tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75331442636583388532024-03-20T01:57:07.343-07:00October Countrydonal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-12581834438391368282009-10-29T02:28:00.000-07:002009-10-29T02:30:27.649-07:00Lisbon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEIflj7oOTjZbdWVbNboeHKh8XnlOk6UIHZ2KM2Gs51CeKtpKnCg4nKgbruRYaSrMYLaW_laOJG1kczhFlNysvsRFY-FockrFyhrwB0xykcCgvi5O1Vaq8cZ8SKFrR4ZdzenxBLFyanw/s1600-h/IMG_4431.JPG.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEIflj7oOTjZbdWVbNboeHKh8XnlOk6UIHZ2KM2Gs51CeKtpKnCg4nKgbruRYaSrMYLaW_laOJG1kczhFlNysvsRFY-FockrFyhrwB0xykcCgvi5O1Vaq8cZ8SKFrR4ZdzenxBLFyanw/s320/IMG_4431.JPG.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397941316939844402" /></a> (photo by Mike)<br /><br /><br />I'm missing Lisbon already - the winding, tile crusted streets, the gentle light, constant music, cafes with strong coffee and the constant threat of pickpockets. This is a city with both grandeur and grit. In a shady bar I watched a transvestite prostitute for whom any eye contact meant business. Two muscled handsome asked me to take their picture - muscled puffed - necks and faces red. I thought they were macho soccer fans, and they were, except that their legs were twined round each other. There was a hair in my whiskey, a fight over cigarettes at the dispenser, and a woman mopping vomit off the dance floor -forcing lively moves on the listless couple dancing there... In the theaters we saw Africans braving the film grain sand and heat of the Sahara to reach new lives, (Mirages) we saw a Romanian couple in their 8O's gently allowing death, tempered by long love, to enter their lives (Constantine and Elena) and we saw my family loved by strangers. Evenings were spent on a terrace, eating drinking and learning how much great cinema has been denied US viewing because of the cold war scholarship. On our last night we danced to Lisbon pop, ESG and the Clash with filmmakers and festivals volunteers - all I remember is hair and hips and eyes circling round, Cinta's hand in mine, Joana’s sly smile, Marta's boots... A woman's scooped neck linen blouse with golden spangles shaking, a boy's tight ass in white, wine stained jeans, moving across the dance floor. Winning the prize here meant something more than film credentials; it meant we touched the woman and men here who gave us such living glimpse of the place.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6lKnblB6Nx5Mxm3uXz0mT_Hno-emNEyG8wNjJ01QkIDCrz9BQJqICWwE1iKs5FkfvgnpKZk2IOfPNB34Xf9FEKFHaH_UDlAUYKqui5QVjNtBmad1K8sii7Bxoy7Xom-eko6joHcC4lQ/s1600-h/IMG_0241.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6lKnblB6Nx5Mxm3uXz0mT_Hno-emNEyG8wNjJ01QkIDCrz9BQJqICWwE1iKs5FkfvgnpKZk2IOfPNB34Xf9FEKFHaH_UDlAUYKqui5QVjNtBmad1K8sii7Bxoy7Xom-eko6joHcC4lQ/s320/IMG_0241.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397935480209342850" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitI3E-_1S8uc7VcZiF1b49YVrVjfKPU8fAPC1vc68SOnwVP493CS9nUbGow3VQx-V78B3-QrIOEJ0Oy8IBnVMzBTqZPIjk1NoV_Q4lvyfGR7I_RyqWMCakfyvPjve5qQ0Z8uYoYqVkzVA/s1600-h/IMG_0340.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitI3E-_1S8uc7VcZiF1b49YVrVjfKPU8fAPC1vc68SOnwVP493CS9nUbGow3VQx-V78B3-QrIOEJ0Oy8IBnVMzBTqZPIjk1NoV_Q4lvyfGR7I_RyqWMCakfyvPjve5qQ0Z8uYoYqVkzVA/s320/IMG_0340.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397936613240828306" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn_y0v9SQYOcey-yT1tYy8uRbXHsGacGXaNn848dUXeaLDK9A5KwWQHi2bY7hcHhCftmkP3oH73c9lmELGiGxr8xHTlt90I6VoKWcFPg9dzVav2txWCGq7_JJj18MquHQmwjhIKmF4F4/s1600-h/IMG_0348.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTn_y0v9SQYOcey-yT1tYy8uRbXHsGacGXaNn848dUXeaLDK9A5KwWQHi2bY7hcHhCftmkP3oH73c9lmELGiGxr8xHTlt90I6VoKWcFPg9dzVav2txWCGq7_JJj18MquHQmwjhIKmF4F4/s320/IMG_0348.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397936611026512482" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc37C-ynwA3B_Mf3kHaTDA5v1w5_KwEeUeEOZD9M-Hldncife46HvfRGlZepYJqwZmYpyeINnv4AiZ3nC5Uom-zNi60VFl1G8xMBNxMVRayAlTJPidEo6x21NMlKehX3FXa4UvZdg8SXc/s1600-h/IMG_0402.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc37C-ynwA3B_Mf3kHaTDA5v1w5_KwEeUeEOZD9M-Hldncife46HvfRGlZepYJqwZmYpyeINnv4AiZ3nC5Uom-zNi60VFl1G8xMBNxMVRayAlTJPidEo6x21NMlKehX3FXa4UvZdg8SXc/s320/IMG_0402.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397935479463376530" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUv0V6EXaA7kwrO0w0EU6TInZ1yi-Ni7sRYK6Z8p20b0h1MhjsoLgtB5sIKDRQwHxzhgABWsgFKRWvtlQvkUP-Bpj0VF5GJG3e4z5gWaThsWzlBvZyfVtUkJSTWDqz2YcE2Jy2NTn3oU/s1600-h/IMG_0296.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUv0V6EXaA7kwrO0w0EU6TInZ1yi-Ni7sRYK6Z8p20b0h1MhjsoLgtB5sIKDRQwHxzhgABWsgFKRWvtlQvkUP-Bpj0VF5GJG3e4z5gWaThsWzlBvZyfVtUkJSTWDqz2YcE2Jy2NTn3oU/s320/IMG_0296.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397935750150024242" /></a><br />PS. Mike has a great selection of photos here!<br />http://www.octobercountryfilm.com/stills/doclisboa2009/album/index.htmldonal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-40710074173722937312009-10-07T15:29:00.000-07:002009-10-07T19:03:35.669-07:00October Country Comes Home and Goes…<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELZg8MQ3S-CLu-Vck7UgFMwv1JhhywpsEw2KiKglbm6d9lTsiK3vof_Enxg6_bGmeeUwzeKMZawjysJSGVNoN1jEwPJ_J6kC_wlCIq_MoXfhmZLX80gnyAI24q4bGxRX21i7k9dqJzyNn/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELZg8MQ3S-CLu-Vck7UgFMwv1JhhywpsEw2KiKglbm6d9lTsiK3vof_Enxg6_bGmeeUwzeKMZawjysJSGVNoN1jEwPJ_J6kC_wlCIq_MoXfhmZLX80gnyAI24q4bGxRX21i7k9dqJzyNn/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390008595886907202" /></a>Camden, Maine<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPoMQi9pUNwzAgYX_91Wp5ijJtESipeILeJZq7SjmRudJ02HKkVafrFOlDeqVfTKczYcIaxVGpXDbusWGoulk9qU_vzq3hMcAslTAPWmCMZw9a1BIhfOVkz5SZ0pwm-1HrXd82VRzeYsy/s1600-h/mandjp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvPoMQi9pUNwzAgYX_91Wp5ijJtESipeILeJZq7SjmRudJ02HKkVafrFOlDeqVfTKczYcIaxVGpXDbusWGoulk9qU_vzq3hMcAslTAPWmCMZw9a1BIhfOVkz5SZ0pwm-1HrXd82VRzeYsy/s320/mandjp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390008584488578770" /></a>Mike and Jean Pierre Duret - Camden, Maine<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hey all,<br /><br /><br />It’s early October and the east coast screenings of the film have just ended I’m writing to you from a train heading upstate NY to spend time with the folks while Mike takes the film to Moscow and other screenings in Russia. <br /><br />We began in Maine with the Camden International Film Festival. This festival has a sharp young energy, strong programming, and seriously engaged audiences (so engaged that our Q&A got a bit intense – an awesome, if prickly situation.) We are happy to spread the word that Jean–Pierre Duret’s “Because We Were Born” took one of the two top doc awards- This is a film that is rarely seen and, like many of the best documentaries we’ve encountered, deserves so much more attention. The Philosopher Kings took also took top prize and it’s our hope that our travels allow us to catch this film.<br /><br />From Maine we drove through a white out downpour to meet my parents and Woodstock for their first public screening of the film. We were all emotional afterwards but my mom and dad displayed the same directness, clarity, and honesty that made them so special on screen. It was beyond me to read the emotions crossing my mothers’ face as she got a second round of applause but it was one finest moments of making and presenting this film to hear her, shaky voiced and scared, speak with pride for the film and for herself and our family. Soon after, my father was thanked for his Military services by a young veteran and I haven’t seen his seen his face light up like that for years. This night wound up with some high-jinx between Mike and AJ Schnack and some internet rumors about winning the Skype awards (which don't exist - yet. We are waiting...) The award for non fiction Pentecostal mind-blowing goes once again to AJ.<br /><br />From Woodstock we drove down to NYC, entertained with sass and stories from Brian Brooks. On Mon night we had a wonderful screening at Thom Power’s Stranger Than Fiction series at IFC. We were taken aback at first to learn that Chris Rock’s premier e of Good Hair was taking place at the same time, and almost prevented from entering the lobby by the guardians of the red carpet. All went well though, with a great audience that included some long lost friends and some admired filmmakers. We can’t thank Tom enough for everything he’s done for us since we first started brings the film out of the editing room. Afterwards, in the flash bulb popping lobby we thanked Chris Rock for coming to the film and lending a red carpet. He said, “I’m happy to support you,” Awkward pause as two different worlds of filmmaking try with friendly intentions to touch and both parties feel they almost, but not quite, do. His hair was damn good though! The night ended happily with too much drinking and a big full moon over NYC. <br /><br />Now I’m an hour from Utica, leaves blowing past the train window, and Mike somewhere in Moscow. We’ll come together again in SF, the second homecoming for the film, then off to Europe with thanks to all and everyone who’s helped us and viewed the film so far.donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-88862795631777652372009-07-29T11:41:00.000-07:002009-07-29T12:12:28.048-07:00Recent Updates.Hey all,<br />things have been going crazy well since Silverdocs! Thanks for all the support and opportunity everyone is giving us. Soon we'll be on the next leg of our US and European festival run. Check the news section for updates.