I tread these two paths every week. The one on the left leads to my door, which can be seen in the trees. The one on the right takes me past St. Anthony of Padua Catholic Church to the retirement community where my father is dying of Lewy Body Dementia. Last year he was like the rest of us (mostly), but he deteriorated rapidly over the course of this year and has already lost his ability to speak, walk, and feed himself. He suffers continuous confusion wreaked by random brain damage and hallucinations but is lucid enough to know how terrible the end of his life has become. I do my best to comfort him and bolster his courage and implore him to not lose faith, even though what little was left of mine has vanished. That universal force we sometimes sense is not worth worshipping. Too fucking cruel.
Roosterhouse will be at the Craft Fair and Bake Sale at the MInnehaha Free Space in Minneapolis. Hope to see you there.
In 2012 I replaced my trusty antique iPhone 1 with a brand-spanking-new, still-in-the-box antique iPhone 1. I wanted another for its outdated camera. I was in the midst of a project and the newer Apple phones had a better camera which would render images inconsistent with that body of work.
Much to my chagrin, the new antique iPhone’s camera had a major problem. As you can see from this example selfie, the pictures all came out pink and blue; as if they had been developed in a Pepto Bismol bath. Not attractive at all - so the camera app was relegated to the last page on the phone. You know: the back of the bus where you keep the stock tracker, the iTunes store and other useless apps Apple won’t let you delete.
It wasn’t until this year that I discovered the Pepto Bismol effect applies only to bright sunny days. It was overcast when I, a sucker for sticker graffiti, walked past the above image and discovered that on dull “concrete sky” days the malfunction goes all Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. The above photograph has not been retouched, only resized. Click it to be dazzled by the raw full resolution file.
I have spent the last few months making up for the two years I lost ignoring the über-psychedelic camera in my pocket.
Much more to come. Stay tuned.
My grandma died earlier this month. It’s taken a while to find the negative of this photograph and the words.
We affectionately called her Nanay. She survived Japan’s invasion into the Philippines in World War II, the murder of her husband who died in her arms and she survived childbirths and traumatic accidents.
She always seemed to me a conduit between the whispering spirit world and the surface one, an oracle by her way of life, pointing to the beauty of our smallness, our gentleness, our luck as humans.
In her distinct joy was the heart of her wisdom. I’d always joke with her and goad her into smiling. She’d then tighten her face and ball her small hands into fists striking the bobbing pose of a feisty bantam-weight fighter. And in this trade we’d laugh together struck by the idea of my little Filipino grandma knocking me out.
There’s much more of course but that’s all that needs to be said now.