(no subject)

It's a happy coincidence that Facebook reminded me of this post while Danae is out of town and I'm missing her.

It also reminds me of how much I can enjoy photography, wandering, and exploration and that I'd like to do some more of it one of these days.

During one of our earlier visits to Hamilton, Ontario, Miriam Boon took me on several wandering drives to show me the town. On one of them, up on the mountain (the upper 'half' of the town, sitting atop the Niagara Escarpment), we found several vantage points that afforded views of all of lower Hamilton and the steel plants. Exploring further, we bumped into an abandoned healthcare facility of some kind. She parked and we meandered around the grounds, talking and pointing out interesting details as I photographed.

These peripatetic drives to nowhere in particular are some of my favorite memories of our travels together. In December, we went on another drive up the mountain. This time, we found ourselves in Sam Lawrence Park, a linear green space that follows the edge of the escarpment near the Jolley Cut, a road cut into the cliff face. We parked and gave up the warmth of her car in favor of the chill mountain wind, tempted by signs and monuments scattered about the walking paths.

When I encounter a new space and spend a little time getting to know it, I revel in the sense of unfolding mystery. Whether it's an illicit tromp through an abandoned building or a simple stroll through a city park, not knowing what there is to find and see makes almost anything I happen upon a revelation. Most times, that thrill is a solitary one. As a photographer, the course and speed of my passage through a space is often constrained by the process of image-making; accompanying me on a photo trip can be an exercise in patience. I don't mind the solitude; I can connect with a space on its own terms and mine, spending as much or as little time as I please.

But I feel a different, equally special, thrill when I'm experiencing a new place in the company of another adventurer. Miriam let me share my excitement with her, contributing her own as well as I bounced from overlook to interpretive sign to the top of a stone wall. Places and cities are meaningful to me; I find things to admire and appreciate in each one I visit. Miriam knew this, and she shared a city, hers and her parents' city, with me. That sharing is an act of love. In a recursive way, that love is another part of what makes Hamilton special to me. And Miriam's understanding of my desire to experience, and the way she demonstrates her care and affection in facilitating those experiences, is one part, among so many parts, of what makes her very special to me.

These are some of the most memorable moments of my visits to Canada with my beloved Miriam. In these times, she gives me two things that are very important to me. First, her company and her own stories, experiences, and conjectures about Hamilton let me build a relationship to place that is both experiential and personal, adding to the historical and physical perspectives I can gain from reading about a city or exploring it with maps. Second, she gives me joyous time spent doing something personally meaningful to me with someone I love deeply. She takes joy in indulging my enthusiasms and seeing my excitement at the experiences she makes possible. When I think about standing at the top of the escarpment next to Miriam, the two of us looking far out over the city below, pressed together against the cold and calling each other's attention to buildings or landmarks, I feel overjoyed that she is in my life. I feel loved.

(no subject)

The shelter in Evanston has three elderly pugs who were owner surrenders. I don't know what their story is in full, but whether from lack of concern or lack of their owner(s)' means or abilities, they were not well taken care of. They smell bad: not just their breath, but all over. They're quite overweight, though I often let that slide as I consider an obese pet to be in much better circumstances than an abandoned or starved one. Other than that, the two 8-year-olds are typical happy pugs; that is to say, they are genetic disasters who could not survive on their own and who, fortunately, are not self aware enough to be upset about what humans have done to them. (One of the most wonderful things about dogs is how they can be in the middle of an awful situation and still be *so happy* just to *be*. It's inspiring.)

The 13 year-old, though, beyond the smell and poor diet, is blind and deaf. The poor thing must be confused and terrified. At least she has her two friends with her. But she's not just blind. Her eyes are...I don't know. Necrotic or something. They bulge disturbingly from the sockets. I don't know if she can even close them. They don't look like eyes; they're a matte reddish-brown across most of their surface, with bits of something resembling crusted mucus on parts of them. Her eyes move a little bit from time to time, but they are clearly not functional. I worry that she may even be bumping into things with them as she perambulates around.

Especially at first, she was hard for me to look at. Her eyes are like a claymation demon's from a horror movie. At the same time, I felt tremendous care and pity. After the walks were done, we took the three pugs into the front foyer to spend some time with them. I carried the blind one out and sat with her in my lap. She was terrified at first, shaking in my arms. I sat with her and stroked her back, head, and chin, telling her she was a good dog and that I was going to take care of her tonight. She probably didn't hear anything, but maybe the vibrations helped. She eventually settled down a bit and seemed to enjoy the petting. I slowly got used to looking at her face as she raised her head for scritches. She even licked my chin a few times as I tried not to think about her eyes that close to my skin.

I took a few pictures of her, thinking that I'd post them and talk about why the kind of inbreeding and trait selection that gives rise to some breeds makes them so unhealthy, but I think they may be too disturbing for people to see unexpectedly so I won't do that here. Instead, here's a link to the Adam Ruins Everything piece about purebred dogs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCv10_WvGxo

Pugs are adorable; I won't argue that. (Well, the ones that don't have horrifying defects or illnesses, anyway.) But their noses are so bizarrely upturned that not only can they barely breath, but they have a crevice of skin between it and the rest of their face that can build up ick in it and get infected. Please think about the lives some of these dogs have if you're thinking about what kind of dog you want.

(no subject)

My nice speakers live on either side of the TV, which means that when I'm sitting at my computer, they're both off to my right. It had been long enough since I sat down between them and really listened that I was enchanted anew by them. Closing my eyes, it's not hard to 'see' the layout of the instruments where the person running the mixing board put them.

I listened to my two favorite songs from Blind Melon's eponymous album, Change and No Rain. Shannon Hoon's vocals are so sharp and unprocessed on Change, with crisp consonants and bright sibilants. On No Rain, his vocals are processed; slightly echoy, slightly...I don't know. Processed. I'd never noticed that before. I prefer the sharper sound, though the processing choice for No Rain was intentional, I'm sure, to fit the mood. It made me want to listen to some singing where the singer was being up close and personal with a nice microphone just to listen to all those beautiful details.