reflected

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So here’s me, noodling around the city, shooting photos (okay, I know it’s way too soon for a tangent, but let me just say that I’m totally smitten with my Ricoh GR3X, oh lawdy, it’s SO much fun to shoot) and basically having as fine a time as is possible on a cold January day. The sun’s out, the sky is blue, the people I meet on the street are uniformly pleasant and smiling despite the chill in the air. It’s a nice way to spend an hour or so.

As I’m walking along I notice a mural reflected in a window. The mural includes a massive cartoon-styled woman’s face, showing alarm or horror. It’s cool, but it’s not particularly photo-worthy. But what the hell, I take a shot. Why not? I keep walking and keep looking at the mural hoping a better shot will appear, and then I reach a spot where I’m also in the reflection. There’s a giant cartoon hand reaching for me, and I’m thinking that must be the reason the giant woman is so alarmed. Still not photo-worthy (in fact, it’s even less photo-worthy), but it amuses me. So what the hell, I take a shot.

And I keep on walking (which is what you do on a photo-walk, after all). I stop now and then when the light or shadow catches my attention. I notice a particularly fine bollard. A stack of tires in an alley. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck flashing their lights in front of a hotel, but the light sucks and whatever is happening is happening inside the hotel and there’s nothing to see, so I keep walking. And I see an empty shop window, with a clothes rack devoid of clothes but with a fine collection of empty hangers. The lines are nice, the light is acceptable and there’s me again, reflected in the window along with a nice bare tree. So what the hell, I take a shot.

And I keep walking. Down along the river, which is running low. There’s about a million Canada Geese milling about as the ice is breaking up, making a colossal noise, and ignoring the mallards that are paddling around, minding their own business. Then I’m down a street with nice shops and fine restaurants, and the light is catching a table through a window, with the remains of somebody’s salad and an empty water carafe (which is a lovely word to say aloud; French, from the Arabic gharraf meaning “a drinking cup”; go ahead, say it out loud, nice and slow…isn’t it nice?). And, once again, there’s me in the reflection, ruining what might have been a nice photo. But what the hell, I take a shot.

This is a thing I seem to do…reflection selfies. They’re never good photographs, they’re never interesting photographs, and I almost never post those photos (for the reasons just stated). They’re more of a reflex action–like when your doctor taps your patellar tendon with a rubber mallet. I see myself reflected in a window, my shutter finger jerks. It’s a reflection reflex.

But as I was sorting through the day’s photos, deciding which ones were worth keeping, I found myself reflecting on my reflection reflex and c’mon, there’s no way I’m not going to use that phrase. So yeah, this blog post exists solely so I can write ‘reflecting on reflex reflections.’

neil fucking gaiman

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Bless Pearl Cleage. Because of her, I can’t listen to Miles Davis anymore. One of the greatest jazz musicians of all time, and I can’t listen to him. Why? Because Pearl Cleage told me:

[H]e is guilty of self-confessed violence against women such that we should break his albums, burn his tapes and scratch up his CDs until he acknowledges and apologizes and agrees to rethink his position on The Woman Question.

Back in 1990, a woman gave me a book of essays by Cleage: Mad at Miles; A Black Woman’s Guide to Truth and told me I needed to read it. I asked why a white guy like me needed to read a Black woman’s guide to truth. She gave me that look…the look women can give to guys that basically says, ‘I can’t even believe you’re asking me that question, are you actually that oblivious?‘ Of course, I was that oblivious, but I didn’t want to be. So I read the book.

I mean, sure, I could still listen to Miles Davis. But if I even get the impulse to listen to him, I remember Cleage quoting a scene from Miles Davis’ autobiography in which he described slapping the shit out of Cicely Tyson because she spoke to a friend that Miles didn’t like. Tyson called the police and hid in the basement until they arrived. The police spoke with her in the basement, noted that she didn’t appear to be badly injured, and the spoke to Miles, who told them, “She ain’t hurt bad; I just slapped her once.” He and the police had a laugh, they left, and according to his autobiography:

Before I knew it, I had slapped her again. So she never did pull that kind of shit on me again.

If I even think of listening to Miles Davis, I get a vision of Cicely Tyson–one of the best actors in the modern world–cowering in a basement while police have a laugh with her abuser. And nope…no Miles Davis for me. Just can’t do it.

Now it’s Neil Gaiman’s turn. Like a lot of folks, I loved Gaiman’s writing. I really liked him on Bluesky, where he was incredibly kind and thoughtful and accessible to everybody. He seemed like the nicest guy.