<br /><br />Meanwhile, as Mike has been plotting world domination film festival style, I've been pretending to be a writer. <br /><br />On August 3rd I'll be reading from my essay about representation, The Excorcist and making October Country included in <span style="font-weight:bold;">Life As We Show It: Writing on Film </span>(City Lights Press), edited by Masha Tupitsyn and Brian Pera. Richard Grayson and Masha Tupitsyn will also be reading and film clips will we shown.<br /><br />August 3rd 7pm.<br />McNally Jackson Books<br />52 Prince St.<br />(b/t Lafayette & Mulberry)<br />New York, NY 10012<br />212.274.1160<br /><a href="http://http://mcnallyjackson.com/index.php/component/option,com_events/Itemid,30/agid,358/day,03/month,08/task,view_detail/year,2009/"></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fbOhCqBqmjiNYOeA1SHUbrCl2MEFnpwij1G7ZIMC9LV0pEB0no_AF3wLghnZhc6Le2EcsCvewJI86terb_oWPg-FHsU6NFr_D4mhXq1iFqYQjeDZX5PlqU5_O9BnBdkNiWL8xbLb1Twa/s1600-h/showit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fbOhCqBqmjiNYOeA1SHUbrCl2MEFnpwij1G7ZIMC9LV0pEB0no_AF3wLghnZhc6Le2EcsCvewJI86terb_oWPg-FHsU6NFr_D4mhXq1iFqYQjeDZX5PlqU5_O9BnBdkNiWL8xbLb1Twa/s400/showit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363958057729993618" /></a><br /><br /><br />Also, <br />My review of Dennis Cooper's "Ugly Man" is now online at http://www.thefanzine.com/articles/books.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAmeN4DSXla45D4mGG553LPXx3KaBhTIUuHyqzfOakLLLMZB43YfEGEu97-RwEvzwmviif5UdsBrWnR5Pq_HcLvaKxRNR5oWXRL4U5PWIsb84FPDVvZ5jUYqWknEipGiLli71_MlFMZn-/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 330px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAmeN4DSXla45D4mGG553LPXx3KaBhTIUuHyqzfOakLLLMZB43YfEGEu97-RwEvzwmviif5UdsBrWnR5Pq_HcLvaKxRNR5oWXRL4U5PWIsb84FPDVvZ5jUYqWknEipGiLli71_MlFMZn-/s400/1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363961725022491266" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-62725062007181910452009-07-29T11:14:00.000-07:002009-07-29T11:16:41.211-07:00Latest ReviewThe latest review of October Country:<br /><br />"I watched it. It's good." -Donna Mosher.donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-26335133165493521512009-06-23T15:37:00.000-07:002009-06-24T10:28:56.491-07:00Sterling Prize, Silverdocs!!!It's been a hectic coast hopping week. We flew to Silverdocs to reunite with all the wonderful doc folks from previous festivals. After receiving a warm welcome and being astounded at the quality films and filmmakers in the program, we flew to LA for our premiere. Once again, we were give the warmest welcome by the festival (during the filmmaker retreat and afterwards) and<br />again floored by the diversity of the films and filmmakers in the fest. After our premiere and party, we went to bed around 3AM woke at 4, and climbed back on a plane to Silverdocs. Our plane was late. Our cab was slow. We arrived 15 mins before the awards ceremony and made it just in time. 20 mins later we found that we'd won the Sterling US feature prize. The pictures floating around the internet (yikes) can attest to the state of shock we were in. The jurors were Cian Smyth, David Kwok, and Margaret Brown – that October Country received the prize, and more so such deep consideration from this respected and talented group still has us reeling. Thanks again, again, again, to Sky Sitney and everyone who has given us love and support so far.<br />(However, all y'all who knew we'd won and hid it so well - we'll never trust you again!)<br /><br />Family Update:<br /><br />Since the announcement, my family have been following the reviews. They are all a little astounded that people are taking an interest in their lives, though my mother did say over the phone, " ...sometimes disfunction functions." Desi recently told me<br />that "According to the reviews, I'm the one who will make it out." (look out world when that happens) Daneal is doing well, keeping stable and has a blog about her life as a young mother:<br />http://homewithlife.blogspot.com/<br />Chris is doing on-line college courses and trying to find a job, despite his jail record.<br /><br />All together, everything is stable and better than it has been in a long time.donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-51681811835375868522009-03-04T14:17:00.001-08:002009-03-06T09:00:53.790-08:00TRUE/FALSE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDNS9dz8YaMblqJF6EPw-St_RMtZ6p7QYWgtc1aoxRu0QKWBa-9CSVk4kffBJSrrmwM0_TjXLnvmzcMGG4LX4XUjXjcMfy_bSBYpJsyHMOYLlfdCErUUtO4w7IlwWC5cDiIiSw2Sywy8y/s1600-h/n642946323_1907507_6209804.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDNS9dz8YaMblqJF6EPw-St_RMtZ6p7QYWgtc1aoxRu0QKWBa-9CSVk4kffBJSrrmwM0_TjXLnvmzcMGG4LX4XUjXjcMfy_bSBYpJsyHMOYLlfdCErUUtO4w7IlwWC5cDiIiSw2Sywy8y/s400/n642946323_1907507_6209804.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309461493855026594" /></a> (photo by Ingrid Kopp)<br /><br />Confessions of a Film Festival Virgin<br /><br />What a special kind of madness this festival was – arriving in the dead quiet airport – a 2 hour shuttle ride through what should have been Missouri but was only a dark road light by billboards for chain restaurants, chur, and adult bookstores. In town we meet and greet with only our films and a few drinks to open up communication. But it works and works well. The next day we get up, walk the bright and friendly town, go into darkness to watch the horrors and joys of life compressed and flickering, then come out to give praise and talk business. At night, after negotiating the shifting ground of the documentary film world and the flux of emotions brought on by the films themselves, we drink and happily deprive ourselves of sleep. By our last screening I was so raw from everything I’d seen that I could barely speak, let alone speak about our film. Seeing my family’s story among such work and appreciated by such a caliber of people split me right down the middle –it’s crazy to be so happy because your family is so sad. To complicate all this, there in audience were Genevieve and Logan who I haven’t seen 12 years and whose love I thought I’d lost. In the midst of all the loaded images, all the talking of film, there I was, held by Genevieve, warm and strong as ever. Thanks again to Paul Sturtz and David Wilson for an experience beyond anything I’d expected. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YpcX1qJBsc05u3GBOE4bHNqtyGrN2QSrhzxbh68PcLHWQb6PfN4g-b73z2l_TjVPawenlujJInS9wAkjuV3QvDDppKJjrrEN8uQpSHsQuPd0AWEaOkrQj0OvN8nOP88W8KBF9hXZZjKt/s1600-h/L1030119.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-YpcX1qJBsc05u3GBOE4bHNqtyGrN2QSrhzxbh68PcLHWQb6PfN4g-b73z2l_TjVPawenlujJInS9wAkjuV3QvDDppKJjrrEN8uQpSHsQuPd0AWEaOkrQj0OvN8nOP88W8KBF9hXZZjKt/s400/L1030119.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309462402654532146" /></a>(March March Parade)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Award Goes To…</span><br /><br />It’s pointless to give a “best” list since I missed half the films I wanted to see and became pals with most of the filmmakers whose films I did. Instead I’ll give my <span style="font-weight:bold;">1st annual Completely Biased Appreciation Award</span>s to some of the folks I met:<br /><br />First of all the <span style="font-weight:bold;">Tough Love Award</span>s go to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Esther Robinson, Debra Zimmerman, Jess Search, Heather Croall,Matt Dentler, Kirby Dick</span>, and <span style="font-weight:bold;">Rachel Rosen</span> who took on our film like social workers considering the future an at risk child. Many folks helped but these guys really outlined our probation period. Heather also gets the “Why Am I Hearing Chains In the Room Next Door?” special prize.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Family Ghost Award</span>s go to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Rick Minnich and Matt Sweetwood (Forgetting Dad</span>)who are not afraid of confronting emotional ambiguity. Also to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Kimberly Reed</span> whose bravery and intelligence are matched only by her elegance. Her <span style="font-weight:bold;">Prodigal Son</span>s looks at the complications of memory, identity, family love, and violence with sharp sight and unflinching tenderness. