On my way to Trust Market, sort of

I did not pack my lunch today, but my boss bought us lunch and brought it back. Why, you ask? Because he's that awesome, that's why. I'm not sure what this means for the picture-taking contract I made with myself, but I did see something so fab on the way to pick up some toothpaste at the drug store after work that I have to post it. So maybe this should be called On my way to Rite-Aid, but that's just not as great-sounding.

 I seriously can't even tell you how tiny this door is. We're talking maybe two feet tall. I'm going back with a person for scale and taking another picture at some point, because this really cracked me up. What pushed it over the edge from just weird into hilariously weird is the doorknocker. It's so fantastic. I really hope there are leprechauns living on Spring Garden Street. Oh, that would make me so happy.

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There will be no more On my way to Trust Market posts this week, and I'll tell you why. This lady got herself a F*A*R*M*S*H*A*R*E this week! Thanks, M.C.! I mean, C.C.!

I have spent the last three hours cooking batches of this stuff and figuring out what I will make with the rest. I'm most excited about the corn and the dillweed, but not together. Also the yogurt is super tangy and delicious and will make me and A.T.M. some super good popsicles in M.C.'s popsicle maker while she is away this weekend  tasted great in a mango smoothie I made earlier this evening. It was also the base for a lemon-dill dressing, which will garnish the salad I packed for lunch tomorrow. So there, photo project!!

On my way to Trust Market, part 3

Someone worked really hard to shove that pizza menu in between those doors.

On my way to Trust Market, part 2

Trust Market: for when you can't decide between a jar of pickles and a steno notebook.

Hurricane thoughts

1. I remember being in at least three of these as a kid, and back then I lived less than a quarter mile from the ocean. Far from my mind as a child were the things that usually trouble people during big storms: mortality; property damage; an entire refrigerator full of rotten food; clearing heaps and heaps of brush from the lawn; lost crops. My main memory of these storms was this: This is really, really boring.

Looking back, "boring" was really a good thing, as it meant that our roof didn't blow off or anything dramatic. I think we lost a few windows here and there to high winds, and the yard was a total wreck - a potpourri of fallen branches, fallen trees, and who knows what else, all heavy with water. It's just that there was nothing to do. My parents, my slightly a.d.d. little brother, our two cats, and this mysterious old lady neighbor who only seemed to come over during hurricanes would all huddle in our basement, beginning well before the storm hit and lasting long after it seemed reasonable to go back upstairs. I'm pretty sure this old lady came over becaue her house didn't have a basement level, but it always made the quarantine even more uncomfortable as she was clearly one of those adults who hated children (or maybe just the stir-crazy, locked in the basement with no electricity kind).  While the power remained on I was okay. I'd bring a pile of chapter books down to read, and other than the cement floor issue and the inability to shut my brother out of my space, it was more or less how I would spend any other day.

The trouble always began for me when the lights inevitably went out. My brother would get even more fidgety and sitting in the dark with this old lady I didn't know kind of gave me the creeps. And of course there was the plain fact of not being able to read anymore. I wasn't allowed to read by the one window in case the glass blew in and I wasn't allowed to squander flashlight batteries on keeping myself entertained. The radio was on but it was forever news, news, weather, news, weather and it bored me to tears. I tried to just go to sleep but that never worked, either, probably again because of that whole lying on a concrete slab stuffed into a Care Bears sleeping bag business.

A bathroom and food break was permitted as necessary, but the best time to do this was as the eye of the storm passed over. For those unfamiliar with hurricanes, this is when the winds and rain stop and everything gets eerily quiet and still. With the imminent threat of smashing glass and trees tumbling at a standstill, I could go to the bathroom and get a snack without my mother shrilly calling from the basement for me to hurry up and get my butt back down there.