But he wasn’t. Back in August of last year, I wrote about the early accusations against Gaiman. I wrote that I believed the women who accused him of cruel behavior. I wrote,

[A] pattern of behavior is what defines an abuser. It’s necessary to distinguish between a person who commits a bad act and a person who’s a bad actor.
Neil Gaiman, it appears, is a bad actor.

In fact, it appears he’s more than just a bad actor. I just finished reading the most awful report, There Is No Safe Word about Gaiman’s long, sordid, horrifying history of sexually abusing vulnerable women. I was somewhat reluctant to read the article. As a fan of his work, I knew it would be painful to read; I knew reading it would leave me disappointed, disheartened.

I was wrong. It left me furious.

Sure, it seems clear from the reporting that Gaiman is massively fucked up personally. And as a Buddhist, I know I should feel compassion for him. But what I feel most at this moment is rage. Fuck Neil Gaiman, fuck Miles Davis, fuck them both in the neck. Fuck every guy in a position of power who’s used that power to abuse women. Fuck the entire patriarchal system in the neck.

Some days I find it hard to understand why women aren’t arming themselves and climbing to the tops of water towers in every community and picking off men at random.

So nope, no Miles Davis and no Neil Gaiman for me. Just can’t do it.

EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ve been using variations of this same editorial note since sometime in 2023. I’m sadly confident I’ll have to keep using for as long as I write this blog. It’s still true. We must burn the patriarchy. Burn it to the ground, gather the ashes, piss on them, douse them in oil and set them on fire again. Burn the patriarchy, then drive a stake directly through the ashes where its heart used to be, and then set fire to the stake. Burn the fucker one more time. And keep burning it, over and over. Burn it for generations.

my year in books

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On social media I’ve been seeing a LOT of My Year in Books posts, in which people report on the books they’ve read in the preceding year. I confess, I’m a wee bit baffled by these posts. I mean, I’m interested in what other folks read. I’m interested in their thoughts about what they’ve read. That can be interesting. But the majority of these MYiB posts feature the number of books they’ve read, and I don’t understand the point of such a metric.

I don’t know how many books I’ve read in 2024. It never occurred to me to keep count. It was a bunch, to be sure. Probably less than fifty, but certainly more than thirty. So let’s say somewhere in the low-to-mid forties? But really, who cares how many books I read? Some of them were books I’ve read before, and I’m not sure if people count those towards their book total. Probably, right? I mean, they still read them.

More interesting to me are the books I bought that I thought I’d read, but didn’t. Again, I haven’t kept count, but I suspect I bought at least half a dozen books that I started to read, but ended up putting aside. A very few were books I just didn’t like (and no, I won’t name them). More were books I’d probably like, but simply wasn’t in the right mood to enjoy. Like The Priory of the Orange Tree. I’m totally smitten by the title and the cover art, but I got maybe 15-20 pages in and it just wasn’t working for me. I’ll try it again at some future point. Sometimes it just happens that way. It took me at least three tries before I finally got more than a couple of chapters into Dorothy Dunnett’s The Game of Kings, which is one of my all-time favorite novels. Same with Gideon the Ninth; the first time I tried to read it, I put the book down after less than fifty pages. Now I think it’s one of the most original and delightful novels I’ve ever read.

This year, like most years, I bought some books I didn’t think I’d like, but wanted to check out anyway. Like The Bright Sword, which is sort of a sideways retelling of the Arthurian saga. That’s the thing about Arthurian literature; you can’t trust it. The Arthurian story bones are so damned good that LOTS of people try to retell the story. Most attempts are at least tolerable. A very few are brilliant. But in my experience, the majority of new Arthurian stories are both regrettable and forgettable. However, sometimes your hopes pay off. To my surprise and delight, The Bright Sword turned out to be a lovely read.

This year, like the last several years, I tended to read mostly genre fiction and very little literary fiction. There’s probably a reason for that, but I can’t be bothered to examine it. I read a few mystery and detective novels, some science fiction, more fantasy than I care to admit (I want to like that genre more than I actually do), a couple of spy novels, and some novels that are clearly genre fiction without fitting neatly into a genre category.

Last year I did more re-reading than I normally do. Comfort reading in uncomfortable times. I re-read books that, for one reason or another, make me happy. Rivers of London, for example; an absolutely charming story, the first book in a series of magical police procedurals that are consistently solid. Mick Herron’s original Slow Horses spy novel, which is a delight in its own offensive way. Ellen Kushner’s The Privilege of the Sword, which, to be fair, isn’t quite as good as her novel Swordspoint, but remains my favorite because there’s an inherent sweetness to the protagonist. I can be a bit of a sap sometimes.

