the chatoyant charm of baubles and bangles

Even The Sidewalks Are Colorful in New York
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

As I was trying to loop over my chipped cuff buttons this morning, lamenting how the cleaning chemicals the cleaners use readily rot them, I noticed a missewn eyelet adjacent to the outer button. I thought, “No wonder these shirts were such a bargain, they were probably purchased as irregulars by the store.” But then, upon further inspection, for that theory did not fully satisfy my curiosity, I discovered another eyelet on the other half of the same cuff. I then checked the other sleeve—same exact thing.

I then realized that these were made to be both button and French cuffed shirts. Wow. The latter is my preferred style, but I was elated simply to find fitted shirts like these, which are not only trim at the waist but also a neck size not normally available on these shores—a neck size that fits me like no other neck size has ever fit me before.

To celebrate my great discovery, at lunchtime I took a tour of the thrift shops in the neighborhood to look for some vintage cuff links. Alas, Salvation Army, Goodwill, The City Opera Thrift Shop, A Repeat Performance, and The Vintage Thrift Shop all did not offer any under their glass counters. I stopped by the Paparazzi gift shop as well, but they sold all but two pair—one with a pair of golf clubs on it and the other with the scales of justice. Since I am neither a hacker or a crook, I forewent both.

However, at the counter the iridescent glistening of a basket of mood rings caught my eye. I slid one on and instantly fell in love, for it fit perfectly and instantaneously changed from aqua-green into a beautiful deep-sea blue. The chart read “very happy, relaxed at ease, serene, loveable.” And albeit I rarely wear jewelry, I was suddenly compelled to make this small purchase. I figured a few dollars were worth the inner glimmer of momentary enchantment. My only hesitation was that it somehow felt quite “gay.”

But I bought it anyway, and immediately put it on. If anything, I wanted to challenge myself and any underlying homophobic notions I might be harboring.

As I walked it began to change colors rapidly, from midnight blue to dark violet to aquamarine and then back to dark-dark blue again. Just watching it revolve made me dizzy, and admittedly, it felt more and more gay and made me less and less happy by the moment.

After traversing all but two blocks—the magic was gone. I just couldn’t see myself vaunting the rainbow ring. I guess 36 years of machismo had ingrained a perverted sense of masculinity, a gainsay to my virility which was just too much for me to gasconade.

So I tucked it away safely into my vest pocket, believing that I might put it to use in some other way, someday again—perhaps as a party piquer, a charm to bewitch a child with, or just a funky amulet to engender a smile from someone who desperately needs one.

God Loves Georgia

God Loves Georgia
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

i was in the middle of a meeting with the account managers at lake lanier park in atlanta where i was managing an event for our contingency in alpharetta, when i saw this magnificent display above me.

so i said, "pardon me while i whip this out," and i took out my little canon powershot and snapped this incredibly graceful and awe-inspiring scene of nubulae and light.

the manager of the premises i was with was intrigued and asked "do you like photography?," i beamed somewhat smugly and affectively replied in a coy tone, "why yes, indeed i do."

she was quite enthused for she suddenly started telling me all about the panasonic luminex that she had spent $800 on and justified it because it has a 12x zoom. i feigned an "oh, really" in return, faking a little enthusiasm, if only because i ride on a high-horse about using zooms.

for my position has long been (perhaps stubbornly so, maybe stupidly even more so) that if it ain't close enough, well then...get closer!

What Is Most Appealing

What Is Most Appealing
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

I fancy peeled oranges.

Truly peeled oranges, not just those flayed by their flavedos and albedos, but those picked clear of their bitter membranes as well.

It is immeasurably pleasurable to peel off the translucent skin and indulge in pure fresh pulp. Over the years I have learned that mixing what is bitter with what is sweet does neither taste justice.

Hence, the essential ritual of peeling skin from apples and meticulously removing the membrane from each and every orange wedge. I still eat the dull bitter skin that the sweet orange teardrops come wrapped in, but I just chew on them separately. The result is a much greater appreciation for the innards of the orange. If not a greater understanding for how one should palate life itself.

