Coming Full Circle...

"You may not know where you are going, but you will end up where you are supposed to be." This is what my mother used to say to me growing up.

Often I felt lost, confused, and turned around as a teenager or young adult. I did not feel like I fit in and it was even harder for anyone to understand where I was coming from most of the time. I was not an outcast or a black sheep really, instead I was on my own, but not a loner either. Everyone knew who I was or had heard of me, but I was not defined by a "click" or stereotype.

Although I seemed to lack a label or reputation I didn't mind most of the time. I was a child who preferred to be myself and whatever came with that. My parents really did a great job enriching me with certain qualities as an individual that I used to roll my eyes at in the past. I have known their influence for a long time and acknowledge those understandings with them on a regular basis.

At one point I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I knew that there were a lot of things that I would enjoy or be good at, but only one occupation would allow me to put all my interests into one job. If you don't know by now that I am a photographer then this is it. Now you or anyone can know that I am a photographer and why I became one.

Considering that I graduated college in 2006 I consider myself a professional from that point on, although I did at least four years of professional shooting before that. Really I'd say I've been doing professional photography for eight years. How I came to understand the business is a true tale of growth and patience.

I started shooting photography as a child, for fun. My father was the first person to mention that photography might be a good path for me to take. When my father made the suggestion I was only 10 or 11 years old. I wasn't sure and didn't know what to make of the idea.

In high school my best friend, Beth, took a photography class. I remember her excitement for the course and after I saw her archive from the first couple of months I knew it was a class I was going to take too. My next birthday my mother and I split the cost of my first camera, the Canon TX.

My first photography teacher was Mrs. Waldschmit, Mrs. W. Mrs. W started each of her students out on the right page, the traditional page, shooting all manual before she would even entertain the idea of digital. I will forever be grateful for her approach to teaching. We all learned basic photography but with college level expectations. There were weekly critiques and constant conversations about each element to photography. She was hard on each of us, but I remember really almost hating her from time to time. Mrs. W and I still talk from time to time and I'll cherish her friendship forever.

When I was accepted into Art School everyone was a bit surprised. No one doubted my abilities rather the choice of Art School over a regular or local university. Through the next four years I had many professors and fellow students that each played a roll in shaping my artistic style, knowledge, and passion. Art school ended though, just as all things eventually do and I was thrown out into the abyss of society. Managing to float I acquired jobs that had nothing to do with art or photography.

Underwater photography was my passion and it was all I ever really wanted to do. So eventually I started to work for underwater photographers as an assistant and tried to merge all of my ventures aside photography. I really didn't know where I'd be going with any of it, but I was always facing forward.

A lot of time has past and I now live in Vegas working for two photography companies both shooting and editing for them and yet I'm holding a 9-5 in retail during the week. Coming full circle I am clear of mind when I discuss my desires and drive for photography, but life has ultimate control of my direction. When I think it's going in one direction I take a job to make rent and all of a sudden it takes me in a completely different direction.

This strange, awkward, woman is still a reflection of the student from years past. Truthfully always a student. I'm pretty good with driving, but when it comes to life sometimes I'm directionally challenged but I'll always end up where I'm supposed to be.

Process

I feel like a lot of "this" is process. Using music, notes, books, Internet, and beyond to constantly fling our minds in and out of portals of the past and present.

I had a friend who once said to me "I wish I could be there for the next chapter of your life, but only you can write those chapters, because I know you will make each chapter that much more interesting than the next." If people ask me what I'm up to I tear from that moment with my friend these few sentences; "I'm on my way to something greater than my imagination. Writing a new chapter in my novel."

The further I get into my own novel I find that I flip backwards through those pages more and more to get clarity about the next step, word, or purpose. I think the most moving forum I use is music. Music seems to take me to "that" place instantaneously. There's often a very clear memory attached to the songs I listen to. I choose to keep them in my life as a reminder or a portal that is there weather I need it or not.

