Meditations on Words

I’ve encountered words that I think are in need of help. Unknowingly, they are in the midst of an identity crisis. Because of this, I cannot learn them, know them, retain their existence in my mind. 

I’m reviewing for the GRE, deciding that my only potential escape from the mundane cube I’ve been suffocating in for about two years is graduate school. So, I must get in, freedom is at hand. I’m preparing myself, mentally refreshing, because I’m a horrible test taker and will really only get one shot at this before applications are due. My overly priced vocab flash cards have made me realize how much I miss words, the written word, and how imaginative worlds are woven from the perfect neighboring of words. Almost like alchemy. Word combinations create sentences, meaning, mix and match them and see what product comes from these interactions. It is quite the complex equation, a formula that if something is amiss leaves it all in ruins. 

But this is only possible with the entailed meaning of a word. Meaning is subjective, in the beginning anyway. A word is created, defined, and eventually its existence is accepted, and thus, its meaning has a general consensus for the masses. However, at times I find myself meeting a word for the first time, and upon learning its meaning am confused. This isn’t you? I mean, really, this doesn’t SOUND like you. This is a problem. You’ve been given the wrong identity and you don’t even much know it.

I have no real logic behind this and it just comes from feeling. A meaning feels off, and because of that, I will likely never remember that word. Two examples…take the words Slake and Nadir…just ruminate about the potential meanings of these words or if you already know then proceed to start questioning the definitions pairings with these words.

 

Slake – to calm down, moderate

Nadir – lowest point

This is an identity crisis at its worst. Slake…it sounds like a nasty thing. Something of evil nature or movement. To slake around. Nadir…really should be a noun. A woman’s name with beautiful dark eyes, rounded like an almond. Nadir knelt by the stream to take a drink of water with her bare hands, blistered from the sun. 

This has always been a problem for me. Meeting words and wanting to change them, find out their true purpose in this language. However, I can’t really argue this on the GRE and must find a way to retain these words even with their poor aliases. But it makes me wonder about the meaning of words, the broader significance of it. Because much of interpretation comes from what we say, write, or read. Words create laws, debates, cement marriages, move people to action or inaction, to change the world…so meaning in itself has so much weight in life that goes unseen.

Grown Ups Don’t Tell

Words mama and daddy never say…

Little girl, no one cares what you get. Awards in a box. Degrees in a drawer. The boss man, the next door neighbor, the postman, ain’t no one going to care about what you’ve done, what you’ll do. The self is what’s on their mind. 

Miracles. God’s intervention. But no one likes to talk about the non-miracles. The times when God’s head seems turned away. Doesn’t it say just as much when a God chooses not to act? Inaction has powerful revelations, too. Ask the bodies of dead Jews, gypsies, gays, of women called witches and burned at stakes…Why didn’t God CHOOSE to act, to create a miracle when whole worlds seemed to cry out, to ask for God to come down from on high. And after all these years, the history, the atrocities, it isn’t enough to say God is a mysterious being, can’t go understanding the incomprehensible…then don’t be giving credit for the good if you can’t give credit for the bad.

Lives are webs woven of experience and lies, and to find anything of real truth is a difficult, but deeply cherished thing.

This is a world of the Lost. Life didn’t go their way. And they fill up on tv, internet, drugs, and drink to make it better. To feel a lot of nothin’. When you find solace in one of these things, don’t be fearful, find a new way, get out, run, curse what everyone else has become. 

These are things that go unsaid. Don’t know why. Had I known this a bit younger, how different things would have gone. No use in crying, it can’t be undone. Just keep an eye to the future, weave it how I see fit. And in my pocket the fading words of Isadora…”You were once wild here. Don’t Let them tame you.”

The Secret Life of Weddings: Part One

I’ve set out to be a photojournalist even in the wedding world. Bride and grooms in search of something different, nontraditional, a poignant and intimate view of the day are the best match for me. Though my career as a wedding photographer has been somewhat brief, the hours long, the editing tedious and never ending, I find such beautiful stories in them all. And if I feel I’ve captured the essence of a family, of a couple, the unexpected, the laughable mistakes, the joy, then I have accomplished merging photojournalism into this field. This isn’t a new skill or field, but to accomplish the essence of people in several brief hours is a great feat. And though I find the work often exhausting, the images of life that come to be are worth it all. 