And so for me what is most appealing about this seemingly inane and unnecessary practice is that it puts into practice a good tenet for good and wise living.

For sometimes we ought not mix our penchants and predilections, friends and family, but rather keep them separate but equal; to be enjoyed apart from one another, so that each might get the attention and appreciation it, he, she or they rightly deserve.

The "Stupid" Pictures

The "Stupid" Pictures
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

They say that three times is a charm.

They, whomever they are, are right. For last night I was stopped by a cop for the third time…but this time I received more than merely a reprimand.

Albeit, I actually received less than a citation, my brother-in-law the detective will now know, as well as the entire family for that matter, that I broke the law.

Apparently, as the stern policeman put it, I had “crossed the white line for a ‘stupid picture.’”

It was a quarter before midnight and I was picking up my mother and my aunt from the airport. Their flight was not scheduled to arrive for another twenty minutes, so I decided to kill some time by pulling off to the side of the road in the back roads service area of Newark International to take some pictures, far away from the terminals and pedestrians and any suggestion that I might be posing a threat to national security.

Moreover, there were people parked to the sides of the roads all over the place. With the increased security, no one is allowed to stop for more than a few minutes to immediately pick up passengers in front of the baggage claims, so now people have turned to waiting on the shoulders.

Point being, I thought I would be safe from suspicion or harassment by going away from the real hustle and bustle. Alas, I was wrong again.

Moreover, beyond the boredom, I was also feeling a bit nostalgic. When I was growing up, San Jose (California) was all but a rinky-dinky town (Silicon Valley was all but a twinkle in the eyes of pioneers like Gordon Moore, Steve Jobs, William Hewlett and David Packard) and you could still park directly in front of the end of the single runway that served the airport to watch the planes take off and land, all of them passing closely and loudly directly overhead. It was a cheap form of entertainment, and so my parents would take me on occasion, on a Friday night, and we would just sit there for a while watching the planes go by.

I cherish simple moments like that, and so I was hoping to find a little of that last night. Alas, alas, alas, the world has changed.

Nonetheless, even though I was well aware that my innocent intentions would be suspect, once I spotted the Budweiser Beer Factory glowing in the distance, I figured it might prove a nice backdrop against the streaks of light I would get from the cars on the highway that divided the airport from the brewery.

A few minutes after pulling over however, the patorlman pulled up alongside me and asked what I was doing. I responded in the most obsequious and apologietic tone possible and told him that I was taking time-lapsed photos, immediately showing him via the LCD.

He was neither amused and didn’t buy my story, and so he asked for the camera, my license, insruance card, and car registration. I complied and added the magical get-out-of-jail free card, the blessed PBA card to the mix.

He sternly replied, “Get in your car while I check things out.” I got into my car and placed both hands on the steering wheel and waited.

A few minutes later he stepped up to my window, handed me back everything (almost) and chastised me by saying with a patronizing tone, “Well it all checks out, but I got you for crossing the white line and riding over the sidewalk. And so I’m keeping the PBA card. You shouldn’t have crossed the line for a ‘stupid’ picture.”

I merely nodded tight-lipped and said “thank you” in reply.

After he left, I noted “the white line” on the right side of the road, dividing it from the shoulder. I just took his word for it, but until then I was not aware that crossing such a line was illegal. There were no signs to indicate this and usually the uncrossable white line is in the middle of the road parting traffic. Plus his “sidewalk” looked more like an extra-wide curb along side a long strip of dry yellow grass, which so happened to also dip just like a driveway at the point where I entered.

Anyway, either way, I was busted…and all for a “stupid picture.” I guess what Forrest said is right, “Stupid is, what stupid does.”


*
Actually, ironically, the truly stupid and irresponsible photos were the few dozen or so snaps I took from the steering wheel while driving 60 miles an hour on the way to the airport.

