I have been informed that I was "picture-tagged." At first, I was a bit wary, wondering if it was some new, "you-can-run-but-you-can't-hide," type of personal identification. (Again, that Orwell-ian paranoia...I'm telling you, you never really get over it. It is like seeing the old, original "Psycho" for the first time and having to take baths instead of showers for about a year. Maybe that was just me, but, seriously..."Mother's not herself today"? I've known a lot of Mama's boys, but that is just bordering on..., well, psycho...Hmmm, now that I've reached that intellectual height, we'll move on...) I was told I had to go to the fourth folder in my pictures, and post the fourth picture (along with an explanation). This is the result, for better or worse. It is my young cousin Drayton, standing in the back yard of what is affectionately called the "White House." This would be the home-place of great-grandparents, which was bought and restored, and where our family get-togethers (commonly called "reunions," but that seems to have acquired a bad connotation, and we have way too much fun, so it is a get-together), weddings, wedding receptions, etc. occur. We were preparing for another cousin's reception (there are masses of cousins), and so I had politely removed myself to the yard to get out of the way, and take some pre-guest photos of the decorations. Drayton was outside, fascinated by the bubble machine strategically placed in an inconspicuous corner, which he (of course) immediately located. As all children are drawn to stagnant, possibly malarial water, he was drawn by the magnetic forcefield of this stone fountain. He and I were the only two occupants of the yard at the time, so we enjoyed a brief water-fight (until his mother stuck her head out the back door and screamed "Drayton Robert, if you don't get out of that water this minute...!!!" And, as there is nothing more petrifying than an open ended threat, the fight ended abruptly in a stalemate. Even though I was seventeen or eighteen at the time, I didn't volunteer the information that I was the instigator. "Think fast enough, and you might live to lie about it...") and then he suddenly became transfixed by the airborne bubbles. You can see a few clinging to the surface of the water. It was fortunate that I got this shot; the fountain was under a thick stand of trees, and so was quite dark, but there was an instant when the wind shifted the leaves just enough to allow a shaft of sunlight to fall directly on him. I have to say, this is one of my favorites. The serenity of the little face, and the setting, all seem to be of another place. There is an element of imagination-bred landscape to it. (All of which had nothing to do with me, by the way. I'm not taking any credit, I just happened to be in an opportune spot at the right moment.) I even had a copy matted and framed, I enjoy this one so much; it has a calming effect to me. So, that is my story...not very entertaining, but it has good memories for me.

