Picture Perfect July 30, 2008

It would be a bit disingenous for me to start waxing poetic about analog vs. digital technology. Hypocritical in fact, coming from a girl with a blog and a Flickr account. But there is a lot to be said for analog, specifically in photography.

I do not own a digital camera. I never have. This isn’t necessarily a philosophical stance; I am not opposed to them by any stretch of the imagination. They’re convenient. They’re fun to play with. And they’re damn affordable lately. But still, something in me still likes the feel of a film camera. I love the weight of them. I love the sound of the shutter (digital cameras and even some camera phones play recordings of that sound, which makes me giggle.) And I like actually receiving physicial printouts of my photos, because I know myself, and I will never print them out and frame them if I have to go through an extra step.

I used to be much more interested in photography as a hobby, but my interest has been piqued again as of late listening to the boy talk about his design projects. He found a few articles on lomographic cameras, and we’ve been researching them a little bit, specifically the Diana models. Lomographic cameras are basicaly a throwback to really inexpensive cameras manufactured in the 1960s, integrating the quirks and flaws of those cameras (light leaks, over-saturated colors, darkened corners) into more modern models.

The resulting photos appear to have an imperfect, almost nostalgic, dreamy quality. According to the web site, “A blurry-soft and dreamy-toned Diana image is more an interpretation of reality than a correct representation of it. In a way, it’s somehow more accurate to compare the Diana to an oily vintage typewriter than to a megapixel machine of today.” The examples I saw reminded me a bit of the poloroids I remember from my childhood.

This all just sounded too fun to pass up, so today we took a trip to our local Camera Doctor on our lunch breaks and picked up a Diana F+ (above). Isn’t she cute?

Will be experimenting quite a bit in the near future. More to come …

Stung. July 20, 2008

Have I ever mentioned that I’m not the outdoorsy type?

The boy and I have taken to playing games of Frisbee recently. I’m (slowly) making progress, but my skills are lacking. The more accurate way to put it would be to say I suck, though it hasn’t stopped me from trying. It usually takes me a good 10 or 15 minutes to get warmed up, and then I’m flinging the thing around like a pro. Or at least in a semi-straight line.

I do enjoy being out in the sunshine, though — outside in the nice weather, barefoot and running around like a little kid. And we crack ourselves up, laughing at my lack of athletic prowess.

So this afternoon we were in the middle of such a game, taking “beer breaks” every time one of us would send the other into the woods to retrieve the errant Frisbee. It was during one of these retrieval missions that I stepped on what I thought was a thorn.

Ouch. Ouch. Ow… ow ow OW OWWWW OH MY GOD OW OW OW OW OWW!!! I hobbled around a little at first, then rather gracefully flung myself to the ground as the pain grew in intensity. MOTHER F*CKER OW OW OW OW OW!!!!

As the boy came over to investigate all the drama, I looked down on the bottom of my foot and pulled out a very large, spiny stinger attached to a miniscule, now sufficiently squished, little insect.

How can so much PAIN come from such a little bastard?!?! 

I haven’t had many bee stings before. None in fact. I’d dealt with wasps once or twice when I was little, but I certainly didn’t remember them hurting this bad. And I wasn’t prepared for the fact that the pain kept getting worse. It didn’t help that the stinger had been lodged on the bottom of my foot, right on that tight little tendon on the inside of the arch. You know, the one that hurts like hell when you step on an oddly positioned pebble or a particularly large clump of sand? Yep. That’s the one.

I pitifully hobbled inside, clutching and squeezing and EEE!ing and OUCH!ing while the boy looked up bee sting remedies.

Ice?

No! It hurts too bad!

Toothpaste?

That cinnaBURN gel with the sparkly tooth whitening SMART BEADS in our bathroom? Not on your life!

I eventually popped some tylenol and reluctantly wrapped a cold pack around my foot while he tried distracting me with a Family Guy episode. He doted on me, and even brought me back calomine lotion after he went to the store to buy food. I have a feeling this will soon disappear into my neverending hallway closet of first aid supplies and won’t be discovered for another five years when someone mistakes it for Pepto Bismol.

After we ate I decided soaking in the tub would be nice, not thinking about the fact that HOT WATER probably isn’t the best thing for something you’ve been treating with ICE. Genius, this one.

So I spent the remainder of the night hobbling to and from the freezer switching out lukewarm ice packs for actual frozen ones, and watching a DVD of Gilmore Girls reruns — also known as my entertainment equivalent of comfort food and a warm blanket.

Yeah. I’m a wimp. I like her and all, but I have a feeling that Mother Nature and I have a ways to go before we’re bosom buddies.

Or perhaps I should just learn to keep my shoes on.

Why I Love Decatur, Part 1 July 15, 2008

Part of the beauty of working on the Decatur Square is the entertainment. Not only from the town crazies, as that is another blog post entirely. No, today I speak of the eccentric street corner musicians and performing artists livening up our lives on a daily basis.

Right now for instance, a man outside my window is playing a saxophone. A second ago he was playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and I can’t be entirely sure, but I think he’s just transitioned into a rousing renition of the “the Muppet Show” theme. It’s oddly and pleasantly calming background music at lunch time.