Once again ennui is to blame. Apparently, being bored and being two hours past my usual bedtime is a bad combination.

Note: the glowing malformed white orb hanging above many of the photos is the crazy-quarter moon. So, maybe it was the moon that made me do it!


“It is fortunate that the muting of exuberance is neither rapid nor absolute. Youth is, after all, a time to fly and fall on enthusiasm, to act with audacity. The world of the young is meant for scuttling about and, as we have seen, nature gives the time and means for this. Evolution invests heavily in the child’s long days of eager adventure, reaping its returns in the adult’s more informed sallyings forth of mind and body. But youth does it first and with greater abandon. This is the time, as Robert Louis Stevenson has it, to go “flashing from on end of the world to the other.” It is a rash and full and delighting time.”

~ Exuberance, The Passion for Life, Kay Redfield Jamison

deep whiffs of my fingers

Ah, My Nose!
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Last night I got stuck between holding my breath for half-an-hour and smelling the appalling odor of a man who was sitting next to me on the bus.

I had to keep pressing my nose against the frigid window in futile refuge, hoping that the cold air seeping out of the AC vents would hold back the horrid smell, but every few minutes a waft would sneak in to whirl me in a tizzy and push me to the verge of sinking into syncope.

I wanted to run away, but his fat ass was wedged between me and the aisle leading to freedom. And as I had taken one of the last seats left, my only recourse was to stew and fantasize a little keen ridicule. I wanted to turn to him and ask point-blank, “Did you wipe your ass today, mister? Jezus Ku-rist!” or at least ring him into a state of self-consciousness with the poignant end of a blunt observation like, “BeJeezuz, you smell awful, almost unlawful man! Don’t you have any dignity?”

He looked like he smelled too. Receding hairline, greasy black and grey curls, small eyeglasses that he peered through to read his comic book with alarming glee. And dull gray polyester pants in sharp contrast to his light, yet loud, faded purple paisley shirt, which, combined, made him look like a cross between Robert R. Crumb and “Weird Al” Yankovic.

For most of the ride I had to resort to taking deep whiffs of my fingers, which happened to have the residual scent of the Ivory soap I had just used prior to embarking upon the bus. “Mmmm,” I thought, “vegetable oils and animal fats have never smelled so good.”

smarter

The Priceless Expression of Pure Joy 05
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Recently, one of my fellow photographers disclosed that she had recently lost a finger and wished she had been "smarter." She also added that she had seen some of my photos and was inspired though to see life a little brighter, to step a little lighter despite this recent loss.

I was compelled to reply that she was in "smarter" in spite of, or rather due to this loss. My words were as follows:

You are smarter than most if only because you have had an experience which most others never have to deal with, suffer, understand and make the most of; smarter because loss always moves us to appreciate everything else more; smarter because accidents and mistakes and our proclivity to err (we're only human after all) take us one step forward, even if that step came by way of a fall; smarter because you have allowed a little inspiration to see and feel and experience the exciting and wonderful world about you, one which many, if not most, never really see, hear or sense because they are too caught up in their lofty objectives or are stuck in ennui; smarter, if only, for a moment, you let yourself have fun.

and i can bank that you will grow even smarter with each chance you take to explore and open yourself up further.

*

(Theodore) Roosevelt’s life in politics was abruptly broken when, on St. Valentine’s Day of 1884, both his wife and his mother died. "You could not talk to him about it,’ said a close friend. He drew a cross in his diary for the date of the fourteenth of February and wrote, "The light has gone out of my life," In a pitch of energy reminiscent of the period following his father’s death, Roosevelt abruptly took off for the Dakota Badlands, where he lived out his conviction that “black care rarely sits behind a rider whose pace is fast enough." He hunted, wrote an improbable number of books, and ran a cattle ranch. The hard work ultimately made wide inroads into his grief. "We felt the beat of hardy life in our veins," he wrote later is his autobiography, "and ours was the glory of work and the joy of living." Despite his distress, he said, "I enjoyed life to the full."