Did I have a favorite book in 2024? I guess. Sort of. I bought Nettle and Bone on a whim, based entirely on the title (which, I should point out, is a terribly stupid reason for buying a book). I have no idea what it is about the title that appealed to me so much. I was very skeptical about the novel at the beginning. I mean, it begins with a woman building a dog out of…well, bones. The scraps of former dogs. Unlike a LOT of novels in which magic is featured, Nettle and Bone doesn’t attempt to explain how magic works. The protagonist puts the dog bones together and when she’s done she’s got a bone dog…there it is, just matter-of-fact, magic exists. sometimes it works and sometimes not so much, you don’t need any more information than that, just accept the existence of the fucking bone dog and get on with the story. And that’s exactly what I did. Nettle and Bone is as dark as the darkest fairy tale (the best fairy tales are pretty damned dark), but it remained charming and amusing and incredibly emotional. Be aware that it deals very bluntly and unflinchingly with violence against women, but at the same time there’s a sweetness that cuts through the grim darkness.

Nettle and Bone was the most unexpected novel I’ve read in recent years. Is it a great novel? Naw, probably not. But I can’t recall any other novel that kept surprising me the way Nettle and Bone did. I look forward to re-reading it again this year.

i’m back

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I’ve been away for a while. Not away away. Not ‘away’ as in a different location. I’ve been away from this blog. The last thing I posted was on 16 December, almost three weeks ago. I’ve been writing this blog since 2011, and this is the longest I’ve been away from it.

Why? Family crisis. I’m not going to go into any detail (partly because it’s not my story to tell, partly because it’s nobody’s business, and partly because I dislike folks who whinge online…or anywhere else, for that matter). I’m only tangentially involved in the FamCrisis (not my monkeys, not my circus); my normally calm, quiet, incredibly happy life is collateral domestic damage, so to speak. Life here has been wildly disrupted; everything is now crowded, noisy, busy, and chaotic. It’s this way, in large part, because it was calm, quiet, and happy. I mean, where else are you going to go to escape, right?

In any event, the situation hasn’t been conducive to writing. But so what? People have written under worse circumstances. And while everything is still ridiculously chaotic and rather grim (and likely to stay this way for some time), I’m starting to acclimate to it.

Even before the FamCrisis, I’d shifted away somewhat from my usual blog posting. Most of my posts over the last several years have been political. But the 2024 election left me in an absolute funk. Since the election, I’ve written more about photography than politics.

‘Annie’ was wrong; the sun ain’t coming out tomorrow. But someday…

But in a short time Comrade Donald Trump will once again infest the White House as an expression of the will of the people (the bastards). It seems pretty obvious that we’re entering into a grimdark era. Truth, decency, logic, kindness…that shit is out. Lies, grifting, loopiness, and willful cruelty will be featured in US ‘governance’ for the foreseeable future.

Ain’t no way I’m going to shut up about that. I’ll still write about photography and other stuff, of course, but I think it’s going to be necessary to call bullshit frequently and loudly in the coming months and years. So I’m back.

Editorial Note: Many/most of the problems we face are either due to or exacerbated by patriarchy. So we need to burn that shit. Burn it to the ground. Burn it, gather the ashes, douse them in oil, and burn them again. Piss on whatever is left, then salt the earth where the burning took place. Then burn the salt. Burn it and keep burning it, over and over. Burn it for generations. Then have tea and biscuits.

the curious incident of the diner at midday

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Here’s one of those photography ethics things. I was sitting in a booth in a quintessential American lunch-car diner with my camera on the table. While looking at the menu, I heard the sound of stressed voices coming from across the diner. I glanced over, saw two women who I thought had a family resemblance staring at each other. The light was nice and the scene had some drama. What to do?

  1. Mind your own business?
  2. Turn your camera on the table and shoot a quick photo without looking?
  3. Pick up your camera and photograph the situation?

Obviously, the most ethical thing to do is 1) Mind your own business. I had no idea what the situation was, it had nothing to do with me, and the two women involved would almost certainly prefer to be ignored.

But if you’ve ever practiced street photography–or if you’ve ever wanted to practice street photography–you know that people are often most interesting and most honest during emotionally charged moments. And those moments are almost always worth photographing. So some/many photographers would at least consider options 2 and 3.

