I've started a little basic photography Tumblr blog at:
http://delosj.tumblr.com/
The posts at Tumblr are automatically posted to my Facebook account.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Over 1700 Hits on Flickr....
...Why?
Looking at the data Flickr provides there are over 1700 hits from an unknown source. Hmmmm...
Looking at the data Flickr provides there are over 1700 hits from an unknown source. Hmmmm...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
RANT! Got up on the wrong side of the bed
WARNING! Rant ahead. If you are easily offended by colorful language, you may want to turn back now.
There's an adage that says something like, “If you give a monkey a typewriter and enough time, he'll eventually turn out 'Romeo and Juliette.' We'll I don't really believe that, but I do believe that if you a monkey a digital camera and a little time, he'll turn out a well focused and properly exposed photograph. That photo may be a wall full of monkey shit, and he may throw the camera against the wall when he's done with it, but, by god, there WILL be images on that memory card.
If we move ahead by a couple of evolutionary steps and give that digicam to one of the present day Neanderthals who has learned 'on/off', and how to hold the instrument to his eye, we'll still get well focused and exposed pictures of shit. The only difference is, this guy will get on a message board, blog site, social networking page, or dp review and claim this crap to be art and will proceed to prove this by scathing attacks on anyone who can't see how right he is. If we give this guy a manual, film camera and enough time, he may eventually turn out a well focus and exposed image. Well, I don't really believe that, but I do believe he will turn out either a well focused or well exposed image.The problem here is, anyone under the age of about 30 may have never had his hands on a manual camera. By manual I mean - no exposure meter built in, no auto focus, and film. I'd love to give a 20 year old an old film camera to see how long it would take for him to load a roll of film. I'm wondering how many could even figure out how to open the back. This is the same guy who has no respect for Ansel Adams, Edward Weston or Alfred Stieglitz. I don't care if he doesn't like their images, but he sure as hell better respect the people who were the pioneers of modern photography.
Let me make it clear that this rant is not against all the serious, hard working people who strive for excellence in their photography. It's not aimed at the professional photographers who give freely of their time to mentor beginning and eager amateurs who may, one day turn pro. This rant is directed at those hairy backed, knuckle dragging, ass wipes, who post crap and call it art. These are people who, perhaps, bought a nice camera and got a lucky photograph of a “hot” car or “hot chick” and the recognition from his peers prompted him to proclaim himself as an expert in all things photographic. I just wish they would keep their egocentric and ignorant mouths shut and let the rest of us get on with having fun.
Okay, rant over. Apologies to all (except the above mentioned Neanderthals).
Saturday, July 3, 2010
In A Dream
Have you ever had a memory of a place and felt it was in a dream? A hundred years ago, or maybe it was only 40, I lived in this place. A second floor apartment, no air conditioning, summertime, Hamilton, Ontario.As I look at this photograph, with bedsheets for curtains and unmade bed, I can still hear the tunes from "Bridge Over Troubled Water" playing over and over on the phonograph and the songs of Anne Murray on the Canadian radio station. How strange a time this was.
If I say this is from "Bookends" - you'll know...
"Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you"
Memories and a few photographs are all that's left from the the long, hot, 1970 Canadian summer.
Flickr set: http://www.flickr.com/photos/delosj/sets/72157603318858058/
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Train Ride
There's nothing new about it.
Driving east down Third Avenue North from Interstate 65, if you have eagle eyes and know just where to look, you will see the small sign pointing you in the direction of the Amtrak station. Did I say there is nothing new about it, Amtrak is new, see...no C...very hip, modern and up to date. I digress. That sign pointing you down 3rd Ave. toward the Amtrak station, that's the only one you get. The next time we see you will be in east Birmingham. Ah! Travel by train, what a way to begin.
If you happen to be a local, or if you called ahead for directions, you'll know to make a right turn on 19th Street and head south until you see the...um..station?...Amtrak sign?...well until you spot the single blue awning announcing you have arrived.
There is nothing new about it.
Everything is designed to take you back to an earlier time. This station is not from the grand age of railroads. It is not by any means Grand Central Station, it is one single glass doorway under a blue awning. Standing outside the door you think, “Really? Is this it. Is this the doorway to adventure?” Open the door and you are immediately and unceremoniously standing before a wall, in a long corridor that leads only to the left. Just a few feet into this rabbit hole you know this is no longer the golden age of rail travel.
