Carefree (or not so much)

20130816-200004.jpgLately I’ve started this habit of trying to guess or foresee the Weekly Photo Challenges, and take pictures – often with my phone – and try and fit whatever I’ve seen of a Friday into the theme of the week.
Last week I was thinking summer, I was thinking vacation, I was thinking freewheeling, and I took pictures of sunrises and landscapes and beaches and fields and a tree I kind of fell in love with just outside of Creemore, partly cause of its majestic breadth, and partly cause of the sound of the roosters crowing in the barn just outside the frame… (I love the sound of roosters…)
20130816-200053.jpgBut this Friday found me on a bus to a job, unsure of how the day was going to go and if I’d even have a job by the end of the day.
And sitting on that bus I saw a poem – one of these initiatives by the government or someone well-meaning to get poetry onto metros and buses and out where people might actually read the stuff.
The poem hit me like a lightning bolt in that way good writing does, and it became a poignant moment on the way to work, so I photographed the distinctly un-visual event of the text on the wall of the bus, just in case it might be relevant to this week’s photo challenge.
20130816-192238.jpgBut in fact, the whole was so entirely contrary to the spirit of this week’s theme of “carefree”, that I began to think maybe the contrast of it, the note of melancholy entrapment would serve to highlight the nature of the sensation of carefree.
And with any luck, later this week, my life will again feel wild and freewheeling and carefree and more in sync with the challenge…
This is the poem itself, by Dionne Brand –

All I could do was turn and go back to the house
and the door that I can’t see out of.
My life was supposed to be wider, not so forlorn
and not standing out in this north country bled
like maple. I do not want to write poems
about stacking cords of wood, as if the world
is that simple, that quiet is not simple or content
but finally cornered and killed. I still need the revolution
bright as a blaze of the wood stove in the window
when I shut the light and mount the stairs to bed.

12 thoughts on “Carefree (or not so much)

  1. When i see “Creemore”, I think “cridh mòr”, which would mean “big heart” or “great heart” in Gaelic. Somehow, that seems appropriate for the location of this tree.
    Too bad, isn’t it, that even where they allow laying hens in town. they generally prohibit roosters. I think of an inconspicuous box that would play a rooster crow really loudly, but only for a set number of seconds. leave that in the night set to go of early in the morning and shut up before anybody could do anything about it. They’d look for a real rooster. Then move it to a different place.
    Or just raise a bunch of roosters out of town somewhere and leave one here and there, perched on one or another person’s back fence at night.
    An exceptionally impressive sunrise. Prints of that could be sold, I think.
    Terron

    1. Hey Terron! How is it you know Gaelic? I love your name for the tree’s location.
      You know even here in downtown Toronto I hear the occasional rooster. If you jog through the alleyways of little Italy / little Portugal, the occasional cockadoodle comes out of someone’s garage. Fun. I don’t know why it makes me so happy, that sound.
      Any suggestions of being able to sell photos and the like are most welcome – have been thinking about ways to make that happen.

  2. When I was about 12 or 13 I looked through a book my uncle had on the various clans of Scotland. There was a page with a tartan on it and another page with some history, &c. .The history page began with a motto and a war cry. Some of them were in Latin, some o them in Gaelic. I thought, “I want to learn that language!” I went to the public library, but all they had was a Gaelic-English dictionary and a book of proverbs. From the university library I got a little learning book which was used with a radio course in Irish in the 1920s. it was pretty musty irish. I doubt anybody really talked that way, but it gave me the shape of the skeleton of the language. When i went to college i met another student whose grandfather lived here in Cape Breton and spoke Gaelic, so he9the student) hd sent to Scotland for some books to learn it. So I sent for some, too, and i have picked away at it ever since. I have gone to evening classes, but they have never know where to put me. i am not beginner, but not a native speaker, either. Tha sior eagal orm gum bi mi ag radh rud-eiginn ceàrr. (i’m always araid I’m going to say something wrong.)
    But, if i’m not mistaken, your name means “a woman from Catalonia”. You speak Spanish. Do you know Catalan?
    I used to go to a weekend market in Oregon to sell my wooden spoons. There was a photographer there who sold his pictures.. i think he made the prints himself, but i’m not sure. Most of them he sold matted, i think, and he definitely did that himself. He offered to let me use his expensive professional mat cutter. It seems to me that you could buy from him in 3 states, framed, matted or plain, at different prices. There must be some markets in toronto where you could go and ask a photographer some questions.

    Terron

    1. Hi Terron,
      I have seen Catalan on the metro in Barcelona – it looked similar enough to Spanish and French combined that I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to learn, but I am not at all from there. In fact I was born in the U.S. of A. Please do not hate me. The other day in Creemore I told this fact to some guys that I met and they said, “well, it’s not your fault”.
      The photography thing – yes, yes, I am indeed looking into it, seeing where and how it is done, what the prices are like, etc. Coming soon…. 🙂

  3. This is why I love what you write. Yes, the photos are fabulous, but it is the words, the thoughts, your mind and soul shining through that blows me away.
    Great contrast you spotted between the poem and the steel lines that frame and cage it .

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