You have to be a complete asshole to choose option 3; to pick up your camera and openly, deliberately invade their privacy. Option 3, however, has the dubious advantage of being honest and direct, whereas option 2 is, let’s face it, sort of underhanded. The thing about option 2–shooting without looking, without composing–is you’re allowing the fickle Gods of Photography determine if you get a decent shot or not. If the shot sucks, then it will get binned and nobody has to think about it.

If the result works as a photograph, then both options 2 and 3 set up a secondary ethics challenge: do you further violate the privacy of these two women by posting it? If you choose to post it, do you post it on a very public social media platform (like, say, BlueSky or Instagram) or on a significantly less popular platform (like, say, your blog)?

Obviously, I chose option 2. Well, sort of. I mean, it’s not like I sat there and considered all the ethical questions. I took the photograph without considering anything at all, completely unhindered by any thought process. I turned the camera on, turned it toward their table, touched the shutter release, turned the camera off, and didn’t think about it again until I got home and looked at my photos.

And hey, I got lucky. It’s a pretty good shot (in my opinion).

This is the shot in question.

Obviously, I decided to post the photos here, on my personal blog. I’ll also post links to the blog on Facebook and BlueSky. How do I justify this? I’m relying on the Men in Black defense. If you’re in a public place: don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing. If you raise voices in a public setting, the public will look at you. Sure, few of them will take your photo, but a photograph is essentially nothing more than an extended look. You don’t have a reasonable expectation of privacy in a public setting.

Another thing: I’ve no idea what these women were talking about. I don’t know if they were arguing, if they were upset with each other or with something else, if their distress was sincere or in jest, if one was distressed and the other wasn’t. I don’t know because I didn’t pay any attention to them (other than to note their voices were momentarily raised). They could have been outraged by the portions or the size of their bill, for all I know.

That said, it’s important (to me, at any rate) not to fully absolve myself. The women may not have had a reasonable expectation of privacy while talking to each other in a very public diner, but I didn’t have to pay attention to them. While I didn’t make any effort to take a good photograph, the fact remains that by taking any photograph I invaded what they probably thought of as a private moment.

Was it worth it? I don’t know. I think it’s an interesting photograph. The chance that either of them will ever see this…or that anybody they know will ever see this…are incredibly slim. I could probably legitimately make the ‘No harm, no foul’ argument. But maybe this type of photography is a social harm in and of itself. I don’t know.

Here’s the thing: I spent several years as a private investigator. Much of my work (which was primarily criminal defense investigation) involved making ethical decisions in the immediate moment–and there was rarely any obviously correct decision in those moments. So I’m used to questioning my ethics. It’s easier with photography. With photography, you can always take the shot and delete it later IF you decide it was inappropriate or unethical. In photography, you have that leeway.

Looking at the photo, I don’t think the level of tension between the two women is terribly obvious–unless you’re looking for it. I don’t think there’s any ethical reason NOT to publish it. Others may disagree, but I’m comfortable with my decision.

small love story

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I’m at the Christkindlmarket and I see this guy and his dog sitting at a table. He’s holding the dog and the dog is leaning against him. I know it sounds ridiculous, but the moment I saw them I thought, “Madonna and child.” I blame all the Christmas stuff for that. I’m not a Christian, but I’m a fan of any holiday that’s (supposed to be) about love and sharing.

Anyway, I’ve got my little Ricoh GR3X in hand as I approach them, and the guy knows why I’m coming. I could see it on his face, the recognition that I wanted to photograph his dog. And it obviously pleased him. I barely got the words out…”Would you mind if I…?” before he said, “Sure.”

The dog, though, seemed a tad uncertain, so I slowed down. Instead of the close-up I’d intended, I stayed back a bit. Instead of shifting my position to isolate the guy and his dog from other people from the frame, I stayed still. Instead of shooting 3-4 frames, I took only one. I moved slowly to take the photo.

I said something like, “He’s a wee bit shy, isn’t he.” The guy said the dog was timid around other people, which is why he’d brought him to the Christkindlmarket and why he was holding him. He wanted the dog to feel safe and protected, but he also wanted him to get used to being around other people.

I didn’t even try to pet the dog, though I wanted to. I didn’t try to shoot more photos of them, though I very much wanted to. I figured the little guy was dealing with enough already.

In the end I said something like, “You’ve got yourself a little buddy.” He said, “I sure do.” And I walked away. But seeing them together lifted my spirits–which, given the world as it is today, was quite a feat. The obvious bond between them, the care the guy was taking with the dog, the trust the dog had in the guy — it was lovely, and I was weirdly proud of them both.