~ Kay Redfield Jamison, Exuberance, The Passion for Life

just another morning (one more time)

Men in Black with Bags 05
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

5:44 and jasmine fills the air. The purple-pink skies complement the fragrance emanating from a neighbor’s garden. The falling full moon lingers, absconding dawn, hiding beyond one long wet grey sheet of passing cumulonimbus.

The gossamer glow illuminates a long white streak scurrying along the sidewalk; I likewise hurry, but away from this potentially putrid critter, one which I have not seen in personam in at least twenty years.

I hear they’re common around these parts, especially since we reside upon the perimeter of a large park. Alas, unless you’re an insomniac, a crazy fan of Patsy Cline, or a blood-thirsty Romanian, you’re unlikely to find any possums, coons or skunks scampering about or crossing your path all too often.

A few blocks too far away from the bus stop, I watch as the 5:45 glides past upon the perpendicular avenue. I exhale a sigh relief in response, happy to have missed the first bus in. The alleviation stems from experience, for most often this inaugural conveyance carries a motley crew of burly-armed plebeians who reek like an overflowing ashtray. Since the odor inevitably nauseates me and it is futile to hold one’s breath for half-an-hour, I usually make an effort to catch the Six instead.

Today, its about ten minutes late, which begins to make me a little anxious. My impatience stems from the fact that New York City becomes a prime target for disruption beginning this morning and exponentially so until Thursday when the Republican National Convention adjourns with the monkey king ascending to the podium for one last rallying cry. And so the importance of timely arrivals, for I like to believe that I might live a day longer if only I can get through the Lincoln Tunnel before the beginning of the rush hour—one more time.

The yellow letters of the marquis flash GOOD MORNING as the bus approaches. The driver seems unaware of this as he takes my ticket tight-lipped and then presses the pedal with an iron foot that sends all of us who have yet to find a seat jerking backwards. Courtesy, patience and liking your job are apparently not requisites for a Code 54, CDL (Commercial Driver’s License) these days.

Out of breath and seemingly nervous, a man mutters, “Excuse me” and slides into the seat next to me. He breathes through his nose the whole ride in. Immediately he opens his blank notebook, stares at it for a few minutes and then closes it without a single scratch to the paper. He makes a lot of sharp jittery moves and plays with his watch often. Eventually, he puts everything away into his black attaché just as we begin to descend into the tunnel, and once there, he closes his eyes. He is still and much calmer for what is left of the ride as we traverse on through to the other side in utter silence.

Although I had already fully intended and planned to scuttle eastward and then south into Manhattan from Port Authority, an empty Eight Avenue lures me straight ahead and onto The Garden. I realized I was fully contradicting prudence and common sense in equal measure, but I was eager to witness the police state in action. Besides, I was utterly curious to see what real-live republicans looked like in person.

Along the way, I saw lots of men in dark trousers, starched white shirts and prominently displayed rectangular leather wallets. Most of them were loitering about corners, but a few were sipping from cardboard cups, sitting in the cafes and delis where usually one might see bedraggled laymen waking up otherwise.
As a caravan of police vans passed, I noticed that the media vans were dotted about in equal droves. Even more prevalent were the quartet of cops posted at each and every corner of the city blocks cordoned off and locked down for the next four days.

Otherwise, there was little to see. I suppose a sea of NYPD blue and armies of various men-in-black standing upon the horizon, all of them looking rather bored, is a good thing.

This Is My God

This Is My God
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

I was lying in the kiddy pool on my back, admiring the deep blue sky, when I lifted this ball before me, and, immediately, I had my epiphany—perhaps, one of the greatest I have ever had.

*

An hour later, Enzo, my oldest son, asks me, "Papa, if you could have three super powers, what would they be?"

It took all but a mere moment for me to realize my answer. "Well, first I would want the power to always by happy. Second, I would like the power to make others happy, especially those that are seemingly often angry, sad or otherwise discontent."

