our little berserker

Just want to post this for posterity: Oscar is in town! Oh, and his parents came along too... More later.

anniversary: i got summer all over me

I'm lucky enough to live in an affordable apartment at the edge of a very beautiful, established, residential neighborhood in NE Portland that was, I think, considered a near-rural suburb about a hundred years ago. Instead of suburban now, it's actually quite "close-in" to the river and downtown, and everything I need is within walking distance. Portland is a wonderful city for walkers, and I've managed to get along without owning a car fairly well for about eight years.

Today I took my morning walk down the welcoming, shady streets of Irvington with my one-eyed boyfriend, Canon Rebel XS, and together we captured over 40 intimate views within about 20 blocks. There is always something new to see here.

Despite the comfortable affluence of these old homes under the trees, it feels like a family-centered "village" of sorts, much friendlier and playful than the dramatic perfection of the NW hills across the river--where curtains remain drawn throughout the day, and a kind of chilly suspicion clouds the view.

I much prefer life on the eastside, where basic human warmth is generally expected and returned.

When I moved back to this neighborhood last summer after a two-year hiatus on the westside, I found that it IS possible come home again. And now that nearly a whole year has passed, it's more substantially my home than I may have ever known before.

strengths

Since it has FINALLY stopped raining and summer has launched, the camera has asserted its authority over my attention. This week I walked to the hospital garden on my way home and then the next evening, I paused around neighborhood where I work. The light was perfect.

I love shooting flowers. My mom, the watercolorist, loved painting them,

and I have memories of her setting up still life bouquets that would stay in place for days until the blooms fell apart, scattering petals and pollen all over the dining room table. She never really had an appreciation for the beauty of decay, so as soon as the blossoms aged she seemed compelled to clear it all away. Also, we were rambunctious, clumsy children, so there was no hope that we'd be able to leave the arrangement--or her!--alone.

Things eventually fall apart. I have a painting of hers in my guest room. It was the last project before she died: an image of a single, unopened rosebud alongside a wide open blossom, spent but still lovely, petals falling. She never finished it, but it moves me in the way it seems to depict her acceptance of the inevitable.

experiment!

Stimulating to make changes, isn't it? I think I love the new black background of this blog and just discovered that it's now possible to add pages, making the blog a little more like an actual website, I think. So I'm going to try to add more pages soon.

Anyway, I've just added a netbook to the arsenal of my communication weaponry, so am hoping that uploading photos and other media to this blog will be more easily (and quickly) accomplished.

Here are a couple of shots of the neighborhood around my office that I took while on a morning break the other day. I needed coffee (Stumptown) and a toasted pumpernickle bagel with scallion schmear, and had the impulse to bring my camera along. I love it when I do that!

This morning I spent quite awhile processing the shot of the white roses, playing with layers and effects. I think I have a crush on this photograph and might print and frame it this week.

And then I switched over to older family shots and found this one of my grandson, Oscar, from last January when he was so sick with the flu. Poor little guy was miserable, and later that day spent quite a few hours in the emergency room, rehydrating. Of course he recovered, and now is a strapping toddler of 18 months who waved and said "hi!" to me last week via Skype. I can't wait to see him in person soon.

Just want to say YAY!! and thank you to the techies who've made my recent upgrades possible.