Below are some of my favorites from a wedding in May at Ashley Hall:

 

Touch

1-800-Don’t Call Me

My phone rings, an unknown number, I refrain from answering. An unrecognized number will always receive this response. If it’s important, then surely a voicemail will be left. But ‘unknown’ that’s quite rare. I can’t call back; I have no way of knowing who let alone why. This call comes again the next night, around the same time, again I miss the call. Now my mind stirs. Is it someone from my past? My abroad friend wondering why the hell I’m not picking up the phone? Some freak that calls to hear my voice for a 30 second message and is doing who knows what on the other line? 

Well, sadly nothing that interesting. I pick up the third evening. “Hello, this is ‘a name I will never remember because that involves caring’. I’m with the Edward Group wanting to do a survey of adults ages 18-30 about how they feel about certain groups. You’ll receive ten dollars for participating…” she doesn’t even take a breath, “Are you 18? Good. How do you feel about the IRS? Would you say strongly bad, bad, good, strongly…” I stop her, “Excuse me, I don’t want to be a part of this survey.” 

This is merely a speed bump. “You’ll get ten dollars.” I don’t care. “It will only take a few minutes of your time.” Doubtful, this has already taken a few. “But you’ll get ten dollars.” I’m getting ready to leave for work. “Then when would be a better time to contact you?” I’m irked at this point, and just say, “Never. Because I don’t want to be a part of your survey.” Well have a goodnight, click. Really?! Not to mention I’m receiving a telemarketing call at almost 9 P.M., but then the person is rude, obnoxious, and won’t take no for an answer. 

Lately, I’ve had a few telemarketing experiences that are proving to foster nothing but disdain for these people. I used to be a bit empathetical since I’ve had friends who have had similar jobs. It’s not easy calling person after person, likely getting cut off, hung up on, or cursed out; so, I usually let them finish their first portion of their script before saying I’m not interested, please take me off the list. I used to just lie and say I was seventeen because whether I’m lying or not, once I’ve made that statement, they have to end the call. But the tone of voice, the snideness in it, just makes me want to be so nasty right back. 

In May, I was practically being phone stalked by Rooms To Go. I didn’t recognize the number, called it back, and their hotline picked up. I assumed perhaps they were calling to inquire about my satisfaction with the furniture. Missed several more calls from then that week. Then I started getting called almost daily, sometimes two or three times, which made me think perhaps this was a call of importance, maybe a warranty or recall issue. I picked up on a Sunday evening. It was merely about purchasing an extended warranty on the furniture. “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.” “Why not?” I’m thinking why do I need to justify not wanting something? “Because I’m just not. No need for it.” “Yes, but this is a good offer. Why wouldn’t you want it?” “Because I just don’t!” Then I hang up. But the calls don’t stop. Several days later, the number starts popping up a couple of times a day again. I finally answer, just ready to unleash. But it’s a different woman, much friendlier, and she’s speaking quick to get the script out. I calmly explain that I received this call last week, and that I am not interested at this time. Please remove me from the calling list. She doesn’t ask anymore questions, just says thank you and hang ups. If only they could all be that easy.

But the worst came over a year ago. An acquaintance from high school had called asking if I’d be interested in joining a job thing he was pursuing that sounded similar to an Amway. I hate any job that involves solicitation. It’s not in my nature. Either someone wants something or s/he doesn’t. With that philosophy, I know I’d be horrible in sales. I let him explain the entire program, which sounded sort of like a pyramid scheme, and declined. Then several weeks later I get a call from the woman above him trying to repeat the same spiel as if maybe he did an insufficient job, there was some misunderstanding, and by her restating the same exact thing, I’d change my mind. I told her I didn’t have any extra time to pursue another career between a full time accounting job and freelance photography, which is where I felt my focus needed to be. “So, basically, you’re telling me you’re not interested in making extra thousands of dollars a year?” Again, it’s really the tone in voice that riles me the most, and I just said, “I guess so because I make plenty of money now and don’t need your stupid job.” Silence. A quick goodbye. Click. And in my mind, I’m saying much more unpleasant words.  