Alas, when I got stuck on thinking of a third superpower, Enzo interrupted me and blurted, "No Papa! Those aren’t super powers! you have to want powers like 'flying,' 'becoming invisible,' 'shooting fire,' or 'super-human strength'…"

“Oh,” I answered, “I guess I don’t know then,” and lied back again to soak in the sun that was shimmering upon the water, for I had decided that in the pursuit of both sanity and serenity, I was not going to begin a deep philosophical discussion with my six year old—not because he would not fathom its murky depths, but primarily because I knew he would likely take too avid of an interest and interminably ask "Why?" at every turn.

*

And it is not until now, upon this epistolary reflection, that I see that the raising of my deity and my response to my son’s hypothetical inquiry were in fact, indeed, connected.

Because, as I have surmised before, I do believe (indubitably I do) that a strong current of optimism runs through me—one that empowers me to believe in self-actualization, the fearsome force of the individual will, and the belief that there is a little good in almost everyone and everything. Moreover, if not more importantly, it is both my belief and my will to share this positive energy with others, if only to alight much the same power in them.

*

This foto and musing have been cited at: creative-mobs.com, fluidimagination.typepad.com, happynews.com, *Reality please check yourself by the door* , Primera Persona Singular, Window to the Soul, and adicto, vitor spencer.


Thank you hellophotokitty for your wonderful tribute to this photo. your kind and graceful words make me as gleeful as the icons in our photos.

afraid of my self

Two Cabs and Times Square 1
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

aren't you afraid to just stand there in the middle of heavy traffic, taking these pictures? And do the cab drivers give you funny looks?

i don't look at the drivers when i take fotos like this. otherwise i would get intimated and hesitate to do it.

the biggest danger i face sometimes is simply coming against the emotion that for some unknown reason this is not “appropriate” and that i should not take it. what it really is though is that my shots are simply out of the ordinary and so i'm trying to apply rules of social behavior to this unusual act of mine that has no rules to regulate it.

anyway, there have been a few drivers who honk all of the sudden, or let go of the gas peddle on purpose to scare me (ha, ha, real funny). but they're just having fun - just like i am.

careening through the blue nothingness

Een Vlinder Lopen
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

careening through the blue nothingness

I am writing to you from the back of a butterfly.

Flying high,
we (whee!) soar and careen and gleam
in the glory of the sun,
in the most lackadaisical way,
for much of the light-drenched day
gliding,
sliding upon wafts of air…

Oh, how carefree and clean it is up here!

Invigorating, uplifting, intoxicatingly warm and beautiful.

The monarch and I have been touring these Elysian Fields for some time now;
floating above and through and often in-between.

Occasionally, we land to feed upon the flowering milkweed, and I lounge in upon the leaves, in the shadows of pink Asclepias pistils.

Our mutual whimsies and wanderlust have carried us everywhere.

Yesterday, we explored the deep and dark caverns of a fallen log at the edge of the forest.
Burrowed in the most alluring and enigmatic fashion, the termites had mysteriously abandoned the trunk long ago, leaving behind a wonderful labyrinth of dimly lit crevices that inspire the imagination as you go and weave through them; so much so, that it is easy to get lost in this maze of amazing tales that magically replay themselves at each corner crossed and through every false turn leading to a dead end.

We are never are ground-bound for long though, for my butterfly and I are more often taken to fantastic flights of harrowing twists and graceful turns.

At first, I reeled in the whirlwind, the seemingly never-ending vertigo. Gratefully, I quickly acclimated well enough though, so that now I thoroughly enjoy every thrilling spill and plunge and lunge forward through blue nothingness.

I especially enjoy the ride knowing that I am safe from falling. For we employ a single strand of silk webbing to secure me to her. And I must say that it is remarkable how strong and resilient a spider’s line can be.

And so, nestled in the fold of her golden wings, we like to go everywhere our fancy leads us, freely wandering; often singing silly songs, accompanied by the soft patter of wings at my sides serving as the rhythmic percussion.