At the end of the tunnel you step back into 1955. The glorious, hard, sprung seating for 20. The ticket agent's window. Hard tile floor. All the seats are filled with tired and sleeping and...very, very quiet soon to be rail passengers. Hardly a word is being spoken in this waiting room. We are all simply...waiting.
There is nothing new about it.
Announced over a remarkably clear public address system that our train is ready for boarding, we are directed through the glass doors to the stairs at the end and to the left. Dragging heavy bags up the long flight of stairs are grandmothers, children, the tired, the hungry, the huddled masses who have chosen to step back into time. A time before the Americans with Disability Act. A time before escalators. I count the clop, clop, clop of baggage bottoms not designed for stairs in their assent to the platform and waiting train.
Wait a minute, there is something new about it.
All the conductors are women. Women, but more like girls, younger women, I should say. This is so different from my last train ride in 1984 when all the conductors were men. Old black men. Thin as rails old black men. Where have they gone?
These girls, sorry, young women, are very efficient. No non-sense ticket taking and directing to the proper car. “Mr. Johnson, you are going to Atlanta?” “Yes.” “Please go to car #7, the next one down.” Arriving at car #7, the young lady looks at my ticket stub, the actual ticket had been efficiently torn and processed at car #8, confirmed I was heading to Atlanta, looked at a seating chart and assigned me to seat 36.
Back in 1984 it would have been a bit different. The old, life long employee of the railroad would have smiled and with a twinkle in his dark eyes would have asked, “Where y'all goin' tonight?” “Atlanta.” “Oh, my, Atlanta is such a nice town, ya ever been there before?” “Yessir, I was born there, and will just be meeting my wife, whose already there.” “Well, let me see your ticket. Thank ya'. When you go in there you'll be sittin' in seat 36. You be sure to let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.
Modern coach rail travel has changed. I remember soft, pseudo leather covered seats, with little back support and no head support for anyone over 5 feet tall. Now we sit in slightly oversized airline style seats that are fabric covered, firm and ergonomic. Lots of leg room, and drop down foot rests make short haul travel tolerable. Oh, once rolling, the ride is remarkably quiet. The train whistle as we approach crossings is soothing and hypnotic. If you are seated in a row by yourself or with a tolerable family member, there is not too much to complain about.
Ridin' on the City of New Orleans.
Well not quite. This train is the Crescent. This ride starts in New Orleans and ends up in New York City. I guess some of these riders will actually get to see Grand Central Station. Not me though. Thankfully, I got on in Birmingham and will be leaving the ride in Atlanta.
The slow roll out of Birmingham, past Sloss Furnace reminded me of all the things that once were, but are no more. No more pollution from the iron and steel industries, no more overt racism trying to paralyze people cursed for the color of their skin. I'm reminded of that last bit because most of the people in Car #7, rolling towards Atlanta, are African-Americans. There was a time when the only black men on this train would have been the thin and smiling porters.
As we leave Birmingham and head into the nameless suburbs, I'm reminded of how different train travel is from travel by automobile. Because the tracks are away from highways, we loose our bearings. A water tower tells us we're in Irondale or passing a high school lets us know we've made it to Pell City. It's fun to be sitting here as we cross main streets with traffic stopped just for us. I do admit, I hate it and I curse the railroad when I'm in one of those waiting cars.
There are reminders on this trip of what railroading used to be. We pass the old stations, now resourced as chambers of commerce, or souvenir shops masquerading as old train stations. At one point, not near any crossing, the engineer (I love it that the guys who drive trains are called engineers) gave a single blast of his whistle. A few seconds later we came upon a farmer and his dog, standing in their backyard. The old farmer was waving as we passed. How often do you see that?
Mostly what we see, though, are trees. Near the larger towns we see old houses and mobile homes. I guess nobody with any money wants to live that close to the tracks. I don't blame them, really. We live a couple of miles from the railroad and, when the wind is just right, we hear the whistles as loud as if they were just down the block.
As I write this, we are passing a train loaded with large shipping containers. It must be a hundred cars long. I can't tell if it's moving or stationary. Its just long, colorful and close. Being so close to, and moving so quickly past so much mass is thrilling. It's not part of normal life and somehow carries me to another place.
We roll along with the sun strobing through the pine forest on either side. I've never appreciated the number of trees in this place. They just seem to go on forever...and then a small farm...and then trees. In this early Spring, the green is just returning and many are still completely bare of leaves. My imagination takes me to Autumn and how spectacular this must look, then.
