Light and Lens

My adoration for photography never really vacillates – I almost always have a camera with me – but where I stand on the inspiration to laziness spectrum definitely does ebb and flow. Finding the prime lens for my camera last week sparked movement towards the inspired end of the see-saw, and I’ve started using my camera every day.

Capturing everything from sleeping giants…

Untitled

To alien pods hidden in my garden…

Datura Pod

Like I always do when living in the lazy realm of photography, I forgot how much I enjoy finding something in every day worth capturing. It shifts my perspective, making me more aware of – and grateful for – my surroundings.

Also, I end up taking more ridiculously adorable photographs with my husband…

Joe holds up the ceiling...

And that is always a good thing.

The Dog Days

It’s hot. Really hot. Stupid hot. 49% humidity and over 100 hot.

My tomato plants are shriveling up into dry, brown, bits that turn to dust at the slightest touch. and even still, they are struggling to ripen their tiny green fruits. Bless.

Tomatoes

The mint also seems indifferent to the heat, popping out tiny flower heads.

Mint Flowers

I, however, am not indifferent, and that’s ok. I garden first thing in the morning, before the heat and the mosquitoes really get going, and then I work inside where there are fans and air conditioning and cats.

All I need is this sock...

I work, and I write, and I play with the prime lenses I didn’t even know I had.

terrarium gargoyle

And I dream of autumn…

on death

 

it rolls in waves
the sun drenched memory of a smile
the echo of an ageless laugh
the warm flicker of sepia-toned frames
then the waves crash, the shock comes
– harsh lights and deep shadows

death is cruel
and final

but the place that has been touched by kindness
the heart that holds tight frayed connection
that is the path death cannot claim

there we are infinite
there we are endless

 

 

 

A brief love letter to New Orleans

I had never been to New Orleans before, and yet something inside me was ready, and willing – as if it knew a deep, abiding love was there already – waiting to be sparked into life by the moist air, heavy with a mixture of life and death.

The buildings crumble with a carefree charm that alters the pace of life, as if the bricks themselves are letting out a long, slow sigh.

“Here, we take our time,” they say, their voices a wavering whisper of echoes.

“Here, we take our time,” they repeat, as the moss crawls over their surface, spreading, sprawling, taking over anything that stands still long enough.*

And I pause too, under the spell of the charismatic decay, and smile, thinking to myself, “Yes. Here. We.”

I am one with the city in that instant.

The very air is thick with magic. Magic wrapped in verdant gardens and overgrown cemeteries. Magic floating through the haunted corridors of streets and homes alike. A tangible history that leaves the taste of copper and dust on my tongue – the taste of all the lives that passed here before me.

I breathe deeply, inhaling the remnants, the lingering ghosts. I close my eyes and let the air rest against my skin, accepting the invitation in the weight.

I open my eyes, slowly. Great oak trees arching overhead, dripping with moss. Everything hazy, and mist covered, like a dream.

A dream I wish desperately never to wake from.

St Patrick Cemetery No 2

Garden District

City Park Sculpture Garden

* When we got back in our car after the long weekend, we found moss growing on the roof. New Orleans was not ready to let us go either.