought he was a big fat apostrophe. I told him this, trying to make light of our dire situation. But he's cranky and became indignant, saying, "If I was going to be anything, I'd be a semicolon!"

Yesterday we went into the forest to forage for verbs, but all we found were a few measly pronouns, hardly worth building a story around. Still, in our desperation, we tried. But it was all "he" and "she" and then "he" again, not making a bit of sense. I threw in a few verbs and adjectives from our dwindling supply, but that didn't make it much better: "pretty she coughed." We soon gave up in frustration. What I wouldn't give for a juicy noun-verb combo with a nice slice of descriptive commentary on the side.

James tells me to keep the faith, to just hold on, to keep hope alive. I tell him that if we needed cliches, those would be just fine. But we need interesting stories if we're going to last another 11 days in this God-forsaken wilderness. And to do that we're going to need more words. He promised me he'll try fishing again tomorrow, but I'm not holding my breath. The last time he went out, all he brought back were a few italics and hyperlinks. The links were good, but they're not substantial enough to keep us going. He swears he saw an essay swim by, but I told him: "Good luck hooking one of those!"

(Thank you to James for this idea!)

The Persistence of Memory

Good photography was one of the priorities for our wedding, and I think we spent about double for the photographer than we did for my dress. We met with several people who claimed to understand what we were looking for, but none of them truly did. Then we met Melinda. She understood that we wanted a photo-journalistic approach, something more artsy than staged. As a result, we have two huge albums filled with honest and poignant shots of the day.

But one of my very favorite photos was taken by a guest with an average camera. It's blurred, overexposed, out-of-focus, and off-kilter. And I love it so much. It captures something that I have been trying to put into words for the last six years. I think it's what memories look like. It reminds me of a photo you'd find in an old attic, and then marvel at how these people -- alive years ago -- look so young. It looks like a photograph taken through glass, and reminds me of "Nightswimming" by R.E.M. It's somehow melancholy and comforting all at once.

I love photographs in general and want to know more about taking them. I want to learn how to take better photos, and I know that a minimum level of technical knowledge goes with that. (Even if, like this lovely lady, I just want to play.) I tend to have a general impatience for learning technical things, even though I'm proficient at them once I've pushed through my desire for instant gratification. I should probably learn how to use the settings on my digital camera, or even figure out what different types of film are and why they're used.

What I really want is to create photo-art that evokes emotion and meaning. So I'm thinking about buying a Diana or Holga camera. Are you familiar with either of these? From what I understand, the Holga is a newer version of the Diana, but they're made by different manufacturers. They're both cheap, poorly made, middle format (what is that?) cameras that let in light and distort pictures. They create some beautiful art effects like vignetting and blur.

The playfulness and surprise results of such a camera excite me. Part of the reason I love the image above is that it was a fluke. I guess I'm looking to create intentional flukes, as ironic as that seems.

Can anyone recommend which to get: the Diana or Holga? What else should I know about them? Homemade modifications to the cameras seem to be a big part of the sub-culture. Are they necessary to get interesting photos? Please share in the comments.

The Littlest Birds Sing the Prettiest Songs

I saw a flock of little brown birds today. There were hundreds them: flying, gliding, flapping, swirling, chirping, landing. The rose up in a choreographed flight from the bank in front of me, and then landed in two small fields separated by a road. I heard hundreds of birds peeping at once; hundreds and hundreds of wings beating the air as I walked a little closer and they took off, again in unison, swooping through an intricate pattern. When they flew, it was a graceful dance, each bird flapping in rhythm and then all at once skimming on unseen air currents, all at the same time. Flap-flap-flap-flap-gliiiiiiiiiiiiiide.

The group of birds in the field nearest me joined the group across the road, and then little batches of birds came flying in, trailing the larger mass that had arrived a minute or two earlier. Here were another ten; a dozen; three; solo birds in between these little groupings. All flying to catch up with the others.

And then from behind them all, a lone, larger bird, probably a hawk. I wondered if it was preying on the smaller birds (do hawks eat birds?); if this was the reason they seemed so unified and slightly agitated. (Or is that just the way of birds?) I heard the hawk let out a solitary squawk (although I think I imagined it), and then it banked right, flying high above and away from me and the birds.

I watched the hawk sail into the distance, strong, confident, fearless. The flock of small birds on the ground flapped and hopped, talking to each other, crowded close together.

And I could not decide which I'd rather be.

New and Improved Stereotypes

As one-half of an interracial marriage, and as someone with an innate sense of justice and equality, I'm interested in how and why we develop and perpetuate stereotypes. Well, here's a website full of "new and improved stereotypes to teach your kids." And might I just say, they got these so right...

• Black People Can Extinguish A Fire Just by Dissing It (During the great Chicago fire of 1871, it took nearly 100 men implying the inferno's mother was promiscuous to smother the blaze.)
• White People Secretly Know How to Breathe Underwater (But they won't teach anyone else.)

There's a new and improved stereotype for everyone: the Irish, Germans, Belgians, Jews, Asian men, New Yorkers, and left-handed people, just to name a few. Go have a laugh.