Anniston is a stop for this train. Amtrak says it's a ten minute stop. We roll into the station, slowly. I see one person standing on the platform, but I can't tell if he is a civilian or railroader. The wheels stop. The engineer counts to three (no rolling stops, here) and the ride continues. The April sun is at our back as we roll past Anniston, out of Alabama, and into Georgia.
In Breman, I see a sign on a one story brick building – 'Standard Enzyme.' I don't have a clue. Just one more small town mystery on my short ride to Atlanta.
Vanished!
Another mystery. Where did all those highly efficient conductors go? As the train left the station, the conductor for Car #7, brought out an armfull of pillows (I believe they got them from the airline industry) and began passing them out. It's been three hours and I haven't seen any clue that she remained on the train. Strange.
Another thing that has failed to appear...food or drink of any kind. Not even a word of where one might forage for a quaff. I am smelling Colonel Sanders or, maybe, Churches somewhere in this car. It pays to be experienced when you travel by rail.
City of Temple
I lived in Atlanta for 32 years. In all of those years I never, not once, heard of the City of Temple. We just rolled though it. Like so much on this ride, it seems to be stuck in the 1950s. Cars parked in driveways and carports of houses whose value they exceed. There are a lot of prefabs and mobile homes out here. Just one hour away, by rail, and 50 years away choice.
I'm disoriented for a moment as we pass a cattle farm that seem to go on for miles. The several head of cattle are grazing in a field easily mistaken for a golf course. And, all at once a brief glimpse of civilization that gives way to the Georgia pine forests.
Villa Rica
When I was 13, my father died. My mother looking for work, landed a job in Villa Rica on the “Flying S Ranch.” I only remember a couple of things about the summer we spent there. Here goes: this ranch has two grass runways and a flight training school; this ranch had a big lake that fishermen from all over came to visit; the city of Villa Rica had one movie house and they had midnight shows on Friday night. We just passed through Villa Rica and I just passed though nearly 50 years of memory. That summer in Villa Rica is a whole nother story.
There is nothing new about it.
You cannot get this feeling in a car. You can rent a pillow at 37,000 feet, but you can't feel the earth. On this ride the earth is right there under iron wheels and steel rails nestled on creosote soaked lumber, firmly planted in the earth. The wheels grip the rails and the rails send the cars to where the rails go. This train cannot leave the rails and continue to be a train.
Near Sunset
We've passed through all the small towns and, as we approach Atlanta, the whistle is almost constantly singing. The lines of cars waiting to cross, reappear. I can hear the driver at the front of each line lamenting, “Dang (or some variant), if I had only left a minute sooner I could'a made it.” He doesn't have a clue that someone on that train is reading his mind.
In the four hours I've sat on this train, I could have flown from Los Angeles to Atlanta. I would have been served – something? I could have watched a movie. I could have stood in long security lines waiting to be patted down and x-rayed by high school graduates working for the TSA. I could have seen all the same small towns, farms and trees – from the top! I could not have written this because the fat guy sitting next to me would keep knocking my hand from the keys, or the queen bee sitting in front of me would have her seat pressed back firmly into my knees. In the end I would be tired and angry and would still have to wait for 30 minutes to retrieve the bag I paid good money for the privilege of checking and watching as it is unceremoniously and uncovered in the rain brought into the baggage hold.
I would not have seen the state trooper writing a ticket to a speeder on I-20. I would have missed all the cars worth more than the houses where they were parked. Standard Enzyme? I guess I'll never know. I've driven interstate 20 past Villa Rica a hundred times. I never got to see what the town had become. I had forgotten memories of those midnight movies.
The whistle of the train sings a song of the railroad. There is nothing new about it.
Driving east down Third Avenue North from Interstate 65, if you have eagle eyes and know just where to look, you will see the small sign pointing you in the direction of the Amtrak station. Did I say there is nothing new about it, Amtrak is new, see...no C...very hip, modern and up to date. I digress. That sign pointing you down 3rd Ave. toward the Amtrak station, that's the only one you get. The next time we see you will be in east Birmingham. Ah! Travel by train, what a way to begin.
If you happen to be a local, or if you called ahead for directions, you'll know to make a right turn on 19th Street and head south until you see the...um..station?...Amtrak sign?...well until you spot the single blue awning announcing you have arrived.
There is nothing new about it.
