The Ride

The Pacific shimmers along the coastline as most people wind down their days, their weeks, and turn off the lights in the office for an early start on the weekend. The homes and offices and apartments along the tracks are used to the high pitched whistle of the train and the clanging bells of the guardian barriers that lower their red and white striped arms as the engine approaches.
Tonight the train is not even a quarter full, and the eclectic mix of travelers shuffle through the aisles until they find a seat that appears not only comfortable but appropriately anonymous in the fading light of early winter. A woman directs her husband to sit next to the window away from the coast as a pretense to look out over the aisle and the seats towards the radiant sunset glistening on the rolling water and a justification to look away from him. She slouches into the aisle with distant eyes while he leans into the glass to watch the farmland pass. It seems impossible that two people could be so close and yet so separate.
A couple stands leaning on a rail overlooking the water. The meeting of their gaze is electric. In that static moment they are oblivious to the clamor and scream of the train and her passengers they are focused so intently on one another. As he leans in for a kiss, slowly and with an approach that belies that he is dropping his guard, allowing her into his mind, his heart, and his grasp for the first time, perhaps even though they are forbidden lovers, the train blows by with renewed fervor as if it stalled too long to admire the moment that they shared and the end of their story is lost in a blur of motion and streaming light.
The sky is a mix of grays and pinks with strips of bright orange that stream as if from a pallet knife across the canvas of sky. The waves mimic the sky in parallel lines and reflective colors and the sky to water becomes a tablet of lined paper waiting for the story of God. But before a word is written, the clouds fade into the atmosphere and the light that halos the still churning water fades to an occasional glimmer. As the light falters, the window from the train becomes the mind of a schizophrenic, confusing the existing world outside her metal skin with the introspective life inside. As a woman stares outside the window streetlights and buildings slide through her reflection, making it impossible to tell who is real and who the ghost.
As the deep black of evening settles over the landscape, the train becomes comatose with no sense of the outside anymore, no sense of where she fits into that world aside from the never ending sway associated with assumed progress. The halls remain caffeinated with harsh, green fluorescents scattered every ten feet along the length of each of the five cars casting a sickly glow over the somehow instantly weary travelers. The halls reek of a caustic mixture of café junk food and cheap perfume overzealously applied to conceal a missed shower after a night of partying that ended up in a stranger’s apartment. Several of the college students flock together sensing a common bond in academia and flirt and giggle to establish communication. Others tangibly avoid the contact and pull their hooded sweatshirts higher over their headphones to conceal their faces and, with any luck, wink them out of existence altogether.
The rest of the cars are scattered with stories as similar and unique as the train from yesterday or the train that comes tomorrow. You can see the history of it in the wear patterns of thighs, arms, and heads along the browning, blue material of the seats. Some of the texture of the plastic arm rests has been worn smooth, and the metal buttons are shiniest in the middle where countless thumbs have struggled to assist in the elusive comfort of the ride.
In the darkness, the only patches of recognizable light come in the form of the station stops, usually casting an amber glow along the tracks and into the parking lots just far enough to make out the movement or suggestive shadow of life beyond the feathering light. Before anything can be seen and determined, though, the engine kicks into a jerky motion attempting to reclaim its previous momentum only to smother it again in the lights and cacophony of the next scheduled stop and leave her giant metal frame motionless for the allotted amount of time according to the predetermined schedule.
Aside from the occasional brethren of a passing freight train or the boundless energy of Union Station, the life of the train is rote and monotonous, treading along the same inverted grooves and the same schedules day in and day out no matter the character or multitude of her cargo.

Week One, Session Four

Session Four. Fourth session. Quatro. Shi. IV. Where has the time gone? Six months down and I have a website up and running, so what will I have in another six? Clients? If all goes well.

So far we have been assigned only our first assignment. It is due one week from tomorrow, but I think I have it done. I am going to go and talk to my fourth instructor about it tomorrow afternoon during his office hours. I am hoping that he approves so that I can focus on the next two assignments, both of which are due on Monday and both of which we have not yet been assigned. I am charging my rechargeable batteries in case it is a flash assignment.

