photography, stories

Here are a few black and whites I shot on a hike up to Camp Muir the Saturday before last. It was a very somber day; on the way to the mountain my friend and I stopped at Burger King for breakfast at 4:30, we got to the mountain at 6:00 and talked with the ranger about avalanche conditions. Static filled radio reports from his handset filled the office, he was strained and chewing tobacco: an hour and a half earlier there’d been an avalanche on the mountain. Status reports were spotty, but there were at least half a dozen climbers hit and one likely fatality.

The exposures were taken with the same camera and lens setup, a Nikkormat and Nikkor 50mm f1.4; I shot Kodak Plus-X 125 film rated at 100. I’ve gone on the cheap and am doing my own scans now, but unfortunately I couldn’t get the really-fancy negative scanner at school to work, so again the scans are with a low end flatbed scanner. Hopefully I’ll have good scans in a few weeks. And again, same deal with the scan # versus the exposure #. Lastly, I do plan to touch up the ones that have obvious mechanical/chemical errors, i.e. the odd non-graduated horizontal tint/shade line in #’s two and five.

That day left a lot on my mind and heart, but none of it is really present and/or clear enough to be able to describe coherently; I want to though. Maybe in a few weeks, or months.

Edit:
I added three more shots. 6/24/10 DP

scan #2 (hiking buddy, Ben)
scan #5 (helicopter leaving Muir to look for the lost climber)
scan #24 (about two thirds of the way up)
scan #30 (looking out over the land from Muir--used the timer for this one)
scan #10 (on the way there. I still owe Ben gas money)
scan #25
scan #1
other, stories

–from All the Pretty Horses, written by Cormac McCarthy

——–

Rawlins mounted up. You ready? he said.
I been ready.
They rode out along the fenceline and across the open pasture-land. The leather creaked in the morning cold. They pushed the horses into a lope. The lights fell away behind them. They rode out on the high prairie where they slowed the horses to a walk and the stars swarmed around them out of the blackness. They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once a jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and the thousand worlds for the choosing.

——–

That night I thought long and not without despair about what must become of me. I wanted very much to be a person of value and I had to ask myself how this could be possible if there were not something like a soul or like a spirit that is in the life of a person and which could endure any misfortune or disfigurement and yet be no less for it. If one were to be a person of value that value could not be a condition subject to the hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what. Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I’d always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.

——

photography

After shooting a roll of color film, it seems to me that it’s great for making pretty pictures, but those pretty pictures don’t really say anything. Sorta the idea that Ted Grant gets at about portraits:

“When you photograph people in color, you are photographing their clothes. When you photograph them in B&W, you photograph their souls. ”

Regardless, I’ve got a lot of work to do before I am someone to opine one way or the other about what different photo mediums are good for what all. This is nice, because “work” means taking more pictures :).

All were shot with (again, grand thanks to my pops for letting me borrow his camera!) a Nikon Nikkormat through a Nikkor 50mm f1.4; the film is Kodak Ektar 100, rated at 100. Kenmore Camera did the developing, and I used an older/cheaper Canon flatbed scanner to scan the negatives (less $$ than having it shop-done, but my word it took a lot of time. I’m going to start shopping for a good negative scanner soon).

(I forgot to keep track of exposure # when I scanned them, hence the “scan #” labeling. Smooth move David, smooth move.)

Here are seven of them:

scan #10
scan #12
scan #16
scan #19
scan #23
scan #27
scan #33
funny, stories

(written June 2nd 2010)

So, I rode the motorcycle to school today; ah man, I love it. It was rainy out, but that didn’t matter. Just like lemonade is great because it’s both sugary and acidic, riding a motorcycle is great because of both the sunny and the rainy days.

That all isn’t too relevant, except for the rain part. It was rainy in the early afternoon today, when I rode to school.

I parked the bike in an alley by my favorite cafe and began to walk to class. I turned in my last homework earlier that morning and was walking to my last class…like…legit, last class here, now and at UW. This class has no final exam…only the aforementioned already-turned-in paper. So this is it. The feeling of walking to that class must be a tiny bit like what Usain Bolt felt as he celebrated his 100m Olympic smash-win before the race was even over. Well…ok, maybe it wasn’t that epic. But if felt kinda awesome.