Everything is designed to take you back to an earlier time. This station is not from the grand age of railroads. It is not by any means Grand Central Station, it is one single glass doorway under a blue awning. Standing outside the door you think, “Really? Is this it. Is this the doorway to adventure?” Open the door and you are immediately and unceremoniously standing before a wall, in a long corridor that leads only to the left. Just a few feet into this rabbit hole you know this is no longer the golden age of rail travel.
At the end of the tunnel you step back into 1955. The glorious, hard, sprung seating for 20. The ticket agent's window. Hard tile floor. All the seats are filled with tired and sleeping and...very, very quiet soon to be rail passengers. Hardly a word is being spoken in this waiting room. We are all simply...waiting.
There is nothing new about it.
Announced over a remarkably clear public address system that our train is ready for boarding, we are directed through the glass doors to the stairs at the end and to the left. Dragging heavy bags up the long flight of stairs are grandmothers, children, the tired, the hungry, the huddled masses who have chosen to step back into time. A time before the Americans with Disability Act. A time before escalators. I count the clop, clop, clop of baggage bottoms not designed for stairs in their assent to the platform and waiting train.
Wait a minute, there is something new about it.
All the conductors are women. Women, but more like girls, younger women, I should say. This is so different from my last train ride in 1984 when all the conductors were men. Old black men. Thin as rails old black men. Where have they gone?
These girls, sorry, young women, are very efficient. No non-sense ticket taking and directing to the proper car. “Mr. Johnson, you are going to Atlanta?” “Yes.” “Please go to car #7, the next one down.” Arriving at car #7, the young lady looks at my ticket stub, the actual ticket had been efficiently torn and processed at car #8, confirmed I was heading to Atlanta, looked at a seating chart and assigned me to seat 36.
Back in 1984 it would have been a bit different. The old, life long employee of the railroad would have smiled and with a twinkle in his dark eyes would have asked, “Where y'all goin' tonight?” “Atlanta.” “Oh, my, Atlanta is such a nice town, ya ever been there before?” “Yessir, I was born there, and will just be meeting my wife, whose already there.” “Well, let me see your ticket. Thank ya'. When you go in there you'll be sittin' in seat 36. You be sure to let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.
Modern coach rail travel has changed. I remember soft, pseudo leather covered seats, with little back support and no head support for anyone over 5 feet tall. Now we sit in slightly oversized airline style seats that are fabric covered, firm and ergonomic. Lots of leg room, and drop down foot rests make short haul travel tolerable. Oh, once rolling, the ride is remarkably quiet. The train whistle as we approach crossings is soothing and hypnotic. If you are seated in a row by yourself or with a tolerable family member, there is not too much to complain about.
Ridin' on the City of New Orleans.
Well not quite. This train is the Crescent. This ride starts in New Orleans and ends up in New York City. I guess some of these riders will actually get to see Grand Central Station. Not me though. Thankfully, I got on in Birmingham and will be leaving the ride in Atlanta.
The slow roll out of Birmingham, past Sloss Furnace reminded me of all the things that once were, but are no more. No more pollution from the iron and steel industries, no more overt racism trying to paralyze people cursed for the color of their skin. I'm reminded of that last bit because most of the people in Car #7, rolling towards Atlanta, are African-Americans. There was a time when the only black men on this train would have been the thin and smiling porters.
As we leave Birmingham and head into the nameless suburbs, I'm reminded of how different train travel is from travel by automobile. Because the tracks are away from highways, we loose our bearings. A water tower tells us we're in Irondale or passing a high school lets us know we've made it to Pell City. It's fun to be sitting here as we cross main streets with traffic stopped just for us. I do admit, I hate it and I curse the railroad when I'm in one of those waiting cars.
There are reminders on this trip of what railroading used to be. We pass the old stations, now resourced as chambers of commerce, or souvenir shops masquerading as old train stations. At one point, not near any crossing, the engineer (I love it that the guys who drive trains are called engineers) gave a single blast of his whistle. A few seconds later we came upon a farmer and his dog, standing in their backyard. The old farmer was waving as we passed. How often do you see that?
Mostly what we see, though, are trees. Near the larger towns we see old houses and mobile homes. I guess nobody with any money wants to live that close to the tracks. I don't blame them, really. We live a couple of miles from the railroad and, when the wind is just right, we hear the whistles as loud as if they were just down the block.
