A funny thing happened when I started writing my poem for today. Halfway through a different poem said, “No, write me instead!”
A true tale….
I once read a book where every distinct idea received its own line, prose as poem, purposefully presenting them in bite-sized pieces.
I remember it because at sixteen years I learned about infinity this way, how one infinity can be bigger than another. Before this, I had thought "Infinity is just Infinity," never dreaming "it" should be "they," never considering they could be quantified (kind of).
"Think of all the numbers on a number line, how they go on to Infinity. Call it Set A. What if we add one to Set A? Call it Set B. Set B must be bigger!"
"Think how a number line goes from Zero to One. If you go halfway from One to Zero, then halfway again, and so on: obviously you'll never get to Zero. It's an Infinity, but... since it's contained between Zero and One, just as obviously it's smaller than the infinities we discussed with Sets A and B."
My mind was blown. No wonder I took psychotropics. What else could I do to fill the spaces it had made?
My wife changes linens as lunatics do: four sets, towels, sheets, rotated through twenty-eight days. White as reliably follows Black as Waxing follows Waning.
Occasionally I've challenged the Tide by suggesting, "why don't you wash Thursday instead of Friday? We're vacationing soon. Best to look forward, balance it."
I've no idea how my Tides of Time intersect hers. It makes things interesting.
20/100 I’m writing a poem a day (sometimes two), and now I’m 20% there. It’s causing me to rethink poetry and my approach to it, when and how I’ve written it in the past.
Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!
Every Southerner learns gradual acceptance of sweat, wears loose garments, overlooks each other's spreading stains. "Only mad dogs" indeed. Why walk now? Surely my Fitbit will multiply steps taken in such weather?
Escaping my climate- controlled cocoon, black-eyed susans cry welcome. They're sprinkled beside rattlesnake master, goldenrod, butterfly weed. Abiding our warmth, humidity humbly, they suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one patriotically-colored whirligig, neglected, spinning madly with each new breath of hot air, much like my country does these days. Inured to these new great divides, I just see [whirligig; patriotic] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox decoration swings madly with each puff of air. Its caretaker keeps it small: Chinese fringe flower usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub woods (leftover nature long subdued), newer years brought townhouses, all units clad in ubiquitous white, (accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get young magnolias, crafted ever-so- perfectly by your local nursery, while everyone else nurtures what such abnormal specimens become.
Headed homeward I give friend Crow midday greetings, reflect upon our tree-bound need for vegetables in front (sunlight dictates placement), admire still-red maple leaves, register my soaked T-shirt: its limit of three-quarters mile, exceeded by my four.
Recently I’ve been discussing with a friend of mine posed photographs in the context of a ‘photo shoot’. I am deeply prejudiced—wait, I should stop right there and not finish this sentence—to the candid. Just as the “live album” gives us a more raw, more honest performance of a musician’s music, the candid gives us a more honest visual glimpse into the soul of a subject. But—I cannot argue that a studio performance of a song might be better from a musical standpoint, and might offer more insight into the true meaning of a song. Similarly, a posed shot can, with expert crafting by the photographer, offer a deeper insight into the subject than a quickly, randomly shot photo of them. People have many reasons to want a posed shot: weddings, family gifts, graduation, proms, amid others. (A former colleague of mine spent weekends creating boudoir portfolios for wives and girlfriends who wanted to surprise their lover!)
For many decades I’ve been a firm believer in the candid that looks as if it is posed. To get a shot like this, the photographer must insinuate himself/herself into the situation to the point where snapping photos is no more unnatural than the sun shining through the window. Here is my first argument:
Louise Pilcher. Early 1981.
The above photo of my mother is unretouched, unedited—and unposed. She had drifted mentally from the family conversation in the living room. She is sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, likely because there were only so many chairs and a sofa, or maybe because in a few minutes she need to be in the kitchen again. From the angle, I can tell I was sitting on the floor. I believe it was taken in the summer of 1981, but I’m not totally sure. I would have been 27 that year. To my point, my mother knew I was snapping photos, but previous to this shot, I likely was pretending to snap in a different direction. I had/have a habit of just pointing and pretending to shoot because it puts my subject in a relaxed state. Example: I would note that my subject is about 15 feet away, then pick something that is about the same distance and focus on it. Swing around and snap! Subject usually isn’t even paying attention to me because my interest is elsewhere.