Hooray! I finally figured out how to add people to the side of my blog. Now, I know this is not exactly a triumph which warrants a whole piece of architecture set in the middle of a country's capital devoted solely to the grandeur of it, but still, a triumph nonetheless. For some reason, I could figure out all of the confusing "sh-tuff" that was really only superfluous to the whole reason for this, but the "easy," more vital things were a bit of a difficulty. I can finally leave comments now, as well. The few occasions before, when I tried this, something wasn't recognizing my existence. It was kind of that "Mr. Wordsworth, you are obsolete" feeling. (If you don't know what I'm alluding to, just hang around and watch the New Year's Day marathon of the old (natch: good) Twilight Zone. The Rod Serling, standing in a corner, narrating while ensuring his premature death with a continual stream of half-burned cigarettes Twilight Zone. They just don't make t.v. like they used to.) So, now it will be even easier for me to be increasingly annoying.
Anyway, there actually is (well, in a way) a reason for this post. Here's the thing. I had a thought (more than one, but this was the only one to come near being interesting), and so I have a question to pose. I am currently reading a study on "A Tale of Two Cities." (I know this sounds unbearably insipid, but it is really quite interesting, truly. There are so many aspects I had never really scrutinized, which is something you must do in order to really come to appreciate Dickens. So, all these years I've been missing some of the most interesting points of the whole book. Like: consider that Carton and Darnay are not only remarkably physically similar, but are actually an antiphonal (something sung alternately in two parts; sorry, I get carried away sometimes) expression of the two halves of one man; a man which could have been an only slightly ambiguous representation of Dickens's perception of himself. Incredible, isn't it? It is actually insanely interesting. Anyway, I digress...I'm coming to the question presently, I promise). Reading this has only intensified something I decided the first time I ever read that novel. It sounds ridiculous, but at twelve or thirteen, I fell completely and unequivocally in love with the fictional character of Sydney Carton. I know, I know, it sounds idiotic; but, if you haven't read it, do, and trust me, you'll understand exactly what I mean. It isn't just the immolation Carton voluntarily serves as, twice, actually, for someone he loves, there is more to him than that. It is only in these instances that he is able to show his true nature. He seems to have always been caught in the throes of the "looking glass effect." This is when you subconsciously tell others what you think of yourself, they subconsciously read these messages, take your word for it, and treat you accordingly, you read this as their own self-determined perception of you (when it is actually your perception of yourself, projected outward) and it reinforces your perception of yourself. This can be both beneficial and detrimental. Anyway...Carton is a good guy, a really good guy, but never seems to be given, or indeed, give himself, credit. So, this brings me to my question. I have always had a HUGE crush on the character of Sydney Carton, and wished that I could find a real Sydney Carton. The question is this, what characters (movies, books, any characters or real people) do you all have a thing for? It can be an amalgam of different people. Mine would be an amalgamation of (of course) Sydney Carton, Atticus Finch (from "To Kill a Mockingbird), C.S. Lewis (his imagination, insight, and creative abilities), Nicholas II of Russia (if you care to ask, I'll explain, but it would take too long in writing. He just seemed like a genuinely good man.) Edmund (from The Chronicles of Narnia. After he is grown up, at the end of the books, of course. Which is, incidentally, the character Lewis most identified with). The musical abilities of Thomas Newman and Yann Tiersen (listen to their stuff on my playlist; you'll develop a crush, too), and Mr. Darcy (what girl in her right mind doesn't love him?). Those are the only ones I can think of at the moment. There are plenty more, I just can't remember them right now.
So, what is everyone else's "ideal?" It was just a thought I had; figured it would be fun and interesting to see what everyone else had to say. (Note as of 10/24/08: I read the comments (which were wonderful, by the way) and had an epiphany. I realized that, "Brother of Pete!" I forgot to add Mr. Knightley (from "Emma). How can you forget Mr. Knightley (especially after he is played by Jeremy Northam)?! He adds to the 'ideal' for a lot of reasons: his kindness, his astuteness, his honor, his compassion, his humor, his patience, not to mention the age difference (in his favor) of sixteen years. This is an attribute, trust me.)

This is an attempt to delay the inevitable. I'm sitting here, staring blankly at my computer screen, futilely trying to get my brain to produce a paper on the social, political, and economic implications of the changing face of everyday life, caused by the Industrial Revolution, which were manifested in a palpable manner by the accoutrements made readily available by the advent of such places as the Bon Marche in Paris. I knooow, I'm hoping that while I'm writing this, it will write itself during the interim. I've tried snapping my fingers like Mary Poppins, but, unfortunately, all that I've discovered is that I am more coordinationally challenged than I thought. So, I have already been into photoshop, cleaning out some stuff, reorganizing folders, stuff such as that, and I came across this picture. A few weeks ago, on the way home from taking some other photos, I happened to ride by a Civil War re-enactment. Now, I know that sounds so redneck-Southern, but it really was pretty cool. I generally try to avoid anything that would make it seem like I need to rub aloe-vera on the back of my neck, but I had to stop. I mean, come on, they dragged a cannon into the middle of town, you have to admire that level of devotion to detail.
I was walking around, waiting until the re-enactors were in conversation with each other, or absorbed in something else, so that I could snap a more natural looking photo, when I think I nearly died of a coronary ("Elizabeth, I'm coming to join you," (If you don't get it, you need to watch more re-runs of 'Sanford and Son.')). I knew they had a cannon, I just didn't realize they were going to use a cannon. In the middle of town, I might add. I had my back turned when they shot the stupid thing off, so I had no idea it was coming. I honestly think I came three feet off the ground, and I am fervently hoping I didn't inadvertently educate any of the small children standing nearby on some of the finer points of the English language; unfortunately I don't remember very clearly. Apparently, there was a general penchant shared among the men for shooting this thing off; once wasn't good enough, only three times would suffice. All I could think about was when the Grinch, in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," describing the festivities down in Who-ville, petulantly complains about all the "...noise, Noise, NOISE!" (The Grinch and I could have gotten along just fine, even when his heart was however many sizes too small.)