Second would be writing I've done. Most of it is cryptic. If it's a clear piece of writing then it's most definitely for someone else to read someday for some purpose. Those pieces are left behind as a time capsule for people to read later. I am pretty sure I just admitted how much of a narcissistic artist I really am.

All the other forms of media or resources that I surround myself with are triggers. I find that if I choose to pick up a book I've never gone through before or play with a roll of tape for a while something triggers and I'll get that idea I have to write it down. I pause to record that thought and then create around it. Each object, photo on the wall, printout lying on the floor, or marking on the wall are "things" I use to push this process into motion.

Enveloped

I am surged. I have started to create. I have started a creation or a habit of creation. This is the first time that I have lived with someone and have attained the ability beyond my normality to create in the same space. I don't have money for a real studio of my own, nothing away from home. My studio is in my house. It's a bedroom. The size is small but very suitable. While growing up my bedroom was my studio. This room is the first place, since my childhood bedroom, that feels like home or my creative space.

There is something within an artist that requires a level of selfishness. An artist needs space to grow, expand, and express what they are trying to get out. There is an understanding of that precious space that can only be totally shared with another artist. The space that allows us to create is sacred.

Some artists have an ability to create anywhere, I've only met one. Expression between mental thought and physical vomit (no matter the medium) is held mostly with lock and key. There are artists, many, that may disagree with me. Maybe my perception of this is based on a female point of view, but I doubt it.

I feel as though most people, not just artists, take space for granted. Each person is creative within their own right. Sprawl out, but don't be greedy.

For those of you that may not understand this please don't try, but acception might be enough. Suffication can be a death.

Morning Rant

I hate waking up alone, it sucks. Waking up without my man is simply one of those things that should be less than acceptable. You marry someone, you're totally in love and you never wake up to him or her, in my case him. My husband works on the road as a tower hand, he climbs radio towers for a living, as a result he's on the road quite a bit. His schedule is similar to a truck driver's schedule. We moved to Vegas because he was promised a job that would keep him home more than half the year and put him back into a higher position. We have been blessed that he has actually been home more this year, but his job still takes him away so early in the morning, 4am or 6am and sometimes even 3am, that we rarely get to wake up next to each other.

I believe in hanging onto the little things in life and in close relationships. I cherish those mornings when we both run to the bathroom to brush our teeth before we kiss or say fuck it and roll over to cuddle for an extra hour. I realize that being young and even younger into our marriage that time sacrifice for the sake of good jobs and paying our bills is necessary, but I don't have to like it.

Personally my schedule is so irregular that I would miss him most of the time based on my schedule alone. We talk about retirement A LOT! It's a daydream, a place we both go to get away from the things we dislike and back to the things we miss.

It's interesting now too, when friends in the past got hitched sometimes they'd disappear and piss their friends off for never coming around for a beer or social gathering. Now I understand that although you're married to that person you may barely get to see them at all too. If you both have jobs or any kind of personal goals then there will most likely be a lack of quality time spent together.

I wake up alone. I have my morning coffee and let the dog out for his morning piss. I turn on the tube for some background chatter, and throw on some comfort clothing until I have to jet out the door. It's okay, I don't need sympathy or the "awe it'll be alright" from anyone. I have adjusted. Lets just say, most days, I can't wait until retirement.

Good Morning Vegas.

FUMBLED THOUGHT

I have fumbled
Prayed
I have remembered
Strayed
Between trees of veins
Trees of trains
Between trees of spades
Trees of trades
I have lived
Gained
I have died once
Waned
Silence in fields of grain
Fields of pain
Silence in fields of sand
Fields of grand
I have been without
Within
I have good
Him
Treks through skin
Through sin
Treks through blood
Through mud
I have kissed
Missed
I have touched
Much
Tiptoe without song
Without strong
Tiptoe without shoes
Without clues
I have sank
Sinned
I have been afloat
Hymn
Written between pages
Between cages
Written between notes
Between boats
I have a word
A rhyme
I have a thought
In time

Jumbled Junctions & Family Vacations

Car Rides, Sunsets, and lots of margaritas mixed up in a human-sized blender gets you a one hell of a 2010 4th of July.