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Teen Spirit Award</span>s go to the Brits – <span style="font-weight:bold;">Ingrid Kopp, Nick Abraham (The Posters From the Walls)</span> and <span style="font-weight:bold;">Jamie Jay Johnson</span> whose <span style="font-weight:bold;">Sounds Like Teen Spirit</span> shows us a Europe whose borders are drawn in glitter –a substance that bridges the gap between heartbreak, victory, and national pride. This film made me sure that my inner child is a 13 year-old girl (not just an immature drag queen.) <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Laugh At A Hopeless Cause Award</span>d goes to <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Yes Men Fix the World</span>. It’s delightful as always to see <span style="font-weight:bold;">Andy Bichlbaum</span> in action, shifting his persona from a self effacing Clark Kent to would be Superman. Splashing close behind is <span style="font-weight:bold;">John Maringouin and Molly Lynch’s Big River Man</span> – which is also the only film from the 4th dimension I have ever seen.<br /><br />The <span style="font-weight:bold;">Quiet Dignity Priz</span>e goes to J<span style="font-weight:bold;">ean-Pierre Duret</span>, both for himself and the quiet dignity he reveals in his young subjects. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Because We Were Born</span> is without doubt the most beautiful of all the films I saw at the festival.<br /><br />The <span style="font-weight:bold;">“Damn son, How’d You Get So Good!” Award</span> goes to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Darius Mardur</span> whose <span style="font-weight:bold;">Loot</span> has one of the most powerful moments I have ever seen in a documentary and whose charm and inclusiveness make it apparent at first meeting how he got his astounding story.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Balance Your Profession With Your Cocktail Glass Award</span> goes to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Brian Brooks</span><br />For serious engagement with the filmmakers and the parties.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Best Live Performance In Front of A Camera</span> goes to <span style="font-weight:bold;">Kimberly Chew</span>, the newswoman who interviewed us live. Seeming to pull a private TV signal into her body she transformed from a soft spoken woman focused on her lines into a full blown television personality –an impressive and frightening skill.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkA5UV0Uwws0C8EkIY7E9Gy43F8FHX8NLMjNmIevvrKuQ1KCw0EGzzF47Nebd8npA5Rs3ibyNl4xGXPbShWtWYJQIKz1TV4tNaERk8e6wKxxkOFx3riMAUw0QZDNloGk5n0-QydruAK62/s1600-h/news.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkA5UV0Uwws0C8EkIY7E9Gy43F8FHX8NLMjNmIevvrKuQ1KCw0EGzzF47Nebd8npA5Rs3ibyNl4xGXPbShWtWYJQIKz1TV4tNaERk8e6wKxxkOFx3riMAUw0QZDNloGk5n0-QydruAK62/s400/news.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309460772562593938" /></a> (Before and after)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hfyH916YqKw7iYeGgY0hbDjOQc5TX93L6fPRDPo1UWgnXOeQggZrVfwHWBH0yckpapgVUT9D6FW0MxkaEcUZZl17R3iMf1zVqX9P1rsZV2kw_oktg3dZnQRKxDsGP2jQ7pqhjBkiLBrc/s1600-h/news2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hfyH916YqKw7iYeGgY0hbDjOQc5TX93L6fPRDPo1UWgnXOeQggZrVfwHWBH0yckpapgVUT9D6FW0MxkaEcUZZl17R3iMf1zVqX9P1rsZV2kw_oktg3dZnQRKxDsGP2jQ7pqhjBkiLBrc/s400/news2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309460776896052690" /></a> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Dance Floor Award goes to me - an honor bestowed by Jamie Jay Johnson, who has seen Miss Junior Ukraine in action, (and because jumpin’ around to New Order got me hit on.) <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Finally the Life Together Award goes to Mike Palmieri, but I’m the lucky one.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMo-saGGsppspZcB_I052iBL8tTJALf81Px0yZBa4jvxoutEIMa1k-vJTHzGMLvjrbuZE3zCEigOanGWKYaz_lc0AXx1A4QdNMGUKi4bh76LKBuo1ATYnT_QpFAtcwMuo72HO6Eiatm3k/s1600-h/questions.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMo-saGGsppspZcB_I052iBL8tTJALf81Px0yZBa4jvxoutEIMa1k-vJTHzGMLvjrbuZE3zCEigOanGWKYaz_lc0AXx1A4QdNMGUKi4bh76LKBuo1ATYnT_QpFAtcwMuo72HO6Eiatm3k/s400/questions.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309463854190126578" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-38688057856599848722009-02-25T09:26:00.000-08:002009-02-25T09:46:30.656-08:00True/False<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0o4pa1aTQe76eAo3_ZIIQUb_UkiY7LkDO2eykkl94pSBZ6ZoEX_8sFjZM8D3y5fCaf9zQeCDeTE0tepizKZTO1AKi05W-Tuejn6UJMTqeNlM7pZy8sbPTrgyp0N-VtOo2HUH7ILtrLOU/s1600-h/078.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy0o4pa1aTQe76eAo3_ZIIQUb_UkiY7LkDO2eykkl94pSBZ6ZoEX_8sFjZM8D3y5fCaf9zQeCDeTE0tepizKZTO1AKi05W-Tuejn6UJMTqeNlM7pZy8sbPTrgyp0N-VtOo2HUH7ILtrLOU/s400/078.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306791988350009570" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">October Country is going to the True/False Film Festival. <br /><br />Check It Out<br />http://truefalse.org/<br /></span><br />More posts coming throughout the week.<br /><br />In other news<br /><br />October Country made the SF BAY GAURDIAN's end of the year critic's picks – Larry Rinder's top ten!<br />Donal's photos have been nominated for the Baum and Godowsky Awards. <br />Disjecta artspace in Portland will be presenting a October Country multimedia show in Nov. Curated by Sam Gould, including original and recent photos by Donal, film clips, stills and more by Mike, as well text and installation components.donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-21289190948644299272008-11-13T18:13:00.000-08:002008-11-13T18:15:58.126-08:00Screening at Rooftop Films and for the family<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEteYz96jXRwvprAd5VIzrGOh8Ug-zSCkzwL4eAoRBN6otuJxhZXCKjTLQ5_uNi5SIqr0E_3wSOmtr39wcdq4RlcwtzO0Vszzqr0zIB6yFCrFJF-nElN3Tyn2fD0Lqqpb3l4ty52YipZHa/s1600-h/L1010784.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEteYz96jXRwvprAd5VIzrGOh8Ug-zSCkzwL4eAoRBN6otuJxhZXCKjTLQ5_uNi5SIqr0E_3wSOmtr39wcdq4RlcwtzO0Vszzqr0zIB6yFCrFJF-nElN3Tyn2fD0Lqqpb3l4ty52YipZHa/s400/L1010784.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248325120945485202" /></a><br />We made it through a week of film meetings, film parties and conferences. All those introductions. All those quick eyes scanning badges. One area where filmmakers went behind a curtain to give quick pitches to funders resembled an STD clinic. A woman with a clipboard came out, a filmmaker went in. Soon the filmmaker came out either grinning (rarely) or with the defeated look of someone who was off to get that prescription filled and give all their partners the bad news. For us however,<br />it was a buzzing productive week. And we met some awesome folks.<br /><br />Party highlight ! we got into a film society party at the Dakota- a very quiet, sincere occasion, a very tasteful cheery, if ornate apartment. No whiff of Brimstone anywhere. Everyone talked in low voices when mentioning Rosemary’s Baby, afraid the hosts would over hear, weary of that business, think us crass. Cheers to John and Yoko, and God bless message of peace, but with it’s gargoyle light fixtures in winding halls, iron gates, high dark walls and gothic rooftops, the Dakota seems rather to say give Satan (or at least Ruth Gordon, satanically gaudy) a chance.<br /><br />"They're witches every one!"<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWffeZtrzVDXxtDGIDr7hecAe2rGUNG7Unjke3XjG0hKbCdjpb-ZA0AASOTHtfURff7ho3JenaOBql7MZ05QqMe2_2LOw7ODZ3mZRKuuZdAXhX2lDxDDMEwZMwFDDDRLLTEAOB9MrXEwmo/s1600-h/L1010749.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWffeZtrzVDXxtDGIDr7hecAe2rGUNG7Unjke3XjG0hKbCdjpb-ZA0AASOTHtfURff7ho3JenaOBql7MZ05QqMe2_2LOw7ODZ3mZRKuuZdAXhX2lDxDDMEwZMwFDDDRLLTEAOB9MrXEwmo/s400/L1010749.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248321587457767554" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Screening</span><br /><br />To top all this off, we had the work in progress screening of October Country, for an audience of 300 on a school rooftop in Manhattan, with the September moon above and graffiti images of immigrants workers, hip hop superheroes, peering children, and ghosts and skulls on the brick walls all around.A chill came on halfway through the film, matching Halloween on the screen. The reaction was as everything we hope for (how often does that happen?) But I stood answering questions, thinking how strange it was to be so happy when the lives in the film are so fucked. Thank you Mark Elijah Rosenberg and all at Rooftop Films for a night of the most mixed emotions I’ll ever have. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GVzurX5HUqIVJk6NNY2aJRYFDvM4x7xdNycFJle628nJ-GL6iIcXs-SPIG7tRdy8iTusibbtA_6RqhQKk_GhTpssfwHESKfz393Q-rD2dhCyozDBlXfmk2faYZokwmTz6eF7KCLERVaW/s1600-h/L1010759.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GVzurX5HUqIVJk6NNY2aJRYFDvM4x7xdNycFJle628nJ-GL6iIcXs-SPIG7tRdy8iTusibbtA_6RqhQKk_GhTpssfwHESKfz393Q-rD2dhCyozDBlXfmk2faYZokwmTz6eF7KCLERVaW/s400/L1010759.