As I write this, we are passing a train loaded with large shipping containers. It must be a hundred cars long. I can't tell if it's moving or stationary. Its just long, colorful and close. Being so close to, and moving so quickly past so much mass is thrilling. It's not part of normal life and somehow carries me to another place.
We roll along with the sun strobing through the pine forest on either side. I've never appreciated the number of trees in this place. They just seem to go on forever...and then a small farm...and then trees. In this early Spring, the green is just returning and many are still completely bare of leaves. My imagination takes me to Autumn and how spectacular this must look, then.
Anniston is a stop for this train. Amtrak says it's a ten minute stop. We roll into the station, slowly. I see one person standing on the platform, but I can't tell if he is a civilian or railroader. The wheels stop. The engineer counts to three (no rolling stops, here) and the ride continues. The April sun is at our back as we roll past Anniston, out of Alabama, and into Georgia.
In Breman, I see a sign on a one story brick building – 'Standard Enzyme.' I don't have a clue. Just one more small town mystery on my short ride to Atlanta.
Vanished!
Another mystery. Where did all those highly efficient conductors go? As the train left the station, the conductor for Car #7, brought out an armfull of pillows (I believe they got them from the airline industry) and began passing them out. It's been three hours and I haven't seen any clue that she remained on the train. Strange.
Another thing that has failed to appear...food or drink of any kind. Not even a word of where one might forage for a quaff. I am smelling Colonel Sanders or, maybe, Churches somewhere in this car. It pays to be experienced when you travel by rail.
City of Temple
I lived in Atlanta for 32 years. In all of those years I never, not once, heard of the City of Temple. We just rolled though it. Like so much on this ride, it seems to be stuck in the 1950s. Cars parked in driveways and carports of houses whose value they exceed. There are a lot of prefabs and mobile homes out here. Just one hour away, by rail, and 50 years away choice.
I'm disoriented for a moment as we pass a cattle farm that seem to go on for miles. The several head of cattle are grazing in a field easily mistaken for a golf course. And, all at once a brief glimpse of civilization that gives way to the Georgia pine forests.
Villa Rica
When I was 13, my father died. My mother looking for work, landed a job in Villa Rica on the “Flying S Ranch.” I only remember a couple of things about the summer we spent there. Here goes: this ranch has two grass runways and a flight training school; this ranch had a big lake that fishermen from all over came to visit; the city of Villa Rica had one movie house and they had midnight shows on Friday night. We just passed through Villa Rica and I just passed though nearly 50 years of memory. That summer in Villa Rica is a whole nother story.
There is nothing new about it.
You cannot get this feeling in a car. You can rent a pillow at 37,000 feet, but you can't feel the earth. On this ride the earth is right there under iron wheels and steel rails nestled on creosote soaked lumber, firmly planted in the earth. The wheels grip the rails and the rails send the cars to where the rails go. This train cannot leave the rails and continue to be a train.
Near Sunset
We've passed through all the small towns and, as we approach Atlanta, the whistle is almost constantly singing. The lines of cars waiting to cross, reappear. I can hear the driver at the front of each line lamenting, “Dang (or some variant), if I had only left a minute sooner I could'a made it.” He doesn't have a clue that someone on that train is reading his mind.
In the four hours I've sat on this train, I could have flown from Los Angeles to Atlanta. I would have been served – something? I could have watched a movie. I could have stood in long security lines waiting to be patted down and x-rayed by high school graduates working for the TSA. I could have seen all the same small towns, farms and trees – from the top! I could not have written this because the fat guy sitting next to me would keep knocking my hand from the keys, or the queen bee sitting in front of me would have her seat pressed back firmly into my knees. In the end I would be tired and angry and would still have to wait for 30 minutes to retrieve the bag I paid good money for the privilege of checking and watching as it is unceremoniously and uncovered in the rain brought into the baggage hold.
I would not have seen the state trooper writing a ticket to a speeder on I-20. I would have missed all the cars worth more than the houses where they were parked. Standard Enzyme? I guess I'll never know. I've driven interstate 20 past Villa Rica a hundred times. I never got to see what the town had become. I had forgotten memories of those midnight movies.
The whistle of the train sings a song of the railroad. There is nothing new about it.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Lawn Bench and Vine
Ah, Springtime, just around the corner and we can use our lawn bench/arbor again...NOT! We never come out here and sit because this damn vine overgrows it and all sorts of strange insects invade the space. Plus...it's one of the most uncomfortable seats ever invented.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Bang
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