I could have taken a better photograph of them. They deserve a better photo. But it might have made the dog nervous, and no photo would be worth that.

lesson learned

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I’ve had my Ricoh GR3x for a wee bit more than five months now. Long enough to be pretty familiar with it. Long enough, in fact, to get cocky with it. It’s SO fucking GOOD for shooting quickly and intuitively. So good that I’m starting to get sloppy with composition.

I’m usually pretty deliberate when I shoot photos. I know what I want in the frame, and I know what I don’t want. I’m usually conscious of where I should be standing in order to get the image I want. I’m usually patient. Usually. But I’m so comfortable with this new camera that I’m becoming less disciplined. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes…not so much.

Here’s an example. I was walking down the street on a grey, sullen day when a burst of sunshine broke through the cloud cover, briefly illuminating a white building. I was immediately taken by the light and all of those lovely vertical lines. There was a sweet green patch of bike lane, some dead brown leaves still clinging to a tree, a guy in a hoodie waiting at the crosswalk. There was a wet patch on the sidewalk where a recycling bin had probably been sitting, and it mirrored the patch of turf in which the tree had been planted.

There were a LOT of elements and shapes all working together. So the Ricoh came out of my pocket, and I glanced at the screen, and took a snap as I walked. I mean, I didn’t even pause.

I chimped a quick look at the image without missing a step, and lawdy, I was so smug. Not so much with the image itself (it’s not a great photo) as with the way I shot it–on the move. It wasn’t until I got home and downloaded it that I realized I’d fucked up.

Cut off the top of the light pole.

It’s not a huge deal, partly because, as I said, it’s not a great photo to begin with. But it’s a reminder that speed and convenience aren’t always benefits. If I’d paused for a moment…if I’d taken a half step backward…if I’d followed one of the very basic rules of composition (check the edges of the goddamned frame), it…well, it still wouldn’t be a great photograph, but it would have been a properly composed one. I tell myself, “Self, if I’d paused I might have lost the light!” Which is true. But it’s also true that I wasn’t concerned with the light any more than I was concerned about the composition. I was only thinking about how cool it was to be able shoot that quickly and with such confidence. The confidence was misplaced.

Lesson learned.

(Maybe. Some lessons need to be learned repeatedly.)

we lost; bullshit won

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There it is. We lost. I’m not talking about Democrats, or progressives, or any particular political ideology. I’m not talking about the fact that the US has deliberately and with malice aforethought re-elected the most corrupt, ignorant, vindictive, cruel asshole who’s ever held high political office. That’s awful and horrific and it means this nation will suffer mightily and may never fully recover.

But I’m not talking about politics here. The 2024 election is, I think, just a symptom of a far greater defeat. When I say ‘we lost,’ I’m talking about thoughtful people. People who believe in science, in facts, in rationality. People who believe in critical thinking, who are capable of clear-headed skepticism. We lost.

We lost the fight against superstition and pseudo-science. We lost the war between reality and belief. We lost the war between law and disorder. We lost the war between awareness and ignorance. We lost the war between magical fantasy and empirical evidence.

Objective reality lost. Bullshit won.

Fox News won. Alternative facts won. Thoughts and prayers won. Ivermectin won. UFOs won. Crop circles won. Oak Island won. Bigfoot won. The Templars won. Magical thinking won. Apophenia won. The White Queen won (“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”).

It’s not just that science is under attack–you can fight back against an attack; it’s that science had been summarily dismissed as unworthy of consideration. People would rather invest themselves in exploring how Rosicrucians worked with Mayan shamans to bury Viking gold in a South Carolina swamp where ley lines between pyramids in Egypt, Mexico, and the Cahokia Mounds in Collinsville, Illinois meet than try to understand the scientific method.

The very notion of verifiable Truth has collapsed in on itself. “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Nope, not anymore. Who are you going to believe, the Bible or Donald Trump? Keep your Truth; we have opinions. Sure, our opinions may be based on the momentary whim of a malignant narcissist, but we have the right to hold fast to our opinions.

We lost and we are seriously fucked. Donald Trump and his Nazgûl Collective will do catastrophic damage to the US and the world at large. But sadly, he could just be the worst symptom of a larger problem. Are we on the brink of a new Dark Age? I don’t know. Maybe. We could ask the question and shake the Magic 8 Ball, but I’m afraid the answer will likely be, “Reply hazy, try again.”