Have I mentioned how much I love the flash? Every photo shoot that I have screwed up so far in life I have screwed up because I didn't know how to properly utilize my flash. That's two weddings and a philanthropic event. I already have a pretty good idea of how to never have those same mistakes again. By the end of this class, I will be able to market myself for professional work. This is the turning point class, or so the instructor tells us. I am going to keep on top of this class and really push myself. I want to be sure to do work that I am proud of again. I don't really feel very confident about the stuff I did last session, and that is a horrible feeling.

At any rate, I should probably sign off for the next two months, just in case I don't have any more time to write, ever. I will certainly try, but no promises.

So Pretty

Some pictures of our bathroom work.

This one is probably the best overall picture:


This one is a detail of our shelf, two of the walls, and one of the accent tiles:


This one shows the depth of the tub:


This one is Osiris demonstrating the usefulness of our new shelf:

For Shame

I have always been a staunch rejecter of stereotypes. Despite the widely held belief that a stereotype wouldn't be a stereotype if it weren't for the most part true, I have always felt that stereotypes are base and inaccurate representations of general classifications of people for the purposes of brainwashing and propaganda. Anyone who would ever look at a new person and say "Hey, you are that culture/religion/gender/etc., so you must be x/y/z/etc." is ridiculous. Even though I was raised to be thoroughly aghast when someone rolls their eyes, I usually roll mine at stereotypes.

So, being that I don't believe in any sort of mass generalization, imagine my surprise when a gaggle of Catholic School Girls sauntered their way into Rubios today while I waited for my quesadilla that fit, to exact proportions and attitudes, everything I have ever heard of them.

Let us revisit for a moment, as I did in my own mind at the point in question, what that stereotype actually is:
1. They absolutely have to have tiny, plaid, pleated skirts that are entirely too racy for their age. Check.
2. This is usually accompanied by knee high stockings. Check, though apparently they do not have to be white...one misconception that I will allow and still be shocked by the events that followed.
3. They should ideally have pigtails or one solitary, but perfectly balanced on the crown of the skull, ponytail that dangles down the middle of one's back. Check.
4. They giggle. Check.
5. They wear patent leather character shoes that make them resemble elegant china dolls brought to life to walk in perfect, clickity timing with one another. Check.

What in God's name are these people thinking? I am not going to go into the otherwise implied, but again widely held, beliefs about Catholic School Girls but I admit that I kind of understand the problem. You would think, after all of the bad publicity; the scandalous suggestions, the nymphite implications; that those individuals in charge of the uniform determinations for such an establishment would have decided to go with a nice tailored suit look, or slacks and a polo, hell, even a frumpy frock would suffice.

Now on the one hand I sort of understand the possibility that the purveyors of this specific type of education might not have heard of Alicia Silverstone and Liv Tyler, nor of their counterpart of Aerosmith that would project such an...uninnocent...image, but perhaps they should. Perhaps there should be a specific individual within the hallowed halls of education that is supposed to watch out for Brittney Spears and her particular take on fashion. Maybe someone should be aware enough of the outside world to alter the dresscode to more accurately mimic the pious lifestyle that they are undoubtedly trying to encourage. How did pious ever become synonymous with mini-skirt?

You know what is synonymous with pious? Habit. Let them all wear habits. I think that would be a more appropriate attire. It would be difficult to, say, flaunt in a habit. Or to, oh I don't know, strut. Plus, habits have those nice little hoods. No more ponies or piggies. I would even caution against bangs. Tuck it all away under some nice burlap. Head to toe. And speaking of toes, since they aren't going to be seen under the habit anyway, why patent leather? Why not hiking boots? You know, to be prepared.

At any rate, I say we all should strike a blow against the Catholic School Girl stereotype and contact our local institution and demand immediate student retrofication! Who's with me?!?!?