Archive: Sunday Scribblings

I would never call myself a photographer. My camera fits comfortably in my hand, and I always have it during vacations or special events. I think about whether I would want the picture I see framed in the viewfinder before I press the button. Sometimes, I change my viewpoint or refocus if I think I’ll like it better. I do my best to count to three so people aren’t caught off guard. I make prints for others and send out links online albums when it makes sense. But I just like to take pictures. I’m not a photographer.

I feel much more comfortable with words. Plain, black characters on a white background suit me much more than the world of color, focus, aperture, and light. I can tweak my writing so that it comes close to what I’m thinking, but with pictures, the moment is fleeting, and then gone. I suppose that’s what’s so mysterious and elusive about it. You have to be quick, anticipate the shot, and take it while you can. There’s less calculation, planning, and editing. I’m sure that others thrive in this spontaneity, but I am plagued by the knowledge that that perfect shot is just beyond my grasp. To make up for it, I take many pictures with the hope that a few good ones are buried somewhere within. I enjoy the challenge of pursuing those good shots, but I ultimately retreat to the comfort of a notebook or keyboard.

In rare, brief occasions, I get a flash of what it must be like to have that shock of knowing that a certain picture-making moment is at hand. I was preparing to roll Russian tea cakes recently, and I carelessly tossed my wedding rings onto the counter, like I do when I work with raw meat or wash dishes. It was a commonplace gesture for me, and the rings glanced harmlessly and settled on the fake butcher block counter. I had my camera nearby for the purpose of documenting the baking process, but I cocked my head to the side. The rings that I wear every day seemed at home on the counter, with that foreground of crinkled plastic wrap. I picked up the camera and tentatively snapped a couple of shots, and then I rolled my eyes at my feeble attempts to be artistic.

Yet, when I uploaded the batch of shots from the Russian tea cakes, I found that I loved the picture. Maybe it was the strange juxtaposition of the rings, weighty with significance, and the humble kitchen surroundings, and how it all seemed to be just right to me. Perhaps no one else sees that strange relationship of the life-changing and the mundane caught between silver rings and a sheet of plastic wrap, but I do. Perhaps no one else understands that, in the midst of rolling cookies, I was reminded of the quiet strength of my marriage within the context of the everyday routine, but I do. Perhaps no one else loves the picture, but I do.

But, no, I’m not a photographer. I just like to take pictures.

Sunday Scribblings #105: The Photograph

Why do people interrupt me when I’m answering a question they’ve asked me?

Why am I mobbed by employees when there are many other customers in a shop, but if I’m the only one, it is all I can do to find someone to help me?

Why do grocery store patrons shun the cashier lanes and attempt to ring up overflowing shopping carts of groceries at the scan-it-yourself stations?

Why does my boss feel the need to volunteer every gory detail of her son’s talent show, despite my complete lack of interest in rollerskating third graders or dancing chipmunks?

Why, despite my utter lack of spending money, am I able to come up with countless items I’d like to buy?

Why am I completely nonchalant about the fact that I am now two issues behind in my three-week-old subscription of The New Yorker, and I have no hope of keeping up?

Why do co-workers assume that their lack of planning constitutes an emergency for me?

Why does the idea of sitting on the lap of a giant rabbit (with equally giant teeth) appeal to small children, but it sends me running for the hills?

Why do I always overestimate how many holiday stamps we need and then have an outrageous surplus whenever postage rates rise?

Why are phones set to ring at maximum volume when they’re in pockets or on desks, not down the hall?

Why does seeing pictures of my college roommates’ fun and exciting trip to San Francisco make me feel mundane and settled?

Why can’t I keep my penmanship consistent?

Sunday Scribblings #103: “I just don’t get it…”

On Saturday, JG and I headed to the Lancaster area to see one of our favorite bands, Caedmon’s Call, in concert. When we saw them for the first time, not all of the band members were able to be there, but the music was great, and hey, the show was free. This time, it was so much fun to see the entire group, and they put on a really great show.

We were prepared for the general admission seating, so JG took my hand and made a beeline for the front, where we scored third-row seats. Plus, I had the added short-person bonus of an empty seat in front of me. Yes! The concert had the expected characteristics — all-time favorite tunes, chest-thumping bass, and encore numbers — but I was struck by how Caedmon’s Call music immediately called up specific events from my life. Throughout the concert, my mind flipped quickly through a Rolodex of memories to arrive at whatever moment was most closely associated with the song.

“This World” brought me back to a retreat in college, when two guitarists and song leaders, Kimby and Dan, played this song for the group. I was a freshman at the time, and I was completely impressed with those seniors, their friendship, and their musicality. When the band struck up the opening chords, I felt a little ache in my chest.