So, as of now, my patience is dissipated for telemarketers. For the one that called past a decent hour, for the ones that have no respect in the way they speak to people, and for using rude tactics when trying to persuade me to not say no. Don’t call me because in the future, I will be nothing but blunt, direct, and firm as can be, and when that initial no doesn’t shut them up, then I will.

Elevator Conversations

Riding in an elevator with strangers has proven fruitful conditions for some of the most awkward social interactions and conversations I’ve ever had. The first came during the first week of moving in. I had a shopping buggy stuffed with my burnt orange comforter, cream yellow sheets, and pillows and found myself riding in an elevator with a young woman. I’m prone to laughing at random, sometimes it’s about a current something at that moment, but often my mind spontaneously decides to recall an experience or a statement that sends me into laughter. Anywhere from a short giggle to a full, robust laugh. As the elevator started, I thought about how odd it was to be pushing my oversized comforter and sheets in a tiny grocery buggy let alone riding up an elevator with it. I laughed gently, and the woman looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “Case of the sillies?” with a bit of a skewed tone. So, I told her why I was laughing, but I suppose I was more amused because she didn’t think it as funny. I realize that when I have a random bought of laughter that most people are either insecure or narcissistic enough to think it’s about them, and really, it’s almost to the point that I’m willing to voice that observation to them and remind them how ridiculous they are for being either or both, especially with a stranger. Really, so close.

The next strange encounter came when I was on the elevator with an attractive man, sweaty from exercising, and just so delicious for my eyes. I was elated to learn we’re on the same floor, granted I’ve never run into him since. During the brief ride up, we said some barely audible ‘hello’es and not even halfway up, my flip flop breaks. Damn, cheap Old Navy shoes. The door opens, I think he waits for me to go first since I’m a woman, and I just smile and motion for him to go ahead because I surely don’t want this hot piece to see me attempt to walk on a broken flip flop before saying screw it, and walking barefoot to my door. Having no other shoes in the apartment, I had to make an unplanned trip to my dad’s, but first, had to figure out how to McGiver my flops. No duck tape. No scotch tape. No super glue. No puddy. So, I find myself using band aids to secure the strap, which lasted long enough to get to the elevator, the first floor, and almost out the second set of double doors before breaking again. 

Another awkward conversation came began at the entrance doors when I opened a door for a middle aged man carrying several grocery bags. He said, “Don’t worry, I handle big loads all the time.” I nodded and pushed the button for the elevator, thinking maybe I should have considered a detour to the cafe/market to evade this elevator ride coupling. Once again he reiterates his previous statement, “I’m used to carrying heavy things all the time. This is a light load today. But I carry heavier a good bit.” I’m starting to think this is an odd come on, like he’s using ‘heavy things’ as a secret metaphor for his capability to handle a non-skinny woman, i.e. me. Then I picture him hoisting me up against a wall, and briefly imagine how strange that encounter would be…or would it? Dammit, Priscilla, gross, stop it. And I shake the image out of my head. He says he just got back from the gym, goes every day. “Oh, I remember the gym,” I laugh.  Luckily, the door opens, and I say, “Be sure to take some ibuprofen for inflammation.” He gawks, “Only natural stuff. Ginger for starters…” and then he starts listing off a list of natural supplements as the door shuts. Oh my freakin’ god, why do I say anything. 