I didn't sing any of the hymns in church the next day (yes, I did go to church after that little episode; I had to make up for what I may have said, didn't I?), as I could hear nothing except a maddeningly persistent ringing in my left ear. My singing is mediocre at best, half deaf I think they would have politely asked me to leave. Anyway, I posted this one because this particular man's face was just so expressive. It had that, not really tragic, not exactly haunted, but some elusive quality that was perfect for this type of photo. (Click on it, and look at it in full screen, and you'll see what I mean. Look especially at his eyes. I think I freaked this poor guy out a little, because I kept following him around and sticking a camera in his face.) So, despite the near-death experience, it was actually rather fun.

Alright, I believe I am going to have to resign myself to Spanish-Inquisition-style-torturing my brain and go ahead and write that paper. If it is good enough, maybe I'll post that next time. (Not really. If I don't want to have to write it, I know you all won't want to read it.)

Well, this has definitely been an experience. Frankly, ("my dear, I don't give a..." Only Clark Gable was suave enough to get away with it. Anyway...) I had banked on no one ever seeing my blog. I assumed it would be lost in the vast ocean of communication we now have. In fact, I was rather hoping, in a way, it would; if I had known people were actually going to read it, I may have at least run a quick spell-check. (I found at least one (there are probably more) typo, and that sort of thing tends to irritate me; like noticing someone has mismatched socks or something, it just taps into the "Bree Vandecamp" side of my brain.) Also, I may have tried to say something, rather than blather on with the inane babble I typed. Let me tell you, I was struggling for some sort of cohesive theme, it just runs on and on (sort of like this one).It was more of a challenge to myself, to see if I could get technology to actually do what I asked of it, instead of making me want to rip it out by the socket and throw it on the front lawn and then go invest in Ben and Jerry's buy-one-get-one-free, plant myself in front of the television and watch "Becoming Jane" a couple of times in a row. So, imagine my surprise when I saw, not one, not two, but no less than four comments. This was a revelation, in the fact that I didn't even know people could leave comments. Bear with me, here. I tell you, the excitement was overwhelming, (really, that isn't sarcasm, truly). I have to admit, it is rather enjoyable to be a lemming. It is a bit eerie though, to think your brain (I know, only if you let it) can be peeled like an onion, and laid out in cross-section fashion, for everyone to see what a dork you really are. (Yeah, now that I think about it, that is a rather disgusting metaphor. Moving on...) It gives a sense of the Orwell-ian aspect of our lives. ('1984,' by George Orwell. It makes many good points, but it is honestly one of the most painful books I've ever forced myself to get through. I remember very little of it, aside from the main idea, and the sheer terror and paranoia it inspires. Geez, I wonder what's not to like about it.) I was glad to hear from everyone, though. Now it will be so much easier to be nosy and mind everyone else's business. I have attempted to leave comments for those who left them for me, as well as add them to the side of my blog (whatever the official name for that is) but, alas, I think I have taxed the limits of the burgeoning relationship between the computer and I. So, I thank everyone; I appreciate your support in this "grand transition" in my life, and at some point I will return the favor. I just have to discover that magical combination of rubbing your stomach and patting your head to make it work. I know it probably isn't that difficult, but I am entering uncharted territory (for me, at least) so I'm wandering rather aimlessly at this point. Again, rather like this write-up.

Yep, Emily, I have joined the dark side. And its fun!!! Anyway, with all this unseasonably warm weather, during what should be our fall, I have started wishing for some cooler (note: 'cooler,' not 'frigid, freeze you to the bone, marrow-numbing cold') weather. I do look forward to the occasional dusting of snow we get here. I like it that way-snow in the morning, it is gone by lunch, best of both worlds. So, I had to resurrect some pictures of snow (while I'm sitting here with the AC on full-blast). I also came across the one at the top. Emily 'Tater-bug' (don't ask, I don't know. I don't dispense with the nicknames around here, I just try to avoid earning one.) I had to add it, because, if I do say so, my sister has got one of the cutest freakin' dang kids. Good thing too, it is sometimes her saving grace. I'll post one of Jonathan, as soon as I can get a 'viewer' worthy one. Everyone stay safe and be happy!

