say hello to my little friends…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love these guys.

The clownfish or also known as anemone fish are my favorites.  There is everything about them that make them the underwater photographers favorite subject.  They are colorful, abundant, interesting and interactive.  And they live in a colorful and beautiful place.

And they are very brave little creatures.  Very protective and always ready to do battle if you get too near.  I always try not to laugh into my regulator when, for one so that I don’t fill up my mask with water and two so I don’t hurt their little feelings.

morning acquaintances…

Every morning, as I sat on my lounge chair, camera in my lap, sipping the steaming latte in my hands, I would watch as the morning rituals occurred.  There were people who lived there who had their rituals, probably carried on for decades, if not generations.  There were visitors to the island, like me, who would walk the beach, enjoying the fragrance, the sounds, the freedom of the environment.  Like me, this was probably a special treat for them as well.

Two of my regular acquaintances, every morning, were the Mama dog and her baby.  Every morning they would come from around the trees to the left of the resort and play in the sand just below the restaurant.  I suspect they enjoyed the aromas wafting from kitchen and the possibility of scraps made it a favorable place to play.

For a week, they allowed me to share this space with them.  The puppy was oblivious to me and was alway busy with her mom, playing, nipping, jumping and always scratching her ears with her back leg.

The Mama was attentive to her child, but always and ever watchful of this stranger in the lounge chair.

 

love those starfish…

I love starfish.  I do.  I take photographs of them when I’m diving.  I look for them.  I get excited when I see them.  I show them to other divers.  And the other divers usually look at me as if I’m crazy.  They look around, and then shrug their shoulders and swim on.  I’ve asked several divers what the underwater SCUBA sign is for starfish.  They tell me there isn’t one.  It makes me sad.  I suppose, if I can confirm that this is truly the case, that I can just make one up and start using it.  If you just happen to be a diver, next time you see a starfish, stop, take a look, recognize the beauty and make a big deal.  You might make a starfish very happy.

And what could possible be wrong with that.

Hanging On And Fighting Against

A new generation.  They fight for the right.  They are innovative and creative and clever and smart.  They were brought into a world of dissection, discord, dissolutions and disrepair.

They have a long way to go and a lot of work to do.  But given a chance, they can do it.  They can make the changes.  They can stand up for life and love and rights and the right to right the wrongs.

They are creating families and children and friendships and their creative energies are everywhere.

Pear Jackets

We were going to take pictures of the full moon rising over the lake.  We needed provisions.  It was cold, we were hungry and we had to be prepared.  We found a little grocery store close to the lake.  We walked in, scanning every aisle for the perfect “eat in the cold and the dark” food.  We went back to the meat and deli department where a woman behind the counter was just placing a plastic container covered in plastic wrap on top of the counter.  I took a close look and found that they were pork chops in gravy!  And they were piping hot!  One perfect item for our adventure.

Next we found a bottle of pinot grigio, my current favorite wine and then we headed over to the produce section.

We looked over the limited choices of fruits and vegetables, and found a couple of Asian pears.  Num.  That would make a delicious dessert after the pork chops.  We grabbed them and headed to the front to check out.  We placed all of our treasures on the moving belt at the cashier.  The woman working there looked over our items and started ringing them up.  When she got to the pears, she picked one up and looked at it curiously.

“Why do they have these little jackets on?”

I thought she was kidding, so I responded with “Well, it’s cold up here.”

She looked at me seriously, and nodded.  ”That makes sense.”

And she continued ringing up the rest of our sustenance.

A Sunset Of My Own

Sunset in Cozumel.

Beautiful.

It was my first solo trip.  My first trip to Cozumel.  I went to go diving and I did.  This particular day was especially stormy.  The waters were rough and wild.  The waves broke over the docks at the dive resort.  As the sun began to set and the sky began to change, the colors, dynamic and bold became breathtaking.  I left my table at the restaurant patio where I had been eating my late lunch, trying to find the very best place to shoot.

Finally, making my way to a bench at the farthest point of the resort, standing on the bench, taking in all of the amazing reflections in the overspill.

Amazing.

This was my sunset.

Mine.

Manzanar

I’ve driven by this place countless times in my life.  For most of the beginning of my life I had no idea it was even there.  During my adult life, I’d heard rumors.  I didn’t have time, didn’t take the time to pay attention.  If it weren’t for a dear friend,  I would still be oblivious.  It’s just up Highway 14, almost unnoticeable.  There’s a guard house right before the turn-in and a guard tower shortly after as you are heading north.  I never paid attention.

This was Manzanar.  A relocation camp for the Japanese in the 1940′s, located in the shadow of the Sierra’s, heading north on Highway 14.

But today…today I paid attention.  Not at first, to be honest.  I walked toward the building there, nondescript, not terribly interesting on the outside.  I walked in the front door.  The entry was again, nondescript.  A counter at the front by the restrooms.  A gift shop.  A gift shop?  Here?

I hadn’t come to buy stuff.  I’d come to see what this was about.  A little cynical, I didn’t expect much.