And though this isn’t an ‘elevator’ conversation, it still occurred in my apartment complex. I stop by the the market aka well stocked convenience store to purchase a cheeseburger and a soda. As I wait, the clerk asks if she can ask me a questions. Sure, I suppose. I’ve only seen her one other time before this to order a hot dog that ended up being cold. This leads to a ten minute diatribe of her helping out her boyfriend’s cousin, a recovering drug addict, who moved in with them but refuses to pay for rent though she’s on the lease. Somehow this then turns into her living all the way out in past Ravanell, doesn’t make jack squat at the market, has threatened to quit but they won’t give her raise, and how in two year’s she’s helped them turn the market from a filthy, piss poor stop to a clean, organized place of business. “Who do you think suggested the slurpie machine, or the baked goods, or these snack stands?” Really…like seriously…you’re priding yourself on a freakin’ slurpie machine? Oh, jesus, is my cheeseburger ready…

I find it odd that dozens of seconds in an elevator ride can produce some of the strangest conversations, but perhaps that brief space and time of the ride reveals people as they are, no frills or facades, just the raw…and for once, I wish they’d keep it to themselves. Unless, I up the ante on awkward, and do a photo series of people in the elevator…haha, oh then no one would ever talk to me in that place.

Life Update

I’ve been absent for several weeks mostly due to moving, coming down with bronchitis, photography gigs, and work. So, here’s a succinct update about a hodgepodge of my recent life happenings.

I live in a studio apartment in Downtown Charleston since late April. It’s tiny, either too hot or cold, sometimes it’s noisy like a college dorm with late night drunkards, and I love having my own place, my own space. At first, I wasn’t sure living alone was good for me. Such great silence when I came home in the evenings, but now I’m remembering the peace that can come with quiet. It helps to rejuvenate me. 

In the month I’ve lived there, I haven’t taken my microwave out from the box nor have I cooked in the apartment. My fire alarm has gone off at least five times, obviously not from cooking smoke. It’s been from the steam from my showers. I have approximately ten minutes of shower time before the steam gets so hot that the fire alarm will start blaring and then find myself dripping wet, naked, waving a towel beneath the alarm so it will cease. Actually, the shower is the worst part of the apartment. It’s like stepping into a white squall, the water pressure so intense that it creates its own wind current and I’m finding myself batting away the wind blown shower curtain while trying to shampoo, wash, and shave all while trying to remember the minutes remaining before the fire alarm starts sounding. When I get out of the shower, drops of water are streaming down the walls, even beading up on the ceiling. I have yet to change out the head because I’m lazy, I’m too short to reach it for a long enough period of time to switch it out, and it’s such an old place that I’m not sure all shower heads will fit. But I dread the daily skin exfoliations; so, I admit a shower gets skipped on occasion…like once a week. Gross, I know. 

Also within this last month, I’ve photographed two weddings (in the same weekend!) that had me in emotional knots. The first one was blessed with beautiful weather and people, but problems came with the second shooter and extended family. Never have I experienced thirty people sit down to watch traditional bridal party and family portraits, let alone all want a picture with the bride, let alone direct people in the photos, all while I’m standing on a 5ft ladder sweating from the heat and humidity. In the end, the bride and groom got so overwhelmed and tired that they didn’t want more than a few shots of themselves together, which disappointed me because I had some creative ideas I had wanted to pursue. My second shooter did a pretty good job…I’d consider upping it to ‘great’ once I see her images. But the hiccups came nonetheless. She called a bit flushed to tell me that she had confused a groomsman for the groom and had taken most of the pictures of the wrong man and I just did my best to keep my composure and facial reaction under control since I was with the bride. Immediately, I told her to switch, take pictures of the bride getting ready and I’d do what I could since it was twenty minutes until ceremony time. I got a bit irked when she didn’t comply with some of my groomsmen portrait ideas, instead opting for what she knew/liked, but what I also felt were too traditional for the photography I do. The other time came when there was confusion about where we’d each be during the ceremony. She ended up coming to a spot that I told her I’d be, and got what I’d consider the best spot for ceremony images. A close friend gently chastised me for my lack of assertiveness with someone I was paying, and said in the future, I need to make it abundantly clear that I’m paying them and if I make a ’suggestion’ it’s a nice way of saying do as I say and going over the tentative schedule and ideas more. I know things go wrong, but I had blatantly told her the groom’s name (and why she wouldn’t ask if unsure, I don’t know) and told her the two locations she would be at during the ceremony and where I’d be. I just remember when she said she thought the wrong guy was the groom because he was around her a lot, I just said, “Why would the groom be around you unless you were a stripper the night before?” Obviously, the groomsman thought she was hot and was flirting, which was exactly the case.

