“You’re not going to lose me. You’ve given me a taste for life. I wanna be happy. Sleep in a bed, have roots. And you’ll never be alone again, Mathilda.” This was the quote from the 1994 movie, “The Professional,” that came to mind when I was trying to name the kitten I had picked up from a local rescue group.
My passion for photography has all but vanished. How to deal? Google and learn to embrace the meh of life.
I recorded this piece about 8 years ago – long before I ever saw Twin Peaks on Netflix. But, the bass line during the full band section is definitely channeling some Laura Palmer angst. File this one under music for films not yet made.
I stumbled upon E.T. around the Maymont pond. He was feeling a bit stiff. Wooden, if you will. Nearby, The Fly. Jeff Goldblum never looked better after being teleported a couple of times and sucking up fly and teleport pod “stuff.”
It’s been a while since I brought in some judicious split-toning. It’s one of the first things I started experimenting with when I got my first dSLR and felt that it really helped my work stand out among the growing din of digital photographers.
Christmas is over and New Year’s has passed. Now it’s time to clean up the mess. The life of the snow people, manger inhabitants, reindeer and santas will now be put on hold in storage. They had a good run. Not so much during the daytime though.
I’ve hit a rut. Plain and simple. Not quite sure what happened, but I would imagine just about every “blogger” out there goes through it. Shoot. Any writer, painter, composer, or poet. It happens. Get over it.
In the weeks leading up to the bike race, Richmonders were brainwashed into thinking we would be caught in stroke-inducing gridlock and mired in a sea of interlopers determined to keep us from work, doughnuts and beer. But there I was, heading directly to it. The next three days, although exhausting, would be some of the most exciting I’ve had in a long time in this town.
My Wyoming year began with a roll of film, two parents, wine, the Gatsbys, and a healthy dose of rural decay. The Gatsbys were an ungodly number of attractive, well-heeled people who decided to converge on the beautiful Pippin Hill Vineyard. Credit my mother for introducing me to the term, “well-heeled.”
It seems like a lifetime ago since I recorded this. 16 years to be exact. I remember after I finished mixing it down putting it on a CD for my father to listen to. He seemed to genuinely like it which meant a whole lot. Still does.