It starts with a morning interview, a rush home, and shoving luggage into the trunk of my mother-in-law's Mustang convertible. With our dog in the back seat and the radio properly set to the 60's channel we're headed south to the California border. Along the way we see an old, operating, fire truck and one of the largest speedboats I've ever seen in my life. There are countless car wrecks along the way with similar amounts of rubber necking occurring simultaneously.

We finally arrive at our destination in Oceanside, CA. Promptly around 5pm we arrive at a relative’s house and settle in for the night. Oceanside is a part of California that I'd like the opportunity to explore more someday. Although it was a very quick pit stop along our journey we ate well, had some evening wine, and a healthy amount of laughter.

Joining us for the last trek to San Diego were our relatives we'd stayed with and their grand children. We all arrived in San Diego with time to spare and in need of showers, food, and the feeling of the cool ocean breeze on our faces.

Along this journey I discovered a lot about my new family and simply "the way they are". Not every family operates the same. Through the last three or four years I've bubbled myself among my own family and friends to the point my tolerance only fits into those people. To put it in short we had our disagreements on this trip, things exposed and unexpected. We had those quintessential moments that bring it to your attention that this "IS" family now and not just a bunch of people you hang out with once a year.

After the hurt feelings and passive aggressive bullshit we all had the maturity to move on from it. My husbands family really understands how to move on from things that are not as important as we make them out to be in the moment. I am impressed with those qualities. I do not like yelling, or people raising their voices for petty reasons. I found out that some people literally communicate this way and at most for fun. Adjusting is the word best used for my experiences this Fourth of July.

Later into the trip my husband’s sister and her husband joined us. There's a lot going on with each individual in this family. Each person has there own battle going on right now. Sometimes these battles can bring out the best in people, the sides to those people you know have always been there. There is an opposite to the battle, the side that none of us really want to be on, but someone has to face it while others begin to clean up the mess it made. Each family member has a part in a change this year that will inevitably take part in painting an entirely new picture this time next year.

The first night there was a sunset. The type of sunset that comes around once every three or four years. I was fortunate to capture this sunset. Between the orange and yellow there was a black ocean serving its reflection well.

On the second day we had sunshine. The only day we had sunshine was on the second day and then it hid like a coward behind it's foggy clouded days. Carpe Diem was the theme for that sunny day, gathering our things we headed across the bridge to Coronado and cruised the oceanside in search for a beach we could swim and let the dog swim. Do not be fooled by California's open policies because they really didn't want dogs on their beaches, not in Coronado. We snuck the pup in anyways.

After wonderful seafood dinner we slept like logs in our rented beds until we were woken up by an antsy puppy that needed to go to the bathroom. Walking out of the hotel in a zombie daze I let the dog empty his bladder and move onto his next destination. Each morning, after two cups of coffee, there was a meeting for breakfast and then a short break before the first excursion of the day.

Fourth of July was a wonderful day. With a red, white, & blue scull t-shirt I prepared for the firework show of the year in my own patriotic fashion. With confidence I can say that the fireworks in San Diego, CA are some of the best I've ever seen, two years running. A unity of families, friends, and country gathered by the bay shore for an hour of pride and proper partying.

I crossed paths with strangers, families, attitudes, birds, dogs, ideals, and history on this trip. There was a great deal of hospitality everywhere we went and no lack of thankfulness from each person surrounding us. San Diego gave us a pleasant welcome and extended stay.

As the trip wound up with smiles on our faces and food in our stomachs we all realized that we were thankful. We were all thankful for being together, for a healthy family, long talks, overdue walks, and feeling like there was really something to celebrate. I remember as a child feeling similar to that kind of thankfulness, a true sense of patriotic pride that I could feel from everyone around me. There's always something else for us to learn about each other, our countrymen, and ourselves in general. We gave thanks to our troops and our past. No matter the differences in political opinions within our direct company of family and friends we knew we needed to leave with a sense of pride and we did.