What I’m trying to say is that I was very content while walking to class; I was taking it all in.

Any Husky knows the main walkway down the middle of the quad is not a level surface; after a few years one gets used to it and can take the depressions and rises in easy casual stride, without so much as a downward glance. I’m definitely all there.

I’m walking to class, through the quad; almost there. It was still raining, so I’d left my helmet on for the walk. It is a typical full face motorcycle helmet, DOT and Snell approved and all that jazz. A sizable and vented piece of it protects my chin and beard very well; this lower-face-protection also kills my lower peripheral vision, but that’s not an issue for riding, since one doesn’t spend too much time looking at the gas tank. For walking it also didn’t bother me, because I was content and looking all around and taking in the sights, sounds and smells (I had the visor up) of the quad. Then out of nowhere somehow this random dude and I made eye contact–he was sorta staring at me, while walking perpendicular, crossing my path 30 or 40 feet ahead. He grinned…I was a bit confused. He went back to walking on his way, but glanced back again at me, grinned a little bit, then went on his way. I now believe that, just before this eye contact, he actually looked somewhere I hadn’t, namely directly-in-front-of-me.

Just as he wiped that silly grin off his face I splooshed right into a gigantic puddle I didn’t see because of the great part of my helmet that protects my chin and beard, and because I was so contentedly looking everywhere but directly-in-front-of-me. As the rainwater washed over my shoe and soaked my sock, I thought quickly: I was on my pre-victory walk. It was OK. I confidently splooshed through the rest of the puddle.

other, stories

While this short scribbling is the type of thing generally reserved for twitter or facebook, they say your most important audience is yourself, and in this case the most important audience dearly feels this short scribbling is more significant than facebook world and/or twitter world are good for.

Without more ado:

When I click the button in the other open browser tab, I will have submitted the last homework (ironically an essay on education) of my undergrad career; my last lecture is today from 1:00 to 3:20.

*click*

*silence*

Wow.

the final final paper submission

Edit:
Class got out at slightly after 2:00. College is an interesting thing; I finished it this afternoon.

stories

We people like to remember stuff about our big accomplishments, especially lasts. I had a cool job last summer; I was given a big project and got to drive around a cool car. That’s a good feeling. I don’t recall my first day on the job, but I do very well recall my last day. I had some final stuff to do: tie up loose ends in my company email account, finish a final status report for my supervisor to use, get all my company equipment together, clean out the aforementioned cool car, et cetera. But that is not all. That last day is forever etched deep into my heart. My friend died.

At around 8:30am, I got a call; it was my older brother Jason. I stepped outside.

Hey Jason, what’s up?

Uh–Dave–just…something to pray for…

His voice wavered and was slightly gravely. Something was wrong…something was very, very wrong. A horrid cold fear set in; my mind flew: what happened? The first thing I wondered was what could’ve happened to his girlfriend/fiance, Meggan. I knew they couldn’t have broken up. Fear set harder in my bones; maybe Meggan was injured or worse, dead. Jason spoke again after a brief silence, before I had time to think any more; his voice cracked badly as he spoke.

Joe White died in Afghanistan

There was a silence on both ends. We each knew there was nothing else to say;

OK–bye Jason.

Bye Dave.

I hung up. The horrid fear in my bones, realized, curdled to shock. I forgot to breathe for a bit, then took breaths, slow shallow breaths. I prayed, but I can’t remember what I prayed.

I stood outside the office. I don’t remember hearing any noises from the shop or the yard or the freeway. Nothing. Deathly still. I walked over to a rock wall, set down, and cried and cried and cried; I don’t know how long I cried for. I called a few friends to ask for prayers for Joe’s family, but realized I couldn’t make it through a call like that. I called a few other close friends, but sent text messages to the rest. I sat down again and cried more. All at the same time I could not get my mind around it and it hurt like hell and I was cold and numb. I prayed more as I cried; I don’t recall what I prayed then either.

My friend had died in war serving his country; he left behind his newlywed wife and brothers and sisters and mother and father and many dear friends. He left behind a church and youth group that loved him. He left a gaping hole in countless hearts and knit communities. He died a soldier at war for his country.

