This Thursday I am beginning something I left fifteen years ago. I am taking the mini-van by myself up near Harpers Ferry, riding alongside the Potomac River (on the Maryland side) down through the river town of Sandyhook and up into the woods for my modern dance class. Slipperyslope sits in the forest and the studio has views of the trees through the windows in the two story structure. My family and I visited it this weekend so I would be able to find it on my first day of class. She has two donkeys, a couple of wardering cats and of course dogs. I can't think of a better way to get away and to reconnect with myself and dance.
I have recently noticed that I am wandering back to the things that I left behind fifteen or so years ago. In between college and now, exercise included several Jazzercise classes and recently two years of yoga. Now suddenly I am a mother of two, but with the realization that if I don't do something creative for myself I may implode. Of course I have picked up my camera again this year, after a long time "off", but there is something to be said for dance. Maybe it's the fact that it is expressive, or the need to feel sexy and beautiful in my own space. But there also lays the challenge for me. Thérèse is an aerial dancer and instructor. If you don't know what that is about, then just look at the pictures. It looks easy and difficult all at the same time. Maybe I am past my time to experiment with this sort of thing, but I at least want to give it a try.
This leads to a whole other realm, of photographing the dance company, which I suggested and she is excited about. I have some wonderful, contemplative photos of a dancer I knew in college as well as my own self-portraits from that time (as a dancer). So who knows, maybe I am going back to my roots. Grow where you are planted.
http://www.theresekeegan.com/Index/Welcome.html
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Photo Friday, Edible
My sons this past weekend in Harpers Ferry, WV....and no, they did not finish the frozen custard.Friday, March 20, 2009
Shadows
Have you ever been in an old house and seen the shadows? Not the dark shadows in the corner of a creepy old house, but rather the shadows that appear in the noon sun. The place where the pictures hung, the wall that the bed rested against and where the bureau stood. I have seen it in several circumstances and wondered about the former inhabitants. Shadows left there either due to years of cigarette smoke, a wood burning stove or simply lack of dusting. Once the space has been cleared there is still an impression that is present where everything used to be.
Years ago, my husband and I toured a historic house in the Louisiana on River Road outside of New Orleans. The historians associated with Laura Plantation left several rooms empty for visitors to see the shadows left by the furniture. It created an eerie effect even in daylight and left the sightseer wondering about life within the house.
I am sure my grandmother’s house left some of the same impressions. She lived in that Lexington, Kentucky bungalow from the 1960s until 2003 or so when she moved in with my parents for the last two years of her life. Grandmama was a packrat. When she died I was already pregnant with my first child and not in much condition to help my mother sort through and pack up the house. We attended the funeral and shuffled though a few odds and ends, but really my help was minimal. I made one more trip after my first son’s birth to Kentucky. I was already pregnant with our second son so again not much help between tending to a baby and being told not the lift heavy things. My Granddaddy had a workshop in the basement that was very organized at one point with nails and screws sorted into baby jars that lined the shelves. He died way too young, nearly 20 years before her death and she didn’t have the energy or heart to do anything except pile stuff on top of more stuff within her house and in the basement. It took my mother about three years to clear out the house and it was like an archeological dig. I can’t even imagine the daunting task and all the shadows left behind.
One can only hope that when we do leave this place there is something of significance that loved ones can hold on to. Someone may move into your residence after you leave and wonder about you and all of your shadows.
Years ago, my husband and I toured a historic house in the Louisiana on River Road outside of New Orleans. The historians associated with Laura Plantation left several rooms empty for visitors to see the shadows left by the furniture. It created an eerie effect even in daylight and left the sightseer wondering about life within the house.
I am sure my grandmother’s house left some of the same impressions. She lived in that Lexington, Kentucky bungalow from the 1960s until 2003 or so when she moved in with my parents for the last two years of her life. Grandmama was a packrat. When she died I was already pregnant with my first child and not in much condition to help my mother sort through and pack up the house. We attended the funeral and shuffled though a few odds and ends, but really my help was minimal. I made one more trip after my first son’s birth to Kentucky. I was already pregnant with our second son so again not much help between tending to a baby and being told not the lift heavy things. My Granddaddy had a workshop in the basement that was very organized at one point with nails and screws sorted into baby jars that lined the shelves. He died way too young, nearly 20 years before her death and she didn’t have the energy or heart to do anything except pile stuff on top of more stuff within her house and in the basement. It took my mother about three years to clear out the house and it was like an archeological dig. I can’t even imagine the daunting task and all the shadows left behind.
One can only hope that when we do leave this place there is something of significance that loved ones can hold on to. Someone may move into your residence after you leave and wonder about you and all of your shadows.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Bookmobile
I think in images and had almost forgotten this one until I climbed on board a Bookmobile again several years ago, after a 20+ year hiatus. If I could paint, I would depict this image, but for now I am just left with the words to describe it.
Growing up, the bookmobile use to park at the end of our cul-de-sac in the dusk of summer. My mother loved books so she would drag me down to the bottom of our steep hill to climb aboard. I remember the scene perfectly now and often think of it as a postcard. We would hear the engine approach then cut off and down the hill we would walk to the immense bus, with its yellow lights streaming out from the inside. Those lights combined with the lightning bugs were our only guides. The sky was sinking into darkness and the trees were already outlined in black.
I think one of the only things I looked forward to as I boarded was seeing one or two of my neighboring best friends, Josh or Kevin aboard too. Once there, we would invariably find some books to check out and talk about Star Wars or some other childhood fascination. I was never a very good student, although I certainly tried hard enough. Reading did not come easily to me and I’m sure my mother was mystified at my lack of interest in books. A visit to the library was not a happy one for me. The only promise the bookmobile held for me was a chance meeting with my neighboring friends, and the lovely image of a lumbering bus in the warm, cool of a summer night.