So I have finally decided to join the technological age. Now, this may seem incongruous, considering my age, but, I'm a History major, so I claim a valid excuse for living in the dark ages of the past. I'm paying considerable amounts of money to do just that. There is a plethora of reasons for beginning this little write-up. For one, I am a terrible journal-keeper. I always think if I buy a new one, it will give me incentive to write in it. Needless to say, this would fall directly under the category of "exercise in futility." I have massive (or at least inordinate) amounts of journals with one or two entries, which I then get sick to tears of looking at, shove it at the back of a bookshelf (uttering a few unmentionable words), forget about, and eventually end up buying another one, repeating the vicious, self-perpetuating cycle. The only thing consistent about my journal-keeping is my inconsistency. Secondly, I tend to lose track of people (including myself, occasionally), so this is another attempt to correct a character flaw. I suppose it is a bit like cosmetic surgery for socially inept people, Botox for social wrinkles. Thirdly, I know my life is just so excessively interesting, there are hordes of desperately, mind-numbingly bored people simply begging for the chance to live vicariously through someone as glamorous and interesting as myself (note: sarcasm may be used from time to time, so if you are highly sensitive, it may be best to abandon this at once).

However, the exciting does occasionally happen to me, although I think it generally occurs due to a case of mistaken identity or incorrectly addressed mail being delivered by the cosmic version of the U.S. Postal Service. In this case, it is not my excitement, per se, but guilt by association. As of October 3 I became an aunt for the second time. Heather had an 8 lb. 4 oz. baby boy, Jonathan Scott by name. Both mother and baby are fine, and he's lucky enough to have two mothers, even if one is only three feet tall and can't reach the kitchen counter yet. (But, in her case, it is always "Where there's a will there's a way," and "Mind over matter." The only thing is, trying to keep up with/outwit one very determined (i.e. "strong-willed," the euphemism which all the little Dr. Phil's of the world have now discarded the offensive appellation "hard-headed" for) three-year old, the rest of us have neither will nor mind left. Generals learned the art of a war of attrition from three-year olds.) Emily will be three on the 19th of this month, and, I have been informed, is having a "George" party. Translation, everything is going to be decked out in School-Bus yellow and plastered with lovable likenesses of the endearing little fictional primate, Curious George himself. For me, that means I'll have "We All Live in a Yellow Submarine" mentally playing on constant repeat for a week. The things you do for short people when they look at you and say "Peeeaaase?"

Ah, well, childhood is fleeting, let them enjoy it while they don't know any different.

As for me, I'm still drudging away at the books, hopefully to escape in May. I'm still working at the public library/free babysitting/afterschool/shrink services. I love my job, but I think after this I could hang out my shingle. I've learned entirely more than I ever wanted to know about the ailments inherent in old age. (Sometimes I think the James Deans of the world got off easy.) But, everything is good. Besides, I have to work to have money to support my camera habit. You're always encouraged to have hobbies, "It's healthy," they all say, "It relieves stress." The only thing they don't tell you is that there is an inbuilt stress factor of monetary origins. Hobbies turn into economically draining money-pits. I sometimes feel like I should just have them direct deposit my check at the ASAP camera store, instead of forcing the (especially these days) harried banks to act as a fleeting middle-man. So, in order to justify my addiction, I have posted a few examples of the pitifully lacking results of my efforts. Its healthy, yeah. In the top photo, I found myself standing on the decrepit, probably vermin infested, safety hazard front porch of a derelict old house in silk pajama bottoms at 6 a.m. in January. Don't ask why I was still in pajama bottoms, it was an impromptu photo-shoot. Once you get into it, you find your mind becomes warped and you do things like bolt out of the house at 6 a.m. in the middle of winter because, *gasp!* the light might change before you get there (wherever "there" is) and the shot is ruined. Healthy, right. The middle photo was taken in a claustrophia-inducing fruit cellar of a historic house on Antelope Island, Utah. Healthy, right. (I'm starting to see a disturbing pattern). The bottom one was remarkably uneventful, Tryon Palace gardens. I know, suddenly it seems rather boring, doesn't it? So, my advice to the youth of the world? Don't get a hobby. They are time-consuming, mind-warping, money-draining ventures. Sit at home and watch re-runs of "Happy Days" instead. If you are tempted to do something productive, flip to QVC and tele-shop until you max out the credit card.

Alright, I believe that is enough for the first dose. Wouldn't want to reveal all of the gripping details at once, its bad marketing.