When I was a youth leader, I led a discussion based on the lyrics to “Shifting Sand.” Between looking up the definition of “precarious” and referencing old stories they had known for years, I saw that rare glimmer of comprehension poke out of a group of a dozen high school girls.

JG and I call “Two Weeks in Africa” “Kristina’s song,” after one of our closest friends. She took a trip to Kenya during college, and I am convinced that it is a matter of time until she tells us that she’s going back for good. As soon as I heard those opening chords, I remembered that we told her about this song as soon as we heard it, and she said sheepishly, “Apparently, I have a reputation for Africa or something.” At the concert, I flipped open my phone and called her, on the off chance that she would be able to hear the song through my speaker phone. I left a hoarse, follow-up voicemail after the fact to explain myself, and she called me back today: “I could barely make anything out from that first voicemail, but I could kind of hear that it was Caedmon’s, and then I heard you shrieking every so often.” Good enough, I think!

Of course, the concert couldn’t include all of our favorites. “Ballad of San Francisco” would have taken me straight back to my dorm room, as I strained to plunk out power chords on a borrowed guitar. “Love is Different” was the unofficial anthem of JG’s and my first dating days. “Daring Daylight Escape” ran through my mind as I waited to hear from JG after what I knew was a conversation with my dad to ask for permission to propose. I listened to “Walk with Me” on repeat during a sad train ride.

It’s curious how that works — how songs can bring back such strong images and emotions from whatever event goes along with them. Now, I can add another one to the file: sitting at that concert next to JG, squeezing his hand, and singing along with the band.

Sunday Scribblings #100: Time Machine

From my 100 Things:

3. I have one sister who is four years older than I am. She and I are eerily similar in regard to mannerisms but vastly different in terms of fashion.
We both have super-straight black hair, and we are exactly the same height. We wear the same size in clothes, although my torso is longer, and her legs are longer, so sometimes we have to swap if the fit isn’t quite right. We sound the same over the phone, according to our parents. We call each other “zeester,” and we both throw our heads back when we laugh. We both talk really fast. We both drive 2004 Civic LXs. We both love the color green. I shop at Ann Taylor Loft; she goes to Anthropologie. She always has on nail polish; I never do. I look for classics that will last me a while; she hunts for tops with trendy details. She loves argyle; I prefer solids. I play it safe with black accessories; she goes for flash. She owns a pair of skinny jeans; I shake my head when I see them.

26. I am addicted to used book stores; it’s almost impossible for me to pass one without at least going inside.
After I got my hair cut yesterday, I passed my favorite used book store on the way back to my car. I knew that I should resist the gravitational pull of the shop, but I just couldn’t do it. I greeted Harry, the manager, and immediately found two Pearl S. Buck books (The Good Earth and My Several Worlds) from the classic literature section. I headed to the trade paperback fiction shelves, where the books are $3, at the most, and I snapped up The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. I had heard good things about this book, but I really didn’t want to pay full price for it. With such good luck, I had to stop myself before I ended up with an armful of books, so I brought my finds up to the register, and the total came to a whopping $6.50. Score!

49. On the first anniversary of our engagement, JG and I found out that the offer we made on the house we wanted was accepted!
The original plan was to go out and celebrate our engagement anniversary, but friends called us up and asked if we could watch their three well-behaved kids. Normally, we would have said no, but we had given this couple a gift certificate to a restaurant and babysitting services as a gift at one point, so it seemed low to bail on them. JG and I had an easy time with the kids, and we were surfing through all of their luxurious cable channels when our real estate agent called with the news that our offer had been accepted. I was about to shriek with glee when JG wisely shushed me up because the kids were asleep. I think it’s funny that we were babysitting when we received the news about our first real estate purchase — isn’t that odd? It seems to me that we should have been doing something very grown-up at the time, like investing in something or going to a wine tasting.

94. For the most part, I am a very good speller, except for a few recalcitrant words that always seem to end up with red, squiggly lines underneath them.
Vaccum? No, vacuum.
Inadvertant? No, inadvertent.
Commemmorate? No, commemorate.
Accomodate? No, accommodate.
Influencial? No, influential.

100. I am horribly nearsighted.
These days, I can’t see a darn thing without my glasses or contacts, but I was eight years old when I first got glasses. My parents told me that I had to get them because I was reading too much, but myopia runs in our family, so I’m not sure which came first in that situation. The optometrist held up two pairs of glasses from which I could choose: one was a plain pair of red frames, and the other was red, but with a fashionable pink, paint-splatter effect. I knew immediately that I wanted the paint-splattered pair, but before I spoke up, my mother warned me, “The plain ones are cheaper.” I hesitated, then said boldly, “I like the painted ones better!” As though to console her, the optometrist told my mother, “They’ll last her for a while…” For the next five years, I believed that I had the coolest glasses in town.

Sunday Scribblings #95: Miscellaneous