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248324415581947970" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sMD_fGyJm6Wt9l7HtzlNQ4bK-TniEfym5EpD7Tsh3ws2TIzjfXOLxMAz-wQNee1vYTfdWnOkfCvpDLDhYX2QcFW_o1LAg43c1oDXAC7xg1Oh5LkTHC2s8nGQiqMpppmEFJNqnsKW4_2t/s1600-h/L1010773.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6sMD_fGyJm6Wt9l7HtzlNQ4bK-TniEfym5EpD7Tsh3ws2TIzjfXOLxMAz-wQNee1vYTfdWnOkfCvpDLDhYX2QcFW_o1LAg43c1oDXAC7xg1Oh5LkTHC2s8nGQiqMpppmEFJNqnsKW4_2t/s400/L1010773.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248323518578108674" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4K-AK-79MjlxIvWUwNaLThPUR1vMaCxhPXqTnISbfKJ8MUsHpZuAYz-8lPcJP2JRnZPatfZP71bAXPa_dN4RbcTYRXUBLKm7gxXKTfNdd6DGjAW3aeZBCzZbRPAGtIB8Vvy2F9oskVQD/s1600-h/L1010781.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4K-AK-79MjlxIvWUwNaLThPUR1vMaCxhPXqTnISbfKJ8MUsHpZuAYz-8lPcJP2JRnZPatfZP71bAXPa_dN4RbcTYRXUBLKm7gxXKTfNdd6DGjAW3aeZBCzZbRPAGtIB8Vvy2F9oskVQD/s400/L1010781.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248324423542729378" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChNfBUr64zLRrUquENPpEpsds3e2Twf0fw65WSfWUdlGgjnP9A3wZzO0hvZHqtQ7QRqB9BpFneUV_ZabtcoBXMD3MlNoH2U48hArPQjH4LFs3jyIXHcb0TebwoWZOj4lY5HIDorxoHebu/s1600-h/L1010779.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjChNfBUr64zLRrUquENPpEpsds3e2Twf0fw65WSfWUdlGgjnP9A3wZzO0hvZHqtQ7QRqB9BpFneUV_ZabtcoBXMD3MlNoH2U48hArPQjH4LFs3jyIXHcb0TebwoWZOj4lY5HIDorxoHebu/s400/L1010779.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248324418759916034" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDQc91OWyiSZbZy1PlVY0st8qimKDdc_N9guXPBxtqyIcYJtgJQCdBEGK789UGkfpQsTbhii9DU4-QSc1A6ywipR5YHWd4nHHxawmgMMCDoTGn6Qn37OE2UIVho81YrqFGKPZLxguz-DE/s1600-h/L1010709.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDQc91OWyiSZbZy1PlVY0st8qimKDdc_N9guXPBxtqyIcYJtgJQCdBEGK789UGkfpQsTbhii9DU4-QSc1A6ywipR5YHWd4nHHxawmgMMCDoTGn6Qn37OE2UIVho81YrqFGKPZLxguz-DE/s400/L1010709.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248321586040629762" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKB3YN2GX3znwTt7fD8vwK2wjxwvLUdebTk2mfeiR-VDdc79-Rri5IWlv288vokPfJdw8Jdh-_ITMURKhmieQOs9SZqkeWCkXX5kpBYvo6rRJuqCNqW5jsoWDjY9PpH27uX7Ajb_XXxtf/s1600-h/L1010785.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaKB3YN2GX3znwTt7fD8vwK2wjxwvLUdebTk2mfeiR-VDdc79-Rri5IWlv288vokPfJdw8Jdh-_ITMURKhmieQOs9SZqkeWCkXX5kpBYvo6rRJuqCNqW5jsoWDjY9PpH27uX7Ajb_XXxtf/s400/L1010785.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248323521420022706" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Home Viewing</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PBRwV_C9SlJGV-uNR3k2Z4_BZPEITtFSKkG5M-qizmUTSNVBQBajbAYPeNj7JM64cqoKRd5GylS8qwbk3eMjgDp-bouB_1wLiUkgyR7aaOrxN_IMTckb4FshdlGanRl2glqoIhMFMdM/s1600-h/L1010814.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PBRwV_C9SlJGV-uNR3k2Z4_BZPEITtFSKkG5M-qizmUTSNVBQBajbAYPeNj7JM64cqoKRd5GylS8qwbk3eMjgDp-bouB_1wLiUkgyR7aaOrxN_IMTckb4FshdlGanRl2glqoIhMFMdM/s400/L1010814.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248331052066061810" /></a><br />On the train and it’s dark outside now, just my own reflection and the flicker of town lights through trees. As we head toward the Mohawk valley, the film becomes my family’s life again, the life they don’t deserve even though most of them make it for themselves. An abandoned brick factory glides past the window, flood lit and seemingly built on dark air. October Country here we come again.<br /><br />mom and dad and ?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04YswEdqh9JyW4aD8HNQkAr9iR-mmzNIINQTpN8FBEqTG377jL1e1ACj1KuEgwiwdQSk8kGWnSWtab8Pd9foQm9rYAO1DVbssp_H_rxnm6NkLwwGYeyUAf0xSbv9PEaT42uhCZaqoQPE/s1600-h/momanddad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04YswEdqh9JyW4aD8HNQkAr9iR-mmzNIINQTpN8FBEqTG377jL1e1ACj1KuEgwiwdQSk8kGWnSWtab8Pd9foQm9rYAO1DVbssp_H_rxnm6NkLwwGYeyUAf0xSbv9PEaT42uhCZaqoQPE/s400/momanddad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249419279641766290" /></a><br />The film finished. Credits rolled. Not only did they like it. They’re proud of it.<br />Nothing could have been better, nothing more to say about it. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NEW PHOTOS</span><br />Daneal, age 4<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_J38QRmMOCRAdFe_BO4R7-8jlfOajbknUP3qJa26hXbPJrAtrKHywUOTT7O_-9PF08z4dFl5DT6Wh8gJCsIdgrD-YTudZFFIjDDIlsdUEJjAzWPF3mYrOlqxiAAmxh6XdXfhxRs_9VY/s1600-h/desi1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_J38QRmMOCRAdFe_BO4R7-8jlfOajbknUP3qJa26hXbPJrAtrKHywUOTT7O_-9PF08z4dFl5DT6Wh8gJCsIdgrD-YTudZFFIjDDIlsdUEJjAzWPF3mYrOlqxiAAmxh6XdXfhxRs_9VY/s400/desi1.jpg" border="0" <br />alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249409746991865122" /></a><br /><br />Desi<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeu3s5wwev24p9rZ7HctHr5nGLrtDvDZrqTY6reYUdR6Cq7tFD9c_1DZspOkKomSKxoX-56eXQnwRqarxsUp2wLKZJMFygPprDCjwS4gkT3lfT4svqqweqEcCHYNILSWE2MabK0f9r0Q/s1600-h/desi:grave.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeu3s5wwev24p9rZ7HctHr5nGLrtDvDZrqTY6reYUdR6Cq7tFD9c_1DZspOkKomSKxoX-56eXQnwRqarxsUp2wLKZJMFygPprDCjwS4gkT3lfT4svqqweqEcCHYNILSWE2MabK0f9r0Q/s400/desi:grave.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249406236170992818" /></a><br /><br />Desi<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzVo8S2szI5bP3sgJO9k-kt4MXf1mqU7AKlFrH4iiM_xvuASXz9CxmYeaM2dehtO7cJHykVFpznsmevV_f09hwHi1X9YELzy_pAdUHgl8Uzf680nWbfDSyASrldKUyJQ5Ll_bLtk56lQ/s1600-h/L1010936.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzVo8S2szI5bP3sgJO9k-kt4MXf1mqU7AKlFrH4iiM_xvuASXz9CxmYeaM2dehtO7cJHykVFpznsmevV_f09hwHi1X9YELzy_pAdUHgl8Uzf680nWbfDSyASrldKUyJQ5Ll_bLtk56lQ/s400/L1010936.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249407404604271458" /></a><br /><br /><br />mom in the pool<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8Sx87GDdQ94jV-FwR2tSMHowdpGFrjairzDtmm00mA6RCitUQdJX4Mat0_ksFoNqJBRDHlgToi8ouMXDWG4bizrJzr3mtkOr9PRwkQQis3a5PDIcOXHcq1thPeHBsTZcd5zVyMsK5hx1/s1600-h/L1010848.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8Sx87GDdQ94jV-FwR2tSMHowdpGFrjairzDtmm00mA6RCitUQdJX4Mat0_ksFoNqJBRDHlgToi8ouMXDWG4bizrJzr3mtkOr9PRwkQQis3a5PDIcOXHcq1thPeHBsTZcd5zVyMsK5hx1/s400/L1010848.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248326062759347794" /></a><br /><br />archery target in the neighbors yard<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpklTvfX9Gz8iMarLHk-BlF7MwB0NCr5O4kWF32W5QouqvssGT-L9tm3d6Ert9YdAl4xaD8cHTM7dh4QOuk7C7ol3Tb4B405xYU4wbAvUvJSD-FerDH_s4R_NvoFgLsrkdyp6S5cLcW7Y/s1600-h/L1010819.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkpklTvfX9Gz8iMarLHk-BlF7MwB0NCr5O4kWF32W5QouqvssGT-L9tm3d6Ert9YdAl4xaD8cHTM7dh4QOuk7C7ol3Tb4B405xYU4wbAvUvJSD-FerDH_s4R_NvoFgLsrkdyp6S5cLcW7Y/s400/L1010819.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248326056611029250" /></a><br /><br />Donna's T-shirt<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwvdd2vsU98TpwqmTpKIZ45PoTieRQrKHxNTyfQ6JSBNtAE3neaNT_0FHjGmcrIxKcTyWd0aCKsJssHVK0xAz8I_sk6ga0nt-w9lJ0pkMaBLP_PucK2RQMtPvIV-yxLmQKtZmXqOos0A/s1600-h/lick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwvdd2vsU98TpwqmTpKIZ45PoTieRQrKHxNTyfQ6JSBNtAE3neaNT_0FHjGmcrIxKcTyWd0aCKsJssHVK0xAz8I_sk6ga0nt-w9lJ0pkMaBLP_PucK2RQMtPvIV-yxLmQKtZmXqOos0A/s400/lick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249411003649168002" /></a><br /><br />cigarette machine<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcpw0Dh6vq_buG4SgbuAhYdrgC-8aNHuJQ13yCK7ARzvr1Egb-qb4ZBLEau1mV4x59JCQ54Pdw6ZqaPuSbtM3m0ToAj-9_a5VeEmJbzmy2rQlelVfBqTvw8EZtxTTUgWquhg8esBfDlA/s1600-h/cig.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPcpw0Dh6vq_buG4SgbuAhYdrgC-8aNHuJQ13yCK7ARzvr1Egb-qb4ZBLEau1mV4x59JCQ54Pdw6ZqaPuSbtM3m0ToAj-9_a5VeEmJbzmy2rQlelVfBqTvw8EZtxTTUgWquhg8esBfDlA/s400/cig.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249417966772251954" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-23384180070553004352008-11-13T17:41:00.000-08:002009-03-08T19:12:33.777-07:00OCTOBER COUNTRY - a sample of the original photos and texts.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkHYVXXksXwxEI-5_RTCp6B1-ma8IyCqaluLx6rfw5rS3tf0YbVIajGc8nGNmnhfp60YXAtR9xAdF31JKXauv7e_h_npXo_7oI2Kaes7w0X23p7mF8EDAR-vYaKHA2v4dJ3o5M10Znhzj/s1600-h/003.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkHYVXXksXwxEI-5_RTCp6B1-ma8IyCqaluLx6rfw5rS3tf0YbVIajGc8nGNmnhfp60YXAtR9xAdF31JKXauv7e_h_npXo_7oI2Kaes7w0X23p7mF8EDAR-vYaKHA2v4dJ3o5M10Znhzj/s400/003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231934849801005282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Prk3BdXu3CRs9rW5g_7k6y3jPLgsfOEvSLJ9K9Ay02zQ07AafaQcGvAHr72Whnw7zDXFhbe227HEIFKkNKjcPEqrR8v45hza2RHk3NV7WNQFqOwMiQdhe51lmOJIuhdMt_9W7H0txD2h/s1600-h/005.