Anyway, tenderly, I disclose that my maripose is leaving me soon.

She says she is off to Monterey, to nestle in the cool furrow of coastal trees, to rest and return and to be at ease; to be one with nature, to nurture a fate determined long before we ever met.

The news of course at first whet an anxiety of separation, and in turn, subsequent to my resignation, admittedly, I wallowed a bit in sorrow.

Ah, but the sad tomorrow is now today, and I am gay once again. For I realize that even after I’ve taken my last ride, I will have this feeling inside, a fluttering, a happy memory that I have ridden, and will have experienced something far more wonderful than most others ever do.

from the back of a butterfly,
yours

Dos Flores

Dos Flores
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Roused by a shimmering shhh of leaves and the rustling breeze careening off the top of the window, I woke up feeling fresh as ever in the cooling wake of summer.

Yesterday was spent at the outer reaches of the City. The afternoon veered from cavorting with coeds and clowns to sitting down at the table of a purple-haired and gold-hearted proprietress.

It began at a party where I had lots of token conversations with lots of relatives unrelated to me. A few times during these drawn-out hours I left the house to walk about the sleepy hollow of this small town and wandered freely up and down the streets under the rain of falling foliage.
When my conscience reigned me in I did my wandering by stepping out onto the front porch and folding into the rocking whicker chair where I pressed to and fro with my soles, gently undulating with the creaking planks in a meter that mimicked the rhythm of the rhyme I was whispering. I had pilfered (with permission of course) a browning volume of Spanish poetry off the shelves of yesteryear and read aloud, or rather asoft, in a soothing loft of sibilance and solitude, while all the others inside continued to prattle like cattle corralled by circumstance.

It was not as if the palaver was not pleasant, for apart from the moments I nodded and smiled in rote submission to the monotone and the monologue which became a drone of babbling lips I soon stopped listening to, I fully enjoyed the little pralines of conversation I had with the elegant hostess, Jazmín, who spoke with a charming lilt befitting of her warm grey coif.

As she spoke of the weathering days of comparative literature in Chicago, I admired how she had aged quite gracefully. Her tenor brimmed with vim, and she told me about yesterday as if it were tomorrow. She recalled her studies abroad and how she had returned full of the confidence that the linguistic legerity of a foreign tongue gives one, especially juxtaposed against a culture as monolithically monolingual as ours. She concluded with an anecdote confessing her humbling experience as a tour guide at the UN, where her pride as a polyglot soon deflated once matched against the agility of those far more worldly than her.

Apart from such redolent causerie, I kept myself happy and unconscious of my boredom by eating with an appetite that would make my mom proud. I repeatedly and shamelessly filled my shirt pocket with pecan pralines and candied roasted almonds rolled in sesame seeds whenever I was sure no one was looking. The tangy guacamole was particularly tasty too, especially when you complemented it with two glasses of sangria.

However, the third ladleful suddenly tasted too sweet and so I stopped drinking it, for fear that I might tarnish the porcelain image I had of my hostess, who had bewitched me further with her recollection of how she had whimsically mixed-in a little bit everything that was left in the liquor cabinet.

Her home was adorned with touches akin to the beguiling tone of her lithe speech, a light assortment of knick-knacks to document the tracks of her years, including a montage of art exhibit posters from hippy days; a vast arrangement of original artwork by far-away friends and intimate strangers, collected as she trekked across the globe; a trove of shiny new replicas of ancient indigenous pottery; and far too many overblown stills of flowers taken by her two sons who were parading about with archaic 35mms, made to look serious with flashes and reflecting plates that were bigger than their heads. Yet, as earnest as their endeavors were to capture moments might have been, it was obvious to me that their talent truly lied dormant and patiently awaiting elsewhere.

Either way, meriting wall space or not, the show and tell was an endearing story of unconditional parental love.

The graceful lay of décor was sprawled in meditated disorder about the house. And had there been more time and an amicable reason to linger, I would have loved to run along the course of each polished piece to hear of the tales that weaved together this lush quilt of her life.

