Da Goddess

Sometimes you need a pretty little something to make you feel better. I’ve had a raging headache for two days and the only thing I’ve accomplished is editing a couple photos, including this one.

I can’t remember if I ever posted these. Hmm…my mind’s slipping. Anyhow, I was chatting with my friend in Alaska, so I figured I should post another photo or five from that trip. (Also I went back to check; no, I’ve not posted these before.)

Any tip over $50 gets you one of these babies (your choice) as an 8×10 digital file (or 8×12 if you want to maintain the proportions shown), logo-free. For $125, you get all three. There are only 10 9 sets available, hence the slightly higher price. Subject line/note should read “Pretty in Pink”. 10% of each purchase will be donated to the Boobie-Thon this year. The rest is moving my pink bottom into a better position.

A playful edit and I suddenly got lost in the woods — where the wild things are.

It was a lovely stand of trees, but all I could think to do while I was there was to rush into the trees and lose myself in nature. When I was little, that’s what I would do. We had the woods behind the house, with a creek, and a bridge. I spent hours daydreaming about what might be hidden amongst the trees. While there are parts of my early life that are clear, when it comes to the woods behind the house, much of it becomes of blur, a victim of tunnel vision, I suppose. Or maybe victim of quick, tiny feet. I wish I could, as well, share the smell of the woods of my youth with you. Deeply green, a little musty, somewhat mossy, occasionally smoky as the leaves of autumn crunched into a fine dust beneath our feet while other leaves in the yard burned. Death to the family playing out everywhere, it seemed. I was a morbid cuss, wasn’t I?

The thing about the woods is that it served many purposes. It was a boundary between homes. It was a home in and of itself. It was a wonderland, where fairies and sprites and other magical creatures lived. On days when I was quiet, which didn’t happen often, I could track said inhabitants, only to have my hunt ruined by a deer or rabbit. Or sometimes it was the neighbor who looked like Dr. Bombay. (My dad has repeatedly told me this man’s name and I, for the life of me, cannot remember it.) He and my dad maintained the bridge over the creek between our homes. The bridge…it led to the woods. It led to adventure! It even led to thorns in my buttocks and thighs on one unfortunate occasion. But it also led to home and hearth…more than one home and more than one hearth. My friend Donna lived back there. Her house was a second home for our family. Our older sisters played together. Where card games were played while alcohol was sipped by our parents. Where we listened in on conversations through the floor vent in the one bathroom. It’s where I fell down and broke my arm at age two (fighting over Ring around the Rosie or Hide-n-Seek, I suppose). To get to that other home, I had to traipse through the enchanted copse and whisper my hellos to the napping owls, the suspicious crows, the leery deer, and the bashful bunnies. Before I left the woods, I’d have to carefully remove the fairies I just knew had hitchhiked a ride on my clothes, tenderly grasping at what I hoped were their wings and setting them down on springy boughs, alongside the ladybugs who’d also joined us. Fireflies never did. At least not for long. It was a class issue, if I remember correctly.

I remember these things. These parts of my early life because of the woods. The trees and the dark mysteries within them draw me back time and time again for little glimpses into my past. The bridge. Dr. Bombay. Turtle. Turtle soup. Crying over turtle soup. Hoping I’d discover proof of fairies and sprites and friendly beasts like Max had found where the wild things were. Where my dreams were, and apparently still are.

So back I go, into the woods. If I hold out a hand, will you take it and join me?

It wasn’t just the photo that brought these memories to the fore. About a week ago, I read a over on Mannequin’s site that triggered something within me. More often than not, she gets me to thinking because she’s posted a photo of a vintage item. This time, it was a single word…woods. This got me thinking even more and before you know it, she and I came up with the idea of a special meme, which will basically be writing/art prompts based on memories. We’ll have more info available on Monday.

Various bones found in Alaska. (Yes, I know, the trip was months ago…)

The first three shots were taken by a river in/near Chatanika. The last photo was taken in Pioneer Park.

Some might say it’s a morbid set of images, but I don’t think so. I’m fascinated. What’s the difference between bones found in the wild, left there after a natural bit of picnicking, and those bone replicas you see in museums? There was no flesh left on these. Even if there had been, I’d not have flinched. I might have worried that the eater of the game was still nearby, but I wouldn’t have been grossed out by it. Animals eat other animals. That’s how nature works. Despite all PETA’s efforts to convince us we should do otherwise, it’s the law of nature: omnivores and carnivores eat meat. It’s not always neat and pretty. But that’s how it is.

Bones themselves are like bits of a puzzle. Everything connects to something else. Except the hyoid bone. It articulates with no other bone in the body. Thyroid ligaments keep it in place, but that’s it.

Anyhow, finding bones doesn’t freak me out. Finding recent HUMAN bones would, but that’s entirely different.

The point is, I got excited when I found the first couple at the edge of the river. It mean something had made a good kill and ate well. And I took photos. Nothing new there. At least I didn’t pick them up and carry them around with me as I did with a desiccated lizard I found under my sofa years ago. I laid his brittle little corpse in an old jewelry box with a bit of cloth between his tiny toes and nails and the cotton bed. He made it through several moves. I liked him.

So, um…how about dem bones?

I never thought I’d have to go to Alaska to find Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel. But I did. I always imagined Popperville was closer to New York.

I love textures and can’t help but make more images of them than is probably necessary. What makes each one different is, well, everything! Color, the depth of a brush stroke or erosion, light, angles of scratches, all of it. It’s all intriguing to me. This is just one of many I discovered in Alaska.

I’m still working furiously on OpLove photos, so it’s all catch as catch can around here. Wish me luck. I have only this week to get caught up.

Or is this rather…I dunno…inapposite?

Do you really expect to see such a thing in Alaska?

This makes perfect sense in my neck of the woods. But Fairbanks? ALASKA? Really?