Growing up, the bookmobile use to park at the end of our cul-de-sac in the dusk of summer. My mother loved books so she would drag me down to the bottom of our steep hill to climb aboard. I remember the scene perfectly now and often think of it as a postcard. We would hear the engine approach then cut off and down the hill we would walk to the immense bus, with its yellow lights streaming out from the inside. Those lights combined with the lightning bugs were our only guides. The sky was sinking into darkness and the trees were already outlined in black.
I think one of the only things I looked forward to as I boarded was seeing one or two of my neighboring best friends, Josh or Kevin aboard too. Once there, we would invariably find some books to check out and talk about Star Wars or some other childhood fascination. I was never a very good student, although I certainly tried hard enough. Reading did not come easily to me and I’m sure my mother was mystified at my lack of interest in books. A visit to the library was not a happy one for me. The only promise the bookmobile held for me was a chance meeting with my neighboring friends, and the lovely image of a lumbering bus in the warm, cool of a summer night.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Love Letters in the Internet Age
What is to become of all the text messages, e-mails and instant messaging that people pass back and forth on a regular basis? Or even more important what is to become of the love letter? Has it already disappeared? I am sure some still put pen to paper and compose a letter for their significant other, but for the teenagers of the Internet age what are they to do. Do they print off what their boyfriend wrote to them, and tuck it under their pillow. Somehow it seems impersonal. Will the teenagers even get when Ryan Adams sings Come Pick Me Up (what I believe to be one of the best songs in recent rock and roll):
Or will you cower in fear
In your favorite sweater
With an old love letter
Adams must value the letter as he sings in yet another song:
When you get the time
Sit down and write me a letter
When you're feeling better
Drop me a line
I get it and I agree. When was the last time you received a letter that was not a birthday card?
I have several shoe boxes full of love letters. Two boxes are from my husband and were sent primarily when he was away in Alaska the first summer of our romance and then another one entirely dedicated to his 27 months spent as a Peace Corps volunteer in Guatemala. It is amusing to glance through them and recount the early parts of our relationship. My sons may not be apt to read them when they are older (and there are a few I don’t want them to get a hold of), but maybe their wives or future daughters will.
I then have yet another box full of my first real boyfriend’s letters to me. I re-read them a couple of years ago after I re-connected with him. They were good to have read because it reminded me of why and how the relationship failed.
So as I listen to Ryan Adams sing about letters, it brings me back to correspondence without the aid of the postal service. It does not have the same romance, sitting waiting expectantly for that e-mail to come through. Does the receiver even question if the sender is sending it? At least with a letter you can recognize the sender’s handwriting. I remember waiting for days for the post to come and being thrilled when I would reach in and see the red, white and blue air mail envelope peeking out from the various catalogues and bills. Now there is no thrill in walking down the driveway to the mailbox, at least not for me.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Trading Places
Concert
Last night I attended a concert with a friend for a Girl’s Night Out. It’s been a long time since she saw a live musical performance and this was a treat since it was a small venue and we had some eye candy too. Now I’m not a musician, so maybe this following description is not unusual
or even that great of a feat, but we were both impressed. First Jay Nash, the person who I went to see, came on by himself and played a song, just him and his guitar. This is what I expected for his entire set, yet instead for the second song he invited the drummer for Greg Laswell’s band on stage to accompany him. Then for another song he invited the guitarist for Greg Laswell’s band on too. There was a lot of talk about the four musicians traveling and touring together in the drummer’s Toyota Sienna (minivan no less!). Soon Greg Laswell was onstage to play keyboards, and it was then that I began to understand the friendship and compatibility between these musicians. They didn’t let their egos get in the way, but instead relished being onstage accompanying one another. They were able to rock out to one of Jay’s songs when he got on the electric guitar and the guitarist got on the bass and everyone looked like they were having too much fun.
I figured after Jay’s set he might sit back and view the rest of the concert, possibly joining them onstage for one song. I talked with him between sets and he asked if I was staying to see Greg’s performance-of course I was. For the second song, they invited Jay onstage to play the bass. The story goes something like this: when they found out they were touring together Jay said they had about enough musicians to make up a full band and should he bring a bass-not that any of them played bass, but it provided a good opportunity to learn. The shared bass was born. After that round Greg tried his guitar and finding it was out of tune Jay offered up his, even assisting to strap it on him. It brought a lot of laughs, but here again was an example of musicians comfortable enough to switch places, try new instruments and even offer up a favorite piece of equipment.
Of course these are seasoned performers and they know what makes for an appealing presentation. I marvel at people that can get on stage and be so natural and at ease with themselves and the audience. But last night was a lesson in sharing, something my two preschool boys could take a lesson in.
I figured after Jay’s set he might sit back and view the rest of the concert, possibly joining them onstage for one song. I talked with him between sets and he asked if I was staying to see Greg’s performance-of course I was. For the second song, they invited Jay onstage to play the bass. The story goes something like this: when they found out they were touring together Jay said they had about enough musicians to make up a full band and should he bring a bass-not that any of them played bass, but it provided a good opportunity to learn. The shared bass was born. After that round Greg tried his guitar and finding it was out of tune Jay offered up his, even assisting to strap it on him. It brought a lot of laughs, but here again was an example of musicians comfortable enough to switch places, try new instruments and even offer up a favorite piece of equipment.
Of course these are seasoned performers and they know what makes for an appealing presentation. I marvel at people that can get on stage and be so natural and at ease with themselves and the audience. But last night was a lesson in sharing, something my two preschool boys could take a lesson in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)