The next day, the wedding was held in a gazebo in the pouring rain at a park in Spartanburg. Instead of moving the ceremony indoors, all the chairs were moved under the gazebo since it was a small number of guests. Well, that left no moving room for a photographer or at least for one who cares about the shots to get. So, I stayed outside the gazebo the entire time snapping images in the rain wondering where my friend was who had both the umbrella and towels. It surely didn’t help my recovery from bronchitis any. 

I also learned I had several images published in the April 2009 issue of Charleston Magazine. It was an article on Jazz Artists of Charleston and their upcoming series at Mistral. However, I found this out in May and cannot find the issue anywhere. I emailed the magazine asking about purchasing an archive issue, but was told they actually completely sold out of April’s issue. So, if anyone comes across one or willing to part with their own, let me know. I’d greatly appreciate it since it’s my first publication in a magazine. 

I’m also cited in this month’s issue of Indie Slate (issue 57), a magazine about Indie films. I took some images on the set of Twin Geeks, an indie film in Charleston that is now in post production; so, the director was nice enough to cite me in his paragraph for the magazine. 

Currently, I’m one of three photographers photographing JAC’s Jazz series at Mistral. Each night, a band plays two sets, and the series has been nothing short of awesome for me. I always tell people how much I enjoy photographing JAC gigs because I don’t just get paid to take pictures; it’s like having a backstage pass and a free show. So, I’m doing what I love and get to enjoy some great music.

My strategy for this series has been a bit different. Mistral is a restaurant in the Market with a cozy upstairs. So, between the space taken up by instruments and band members along with the audience, it’s a snug fit. The first night was a bit awkward for me because I didn’t want to be obnoxious or or others’ way, but I found my method for the space. I have several sweet spots I try to get to during the set, and usually spend an entire song focused on one member. I have to be a quick study of each person in the band, learn how they move, at what moments in melodic movement they become engrossed in the music, because that’s when it shows in their movement and facial expressions. The challenge is if there is a piano player because he’s tucked back considerably more than the others. But after I’ve focused on each member, I then work on group shots, some possibly kooky shots that may or may not work out, and if there’s still more time, then I just get some more images of the most expressive members. The quick seconds between songs, I try to snap the audience clapping, laughing, smiling, and then stick around for about ten minutes after the set is over to get any candid shots of the band and the audience members’ conversations/interactions with each other or the musicians. Then I pack up my camera, sling on my pack, and head home to download, edit out the bad images (because currently I’m still editing weddings; so, the gigs will have to wait), and backing up the remaining images on a disc. 

So…that’s been my life for the past several weeks. I’ve been out of contact, out of touch, with a good many people, but it’s not evasion. I have no internet or cable at the apartment and I’ve been busy. Let me remind everyone I have a full time cubicle job; so, between that, photographing, and editing, I don’t have much time right now for casual chit chat or hanging out. Please, don’t take offense, it’s just how it’ll be for at least several more weeks. Once it slows down, I’m hoping to finally buy some groceries, put together the bookcase, and perhaps take the microwave out of the box.

Krishnamurti: On Fear

While on holiday, I took along several books, but only managed to break open Krishnamurti’s book On Fear. The book is filled with excerpts from talks and Krishnamurti’s journal entries on the topic of fear. It’s a small read, but I still haven’t finished it. But I did want to post some excerpts that I found poignant. Likely there will be a near future post where I take what I’ve read and apply it to my own personal fears, breaking them down to notice the full extent of their nature, though really all fears are just fear regardless of the manifestations they undertake. 

 

Page 15

So there is in our life this constant state of comparison, competition, and the everlasting struggle to be somebody – or to be nobody, which is the same thing. This, I feel, is the root of all fear, because it breeds envy, jealousy, hatred. Where there is hatred there is obviously no love, and fear is generated more and more.