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Prk3BdXu3CRs9rW5g_7k6y3jPLgsfOEvSLJ9K9Ay02zQ07AafaQcGvAHr72Whnw7zDXFhbe227HEIFKkNKjcPEqrR8v45hza2RHk3NV7WNQFqOwMiQdhe51lmOJIuhdMt_9W7H0txD2h/s400/005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231934852034485682" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Valley</span><br /><br />Signs at the toll exit read “Welcome to the historic Mohawk Valley. To the historic Township of Herkimer.” This is the outstretched toe of Fennimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking country, and the towns that crouch along the banks of the Mohawk are sites of original colonies and revolutionary battles. Colonial graves are hidden in the woods. Barbed wire sags under blackberry thickets at the edge of the Reservation. Every country road has its tumbledown barns and skeletal silos, the rural gothic testaments to the dying agricultural economy. Industry hardly fares better. In the town of Ilion, the smokestack of the Remington Arms, the valley’s first and possibly last industry, stands like graveyard monument at the center of town. Though nearly all the life has been sucked from the valley’s dour brick factories, death continues rolling in bits and pieces along the Arms’ conveyer belts. How many lives has our local industry claimed? How many restless spirits has this factory produced. <br /><br />Aside from weapons and a shabby bit of history what is there to sell here? Tough lives on tough, tired land. Motels and vacation cabins molder in lines along the highways like boxcars a train has abandoned. Tourists drive through but do not linger. The summers are short, the river water cold, and though every farmhouse and trailer park has a storage shed converted into a craft shop, there is a terrible shortage of real antiques. There is in fact a shortage of real past and real future. The kind of daily struggle that happens here makes own, cyclical present tense – a gritty unappealing one that goes unseen, unvisited. The Valley and the lives within it exist as ghosts.<br /><br />But this is where I came from, where I left, and where my family still lives. We haunt each other. In the logic of haunting, memory, and photography, a fragment of time becomes unmoored from the greater flow and turns in on itself, producing phenomena that contain both presence and absence. The ghosts here in the valley are my ghosts, just as I am a ghost, there but unseen, in the pictures I take of them. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmymCEqk0Ua3qckXOsPpfXY3Qb9qCjQAoMm-cCDAqwJdu411e2x6Ri1o4wV8dmArElU-wN0EkBur-7TaWVRWnzXD7ZCJxnKBB9d4S6nbLWeVBdIfan74YTJbgGf2Bd2SSQA72k0roUWAj/s1600-h/008.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmymCEqk0Ua3qckXOsPpfXY3Qb9qCjQAoMm-cCDAqwJdu411e2x6Ri1o4wV8dmArElU-wN0EkBur-7TaWVRWnzXD7ZCJxnKBB9d4S6nbLWeVBdIfan74YTJbgGf2Bd2SSQA72k0roUWAj/s400/008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231937080647104242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqwqdxI4HiLwqis8EWI0WmMjAactKG4dl6zYy9-Jui5jasqN6Eq6PkZMSKAKJ9CyYy1BEMPIVUzIIQgYBlfAXgnGFucoYUU0neFQqH0BEBM6rQFPaFGRz9JJLCG9f877WmbWqnar70HHQ/s1600-h/012.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqwqdxI4HiLwqis8EWI0WmMjAactKG4dl6zYy9-Jui5jasqN6Eq6PkZMSKAKJ9CyYy1BEMPIVUzIIQgYBlfAXgnGFucoYUU0neFQqH0BEBM6rQFPaFGRz9JJLCG9f877WmbWqnar70HHQ/s400/012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231937086369439570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC_SMo2Hd4iW-ShaQ_QcgS7DS7LcsAJZScv5btfCMFbj7-roI_2fgi3d5ys3jP7m58Jn31-fX-5HX1A9CIEDKXMtLYdLme9brw-3pNMNAkFWrbaQCCZGLBnTAaZNkRNvoJJoRuKZWf9lv/s1600-h/013-A.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBC_SMo2Hd4iW-ShaQ_QcgS7DS7LcsAJZScv5btfCMFbj7-roI_2fgi3d5ys3jP7m58Jn31-fX-5HX1A9CIEDKXMtLYdLme9brw-3pNMNAkFWrbaQCCZGLBnTAaZNkRNvoJJoRuKZWf9lv/s400/013-A.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231937097273099314" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-17752315013712850842008-11-13T17:40:00.001-08:002009-03-06T10:00:26.507-08:00HOMES AND WHAT HAUNTS THEM<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span>DON AND DOTTY'S HOUSE<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHfhKB01S-C2V2PsWtZlwhUnOev4dW3smdI0RuvRqCbzMFcAuisSkq7IKgaoVKxJPOAW8lznEq6dwiFq_hR-T7ahvTv1fD0Pwh9ybmzM1v6Q55iIAYIU_fhljYJBgR5ZigWJSvndTsi4u/s1600-h/023.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHfhKB01S-C2V2PsWtZlwhUnOev4dW3smdI0RuvRqCbzMFcAuisSkq7IKgaoVKxJPOAW8lznEq6dwiFq_hR-T7ahvTv1fD0Pwh9ybmzM1v6Q55iIAYIU_fhljYJBgR5ZigWJSvndTsi4u/s400/023.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233396598789574114" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISnNoh07iAkAEAEs5SJmtqV9oo-OLL44knR6OzO_vm3jbF9ZXZlTE4MXaubWc-t_Suosxt8z4ioWfe-7XByEpzYooWuwV_C3npNqv8WImrEiGUVfIVWoJbq831-cpblOfscXfoZtvfadV/s1600-h/026.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISnNoh07iAkAEAEs5SJmtqV9oo-OLL44knR6OzO_vm3jbF9ZXZlTE4MXaubWc-t_Suosxt8z4ioWfe-7XByEpzYooWuwV_C3npNqv8WImrEiGUVfIVWoJbq831-cpblOfscXfoZtvfadV/s400/026.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233396593373575122" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAMmJbC4RTo1of_nRTVfzoAgk6QBRpkrFodbmgrW1mAbP41XuDgjQKpD_Ipmdb_9biZ6csxoHhHh5Y8xHUOcRSzPJ7EIa8yrE-YaAkgCUyEpk3aPEmFb0EB-0WXkuQyQ8QwAr0XwxcIZS/s1600-h/P1010019_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAMmJbC4RTo1of_nRTVfzoAgk6QBRpkrFodbmgrW1mAbP41XuDgjQKpD_Ipmdb_9biZ6csxoHhHh5Y8xHUOcRSzPJ7EIa8yrE-YaAkgCUyEpk3aPEmFb0EB-0WXkuQyQ8QwAr0XwxcIZS/s400/P1010019_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240858413940728546" /></a><br /><br /><br />GUN CLEANING<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxKBpEnnHKx89UxInBzTllscOuKg-UJuVXQh1e-EB5aSQk_rSFh0mhznQsk-UifQFB-UdKdpoxJLpQkIFfvlGqL6e3U7q1fJS5N1ArEZOus6AczbR48WWYj1yLYgNz8vZVSxhdz5fylwq/s1600-h/030.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxKBpEnnHKx89UxInBzTllscOuKg-UJuVXQh1e-EB5aSQk_rSFh0mhznQsk-UifQFB-UdKdpoxJLpQkIFfvlGqL6e3U7q1fJS5N1ArEZOus6AczbR48WWYj1yLYgNz8vZVSxhdz5fylwq/s400/030.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233396929773216786" /></a><br /><br />There has always been a gun in my father’s top drawer --–always unloaded, always locked. Throughout my childhood it was the unseen but primary marker of his territory. My mother may have covered his dresser with her lacy froth but the secret presence of weapon charged the air on his side of the bed. The slide of that drawer still invokes the scent of leatherpolish and gunpowder, still conjures the soundtracks and shoot outs from the cop shows he watched endlessly. By the time I was ten, watching him clean his pistol, watching the familiarity with which his hand moved across the barrel, around the grip, oiling and shining, I understood that he related the weapon to himself, to our livelihood, and beneath these, sometimes, to something troubling and outside my comprehension. That something was Vietnam. At 18 he joined the Airforce MP’s to avoid the Army. “to watch planes instead of corpses.” as he puts it. Before the war, he wanted to be minister in the Salvation Army, until they specified that a minister’s wife must also take the cloth (or uniform in this case, frumpy, navy wool.) Though very young, Mrs. Dorothy Mosher had aspirations toward pregnancy not the pulpit. It was 1966, if he were killed, she wanted a child. “ We were engaged when he went to boot camp, “My mother says, “They said we’d have a year together after basic training. Then he calls me from the base and he’s drunk and crying, (she laughs) saying they’re shipping him out in three months and do I still want to marry him?” In his first letters home, his voice is morally beleaguered but he clings to his faith, his drawings, and to her. At some point however, he stops mentioning God and sketchbooks. To this day, he does not willingly talk of this period. It was my mother who told me,”He wrote about stepping over corpses in the street. He didn’t believe in God any more after that.” He returned in ‘69 and though Vietnam had killed his goal of the ministry, his stateside visits had made him a father of a more earthy kind. He was 19 and had a wife and two children. Circumstances had made his choices for him, and a good portion of his identity had been invested in the Military Police; he pursued Law Enforcement to support his household.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiem7m7FhoJxfqjX2O3uyB-hsYvYquHF-dln_mdH9dme0IM6N9XDSPk2vYu2XFBwocxho_Thq8NCL1Yfu1CVxv906LnykXD_PclyvYwe9ooJ8ceIUJ2nfaVfGumJbr49JN3l8PiXbdihaA9/s1600-h/dad-grave.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiem7m7FhoJxfqjX2O3uyB-hsYvYquHF-dln_mdH9dme0IM6N9XDSPk2vYu2XFBwocxho_Thq8NCL1Yfu1CVxv906LnykXD_PclyvYwe9ooJ8ceIUJ2nfaVfGumJbr49JN3l8PiXbdihaA9/s400/dad-grave.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243075380797655602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW6v56_c1HBpoWVP4iOzl6SbiC_6PAAR6wBhcNLLTq7bZRy3hR5p1Vsa9O6_EQiQvw1ztPAZ6Tkp0upO3CzAFpFt9nqJgNXavnNvHhmKxVPuOMWqfHk9PLMq4rGnV-v6rSXukPL1FKrp1/s1600-h/flag-grave2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW6v56_c1HBpoWVP4iOzl6SbiC_6PAAR6wBhcNLLTq7bZRy3hR5p1Vsa9O6_EQiQvw1ztPAZ6Tkp0upO3CzAFpFt9nqJgNXavnNvHhmKxVPuOMWqfHk9PLMq4rGnV-v6rSXukPL1FKrp1/s400/flag-grave2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243075378946466098" /></a><br /><br /><br />TEMPLE CLEANING<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MlYWPyyA1ZNvAtQwuCePdSnkIPf6XWk5vSnHPKvDLDC01hkx2wjhKwxKdwSIs6hrRdNyVWRG3cwjYjvwAqAN4dm-PspeYWDHtXp-hdVayhMFTS5jK7oOa17DPwCRiwznv0wpoZhrDJrp/s1600-h/034.