an explanation, with pictures

Since October, I've been ill or recovering from illness nearly every week. My immune system is worthless, and my mood has been pretty dark for months. I miss myself energetic and positive, but my motivation to get with-it is low. Posting entries to this blog or to Flickr has been postponed indefinitely while I try to get my act and priorities together. And maybe I've put off connecting here because of the way it reminds me of the creative passion that ignited me so recently, but that now seems quite far away from me. Poetry and photography are iffy at best right now, but I've been reading like a fiend and that feels like a step in the right direction, albeit another exercise in escape.

A few months ago, I agreed to be a mentor for a high school student's senior project in photography, and have made a couple of trips out with Emily since January. They have been fun and at least a little bit productive for me. I hope she feels the same way!

Yesterday we went to one of my favorite locations, a neglected pioneer cemetery in North Portland, to see what we could shoot. The weather cooperated for once, and although it was muddy, the morning was warm and the light was pretty good for interesting shots.

I love this little cemetery for the theatricality of its impressive decay--it looks as though a Hollywood set designer was turned loose for a few acres of horror flick excess. Most of the amateur photographers I know in Portland apparently prefer the old cemetery on SE Stark (Lone Pine? Is that right? I can't remember the name of the place), and don't seem to know about my forgotten old wonderland. It's my gorgeous little secret, and I feel very protective of its unique solitude in my very hip, competitive, and noisy city.

It's not far from Doc's house, and he was the one who first introduced me to the ghosts there, walking me dangerously alongside a well-trafficked street without sidewalks. Since then I've found a safer way to gain entry, and we have returned several times together to wander among the sinking graves. We once took Grayson for a picnic, then spent the summer afternoon--all three on separate missions--peacefully solitary, taking pictures and just looking at the way things fall apart. A perfect day.

There are many graves of children, as well as family plots, dating from the mid-to-late 19th century. Some are so decayed they are impossible to read. A few are quite recent; I spotted one yesterday from 2009. Some have mementos left behind, and even fresh bouquets appear occasionally. But every time I visit, even with friends, the place is quiet, and we are the only visitors.

I have brought models to shoot here as well, and had good luck with the light and privacy, capturing some interesting contrasts and textures. Everyone new who visits this place is impressed by its gentle, sad comfort. It was exactly what I needed yesterday after months of self-pity and isolation. Today, while the weather holds, I'm going for a long walk and will spend the afternoon with my pictures and putting the final touches on my poetry manuscript. I have a book coming out this year--by spring with any luck--and must finally get priorities and motivation to their proper places again.

rainyday suns and confined succulents

Spent the weekend very close to home, taking pictures around NE Portland and even in my apartment (although I haven't processed those shots yet). Here are a couple of my favorites from a very productive weekend. My energy is beginning to return!

likenesses

A few images from a bright, blissed-out morning at my house; family in black & white.

grandsons

Double holiday happiness: Oscar & Grayson at Nana's house.

apertures

Tree-hunting was a success on Friday, as was shopping for baby-visitor supplies (the Philly Phamily is coming for Christmas!), and much-needed bed linens suitable for the uber-cold weather we've been having. But the best news is the return of my repaired 50mm lens!! FINALLY, I can find an interesting depth of field and set my aperture for macros.

I experienced a terribly painful flare-up of rheumatoid arthritis on my 59th birthday last week. Um, yes... 59. It's a particularly significant birthday for me as it's the age my mother was when she died; her mother and her mother's mother died at 60. To be approaching the age that my foremothers' lives ended makes me feel simultaneously vulnerable, anxious and curious. And to have been given a fairly serious diagnosis at this age--my mother's diagnosis of ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease) was at 59--gives me a lot to think about at night when the world is silent.

I've wanted to write about this all week, but until today, moving my swollen wrist and hand over the keys was unthinkable--if not impossible. And I want to write about this experience with a degree of objectivity--as a way of documenting my life as a writer and photographer with a disabling illness. I don't want to sound pathetic or whiney, but I do want to be honest about my feelings. Aging sucks when you don't feel good.

What's important to me about the return of my 50mm lens, is the way it makes a greater artistic sense of the world more accessible to me. I love the flexibility this modest little prism provides my eye, and it is a perfect metaphor: keep your aperture wide to let in all the available light; find beauty and meaning in the small things.

finding light through the fog

I've started a simple yoga series at night that is decreasing my stress load, and getting my long, brisk walk in everyday again has helped me sleep better and longer at night. Turns out, our immune systems do their work while we sleep. If we don't get enough sleep, the immune system doesn't get a chance to do it's best work. Sheesh. Where was I when this piece of information was being distributed?

As someone fairly practiced at burning my candle at both ends (with a little bit of extra melt in the middle), I'm amazed at the difference a couple of weeks worth of a solid nights' sleep can do. I've hated to miss a party and been the first one to arrive at poetry events and open mics all over town, and among the last to leave for years. Now I'm finding that I'm really enjoying the increased solitude, the chance to just slow down and set limits for myself--who knew??

Thursday I wrote a new poem. Today I left the apartment very early with the camera and braving black ice, shot pictures around the foggy, frosty neighborhood before anyone but the squirrels were out. It was silent and peaceful. Tomorrow I'm meeting Miss J for coffee at Petisco.

Three day weekends rock!

A Continuing List of My Best Stuff

Creosote, sawdust, and charcoal,
campfire coffee,
morning light slanting in smoke
through evergreens;
the view from Lone Pine into the sudden hot
basin of the Southwestern Desert;
ice-plant spikes whipped against bare thigh,
the sunburn blaze of Mission Bay,
the furious wriggle of small stingrays underfoot;
losing my mother’s tourmaline ring
in the clipped grass of a neighbor’s endless lawn;
river pilots hopping freighters downstream
from the Astoria-Megler Bridge, storm or dry,
the same view in the fog, Washington disappearing
and reappearing, a ship run aground on the Columbia Bar;
Christmas shopping in the snow;
swimming naked at midnight in the neighbor’s pool
when they were away;
the sweet knock of intoxication with musicians;
sex on the beach near Yachats, or was it Reedsport
in the middle of the day, in sight of the road;
laddering sixteen feet into an apple tree
at five-thirty in the morning, picking fast;
standing-room only at my mother’s memorial;
silver rings with polished stones;
the nest of my children, and then theirs, burrowed in.