Page 40

But a word brings fear or pleasure into being through association and remembrance. We are slaves to words and to exasmine anything fully, to look, we must be free of the word. If I’m a Hindu and a Brahmin, a Catholic, a Protestant, an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, to look I have to be free of that word, with all its associations, and that’s extraordinarily difficult. The difficulty disappears when we are passionately inquiring, examining. 

Page 43

Fear ceases only when there is direct contact…To die means that you have to die every day, not just twenty years from now. You die every day to everything that you know, except technologically. You die to the image of your wife; you die every day to the pleasure you have, to the pains, the memories, the experiences. Otherwise you can’t come into contact with them. If you do die to them all, fear comes to an end and there is a renewal. 

Page 45

You know fear is also used to civilize man. Religions throughout the world have used fear as a means of controlling man. Have they not? They say that if you do not do certain things in this life, you will pay for it in the next life. Though all religions preach love, though they preach brotherhood, though they talk about the unity of man, they all subtly, or very brutally, grossly, maintain this sense of fear.

Page 47

Most of us are very conservative. You know what that word means, you know what it is to conserve? To hold, to guard. Most of us want to remain respectable and so we want to do the right thing, we want to follow the right conduct, which, if you go into it very deeply, you will see is an indication of fear. Why not make a mistake, why not find out? But the man who is afraid is always thinking ‘I must do the right thing, I must look respectable, I must not let the public think what I am or not’. Such a man is really, fundamentally, basically, afraid.

Page 48 

But the difficulty is: when there is fear, we do not create. A person who is afraid can never find truth or God. Behind all our worships, all our images, all our rituals, there is fear and, therefore, your gods are not gods, they are stones. 

Page 59

Fear and love cannot exist together. In this country there is no love. There is devotion, reverence, but no love. Devotion to your guru, to your gods, to your ideals, is self-worship. It is self-worship because you have created your guru, your ideals, your gods; you have created them, thought has created them, your grandfather has, and you accept this because it satisfies you, it gives you comfort. So what you are devoted to is yourself. Swallow that pill and live with it! 

Page 71

Thought is responsible for fear; also, thought is responsible for pleasure. One has had a happy experience; thought thinks about it and wants it perpetuated. When that is not possible there is a resistance, anger, despair, and fear. So thought is responsible for fear as well as pleasure, isn’t it? This is not a verbal conclusion; this is not a formula for avoiding fear. That is, where there is pleasure there is pain and fear perpetuated by thought; pleasure goes with pain, the two are indivisible. 

Page 76

What brings this division between you, your wife or your husband, and your children? Division is disorder. Muslim and Hindu, Jew and Arab, Communism, totalitarianism, and freedom. These opposites are the essence of disorder. So what brings about disorder in our relationships, with the most intimate and the not so intimate? Have you ever thought about it?

Page 84

Fear itself, not the various forms of fear. See how we break up fear. That’s part of our tradition, to bring about a fragmentation of fear, and therefore be concerned with only one type of fear. Not with the whole tree of fear, but a particular branch, or a particular leaf of it. The whole nature, the structure, the quality of fear – in observing that very closely, in the very watching there is the revelation of the causation – not you analyzing to find out the cause but the very watching showing the causation, which is time and thought. 

Page 85

So thought and time are the central factors of fear. Thought is not separate from time. They are one. These are the facts. This is the causation of fear. It is a fact – not an idea, not an abstraction – that thought and time is the cause of fear. It is singular. 

Page 86

The self-interest in our life is the cause of fear.

Photograph of the Week

I’m putting several up since I’ve been a bit lax. I recently returned from holiday in Jordan and Turkey and am a bit under the weather with a chest cold (no, it is not swine flu). 

Photograph of the Week

 

After working 40hrs in 3 1/2 days, I left work early on Thursday. Clouds and rain plagued Charleston all day, remnants of the deluge in downtown Charleston. I never recommend driving and photographing at the same time, but I am a repeat offender, my camera my passenger, waiting for a hand to grab it up and take a quick shot before the car behind honks or the light turns green. Raindrops on my window. I rolled it down just for you, let the rain come in, it is just water.