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MlYWPyyA1ZNvAtQwuCePdSnkIPf6XWk5vSnHPKvDLDC01hkx2wjhKwxKdwSIs6hrRdNyVWRG3cwjYjvwAqAN4dm-PspeYWDHtXp-hdVayhMFTS5jK7oOa17DPwCRiwznv0wpoZhrDJrp/s400/034.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233399286440525970" /></a><br /><br />Donna, my mother and I are working at the Jewish Temple. Cleaning toilets on their knees is the only time I’ve seen either of them kneel in a place of worship. Employed at the backside of the sacred, they bestow a very material sanctity, anointed with Pine Sol and elbow grease. The temple is a large place, the center of the valley’s community, and contains a kitchen, a dinning hall, two baths, the temple proper, and an extensive library. Luckily Mom and Donna have a fast, tag team rhythm and, as with all the homes they clean, they know the place more intimately than their employers. <br /><br /> If cleanliness is next to Godliness this job should make saints of us. Unfortunately it’s dirty work. I have to wonder how the concept of sanctified space would fare if those who worshipped here were faced with the temple’s onslaught of dust, drain clogs, soap scum, and pubic hair on bathroom porcelain. By the time I’ve done a mirror and sink in one bathroom, my mother has completely finished the other. Dirt alone can bring out aggression in this otherwise gentle woman. She goes after grime with vigilante energy, as if she could bring order to her world by making it gleam.<br /><br />Since I’m slow at the grunt work, she hands me a fluffy rag and sends me off to do the genteel job of wiping the pews. Donna moves the vacuum in tight rings around the altar. The noisy head of the machine passes in and out of colored light that falls from the stained glass windows. A radiant projection of the Hebrew letter Shin slides across the hard plastic surface, extinguishes suddenly in the shadow of the dust bag, then ignites, like the flame it stands for on the indoor/outdoor carpet.<br />“It’s such a pretty place,” My mother says as she locks up, “ I wish I knew what all that stuff meant.”<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNB8njcgvusHxgGdnmxRNt1ScDVakk07wXP577kguNUhCwMkfpMmNKGRFZrrX-FNO6O10X0IhkOCmTOzAtRCHKtVUbrcKjFAz9sZMeuIrWilH43lIx8CLe5i7gEajZ3513LsveWs-lcFU9/s1600-h/039.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNB8njcgvusHxgGdnmxRNt1ScDVakk07wXP577kguNUhCwMkfpMmNKGRFZrrX-FNO6O10X0IhkOCmTOzAtRCHKtVUbrcKjFAz9sZMeuIrWilH43lIx8CLe5i7gEajZ3513LsveWs-lcFU9/s400/039.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233399565818866706" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmbbk-kS1a-B0v49YkbM2-XJW6NKXZPQ2EsaC6AmCQQQK0neHbKBly-qWnH5efmwh3L-nDRvmp2j9ltiS_g-FWgICumX9_sYMnMmjqzS2FGiQ6aix3BvoKpCouBC-dedQitRwRBYfhaOn/s1600-h/024.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmbbk-kS1a-B0v49YkbM2-XJW6NKXZPQ2EsaC6AmCQQQK0neHbKBly-qWnH5efmwh3L-nDRvmp2j9ltiS_g-FWgICumX9_sYMnMmjqzS2FGiQ6aix3BvoKpCouBC-dedQitRwRBYfhaOn/s400/024.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233396597152482018" /></a><br /><br />DONNA' S HOUSE<br /><br />The TV is on, volume up. Beneath the screen, a gang of Barbie dolls is tossed in a tag team heap, wrestling with Pokemon action figures. Scattered about are crayons, stuffed animals, barrettes, textbooks, socks, - a flurry of girlhood. Yelling, whining, flattering, my nieces Daneal and Desiree compete fiercely for their mother's attention. Denied, they turn their frustrations on each other and soon resemble their toys, tangled in a multi-limbed pile. My sister Donna sits smoking and doling out exasperated disciplines, engaged with my mother in a bout of friendly, NY style bitching. There is a stack of bills stained with coffee rings by her cup. Her check book is open and there is a direct relationship between the dollar amount she scratches out and the number of profanities that stream from her lips. Her fiancé Roger plunges deep into an oversized recliner, becoming impressively oblivious. The dog runs joyfully over the coffee table and sofa, landing in Roger's lap, spilling chips, soda, and just a bit of blood. After even a short visit, you leave this house with several hand drawn presents, a cheek coated with sticky kisses, and maybe a wound or two. <br /><br />Stop by on Sunday and you find a passageway blocked by a lumber pile, stuffed animals sprawled beneath beams and plaster like earthquake victims. Visit on Wednesday, the hall is clean and raw. The house is being redone constantly, wall by wall, here, there, as time, whim, and money afford. Projects blossom around purchases - first comes the TV, then the companion furnishings, carpeting, coats of paint etc. Decorating schemes are pulled live and kicking from women's magazines. Décor is egalitarian business here; the kids like a color, they get it, with no regard to notions of taste or utility. Daneal's room has gone from a nicotine “eggshell” to a blue so saturated it seems to both emit and absorb light. If the color is hardly conducive to rest, well, that’s the most negligible function of a 12year old's bedroom anyway. Not to be outdone, Desiree's room has just been spackled with broad strokes of purple and lavender. The effect is more that of a storm at sea than the intended lilac blossoms.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUALlH7FEGVtGvUngnnEQ-YXEEihZ43ThPX_efSb12Ej_yzyMrcEgVEwwTu_oYvWm2jgswqmj8IeB8RLHdkVsD-K-3m-GcrjR8O7z8E3iiDFO87gy5uLJqx5F4yOk7dtudHPCSzeti6oV/s1600-h/044.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUALlH7FEGVtGvUngnnEQ-YXEEihZ43ThPX_efSb12Ej_yzyMrcEgVEwwTu_oYvWm2jgswqmj8IeB8RLHdkVsD-K-3m-GcrjR8O7z8E3iiDFO87gy5uLJqx5F4yOk7dtudHPCSzeti6oV/s400/044.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233422428596541378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctRcpaZyLFKFNJUwh7kOTSK-GvMB1pnAxOsQA9VRuGA80MZjKeCs6d4quJ18mugYOk4njNbw6yo09OLzgBxNgq9EbJ5hIz9cpo6vRP_M4lmG9YaA5Bjn1pFFxq_X62OoTOfgzFf8_hW98/s1600-h/043.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctRcpaZyLFKFNJUwh7kOTSK-GvMB1pnAxOsQA9VRuGA80MZjKeCs6d4quJ18mugYOk4njNbw6yo09OLzgBxNgq9EbJ5hIz9cpo6vRP_M4lmG9YaA5Bjn1pFFxq_X62OoTOfgzFf8_hW98/s400/043.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233422431298248674" /></a><br /><br /><br />Donna has always had a domestic streak. Even at her teenage, runaway wildest, she sat at the kitchen table, leafing through decorating catalogues while practicing suggestive postures; her body stuffed into blue spandex; her feet bound into shiny, vinyl stilettos; hair teased into a metal-head blend of windblown romantic and fright wig - a hairstyle that resembled, exactly, the feathers dangling from her roach clip earrings. At 14 she was misdiagnosed with Hodgkins Disease. Thinking she has three years to live she went of the deep end and has been in over her head ever since. Foster homes, teen age pregnancies, abortion, abusive relationships. Name it, she's done it, and always come through with her wit, if not all her wits, intact. I see the random creation of her home (and therefore photograph it) as the culmination of the haphazard choices she has made with her body and identity. "It's coming along," she says, rolling her eyes at a half-painted, sheet rock wall. Contrariness has always been Donna's choice mode of expression. She’s got her tough bitch reputation to defend, and often seems to go about motherhood as if forced to baby sit. But she’s pissed as hell if you don’t acknowledge the work and money she puts into the house and girls.<br /><br />The girls are playing a game with the dog, shrieking as high as possible till the poor beast howls along. “Welcome to Hell, “ Donna says, carrying the bills to the counter and weighing them down with a framed picture of Eddy Van Halen live in Syracuse. “Want coffee?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEaczdBuR2vWi11iHuyVgde9elkowSIMOth4dhh3DIJOji0w2Bwh8bSuc6xv-5yO2ljHDumFHXaA8bhKxEjuY6xCadYUUZXj3smqGu7-GYRFLIIbHBQQkY9-Wl6sw59i2COciuktPN14Q/s1600-h/046.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsEaczdBuR2vWi11iHuyVgde9elkowSIMOth4dhh3DIJOji0w2Bwh8bSuc6xv-5yO2ljHDumFHXaA8bhKxEjuY6xCadYUUZXj3smqGu7-GYRFLIIbHBQQkY9-Wl6sw59i2COciuktPN14Q/s400/046.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233433548454938226" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJmE6e6Zz5YbEZdpmJlGlOIlawMIdOlRePT_pjqOz_8Tx9D5IaawVKavXZTU0XFGDjcPkprRc-nrDQr-OCyQmimvPTSp5m3EZ1DW1C9P6Hik5pvj54_wzUbLqt2wnCrviPosiDHYKPu2l/s1600-h/045.