Joe, I hope you can see this; today so many of us down here remember you, love you, miss you, and weep for you; I hope you can hear it all, or even just a little bit of it; Joe, I don’t feel worthy to say it, but if you can read this, thank you.

U.S. Army Specialist Joseph V. White was born on July 24th 1988 and killed in action in Afghanistan on September 24th 2009; husband, brother, son, friend, good man, follower of God,  paintball and ultimate frisbee extraordinaire. He was Airborne certified and loved to jump out of planes.

Joseph and Jessica White
funny, stories

Something was amiss. My boxers were not right. Wallace must’ve felt something like this in The Wrong Trousers.

I had dressed hurriedly after my morning shower, grabbing just-dried clothes out of the drier and jumping into them like I was flying madly to catch a bus–which I was. Being late to class is not a way to impress the girl who’s always on time…more on that in a moment. I made my bus, barely, and now sat in my regular spot. In the mad bus-catching routine I hadn’t noticed it, but now I did.

My boxers were not right; they were scrunched, and it was bad.

I tried the butt-shift to straighten out this miscreant pair of boxers. It’s definitely the static, I thought. Just-dried cargo shorts (warm and comfy!) + just-dried boxers = static. Duh. I couldn’t get them in order though, not with the mere butt-shift…this case called for more intensive remediation.

I stepped off the bus–this route runs through campus and drops me off right by the building of my first class; I did not have much time or distance. Boxer-wearers out there, I’m sure you all know this move: the slight-leg-shake-step. If you wear boxers and don’t know it, then you should; it’s inconspicuous and useful. You can fix your undergarment while simply looking like you’re shaking out your leg muscles, as if cramped or sore from the previous day’s strenuous workout. Brilliant. I took two steps with this move, opting for the left leg. It didn’t work. My boxers refused to get their act together; they actually seemed even more scrunched about. Not cool.

Double-slight-leg-shake (i.e. both left and right, one after the other) for four steps. This one’s less inconspicuous, but much more effective. It didn’t work.

Oh hi Sally Jane!
(Name changed for privacy’s sake. Let’s just say that Sally Jane is a very nice and very pretty girl who I may or may not have wanted to impress at the time)

Say what? Oh that? Haha, I’m actually OK, just trying to shake out my quads and calves–I did my regular hill running workout yesterday;  I’m just trying to be a bit quicker on the pitch so I can stuff a few more goals in the net before the season is up.

Oh, you play soccer too? Right on! What position do you play? Oh you’re a forward too? That’s so cool! We should go kick it around someti–

–two things happened:

1. I became aware that my boxers were not scrunched about. It was a sock! A miscreant sock had clung tightly to my boxers. This distracted me, so I stopped talking.

2. This sock, for some reason I will never know, suddenly renounced it’s allegiance to static cling and decended gracefully out of my cargo shorts. It landed square between my feet.

(Ah..well, to be honest #1 happened as #2 happened)

But I’m better than that. In the twinkling of a moment, without missing even a fraction of a beat, I deftly and casually shifted my footing  to cover the sock with my fancy running shoe. With a confident air I glanced back up and began to ask about her weekend.

So how was–

She was looking at my feet. I looked at my feet. I’d missed, and the sock was sticking out from under my shoe.

The End.

Disclaimer:
This may or may not have actually happened. I say this because if it did happen, I’d like you to think it didn’t (no duh), and if it didn’t I’d like to not ruin the fun by having you think it didn’t. Your call.

ideas, stories

Tuesday May 25 3:30am

Could God be real?

Could love, pain and beauty, true and deep and human, be real?

I sit outside on the last stair down from the back porch to the yard. A light breeze (the type that sets a sailboat to drifting almost-imperceptibly on a glassy-calm bay at night) rustles through the leaves of nearby Cottonwoods. Inhaling deeply I smell a mix of rain, dew, fragrant flowers, and fresh cut grass–it’s May. Looking to the East I can barely make out the faint orange glow of dawn coming, only an hour or so away. Grandma’s gone now, my buddy Joe has been gone for just over 8 months. My oldest brother is joyfully wedded to the love of his life, and my other brother is near there.

Is jesus christ real?

Are love, pain and beauty real?