Alas, no whimsical invitation was extended and the festivities concluded en pointe at two, as all things planned tend to do and end these days. Hence, we parted ways and I went north to where I would wrap myself in another fragrant tapestry of life later that afternoon, but one, perhaps, just a little less swooning and a tad more eccentric.

My much-anticipated destination was Rosemary’s Texas Taco stand, which is located off rural route 22 in Patterson. In sum, it exemplifies “a cheap thrill.”

The hostess meets you in her signature overalls, spray painted gold sneakers, and purple hair that was is so stiff that it looks as if it was colored with spray paint. And why not? For practically everything else on the premises is decorated similarly. Everything from the entire parking lot to every wall, inside and out, of this humble dining establishment has something spray painted on it—a magic swirl, a name, or some crazy reference that makes you wonder.

Rosemary also wore a used plastic smile that said—although as she has been quoted to say “everyday is like being on stage” for her—she has also starred in this same old play for the last thirty years. For she actually started out selling her tacos from a street cart on Fifth Avenue, eventually moving her operation to this remote hole in the wall, where one might easily be eternally fascinated with the garden of junkyard décor, a blur of everything from an Elvis bust outside the commode with the talking fish and all his friends including a life-size shark’s head that looms above the toilet; psychedelic vehicles and matching swirls in the parking lot; a caravan of tricycles dotted across the lawn; a large plate of thick bubbles in the courtyard to entertain anyone willing to watch you loop the stylus in the air like a rhythmic gymnast and her ribbon; and the lone star lava lamp in the window that makes you feel as if you were looking into someone’s home.

Generally, this was an amusement park full of baubles that would amuse any of the little boys and girls in us all. Everything was quaint and backwoods homey about this place. Especially, since there was little upkeep and the ornamentation seemingly sprawled on an evolutionary scale, growing according to the whims of the woman-in-charge.

Rosemary had two people to help her—one a pimply, drug-eyed youth and the other a long-legged vixen. I imagined that either one of them could write an everyday screenplay about their experiences here, flavored with much of the ado about nothing served as the soup du jour by recent indie hits like garden state, lost in translation, clerks and dazed and confused.

All-in-all the detour here was worth while. The food was forgettable and service only redeemed itself because the young lady would make any wolf hungry. Nonetheless, as an out-of the ordinary blessing upon the blight of suburban sprawl, after a quick ride lakeside through the forest, this eccentric aside is certainly a something-to-see—should you happen to be in the neighborhood.

However, I’d just get the guacamole and then jet on over to the Mexican restaurant at the mall down the road for the real meal. Otherwise, you might be disappointed.

Who's That...Lady?

Who's That...Lady? 2
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

i wanted to give this set a name alluding to "the crying game," but hesitated because i thought I might be inferring a little much.

yet, "her" features are a little too hard for me. boldly, I’ll declare that I think I am a pretty good judge of these sorts of things after having taken hundreds of similar fotos over the last couple of months.

so albeit she has great calves, i would argue that they are almost too great, which leads me to think that she is either:

- a hardcore athlete, particularly a world class sprinter
- pumps iron regularly
- jamie lee curtis avoiding the papparazzi
- or…a hermaphrodite.

there is also something funny about her hair, almost wig like.

and finally, look at the long vein on her arm carrying the handbag, very male...

she was walking too fast for me to get a look at her front side, so i am only guessing.

sorry if this inference changes people's initial perceptions of this photo...but this is new york after all and it would not surprise me if this hunch is correct...

that said, i find that there are two important thoughts that arise from this discussion.

first, the notion that the metropolis is indeed a wonderful place for people to feel free to express themselves; whether it be through art, aspiration, orientation, style, or thought, places like new york city are hot spots of creative freedom which allow individuals to break free of the mold and pursue those penchants, inclinations, and passions that are true to themselves.

and secondly, i find it interesting that the unveiling discussed above might change people’s aesthetic feelings about this series.

