you are what you eat...

Just how many chicken tenders does one have to ingest before one starts to cluck involuntarily?

I think I'm nearly there.

Oh, and another thing... Walking back to my desk under the lab rat incinerator vents no longer effects my appetite. Somehow, this doesn't seem like a good thing...

two'fer tuesday: cloudy reflections...

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Christ is risen...

entropy...

two'fer tuesday: imagination transportation...

[ Voting has closed... Off to the sandbox with you... ]

just leave the shutter open...

in case you were wondering..

I sent off the bad hard drive last week. Got a call yesterday from the data recovery tech. When I asked if there was any hope of recovering any of my photos from the drive he merely howled with insane laughter. You know, that same laugh you would expect to come from a mad scientist's odd little assistant...

Drive == Dead
Me == Sad

next time i should just duck...

I have few early memories of our house in Dothan, Al. Foggy hints and glimpses of my very early childhood filter to the surface of the conscious mind now and again. One of the dimmer memories is of a birthday party for a kid up the street. I have no memory of the kid's name, face, gender. No details remain save a brief memory of pinning donkey tails on garage door and playing out side on the swing set. The swing set is the more vivid of the memories, specifically for what happened while I was no where near it. Seems there was a bee or two calling the metal tube frame home. You can imagine how irritated a bee would be after having a gaggle of snot-nosed brats running wild all over his home. As I stood watching other kids swing, the enraged bee comes darting out of the swing set frame and flies half way across the yard to sting me directly over my left eye.

I don't remember more than that. I certainly don't remember the pain, though I'm moderately certain it was painful and I'm positive I cried sufficient tears to proof such to my mother (and any other adult from whom a tear soaked little boy could extort sympathy.) Mostly what I remember from my reaction is thinking something to the effect of "Now that was rude. I wasn't even on the swing. Why didn't he sting someone closer?"

An early lesson in "Life's not fair" to be sure. What does this have to do with a child's musical toy? It does happen to look like a bee. And I've since had a very negative view of bees in general, despite my love of honey. But being able to relate the story to the photo is not exactly the point of this exercise, now is it? The point is to write whatever the photo brings to mind, and so I have. I guess that's what I've done.

two'fer tuesday: negative garden...

[ voting is close... an un.bee.leavable landslide... ]

in case you were unaware...

There have been quite a few updates to Coleman's website. Lots of photos of pure cuteness for you to enjoy.

this could be fun...

Our friend Mark, from across the big pond, was nice enough to nominate the Kudzu for a Photobloggie. The Photobloggies is an annual award ceremony celebrating photoblogging around the world, or so their website claims.

If you're not too busy relaxing this fine Sunday afternoon, maybe you could pop over and give a nod to your favorite website. If you don't have a favorite, try the Kudzu, or even Autochrome... Possibly in categories such as "Best American Photoblog", or "Best Writing of a Photoblog", or "Best Kept Secret Photoblog", or "Best Photoblog Design". Maybe you're feeling wild and crazy and nominate me, I mean... your favorite website for the granddaddy of them all: "Photoblog of the Year".

Because, really, it's an honor just to be nominated. Even if you do beg for it...

the president's in town today...

That's right, folks. POTUS. The President Of The United States is here in the lovely burg called Memphis, scheduled to speak on Social Security reform shortly. Of course, with all the extra security and such fussing due such an auspicious occasion, the traffic situation downtown requires a little more patience this morning. Lucky me, I drive in from the east and never quite hit the general messiness.

I did hear on the radio during the morning commute that Mr Bush received a proper Memphis welcome last night. No, I'm not referring to the City Council, et. al. all dolled up on the runway at the steps of Air Force One. No. I'm referring to the young 17 year old punk who was boosting car radios and firing off shots at the pursuing officers a mere block from the Presidents hotel. How stupid can you get? I mean... really? A block from the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Ever heard of these guys called the... uh... what's the name? Oh yeah... SECRET SERVICE! Moron.

Ahhh... Memphis.

two'fer tuesday: fire and water...

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i'd rather be...

down the long vally road...

my fair ladybug...

What I do know is that a ladybug is not a bug at all, but a beetle. A beetle with wings that stick out the rear deck, a beetle with a penchant for loitering around porch lights, with an appetite for vegetables, yes, but also for other bugs. I suppose it's all a matter of perspective.

For you aspiring folk etymologists, word has it that during the middle ages, a group of farmers got so fed up with a gang of crop-eating pests that, not knowing where else to turn (and swallowing their pride, I'd guess), they prayed-to the Virgin Mary, specifically. As is usually the case with insect folk tales, prayers were answered, and a bunch of cute little beetles descended from the heavens, swarmed the pests, and saved the crops (and, thus, the prayers' welfare). So, then, they were called the "beetles of our Lady" before eventually becoming "ladybugs."

What did you first see in this photo? Peace, gentleness, sweetness, maybe? Me, I saw disaster-the first teller of that lovely folk tale hurrying to "The End" before having to tell his sleepy daughter that just a week after the miraculous answer to prayer, those ladybugs got to thinking that boy those pests tasted good, but look at all these crops; that the hearts and stomachs of all creatures are always tempted to bite off more than they can chew. And I saw loneliness-that tiny creature all alone in a vegetable jungle. And I saw paralysis-the ladybug frozen from so much choice, not willing to partake until it knew exactly where to start. Well, and if you haven't caught on yet, I saw myself.

As I supposed, it's all a matter of perspective. Is this not how art behaves, by serving as a mirror for our hearts?

In much of my recent writing, I've caught myself complaining: "Poor me, poor disastrous, lonely, paralyzed me: 30 years old, unmarried, pathetic." I ask myself, then, have I prayed about this? And quickly, I answer, "Yes, I have (though I had to swallow my pride!), but God keeps sending me beetles. I'm not asking for much here, just a soul-mate, a work of art, that person who will be for me a mirror, reveal to me more of who I really am, who I was really created to be." Today, though, I caught a glimpse of myself in an insatiable beetle, saw myself in a bug who wants, perhaps, too much. Is it possible that God has indeed answered my prayers but that my hunger has gotten so out-of-hand that I refuse, paradoxically, to sit at the table until I find the perfect (and, thus, non-existent) sustenance? Probably. Probably, I could use some more perspective. Could use a new vision of what great manner of salvation has been bestowed upon me.

Some say that if a girl catches a ladybug, releases it, and takes note of the direction in which it flies away, she should keep her eye fixed there, for that will be the direction from which her spouse will arrive. Well, that's real pretty, but unless my ladybug flies to heaven, I'm gonna go with a different story, a story based in reality, an old, old story.

two'fer tuesday: grr-animals...

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