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJmE6e6Zz5YbEZdpmJlGlOIlawMIdOlRePT_pjqOz_8Tx9D5IaawVKavXZTU0XFGDjcPkprRc-nrDQr-OCyQmimvPTSp5m3EZ1DW1C9P6Hik5pvj54_wzUbLqt2wnCrviPosiDHYKPu2l/s400/045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233431976857237938" /></a><br /><br />DANEAL'S ROOM<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7c-R9OYAqTHP9TfkhQPtAyDPjdRux4QkBqP5k5RjpG4u_Pzam3qLstIc9jJ5r9o5fZgsxwDOZLUL3NR7BX6flkJNWBuDSgtsAuc7SO4Fc8QLLgajTaf7eJjRdpc2gn3w63GLI673KXWM/s1600-h/I+love+Dad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7c-R9OYAqTHP9TfkhQPtAyDPjdRux4QkBqP5k5RjpG4u_Pzam3qLstIc9jJ5r9o5fZgsxwDOZLUL3NR7BX6flkJNWBuDSgtsAuc7SO4Fc8QLLgajTaf7eJjRdpc2gn3w63GLI673KXWM/s400/I+love+Dad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233442068752830546" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbcSO-k155QPzjRyEuu-YWHxBdI2vm-5eW6OB5GWi9y68mEpmN6YFBqx59PoBeXvWZlUWczyNhSdp3h66Vq8B4LMged6RYDnWJxc4Q04t-ls_ix3VtQRfwGb2AJdrIdVMZuvNF9rKiIwG/s1600-h/cougar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbcSO-k155QPzjRyEuu-YWHxBdI2vm-5eW6OB5GWi9y68mEpmN6YFBqx59PoBeXvWZlUWczyNhSdp3h66Vq8B4LMged6RYDnWJxc4Q04t-ls_ix3VtQRfwGb2AJdrIdVMZuvNF9rKiIwG/s400/cougar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233442066751977778" /></a><br /><br />Daneal’s walls are covered nearly floor to ceiling with a ragged, glossy lining of boy band pin-ups. A grid map of perfectly hopeless top 40 lust. No matter where she looks, boys look back. Their faces in all purpose expressions –innocent and friendly, tough and slick –that seem to say, “It’s just for you.” Their hands outstretched in gestures of imploring groove. Their smiles so wide, so white, they must glow in the dark.<br /><br />Laying on her umade bed, Daneal and her best friend Dorane are locked in a competitive, descriptive clamor: “Sky blue eyes, no baby blue, dark, he’s mysterious. No, sunny blonde. No, sandy! So cute! He’s not dating her anymore, it was painful but just look at his smile on the new cover of_____ he’s over it, and he’s really nice, he’s got shiny cheeks, his nose is just right for his face, he’s like that all the time - in every picture he looks the same.” Their frenzied jabber continues till Daneal kills the game by lowering her voice, turning up her thudding upstate accent and saying “like your ever even gonna meet him.”<br /><br />Dorane retaliates, “They keeping you back for fighting?”<br /> “Nope,” Daneal says, “ almost, but I don’t fight anymore, I don’t have to, everybody knows I’m a bitch and I always win.”<br /><br />Dorane says nothing. The silence that follows is like confessional note being passed between them. They always get their asses kicked. <br /><br />Since it’s almost Halloween I ask them if they’ve ever seen a ghost. Doraine tells me of the south field hermit, a small, white, transparent man who lives under a bridge. She has also been chased by a white car with no driver. When using a Ouija board, the communicating spirit spelled out his dislike for her in profanities, then the table shoved itself into her stomach. Really! They tossed that board in the burn barrel and it came back the next day. Not to be outdone, Daneal tells me of the ghost in the house. “Her name is Mary. She didn’t die here, she visits. You can hear her footsteps at night.” Daneal leans forward and asks, lowering her voice as if afraid of invoking the spirit, “Do you think she could be Bloody Mary?” <br /><br />For those unfamiliar with the legend, you speak the name “Bloody Mary,” three times in a mirror and she appears. Her face is bloody and scratched. The girls say she can reach out and scratch those who call her. I imagine them speaking the name before the mirror, watching their own faces for signs of adult beauty beneath pimples and plump cheeks, terrified that Mary will come but beauty never will.<br /><br /> I put a regional twist on the game, telling them that “Mary” died, mangled by machinery, on the Remington Arm's assembly line and she now visits every house in the valley where factory work has or will cause a death. I’m inclined to believe my own dark bit of local color, as I look out the window. The Arm’s smoke stack rises through the woods, expelling clouds of thick steam over the grey trees, <br /><br />The girls assure me that they have no plans of working in “that skanky place.” Daneal snaps on the TV and the talk turns instantly back to boys. Men actually. Big ones. Pro wrestlers. Who better than these oiled hulks to drive away lingering ghosts? I have to marvel at the broad tastes of these girls who switch minute to minute from trim teen idols in designer sportswear to keg-chested men in briefs so tight they are virtually sexless. <br /><br />Not that the girls care for the sport. Though they scream and beat the mattress during the rounds, the moves that fascinate them happen outside the ring, in the soap opera interludes - The love lives of these violent men with good in their hearts and bad women on their arms. Daneal relates a particularly offensive scandal: “He was getting his legs broken in the ring, and she was tag teaming in a hotel room, you know what I mean?” Actually, I wonder if she knows what she means. Swinging a hockey stick, she demonstrates the moves she would use on the “traitoring bitch,” taking out the ceiling lamp in the process, showering glass over the floor and bed. Potential punishments are on everyone’s mind as we sit in the sharpness and the darkness.<br /><br /><br /><br />SPIRIT POSSESSION<br /><br />I didn't know when I took these photos that Daneal had suffered molestation, that she had seen her mother being abused by her father, that her ideas of body, sex, and love had been twisted before her adolescence set in. When I snapped these shots all I knew was that she hated her body till she danced, especially to Britney Spears. For the length of a pop song she is without a painful past or a drab present. With every angular move, every turn and spin, she is rich, slim, and full of teenage power. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicI_Gc_PQk6Pt4422HkWinCa1h4-2i_cmLBPaNZShDuk4kURyjtWj4Jb6oMkmS54M7sR56nkW7isPtQZftf6-X1ri0pRnus8wOVZFrekotkg39DQWz1ng9LaOG1w1u_-oJASm8o5Bhp0sU/s1600-h/049.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicI_Gc_PQk6Pt4422HkWinCa1h4-2i_cmLBPaNZShDuk4kURyjtWj4Jb6oMkmS54M7sR56nkW7isPtQZftf6-X1ri0pRnus8wOVZFrekotkg39DQWz1ng9LaOG1w1u_-oJASm8o5Bhp0sU/s400/049.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233435920633354610" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FdizsRNF0cvLUUbYccc-zaJiqKmZOwhFqcXJvRU4i8aDU2QdJwxLp1_P3qQJH1c9nM-z6Mv8s-unabMx3nVehRMGLNKQ-y14QoTVBErPkydUOhf8ybpIbueNfqJJv2JdM8wT1lBYz3zJ/s1600-h/051.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FdizsRNF0cvLUUbYccc-zaJiqKmZOwhFqcXJvRU4i8aDU2QdJwxLp1_P3qQJH1c9nM-z6Mv8s-unabMx3nVehRMGLNKQ-y14QoTVBErPkydUOhf8ybpIbueNfqJJv2JdM8wT1lBYz3zJ/s400/051.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233436555518908178" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGnxEtlAUr0dRo9I9SIf_tveC5bqB3-CzPUxVv2ZGHqVT5IHvPEm6Ch56UECBeiHQYgtVA4bntd2y9H54suUGQ6j8vufWG_XAJ-mpf1xJI6rm_1_XDl4mTWamj3l-Tb0ZK6N8u84z0pI1/s1600-h/052.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXGnxEtlAUr0dRo9I9SIf_tveC5bqB3-CzPUxVv2ZGHqVT5IHvPEm6Ch56UECBeiHQYgtVA4bntd2y9H54suUGQ6j8vufWG_XAJ-mpf1xJI6rm_1_XDl4mTWamj3l-Tb0ZK6N8u84z0pI1/s400/052.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233436556723635090" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkLMXo8YCVOrM83weJERtmOlq89YwWIduPP5p3kYxME2bnZwYJvDaVgHdlUUxqqcucqLDP0rs1K-M3LkISzZQhwnIDrhRdYJWbMprnN0WNFuM6ERwjWlaiCmIe4QbW6FZZRv-MlPRkDqab/s1600-h/055.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkLMXo8YCVOrM83weJERtmOlq89YwWIduPP5p3kYxME2bnZwYJvDaVgHdlUUxqqcucqLDP0rs1K-M3LkISzZQhwnIDrhRdYJWbMprnN0WNFuM6ERwjWlaiCmIe4QbW6FZZRv-MlPRkDqab/s400/055.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233437009954185938" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnOMtBqjzRFbhbfNcvgaP3cQ1cW0NWUZH7G3iNBw9CpYhKS3Zy-JCFtkm3exBfoynQs89L2K76iS_dFd3zD8LCj0Wlsasl71i-JeDM4QVWkyqAeVz7A_xTRlzWU2tDJmp28NKt00DSy_J/s1600-h/056.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnOMtBqjzRFbhbfNcvgaP3cQ1cW0NWUZH7G3iNBw9CpYhKS3Zy-JCFtkm3exBfoynQs89L2K76iS_dFd3zD8LCj0Wlsasl71i-JeDM4QVWkyqAeVz7A_xTRlzWU2tDJmp28NKt00DSy_J/s400/056.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233437019932150370" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-25079895112464858902008-11-13T17:38:00.001-08:002009-03-06T10:22:54.981-08:00HALLOWEEN<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxd8IVx1wYD5ms6q9lxP9jkg1kj6Cb6ToUHf4xJcTzaBiWn20_N4L4PYE8PxMUMeC39Ho8S1hawZJTuZ-O6iUXq2CddjQgPpmphduzcIyd2IWkBvkHvJ0ZHGMXqkQV2WToet01jJrV9Pya/s1600-h/064.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxd8IVx1wYD5ms6q9lxP9jkg1kj6Cb6ToUHf4xJcTzaBiWn20_N4L4PYE8PxMUMeC39Ho8S1hawZJTuZ-O6iUXq2CddjQgPpmphduzcIyd2IWkBvkHvJ0ZHGMXqkQV2WToet01jJrV9Pya/s400/064.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236344126856192114" /></a><br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYzOfR_rM5iRD5r60_-T1IPJNE6HrGSk45ToGimcvVQmBCJLbxkcy96D1I9ouQnKjQg-KytvEZcvdgSF01kDS7V66XSRWGGg5ivjTYE4vv_HvzDXyPfviddLZ1igwzZkXchhKOywMvvVup/s1600-h/getyou.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYzOfR_rM5iRD5r60_-T1IPJNE6HrGSk45ToGimcvVQmBCJLbxkcy96D1I9ouQnKjQg-KytvEZcvdgSF01kDS7V66XSRWGGg5ivjTYE4vv_HvzDXyPfviddLZ1igwzZkXchhKOywMvvVup/s400/getyou.