parking space © Laura Kicey
Last weekend I visited Manayunk with fellow photo bud, Andrea. We trolled around the alleys and managed to be harrassed only by one stupid frat boy and a posse of people watching us from their deck rearrange an abandoned set of stairs in a random alley. It was probably the firt time I can recall being excited about seeing the results of the day's shooting in a month. The town had just been visited by bad floods last week, courtesy the non-stop thunderstorms. I was not aware of this whilst visiting as it looked fairly pristine from the outside. Realizing this, in some semi-sub-conscious way that came to the surface, made me feel like an epic slacker at getting the proverbial shit back together.
spectator © Laura Kicey
My mother has a strange theory about cleaning, one which I can't fully understand... therefore it is not terribly effective for me. So after spending Tuesday morning and early afternoon hanging out on the lawn of my boss watching a Fourth of July parade that meanders down his street, dodging candy bullets being shot from parade cars and floats... my mother showed up at my house. She descended, donned rubber gloves and became the Sudsy Whirdwind, while I reorganized a closest and reformed and redistributed my small piles of accumulation.
stately © Laura Kicey
The general malaise has made me avoid some/most of the housecleaning... Not so much clutter as just lack of scrubbing. She said it wasn't really that bad (which from my mother *is* saying something)... it just feels bad to spend the hours I do with it under both a literal and actual stormcloud. My house is clean, though I don't feel much better because of it (though apparently I should...hmmm... nah). It is officially One Less Thing bothering me, for now, until the cat tufts get out of hand once more.
family © Laura Kicey
Also while at the home of boss, I was shown a book by some photographer, whose name I think is Something Something Minniken, but I am not sure... the book was a collection of his rather intriguing self-portraits. All set outdoors, he would use himself in a very abstract way, echoing the forms of his surroundings, becoming nearly invisible in his contortions. I really loved his portraits of other people, as they were *also* self portraits. He always used some part of his body in the frame with the other person. It was odd and haunting and perplexing and intimate and cold... and gave me some ideas.
Apologies for the again-(or still)-random nature of my rambling. I want to call attention again to the Punk Rock Flea Market. I don't really need to sell anything myself, but some people do. I know there are goodly number of people who are in a Philly-Local way who read this blog. I see you! I smell you! I know what you are wearing! Sometimes! Even if you don't want to talk to me, come! I won't make you talk to me! I swear. I really don't talk much anyway even if you wanted that. This is also to be a networking event to help Mr. D make connections so he can make his way to Philly. Sooner than later. Even if you have no cash to spend on photographic frivolity, if you have most precious information, bring it with you and you will be the proud recipient of eternal gratefullness.
One Less Thing to dread if it goes well.