Which doesn’t have a title yet. And it is indeed unfinished. However, I promised a glimpse, and here it is!
“Tessa, Are you all right?”
She latched onto her friend and pointed toward the corner of the classroom that she assumed that the ghost had run.
“Honestly,” she started. “I don’t believe in ghosts. But this one was right there!!”
She picked up her camera and showed him the photograph – perfectly framed and eye contact. His eyes were pleading, their blue color almost shining in his obvious paleness.
“Badass,” he whispered.
“Can we go?” she asked.
He frowned at her. “We could, but why would we want to?” He started walking around.
“Shit,” she muttered and clung to his left arm aiming the bright blue key chain flashlight. Beyond the classroom, there was a kitchen and two smaller rooms. They peered into each room and perused the damage. The photographers instinct took over and despite the possible danger, Tessa crept into the dusty kitchen and snapped a few shots. Her right sleeve was getting crusty with the blood from her intrusion cut and it was getting tough to move her arm.
“So what do you think that was?” Lucas asked. “Think it was a ghost?”
Continue Reading…
So, I’ve been working on a story that involves a myth I’ve heard about photography and souls.
The myth states that a photograph takes a part of a person’s soul.
I’ve always found this idea a little intriguing. Today, I was doing a little research on the myth to find out about its origins, and apparently it comes from many cultures (Aboriginal, Mayan and Native American to name a few) and its root is in mirrors.
In these cultures mirrors were thought to reflect the soul – for Mayans, mirrors were seen as a portal between this world and the next. Cameras got involved because of the mirrors used inside of them. Once a photograph was taken, it held a part of the soul that could never be returned. Any carelessness to the photo would be viewed as damaging to that part of the person’s soul.
This is the reason why some Native Americans refuse to have their picture taken and why in some churches photography is banned.
James W. Bailey, an artist with Native American roots, understands this belief. He created an exhibit called Stealing Dead Souls and questions the idea’s impact on non-living and inanimate objects, as well as commenting on the “death” of film. His now-defunct blog of the same name shows images, describes methods and begs questions which the project is trying to answer. He asks:
If taking a photograph of the living can steal souls, what happens if you photograph something dead or inanimate? Do the dead or non-living have souls? If so, can the souls of the dead be stolen by photographing them?
I’m feeling a little more enlightened and certainly more prepared to go forward with my story.
Sorry for all the delays in postings, friends! Sean and I have successfully moved and are slowly but surely getting unpacked and presentable! The neighborhood is great and the neighbors are even better. I’m thinking it’s going to be a great year!
Sadly, there won’t be any Cabermuckly and Resonhoe cohabbing… but in the age of the internet, we are still quite unstoppable!
I just got in from Michaels (Art Supply Store) and now have a MASSIVE haul of frames (28!!!) since there was a super awesome sale (plus a super awesome coupon!). There’s definitely no stopping the gallery creation now. Well, the lack of nails might, but that’s only a small problem!
I’m also contemplating a series of photos to start on for the fresh new (lease) year.
Once I’m more settled at home, be sure to be on the look out for a flush of entries – including a year’s wrap-up since graduation and the beginning of a story I’ve been working on.
Posted June 5th, 2010. 1 comment
As read on May 30, 2009 Harvey Nathaniel Vincent’s Memorial Service:
On Portraits Of People
He turned away, slowly
and she didn’t notice.
Although it was painful, it was expected;
but to her it felt like it happened in an instant.
It wasn’t the first.
When she was born, she thought she had forever.
That everyone she would ever need was right there
in her circle.
Always there,
no matter how far away.
Despite the expanded web around her,
she didn’t feel quite the same.
As one circle drew closer, it felt emptier
because he had always been there.
The old man was one of the few she’d always known to be constant.
He didn’t mean to,
but he had to.
It was time
and something she needed to grow.
He writhed in pain and as his body became iron-cast, he made himself look away.
No one noticed that he continued to peek through the eyes in the back of his head.
At least he isn’t suffering
but couldn’t he have waited one more day?
She felt dizzy.
He (her father, his son) wished he could have said good bye.
She (her grandmother and his wife) had been preparing for a long time.
She was most ready, but it was hard on her, too.
Rest now, merry gentleman.
You’ll now have no nightmares in your sleep
but, also, no lady to kiss your cheek,
to wipe your tears and
calm your shrieks.
She’s waiting for the day that she’ll see you again
so the neighbors upstairs can gawk and
stare just like they did the first time.
They had been involved in this romantic affair
that would have been deemed at the time
A Scandal
so important to a family
but because of frivolous youth,
it’s as if no one needs to hear.
But the affair ended many years later
in death,
after a wedding
and two children plus two grandchildren.
As one web expanded, another collapsed.
When a piece from the center wiggles free,
everything gets thrown.
It’s all off balance.
The huddle waxes and wanes
and the wounded and disoriented soldiers recuperate
and recoil, knowing deep down that everything was right.
The young girl – though she had already grown –
felt no other urge than to crawl on hands and knees.
She felt comfort in distraction
his family couldn’t be there for him.
Her father was a child once
and the old war veteran took him to the beach.
The little boy danced as the sand scalded his feet.
Her father chuckled behind him and when the umbrella was up
and their bodies were cooled and covered in sticky sand,
together they scraped the sand into buckets,
collected seashells and other beachy adornments
just to build a palace in which they could never live.
He sat on the inside as they built the castle around him
so that he could be king.
When the sun went down, father carried son home
and the castle stood until the tide came in.
Logically,
life is the blink of an eye, the snap of a shutter.
As quickly as the houses show and disappear from the windows of trains, moments seem to linger
and eventually manage to fade.
The memories kept the family laughing
and the stories kept the old man alive..
The young girl did grow into an old woman
and with her brush, she painted a colorful portrait
that they hung on the wall
and years after she died would put in the attic
like all the rest
for they never knew the figure.
After all, it was just taking up space.
R.I.P. Opop. We love you.
January 12, 2009.
Posted January 12th, 2010. 1 comment
From Writer’s Digest:
M&M Candies “Melt in your mouth, not in your hands.” Miller Lite “Tastes great, less filling.” Describe yourself (or your writing) in ten words or fewer.
“Words and images, tickling your imagination.”
Posted September 1st, 2009. Add a comment