Even once the storm ended, the boredom didn't. The power stayed off for days - once over a week; the phone lines were out almost as long. The yard was off-limits, and the meals got stranger and stranger as we plowed through whatever we had in the house. I remember one time just begging and begging to go to McDonald's - which I didn't even particularly like - just becuae I had heard that morning over the radio that they had re-opened and this seemed like a viable way to get the hell out of the house.

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Now I am an adult with a few (though not all) of the adult-type storm worries that never concerned me as a child. But I will say this: even with the internet, and the power still on, and adulthood levels of patience and nobody here to interrupt my reading I am still bored.  So now I have the perhaps paranoid fear / nervous anticipation of my windows blowing in or a tornado striking plus an unfocused attention, a strange inability to just zone out and get absorbed in a book. I could even read by flashlight later if I wanted, or turn the radio on to rock-n-roll. These are the choices I can make as an adult, but at this particular moment this revelation is alarmingly not as gratifying as I'd imagined.


2. Another thought, 12 hours later: Irene, thank you for being such a wienie. I didn't even lose power. The basement didn't flood. Thank you for that.

On my way to Trust Market, part 1 of many

My dear six readers of this blog,

I need to get better at packing my lunch.

In order to offer myself a lunch-packing incentive, I have a new self-imposed rule. Here it is:

On days that I neglect to pack a lunch, I must take a photograph of something on my way to buy a sandwich at the neighborhood deli.*

Oh, and I have to post the photographs on my blog. 

And so it begins.

*In most cases, probably with a crappy cell phone camera. Also you should know that the deli is three very short blocks (about two normal city blocks) from my work.

Photo Booth Lament

I am in Washington D.C. this week for work, and it is swell. During the workday I am in and out of various archives looking at pictures, poring over documents, and meeting other people in my field. In the evenings I return to my sublet and get tons of work done that I've been putting off (and also blogging that I've been putting off). The only other person I know in town is the woman from whom I am renting a room, and she is busy packing to move next week. The only things I brought with me are my laptop and clothes. This leaves me free to sit quietly and think in the evening without feeling guilty about how I should be out having drinks with so-and-so or cleaning my apartment or going to the gym. Not that I mind these things, but it's nice to just shove them aside for seven days and attend to other matters.

I was here last summer, in the very same sublet, but for a much longer stay.  I spent each morning and afternoon looking at photographs in the lovely study room in the Library of Congress, furiously taking notes and jotting down ideas and generally having a good time of it. But after hours of careful looking, I always needed a little time out to recharge before heading back to the sublet or going out with friends (I know more people here last year). For me, a bona fide city rat, the best space to regroup was always the most chaotic, and so just about every day I would drag my ass through swampy 105 degree weather to Union Station, sit down with a raspberry lemon smoothie, and do the wretched Metro crossword puzzle and process what I'd seen that day. Where possible, I always sat at the same table in the lower level under some stairs, because it offered a great view of the Presidential Photo Booth.

Old routines are hard to break, and so today when I left the National Gallery I walked to Union Station and went to my old table, only to find that the photo booth was no longer there. This particular photo booth was not really a true "booth" in the first place; it was digital and had a big green screen monitor that allowed others to watch the sitter getting his or her picture made. It was presidential insofar as the sitter posed in a tableau with the president of her or his choice, provided that she or he chose George H.W. Bush or Barack Obama. Most of the people partaking in this activity were evidently politically left-leaning; I watched scores of kids throwing up the peace sign with Obama and Michelle or pretending to moon W.  The photo historian in me wondered what scholars in my field would think a century from now if they found a cache of these pictures at auction, or in someone's attic, or in some weird archive. What do they tell us about vernacular photography now? The fact that there wasn't a curtain built into the kiosk is of course telling; no phone booths, no photo booths now. Everything is just loud and out there and public in 2011 in a way that it was not even twenty years ago.

I harbor secret hopes that they simply moved the photo booth, and so tomorrow after a triumphant (?) return to the LC I shall search for it. But probably the company folded, which tells us as much about photography in the present as politics in America right now, I think. Looks like I'm going to have to amend my routine for the next few.