The jumbled junctions are mixed in with the family experiences and figuring out which roads to take a stand on and which ones to simply walk away from. It was truly a family vacation. A new tradition is officially born and we will join once a year to pay tribute to each other and our country. Where else to do it than on the bay that harbors so many brave souls each day?

MUCH OBLIGED RESPONSIBILITY

WITH A RELUCTANT SIGH
AND A CHRONIC SMILE

PASSING JUDGMENT ON TEARS
AND WRAPPING PRESENTS WITH LOCK & BOLT

CHARGING A GLANCE
AND MANIFESTING A BEAT

TOTALS OF WEEKS OF WEAKNESS
AND DIGNITY THAT’S FUCKED

DOILY COASTERS HOLD STYLE
AND BOOTS SHINE WITH OIL

REALITY THAT SUCKS ITSELF
AND PIPES THAT BURN IT SLOW

FOG LIGHTS OF MALADJUSTED HIPSTERS
AND JACK RABBIT BUTTONS BRUISED

FUELED AGAIN BY DISASTER
AND ARMATURE CYCLES

FINAL THOUGHTS OF WHAT IF’S
AND MORAL ANIMAL OBLIGATIONS

HOMEWORK EXPOSED

I took it all home as the teacher told me too. I studied really hard. I went to take the test and I failed. I mentioned to her that I made note cards and everything. She showed no mercy and went on to lecture me. “No Excuses” she said.

I never made any excuses.
Period.
Exclamation point.
Comma.
Dot. Dot. Dot.

Porch...

I just had a flashback to the grey front porch of my childhood. I remember that even in the heat and humidity of the summertime I would always get a cool temperature from the wooden boards. I miss the feeling of paint chipping under my feet. I miss the smell of my mother’s well-tended garden. I never took it for granted, but I did not realize until now that I used to step out on that porch and inhale the deepest of breathes each time I’d leave the house, it was a certain comfort. There was an unmistakable likeness between everything and myself that made up the porch experience. I had a friendship with each object and each color. Each detail on the outside of my front yard was burnt into my soul. If I close my eyes right now I know exactly where my mind would take me.

There’s never enough rain, grass, or green here. The memories of “home” are not quite haunting, but a friendly reminder that it’s still there. You could consider this is a poetic continuation of my previous post. There's no porch here. Each place I've lived and learned to love had a porch or a wooden deck. Maybe it's the extension of nature's gift under my feet that creates such a personal connection. Provided by the earth and mixed with the care and design of human curiosity, that simple architecture softens me.

Someday I will have a porch again. A porch with a swing, the swing will be a necessity. Just beyond the boundaries of it's shape I'll make sure to have plenty of flowers and bleeding hearts to remind me of how much mine does. I'm taken away. Taken back to something more simplistic than my mind is able to create on it's own. Perch me in a chair, a rocking chair, with a slight breeze and the song of a spring bird. This is where my bones will rest.

Made of Midwest Ashes

Everyone always asks what my tattoo means on the inside of my right wrist. My tattoo humbly says "Made of Midwest Ashes". If they're lucky I'll tell them the long story, but the short version usually gets the gist across.

I was born and raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana. From 2 weeks old until 17 I called the house on 408 West Branning Avenue my home. For as long as I can remember I didn't want to be there. I knew I was meant to be near the ocean or off on some adventure in some place I'd never seen or heard of before. Corn fields, lakes, and daily comforts just were not enough for me. I may have driven my parents a little crazy from time to time, but eventually they didn't take offense to my passion to "Get Out".

In college I had an opportunity to travel to West Palm Beach Florida for a summer. I went to work on dive boats and charter boats. To cut this short, saving all of those wonderful ocean side stories for later, I'll simply tell you about the tattoo. I returned to Chicago, IL, where I was living at the time, with a whole new perspective. Florida was good to me and the people were most definitely kind and generous, but the communication was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but when I returned to the Midwest I realized it was simply easier to speak to people again.

