Thursday, February 25, 2010

Clicky, clicky, whee!

I'm trying to dust off this blog. (The keyword here being "trying".) So, in lieu of words, I'm totally going to picspam y'all with some of the photos I've taken in the last 2 years. Some of these are the most viewed (and sometimes I wonder, "why?") and some of these are just favourites of mine because ... well, because.

Without further ado, images.

(And, damn. I meant to pick, like, 10. Uhm, not so much.)

Congress Created Dust Bowl
This image, by far, has received the most views on my Flickr stream.

This is a close third. (From the Nomeansno show at The Knitting Factory.)

Same show, and I think my favourite from the night.

I don't know why, but I think this? I love.

This one just makes me giggle, on so many levels. (You had to be there.)

One of my nearest and dearest friends. I think I like this one so much because there is just so much of *her* in the eyes.

This weekend was full of so much joy, and happiness, and tears. And it was pretty much summed up when Becca walked down the aisle, with her black parasol, and laughed. And then? Another one of my best friends, her now-husband, cried at the sight of her.

I am happy, nay, joyful, to see that a dance troupe that I was a co-founder of is still alive and kicking.

I think I love this one because G looks *so.damn.serious*. Personally, I think he was trying to not faint.

Again, alive and kicking.

t[df] dancing goodbye
This one I like, and makes me tear-up every time, because the night this photo was taken was at a very sad event. But I caught Sarah and her partner in a moment of pure bliss, and love. Dancing.

Another one of my nearest and dearest friends.

What can I say? I'm a fan of blue.

The colours! The light! (And, dude, he's just purdy.)

High-flying ass. (Both the shot, and the man. MUAH Mish. Love you, mean it.)

I love reflections.

Mmm, candles.

I love the sand. How you can create something right there, in the moment, and then erase it.

The hair!

Random bits of jewelry, on a box.

Yeah. I do the same thing.

Flying hair!

I r not amuzed. Feedz me, beeotch.

YAY! Blue!

Dancing feet ...

I guess I love black and white. (And it is also forgiving of many mistakes.)

What can I say? I like cemeteries.

Red, White, and ... BLUE!

Walking, walking, walking ...

More hair!


Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Pitter patter, pitter patter

Drip, drip, drip.
I hear it, once again.

In each falling drop.
It is felt.

“Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain …”

Drip, drip, drip.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.


“ … let me be alone again …”

“Do you want more rice, or more beans?”

One year, three years, ten years, later …

… that is the question that Dad asks me.

Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.

The flank steak juices fall.
Drip, drip, fzzz.

“Do you want more rice, or more beans?”
“ … but little does she know that when she left that day, she took my heart …”


Stepping out of my room I smell it again.

Fat, rendering. Juicy, on the grill.

Drip, drip, drip.
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.

A broken man, flipping sustenance on the grill for his broken girl.

The smell tempts me.

I think it tempts you too …
“Ann Marie, you need to eat.” (I think he is telling me I need to live.)

“Yeah, I guess I am hungry.” (I try to tell him the same.)

Bleary eyed, and sad, you turn to me, facing away from the grill.

“Would you like seconds?” (I think you are trying to say, “I love you”.)

“Yes. I would. Thank you.” (I think I am trying to say, “I love you” back.)

We look at each other, hiding emotions. Eyes and hearts hidden. You scrape the grill, I scrape the plate. And we continue on, silent in our suffering. Forks scraping our plates, saying what we cannot say to each other.

Over the weekend, we listen to music, forgetting our unspoken “grill” conversation.

You turn up the volume dial on the radio.

“ … looking for a brand new start …”

Each of us smile, finally making eye contact. And then go back to our plates, knives and forks digging in.

Drip, drip, drip.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

I sit, alone, in my room. As you do, in your own.

“ … rain, please tell me now, does that seem fair …”

Listening. Listening to the “drip-drip” of the rain.

Stepping out of my room, I flash back.
Dinners cooked.

Stepping out of your room, you flash back.
Dinners cooked.

Our eyes meet, and we turn back … heads bowed down.

… pitter-patter, pitter-patter …”

The pitter is the patter of steak, and fat …

… falling to the coals.

Pitter … the scrape of a knife on the plate.

Patter … the throwing of that same knife on a plate.

Pitter-patter … the sound of loss, and anger, being thrown at each other across dinner.

Silent, in our stares. Silent …

… in our silence.

In our blame.

Pitter …

Patter …


I step out of my room, in 2010, and …

I flash back.

Flash back to dinner.

Drip, drip, drip.

The smell of water.
The hiss of meat in the oven.

The sound of rain.
The feeling of drops on the roof.

Both say,
“Hiss, hiss, hiss.”

Both carry with them a smell.
A memory.

Pitter …

Cutlery, falling …

Patter …

Tears, falling …

Pitter …

Tears, falling …

Patter …

Cutlery, falling …


Pitter, patter.

Pitter, patter.

Tears and cutlery have been tossed aside.

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.

For many years, all I felt was sadness. But now? I get it.

A parent, and even a child, can feel the same pain. The same loss.


What is it telling you?