Sadly, one of the best portraits I ever took this way appears to have vanished. In 1981, just a few months after I started working for the Newport Miner and Gem State Miner publishing company, my editor sent me to ‘cover’ the story of a Native American woman whose relatives had informed us was celebrating her 100th birthday. I dutifully drove up to the Kalispel Reservation north of Newport, WA, to report the event. She had a beautifully craggy and lined face with a bandana tied around her head. Being less than pushy, I stood about ten feet away, chatting and taking notes, with a camera slung around my neck. Given a breather by the relatives, I swung my attention and my camera to the ‘birthday girl’ as she smoked a cigarette. A tiny bit of zoom on the telephoto and click: I took a head-and-shoulders shot which captured her hand with a cigarette. When it was processed, my editor exclaimed, “Damn, Pilcher, you sure can take a photograph!” It graced the cover of their quarterly features tabloid.
Here’s another one of my mother. My wife and my parents were visiting the Hancock Shaker Village on the western edge of Massachusetts in 2004. Mom stopped for a physical respite, and I said, “Hey, Mom!” before snapping this shot. We used it at her funeral fifteen years later.
My mother in 2004.
Does she look a bit startled. Yes. But does she also look as if someone just said, “Hey, Louise?” Yes, again, and I would argue that’s the impact of the photo. She looks like an 18-year-old who just turned to her boyfriend, except she’s 75 in this photo which adds to the depth of meaning.
I’m still having difficulty describing what I feel is a gray area between “posed” and “candid” where I think a lot of portrait photographers would like to live. The best examples I can think of are those photographers who take photos to accompany interviews, sometimes while the interview unfolds. I don’t know most of their names, but one famous one would be Annie Leibovitz who I know primarily because she photographed musicians for Rolling Stone. She photographed John and Yoko Lennon hours before John was gunned down. She photographed Demi Moore naked and pregnant. Bruce Springsteen had her photograph the covers for Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love. And on and on. There’s a good list on Wikipedia.
Maybe I’m just fooling myself. I’m never sure on this topic. Maybe I’m confusing the stray candid that looks posed for those that actually are. My point, if I have one: people are better known when shot candidly, when they have relaxed into who they are. As photographers we need to work toward putting our subjects into that state, even if the photos will be taken at a formal shoot. What if you click, click, clicked every few seconds? And you carried on a conversation while doing it? Wouldn’t your subject just get used to the snapping shutter? Do you have the ability to shoot someone without putting the camera up to your eye? (Oh, how I miss the two-and-a-quarter Hasselblads! A glance down there and you’ve got a shot they don’t even know you’re taking.) Can you use the “hey, I’m not recording these shots right now” ruse (presuming you’re shooting digital—it was so much easier in the film days)? You of course are lying. Can you carry on innocuous conversation while you shoot? Ask provocative questions? Or will it be the mundane, “Okay, Shirley, now let’s get some with you looking to your left”?
Ghosts, slipping treelike through forests populated by people looking just like they once did. Slowly dissolving, windborne gossamer, 'til people look through them. Haunting not others, but themselves with each mirror-ward glance. Remembering when they treated ghosts similarly, in youthful vibrancy.
Angry Drunk Driving my pickup, Six-pack beside me. Timing my throws to Hit empties into the Truck bed. Blind, thinking Endless thought loops.
Years later. Angry drunk. Driving miles while still Sitting in my chair. Still timing my throws Of empty thoughts to Capture blind thinking: Endless thought loops.
More years Still angry. Still drunk. Tired of driving Mental miles worn Deeply in my mind. Emptied soul tiring Of postured thinking: Break my thought loops.
I’m just not going to make a poem today. My brain feels so scattered, I think the only thing holding it together is my skull. Heat? Maybe. More likely the increasing difficulty with being older and watching the world change into something we envisioned only not like this. (non sequitur? no.) Life now resembles a city’s marathon, only you’re not in the race anymore, in fact, you’re not even on the sidewalk watching. You’re up in your apartment looking down and saying, “I wonder what they’re doing down there?”
In lieu of posting nothing, I took a walk around the yard.
Lovely, ubiquitous goldenrod. Prime suspect in my investigation into the dermatitis which has cropped up again. July 2026.
One of the few remaining non-natives. Couldn’t bring myself to rip out what amounts to a mailbox decoration. July 2026.
Our purple coneflowers typically droop starting this time of year, but pounding rain a week ago didn’t help. Good thing these guys were tied up beforehand. That’s mountain mint in the background. July 2026.
Our yard now represents a pollinator’s dream. Here an eastern bumblebee (I think) heads off for the next blooming sprig of anise hyssop. July 2026.
One of the strangest plants: rattlesnake master. Is it called that because of the thorned, sword-like leaves? Or the spiky flower-balls? It didn’t flower last year, nor did it come close to growing over six feet tall as it has this year. July 2026.
There you have it. Perhaps my melancholy intro will produce a poem later tonight. Time to get down to the pub.