At other times you’re apt to find one of a handful of local guitar players who regularly serenade shoppers and patrons of the Brick Store Pub – one of which I consider the official town troubadour of Decatur – or as of late a lone drummer who has been playing the bongos up on the plaza, joined by someone from a local dance company performing with a bow staff.

There’s also a preacher out on the bandstand, usually on Thursdays, whose booming, echoing voice can be heard across the square to our office. Whether he is trying to save lost souls passing by or practicing for a sermon I’ve never been able to figure out. Some days he draws a crowd. Some days he just paces back and forth, preaching to the empty park benches. Either way, his enthusiasm never wanes.

Then there are the self-professed 21st century beatniks who gather for open mic nights on Sundays, their spoken word performances broadcast loudly from Java Monkey, a coffee house on Church Street. (The boy and I had our first date at one of these poetry slams.) It’s interesting to hear someone bare their soul to a full crowd at night, then see them doing odd jobs around town or slinging pizza orders at Mellow Mushroom during the day. It makes one feel like a bit of a voyeur.

Guess that’s what you get when you’re surrounded by music venues, playhouses, and dance studios. Performers. We’ve got ourselves quite a little cast of characters. God, I love it here.

The Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor July 14, 2008

I lucked out. In too many ways to mention, but I’m focusing on just one here. My humble little house has oddly disproportionate yard — and it’s full of wonderful little surprises.

To the right of my house, next to my driveway, is a good-sized peach tree. (How very Georgia, I know.) I’ve been patiently waiting, and the fruit is getting HUGE, but is still green and hard. The branches aren’t able to support the weight of the fruit any more, and many of them are dragging the ground. Looks a bit like a weeping willow.

In the back yard, near two TOWERING pecan trees (great climbing trees – I would have killed for this yard as a kid!) is a lovely little pear tree. This fruit isn’t quite ripe yet either, but that hasn’t stopped a plethora of wildlife from snatching it up. Little half-eaten pears can be found all over.

Honeysuckle, though now beginning to dry up, blankets the bushes in the front and back of the house, the fragrance tempting me to walk around with trumpet-shaped blossoms sticking out of my mouth like a little girl.

Wild strawberries pop up here and there, dotting the green lawn with flecks of red.

This cornucopia of treats brings all sorts of wildlife to the doorstep. We’re constantly catching glimpses of bunnies dashing across the grass – something that made last night’s “hare” themed Iron Chef a little uncomfortable. (Honestly, who cooks rabbit with CARROTS? That’s just adding insult to injury.)

But the very best thing about the yard are the loads and loads of blackberries cascading over the fence.

They’re absolutely gorgeous. Big, fat, ripe blackberries just begging to be picked, tempting to weigh the vines down to the ground. Every time we go into the back yard we stop by the fence to snack on some, and the sheer volume of them guarantees there will be more for later. The boy and I were playing Frisbee on Saturday and we constantly took breaks to pop them into our mouths like kids in candy stores – our fingers stained bright pink.

Not wanting the berries to go to waste, we decided to try our hands at making jam (or preserves – is there even a difference?). I’d seen Jamie Oliver make it with strawberries, and it seemed simple enough. We bought a few jars and began the picking process. One for the jar, one for the mouth, one for the jar…

But tasting how perfectly sweet they were made me realize that adding sugar would only ruin them. As I was shaking the jar to squish them down and make room for more berries, they burst and turned into a beautiful thick syrup. That’s all I wanted. We ate it last night on vanilla ice cream. It was absolutely delicious. I’m going to try it on yogurt next.

This is just too easy. I think I can dig this whole get-your-food-from-your-back-yard thing. Though I suspect if I actually had to plant anything it might dampen my enthusiasm. Previous residents (and Mother Nature) did all the work here. I just lazily hang out on a blanket in the grass with the boy and the dog, reaping the benefits.

Ping Pong for Peace! July 9, 2008

Odd photos make me smile. People in out-of-place situations do the same. There’s something deliciously awkward about watching a person finding joy in an unexpected or odd place. The photo below is a prime example.

It was taken from an article on BBC News called “Perks of Penance for Saudi Jihadis.” Citing interviews about a Saudi prison – which calls itself a “care centre” – it describes the methods rehabilitation used on its prisoners – or “beneficiaries”- mostly made up of militant al-Quaeda soldiers. This rehab includes activities such as swimming, video games, table tennis, and art therapy classes.

In exchange for the freedoms they are given, beneficiaries are expected to attend religious classes, where Islamic scholars challenge their extremist views, convincing them they have distorted the teachings of Islam.

Unbelievable you say? Well, according to the article, no one released from the center has “re-offended.” Granted the center isn’t very old, but that seems like a decent track record when you think that a lot of these men are coming straight out of Guantanamo.

I love the photo. At first glance it struck me as funny. What if that’s the answer? Put down your gun and pick up a ping-pong paddle. I know it’s a gross simplification of a very intense topic, but it made me think of a lyric in Flight of the Conchords “Ladies of the World.”

If every soldier in the world
Put down his weapon
and picked up a woman
What a wonderful world this would be …

Distraction + Pleasure = Peace?

On a more serious note, there was a great quote in this article from the director of this “Ideological Security Unit.”

“You cannot defeat ideology with force. You have to fight ideas with ideas.”

Whether you agree with this guy’s mission or not, that’s just good stuff.