But I was mistaken.  There was much indeed, and I paid attention to every little thing.  The exhibits, the stories, the photographs, the maps.  The newspaper clippings.  With each bit and piece of information the reality of the camp became more and more clear to me.

A docent came out to the main room and announced that there would be a 22 minute film showing in about 5 minutes.  It seemed that 22 minutes was an incredibly long time to spend.  My friend and I had big plans for the day.  I reluctantly agreed to see it.  It probably ranks way up with there at the top with other important 22 minute spans during my life.  It was important.

I spent the next 22 minutes watching a film that touched me deeply.  I could see and feel the reality of the lives of the American citizens who were taken from their homes and businesses and friends and placed behind the wire fences, under the protection of guns.  I sat in the dark, eyes glued to the screen, tears running down my face.   People.  I just don’t understand people.

That was enough.  I walked out of the theater, tear stained cheeks, red face, red eyes.  I didn’t care.

We left the museum and headed out to the parking lot.

“There’s a driving tour,” he told me.  Let’s take it.

“Yes,” I whispered.  I thought we should.

He had been completely without judgement during the movie.  He’d seen it before.  He didn’t intrude on my emotions.  He understood.  He let me cry.  He didn’t ask.  He knew.

As we headed down the roads that wound through the camp, we would jump out here and there and take photographs, both photographers, both interested in each detail.

Finally we came to the cemetery at the back west end of the compound.  The monument stood tall in the fenced in area.  The Japanese symbols in deep black against the white stone.  We parked outside of the area and walked towards it.  Taking photographs as we got closer.  We saw a small car drive up and drive completely around the outside of the fenced in cemetery.  I watched and I waited as I tend to do.

The little car parked outside of the fence, close to the entrance.  Out of the car emerged two women, probably in their late 50′s, maybe 60′s, two young men about 20 something perhaps.  They were Asian.  I watched them.

They all walked into the cemetery and up to the monument.  Looking at all of the articles people had left there over time in memory of this or them or that.  Stones, bibles, flowers, rocks.  Things.  I watched as they took out their camera and started taking turns taking pictures of each other in front of the monument.  This was my opportunity.

I walked over toward the monument, toward the group.

“Can I take your picture?”  I called to them.  They all stopped and looked at me, walking towards them with my large black digital camera swinging from my neck.

“Yes, please, that would be nice,” one of the women said.  They handed me the camera, showed me the correct button to push and all lined up in front of the monument.  I pointed the camera, “Smile”, I said and took a couple of shots.

“Thank you,” they said.  We stood there, a moment of uncomfortable silence.   I had to ask.

“Do you know about this?” I asked the women.

They smiled and looked at each other.  A slight hesistation, then…

The younger one spoke first, “My sister, May, was in a camp in Topaz.  Our family was sent there shortly after the war started when May was in about third grade.  I was born in the camp there.”  She was Nancy.  They had been from San Francisco.  They had a home and a business and friends and family there.  And then they were in Topaz.

We talked a little about what it was like to live in that time and be of Japanese descent.  It was difficult.  People treated them horribly.  The Chinese would put labels on their children stating they were Chinese before they sent them out of the house to protect them from derision.

Our talk was open and our talk was important. Here were two amazing women who had lived through this.  Sisters.

the luscious pink slipper

Walking along the streets of Hoian, a small bustling town in Central Vietnam.  Everything is beautiful and different and interesting.  Lot of little shops selling lots of wonderful things.  Colorful, fragrant, all new.

Walking  down this particular street, there were doorways in buildings built up from the street, doorways at eye level.  This city was right on the water, so I suspect flooding may have been a consideration.

There, in the doorway, I saw a flash of pink. It caught my eye.  I paused to look and found a disembodied foot in a slipper of the most luscious shade of pink, bobbing up and down, like a bored teenager tending a video store.  I so wished I could be clever enough to sneak up and get that shot of this foot and it’s owner, but alas, I knew that the moment I was caught in her eyesight, I would pause, I would ask for permission, the foot would no longer bob.  It would be gone.  And so, I stopped and I took the shot and the foot disappeared at the sound of the shutter.

But just a moment too late.  The shot was mine.

Sliding Into Life

She’s 22.  And she loves slides.  And swings.  She loves cartoons and word search puzzles.  And she loves to play with her two year old niece.  Best friends.

Rachael, a child for the most part, locked inside a woman’s body.  She has Trisomy 21, Down Syndrome.  That means that her 21st chromosome has three parts instead of just 2 like “normal” people.  A lot of medical mumbo jumbo.

So, she has something extra that the rest of us grown-ups don’t have.  She has the ability to appreciate life for what it should be.

A ride down the slide…

Fun House

They call it the Funhouse.  With its garishly painted colors and irritating music played over speakers played too loud for too long.  The steps are rickety and loose from wear and poor maintenance and the plexiglass in the mirror maze is scratched and covered in hand prints from kids who have had their fill of pink cotton candy and can’t afford to take the time to wash the sticky off of their hands.  The carney sees me with my camera pointed in his direction and quickly bends down to cover his face.  As I prepare for another shot, he gets up out of his chair and moves to the side.  It makes me wonder what he has to hide.