as i’ve discussed before men’s aesthetic sentiments are often futilely tied to our physiological predilections. and so, if one suddenly realizes that what they were initially allured by is fool’s gold (i.e. the girl is a boy), should it automatically alter how we feel about the photo? is our concept of beauty inexorably tied to our libido? or is it possible that if we let go of such gender-specific biases that one can still appreciate the photo for its qualities apart from the element of gender that it so boldly evokes?

after all, when that intuitive part of my brain that i use to take photos started flashing i ultimately decided within a few milliseconds to pursue this person for three primary reasons: the exquisite physiological and garment detail, the extraordinary color and vintage vogue feel. and so should it really matter if this finely dressed pedestrian is a man or woman after all? i’d have to argue that it really doesn’t.

oh, i wish i were a hibernating human

Summer Days at The Creek 017
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

oh, i wish i were a hibernating human

Autumn is a second spring
when every leaf is a flower.
~Albert Camus

I saw a leaf fall this morning.

All alone, it seemed to magically descend out of nowhere. Apparently, the cool wind had careened it across the avenue from the elms smugly standing across the street.

Although the sudden relief from the infamous balmy days of August readily suggest September is on its way, the umber and wrinkled old hand I saw falling was the first visual cue from nature to wink at me and convey that we are indeed teetering upon the sprite brink of Autumn.

I’ve always loved the Fall. Especially, when it comes upon the wake of another sticky summer.

I tender much the same sentiment for Spring as well.

April - May, September – October are my four favorite months. Oh, what I would give to hibernate for the other eight.


Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth
seeking the successive autumns. ~George Eliot

Autumn Looming

Autumn Looming
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Autumn Looming

Embattled by the sudden cold front and the lingering woes of over-indulgence, yesterday passed somewhat blurred and unappreciated.

Not that anything out of the ordinary occurred, but sometimes even the ordinary can be extraordinary when we stop for a moment to reflect upon the innocuous travails of the day, especially if, in an auspicious way, they contrast against the darker days of the past.

Thus, in retrospect, I must say that yesterday was rather wholesome and fun.


The day began with a slower rising of the sun, as I arose weary from driving in 96 wood screws to fasten 48 hinges and hang 24 rolling white shades for most of Saturday.

Hence, the house was dark as ever in the morrow, and I slept in accordingly, absconding the chill of the weather that was a changing.

When I did rise, I languidly took to brewing my coffee and sipped while finishing another musing.

Most of the day was spent lackadaisically in the backyard under the shade of the canopy, writing.

However, when the evening chill began to subdue the day, I stood up to shake off my laboring stupor, and after a stretch of chair-ridden musculature, I straddled my new bicycle and rode a timeless weave of infanous-eights for a while.

Invigorated, I then took to the park and futilely attempted to fly a kite. My sprints across the sloping knoll were in vain though, as the rustling breeze could not sustain a loft.

My spirit undaunted, I took off to collect Fall flora instead. Using my empty snack sack, I stuffed it with various sprigs and twigs of violet, white and gold wildflowers, which I would set out to dry and perhaps press in a field book later on.

And much the same as last year at this time, I picked a few dozen divine and dark blue berries to make light violet dye. Later, I would dilute this royal hue with a few drops of aqua-dew to paint purple pictures and write regal letters by.

Upon my return, I cleaned up, packed up, washed up and put away. And a few more chores later I was ready for a small repast so that I might fall fast into slumber and respectfully finish the day.

So, it wasn’t exactly unusual or unbelievable or uncanny by any means, but even if it was just another slow Sunday, I would not have enjoyed in any other way.

Three years and three days ago to the day, I similarly sat in my back yard writing, pondering recent days past. Alas, back then autumn looming bespoke of something different. Today, albeit it promises to be much more pleasant than the threat it once meant, I try not to be too disrespectful of this quiet fortune or too indifferent to the absence of calamity that one may once again begin taking for granted.