I embraced a new understanding of who I was, where I came from, why I acted the way I did, and, most importantly, why I would always be made of the Midwest. The ashes fell into place after a poem I wrote, about a year after my adventure to the shores of West Palm, and stuck like glue. To most people I run into they assume the word ashes are linked to death or some sort of tragic moment in my life. Ashes symbolizes my humility. The destruction of self into the earth and grown from the ashes back in Midwest soil.

Coming full circle with this tattoo,a moment, and story I embark on an attempt to describe my current struggle with yet another recent visit to the Midwest. On May 12th I journeyed home for a two-week visit. I hadn't been to Fort Wayne in a year. I later traveled to Saint Louis, MO where I have an extended family of friends that I had not had the privilege of seeing in over 3 years. My last stop was Chicago and an attempt to see so many people in so little time. This is what I like to call the "Midwest Tour".

Fort Wayne left me in limbo between melancholy and comfort-like jitters. The town was slow. The people walking around the town and the overall feeling of my hometown left me heartbroken. The businesses I loved growing up were closing and the houses, on my old block, were grown over with weeds. Paint was chipping from each house that my old friends used to live in and the new fence around the elementary school playground screamed KEEP OUT! The whole town felt like it was closed off from something and hibernating from fear. I left home with a feeling of fear for "The Fort". Jobs were scarce and the community was making it obvious.

As I drove off to Saint Louis I was greeted with rain. Nature's shower poured into the car windows with a sort of hush-like whisper to tell me that things were going to work out. By the time I arrived in Saint Louis I was excited, nervous, and pickled with tunes I'd sung with from the radio for the last six hours. Cornered by my emotions I was met by a dear friend and welcomed into his home to dry off.

Saint Louis was overdue for a visit. I tried very hard to soak in three years of answers to questions and tried to fill in gaps of time. However, Saint Louis had changed too. Parts of the city I was lucky enough to see,for the first time,or the sections I feel I've lived in myself through the years, had all changed for the better. The city seemed to stay in one place socially, but moved onto something bigger than it ever expected to. Between the booze and the social duties that I courageously endured was a new sense of self understanding, yet again.

I should pause to explain that between my travels to Europe about three years ago, and my marriage two years ago, I never really felt I had time to filter all of those events through. You could say that I was constantly moving both mentally and physically until the beginning of this year. Slowly I've been collecting my "things", objects, and material possessions from my life to make sense of it all. As a result of questions and grasping some sort of self awareness I took a leap into the past.


Saint Louis was good to me. The best of the best, as usual. My Saint Louis friends are life long and no matter the situation we'd all be there for each other the best we could. No high expectations, we just accept each other for what we know is really there. They reminded me of what home could, should, and will always be.

After a 6 hour bus ride to Chicago I stepped off the Mega Bus and onto the sidewalk across the street from Union Station. The smell of Chicago always pleases me. The people and strangers are comforting to me. I miss the act of people watching.

Chicago went by quickly with a lot of confusion, live music, friends, old memories, and fantastic food. I had distinct epiphany too, it was not welcoming anymore. I know that sounds contradictory to my last couple of thoughts, but I no longer felt like I'd left something behind that I shouldn't have. The city was like a good mother telling me that everything was okay at home and I could come back anytime, but that I'd have to realize soon enough that this was not home anymore. Chicago was not, is not, home.

I walked the streets of my old neighborhood and felt good times flood in like a soft blow to the gut. Slowly clenching my fist to my stomach I took a moment to breathe in the good ones and out with the bad. Over 5 years of "growing up". I don't consider myself "grown up", just for the record. It all went by too fast, or maybe just fast enough.

So after all that travel, the hugs, the meals, the familiar and yet far off surroundings I came HOME! I came home to my husband, my dog, my cat, and all of our kooky things. My home is with MY family now. I guess this is part of growing up then.

The moral of this little chapter is short and sweet; no matter where I go, or where we live, I will always be MADE OF MIDWEST ASHES.