Storm is wild enough for sailing
Bridge is weak enough to cross
This body frail enough for fighting
I’m home enough to know I’m lost

Land unfit enough for planting
Barren enough to conceive
Poor enough to gain the treasure
Enough a cynic to believe

photography

Edit:
So…somehow wordpress (naturally I blame it on them. Human error? Nah, couldn’t be that) ate this post, so here’s what I recall to be the four shots I posted.
6/24/10 DP

#11
#14

#3
#22
photography

“The photographer first sees and feels a moment in time and life, then quietly tries to draw it from the world around it.”

It was more humbling than I thought it’d be, which is (hard to admit) a good thing.

Today I picked up my first two rolls of developed film. Although the lab did a great job, I’d like to develop my own film now. UW Photography darkroom, lets you and I become friends.

Part of me feels that I shouldn’t ever post only one or a few photos, as a musician may want an album to be kept whole. Being picky about that is something I’ve got to earn; I’ll wait till I’m better at photography to place/show each roll of film only whole.

The first roll is Ilford HP5+; the second is Kodak Tri-X 400. All were shot through a great 50mm f1.4 with a Nikkormat, both on borrow from my Dad (thanks pops!).

I’m not at all well versed in b&w filmstuffs, but I think I like the tones of the Ilford film.

Without further ado, here are a few that’re alright.

Roll 1, #6
Roll 1, #8
Roll 1, #13
Roll 2, #23
Roll 2, #18
Roll 2, #24
other

(I love sitting on the front porch with a cup of coffee, thinking hard or lightly wondering, sometimes not thinking at all, or joking and talking with a friend.

The porch has got to be the best place to watch and hear and smell the season: breezy summer afternoons (fragrant lilacs and freshly cut grass), fiery autumn sunsets (last-chance backyard BBQing and simply crisp air), et cetera.

Stairs, curbs, or benches are all reasonable porch-substitutes;  however the porch can’t ever be truly beat, especially if it’s old and weathered.

A good cup of coffee is often just right, too.)

–It’s a good name.

funny, stories

Number One

In anticipation of June lemonade stands

I was pedaling slowly up the hill from Magnuson park on my good old road bike. Just taking my time I told myself, but I think not having my strong biking legs from when I rode more had a bigger part to play in it than the relaxed morning. Regardless, as I puttered up the hill, a fellow of about my age cranked past me on an old beat up mountain bike. My word, he was hoofing it.

I made it up the hill to right near Roosevelt High School, locked up my bike and walked around the area, thinking, not thinking, averting-a-potential-mugging, and looking for and occasionally taking photos.  Then I saw him again. He was, with a relaxed a lazy-summer pace, riding back to where he’d come from, towards the hill down to the lake. Dangling off his handlebars was a newly-acquired sack of three yellow lemons from the farm-market-store across the street.

I thought, thought and then smiled.

Warming-springtime lemonade.

Number Two

An inner tube’s fate

I was riding along on the sidewalk of 15th, north of 55th, enjoying the blue sky. Again, I was taking my time meandering along, so I was not terribly paying attention to the walk in front of me. For a moment I did pay attention, just in time to see all the shattered glass as I rode over it. Ah crap I thought–but maybe I’ll get lucky.

I wasn’t wearing gloves, so I had to use my foot to clean my tires as I rode. This is a fine art–too little pressure, and you risk not sufficiently cleaning off the tire. Too much and the tire grabs your shoe, yanking it toward the frame, where it will wedge between the frame and tire, and then you crash in a very awkward position. Not cool.

Naturally I gave this task a lot of attention. I was trying very hard to make sure my foot didn’t get sucked between the frame and tire. So it was that I didn’t see coming the pothole that gave my rear tire a pinch flat.

It’s safe to conclude that today was that inner tube’s day to go.

other

Advent

Two thousand years go by while while on the Cross
Our Lord is suffering still–there is no end
Of pain: the spear pierces, nails rend–
And we below with Mary weep our loss.

The chilling edge of night crawls round the earth;
At every second of the centuries,
The dark comes somewhere down, with dreadful ease
Slaying the sun, denying light’s rebirth.

But if the agony and death go on,
Our Lady’s tears, Our Lord’s most mortal cry,
So, too, the timeless lovely birth again–
And the forsaken tomb. Today: the dawn
That never ended and can never die
In breaking glory ushers in the slain.

Sheldon Vanauken