Anachronisms

A Study in Tweed

Monday’s photo assignment: Capture an image of someone who inspires you.

Since I’ve always admired Arthur Conan Doyle and his detective, the solution was…elementary.

In the photo you see a rubbing made earlier today.  The book? The Complete Sherlock Holmes, printed in 1938.

Next time you’re feeling small, unadorned, a single bloom unremarkable among many, remember: You are beauty in the eyes of anyone, everyone, who takes time to see.

We topped 80F today.

To celebrate, my son and I spent thirty minutes at a local park scouting the spillway. We spotted bullfrogs and butterflies, spiders and snakes, and sprouts of the coming summer’s greenhouse reaching for sun.

It was the perfect way to spend a few minutes of an unseasonably warm and quiet afternoon.

Hope you found time to go sun seeking as well.

antivistt asked: Are these all your own photos? they're really good!

Thank you! Yup. They’re mine. Most of them shot in the Midwest…

Midwest March, 2012. Finally, we get it right.

Sometimes a Midwest March looks like this. At the moment, with temps at 80F, that’s hard to believe…

This image makes me think of an Elizabethan princess. A poet, I think, locked in a lonely tower. The woman has no voice.

But she has the bells.

Each time she sounds them, they are deafening, and yet, though she’s surrounded by people, no one can hear.

We’ve just come to a turning point: Her last bit of hope has fallen with her resolve, the rain, her tears. Dark night of the soul, indeed.

In traditional tales, at this moment, in walks a prince with a key.

I’m not much for writing tradition. I’d have our character on the tower ledge, face to the wind, cursing the fates that left her here. For the hundredth time in as many days, she thinks of stepping off. But every sunrise is worth seeing, every moment worth living, if only to feel the beat of your heart and taste your own tears, she thinks. She steps inside. As the bell tone fades, she notes a change in the resonance. All that ringing cut a fault in the metal. The mount holding the clapper is loose. By morning, she can have it free. It’s stout enough to splinter wood, or break bone. She’ll have it in hand to greet the guard who brings her morning meal…

One of the highlights of my day came when a scene I was writing took a turn I hadn’t plotted. These scene forays that lead you away from the light, down dark alleys, and open into parts unknown–they’re gifts. They may not appear in your final draft, but they’re important nonetheless. They’re story and character coming to life, teaching you things you didn’t know you knew. Be thankful for the detours. Follow them. They may turn into dead ends. Or they may transform your story into something more than what initially appeared on an outline, or in your head.

Speaking of alleys, I shot this wall in an alley close to home. I’ve always had a taste for old signs. They tell stories. I don’t know the story behind this one yet. But I will.

And then, so will you.

Q/A: Name your favorite sign or billboard–roadside, alley or other–and when and where you saw it. Share a photo of it if you like…

Why settle for pressing a leaf when you can impress an entire tree in paper? Okay, maybe it isn’t the same. But I do like the soft tones and texture…

I photographed this pump on Route 66 in Staunton, Illinois. The meter had stopped at 49 cents per gallon. Alas, I pulled in a few years too late to top off my tank.

What’s the lowest price you’ve paid for petrol? I remember buying gasoline for 85 cents per gallon at a Mobil station in St. Louis, Missouri, circa 1987.

Can anyone do better than that?