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236346214405308322" /></a><br /><br />The long streets, sparsely lit. Piled leaves scattered by the gusty wind. A photograph may capture their color, their motion, but not their sound. They rise with a crisp, dry hiss, fluttering, beneath the streetlights, then fall, to scuttle crab-like across the pavement. Desiree crunches waist-deep into a yellow, curbside mound. She emerges with oak leaves, like petting hands, clinging to the fur of her costume. Originally, she was to be a handmade pumpkin from Ladies Home Journal, until the release of 101 Dalmations when the half-sewn yards of green and orange felt were replaced with a pre-packaged, spotted hide. On a porch she stops, shying away from the gnarled, toothy face, the claw holding out the candy. She takes into consideration her mother’s words, “It’s not real, honey, it’s a mask.” But tonight, phantasm outweighs adult authority. She won’t even take the candy I collect for her. However, after watching me enjoy it without painful death, or sprouting hair and fangs, she charges the next house, undaunted by skulls, flashing Frankenstein heads, and a clothesline’s worth of cotton sheet ghosts.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7N2sm3TJlBwbgDS6Arj0KMeGFlMqElZlX_LppWGm6ff_F_gPVfn1g-hYEYrWmUVckVduL3em1rUqgnaXzYTN0QK7y9Eoofz7sZCgWlUem6SBKOR5c1bY1YnUp41s1iZYiPODr_QpKxAJE/s1600-h/067.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7N2sm3TJlBwbgDS6Arj0KMeGFlMqElZlX_LppWGm6ff_F_gPVfn1g-hYEYrWmUVckVduL3em1rUqgnaXzYTN0QK7y9Eoofz7sZCgWlUem6SBKOR5c1bY1YnUp41s1iZYiPODr_QpKxAJE/s400/067.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236350135745978418" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZL9A7UwClXz-FMlVuQEyeLxq2uqYvwCZJ0JQrIbeoiurb319C-Pl6nDCuU-R7s5gUHhoZ5zLAgHpLGKs4k9WG291fF0Y_ndDcmsE-DI8t6Wre9Lhu9DdCdvUPx5DJDtkxKZuzAbUrfZ0y/s1600-h/dnny.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZL9A7UwClXz-FMlVuQEyeLxq2uqYvwCZJ0JQrIbeoiurb319C-Pl6nDCuU-R7s5gUHhoZ5zLAgHpLGKs4k9WG291fF0Y_ndDcmsE-DI8t6Wre9Lhu9DdCdvUPx5DJDtkxKZuzAbUrfZ0y/s400/dnny.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236347350133960146" /></a><br /><br />Daneal is wearing a “sexy kitty” costume. Her posture slides between 12 and 17 as she swings her treat bag in time with hips she doesn’t quite have. Her eyes are sharp, trying to guess the boys behind their masks, so she can flirt, snub, or at least know which walk to use as she goes by. She is so intent on maximizing whatever sex appeal she has, so focused on her growing powers, that she seems to be calculating them on a moment-to-moment basis. She leaves us when she sees a group of older, unchaperoned girls. She crosses the street to show off her costume. The girls give an ambivalent nod of acknowledgement. Daneal’s bright voice, carried by the damp air, chatters away as if she does not notice their disengagement. But she does not linger. She returns, smiling and listing the girls' merits, with discomfort twitching behind her whiskers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbNC2gjUHZtU5m0NzO83EQch879aA6rpe5xN6OJ7iSGfBywgcLZKFIzpXQdIghdLR8Qjz-OQ3jO4_SuwWP05L0Ef8zDwqxQHhTSwZ1J4Jyo_IBSo6gvf1GMja5fdTW-yyzb520s8GaS2U/s1600-h/pumpkin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbNC2gjUHZtU5m0NzO83EQch879aA6rpe5xN6OJ7iSGfBywgcLZKFIzpXQdIghdLR8Qjz-OQ3jO4_SuwWP05L0Ef8zDwqxQHhTSwZ1J4Jyo_IBSo6gvf1GMja5fdTW-yyzb520s8GaS2U/s400/pumpkin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236367621476369170" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6JgVCeDhKLJEEcduGVnaSIMge099r-avmb15heHjq4uf7vsYeb43nWz8up7jULY6i8vyuinHv7BP7KOp5jXyItT-yNDxv2MtPbX4LcTHrFgNRQqPchibiT-mVpE3xmqpwaFKXszYFuEg/s1600-h/werewolf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6JgVCeDhKLJEEcduGVnaSIMge099r-avmb15heHjq4uf7vsYeb43nWz8up7jULY6i8vyuinHv7BP7KOp5jXyItT-yNDxv2MtPbX4LcTHrFgNRQqPchibiT-mVpE3xmqpwaFKXszYFuEg/s400/werewolf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236348721522961170" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirj0H4FijbN42i6KzuH3MnLFL1yUOvdzpAusrxoDB7IIuoePqhJDPHlrPINR1JsZgSQj1vhC8eKk1I0HbVGs9uiJvcexSvi7kxGQacnMh11qhee8c4V6NrynPfeeabNh0shTYlCJE4IKx/s1600-h/fang.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirj0H4FijbN42i6KzuH3MnLFL1yUOvdzpAusrxoDB7IIuoePqhJDPHlrPINR1JsZgSQj1vhC8eKk1I0HbVGs9uiJvcexSvi7kxGQacnMh11qhee8c4V6NrynPfeeabNh0shTYlCJE4IKx/s400/fang.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236346953700862194" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3dBTIXw7T71SVm4IfNiOfyQmRO2MssnmPQlWIRnn54h5F_xQhBmjZRkj07Hse1DIMzdaRyWkOhp8hcv3UKZCEpOlxNWW-wWu99pnlaaVkAbBAWGOw5j0DfEo3BWBk4zhggIbgVjlMR2R/s1600-h/ribbon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3dBTIXw7T71SVm4IfNiOfyQmRO2MssnmPQlWIRnn54h5F_xQhBmjZRkj07Hse1DIMzdaRyWkOhp8hcv3UKZCEpOlxNWW-wWu99pnlaaVkAbBAWGOw5j0DfEo3BWBk4zhggIbgVjlMR2R/s400/ribbon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236349412276487746" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3Xv23FNxZmw48aKK4VRSwyU3fmyx4lq26qwgBBJHSjrPTlB-iq8tCvTXRsMj4xngp8blp1L6U83uNfphFw-r4gVhJdm00792Xp4azhyH-mJ1VZAckg_YdUS0WYmGIJAkt5n_JQ2ORnNP/s1600-h/balloon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja3Xv23FNxZmw48aKK4VRSwyU3fmyx4lq26qwgBBJHSjrPTlB-iq8tCvTXRsMj4xngp8blp1L6U83uNfphFw-r4gVhJdm00792Xp4azhyH-mJ1VZAckg_YdUS0WYmGIJAkt5n_JQ2ORnNP/s400/balloon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236346951451169970" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-37214355369241943602008-11-13T17:32:00.000-08:002009-03-06T10:31:21.315-08:00LETTER FROM AUNT DENISE - PROFESSIONAL GHOST HUNTERLETTER FROM AUNT DENISE - PROFESSIONAL GHOST HUNTER<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-CbannklCVRnyRipqros72zdj6EtIm6hNT_caDnr8t10hUfUMjRvV1NgnwZCRO1FOthas7KTl6yGko1CPqghJ3eedUNXGpm7M9oOK9p-8oNV8Py4gxxrzVuJzqc07kgrfi5xjgFSOqTb/s1600-h/denise-hood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-CbannklCVRnyRipqros72zdj6EtIm6hNT_caDnr8t10hUfUMjRvV1NgnwZCRO1FOthas7KTl6yGko1CPqghJ3eedUNXGpm7M9oOK9p-8oNV8Py4gxxrzVuJzqc07kgrfi5xjgFSOqTb/s400/denise-hood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242753835237499842" /></a><br /><br />Dear Donny,<br /><br /> Here are the rules we have in our handbook. I hope they help. <br /><br /> <br />No smoking tobacco products during an investigation.<br /><br /> No alcohol before, during or after an investigation if remaining on site.<br /><br />Remember, you have more to fear from the living than from the dead. Haunted sites are often isolated and deserted. That makes these sites attractive to people engaged in illegal activities. Use caution and common sense. <br /><br />Ask the spirits of the dead for permission to take their photos. They appear as orbs because this form has the most binding surface tension for the energy expended. If you see a sparkle when you shoot, you got something. <br /><br />Have extra batteries for cameras, spirits draw power from them.<br /><br />As your mother taught you, never speak ill of the dead. Avoid sarcasm and jokes in haunted settings. Sometimes, the spirits "get even." <br /><br />If you become unreasonably frightened, leave. If you aretroubled by unwanted thoughts after leaving a haunted location, relax. Eat some comfort food. Watch a happy movie or TV show. Talk it out with a skeptical friend. Spend some time in a church. If the thoughts persist, see a professional.<br /><br />Ghosts do not "possess" people without their consent. If someone or something seems to be taking control, tell it to stop. Think rude thoughts at it, and generally picture yourself as a bigger bully than the spirit is. This does work. <br /><br />Generally, you cannot help a ghost. You can advise them to move on, but don't waste more than five or ten minutes discussing this. Most ghosts are tied to their earthly locations because they want to change something that happened in the past. <br /><br /> You can't change the past, and most ghosts aren't really interested in anything else. <br /><br /> Sounds like things are going pretty good for you. Did you get the pictures I sent from our hunt? Did you get anything? The night shot camera picked up a mist around us and shortly after that we both smelled beer. I guess they were having a party that night.<br /> <br /> Love,<br /> Aunt Denise<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8ZtcMIdff3RwDT2ivsO3IUdcQF9krzGUEYUQUVJzK2CsSjNNph_itOlzHapKUc6SYlpd6iMeZo5x1mBlOeYRGL7JtmMZTcXJwYAmCXgyf4tsm6ppXCGt3aB-EzX0_g7x47ueZrFqDUNG/s1600-h/087.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8ZtcMIdff3RwDT2ivsO3IUdcQF9krzGUEYUQUVJzK2CsSjNNph_itOlzHapKUc6SYlpd6iMeZo5x1mBlOeYRGL7JtmMZTcXJwYAmCXgyf4tsm6ppXCGt3aB-EzX0_g7x47ueZrFqDUNG/s400/087.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232013362095866946" /></a>(Image from Denise's ghost hunting notebook)<br /><br /><br />GHOST HUNTING<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsp9_FlK9Ye__oxk5FzksKbqzwXDGoBH00bI-_ZHj6LnTa29tPOFHs9_hymJzCvB-bzLaVO-erZKEzrWQsi_L1Znh7l9WWEAiA-6v5zEaYXet9Ydlptx-LyF5UxNEqTJVshZV9UVyHN6gg/s1600-h/099.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsp9_FlK9Ye__oxk5FzksKbqzwXDGoBH00bI-_ZHj6LnTa29tPOFHs9_hymJzCvB-bzLaVO-erZKEzrWQsi_L1Znh7l9WWEAiA-6v5zEaYXet9Ydlptx-LyF5UxNEqTJVshZV9UVyHN6gg/s400/099.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236356561814767810" /></a>(Middleville Cemetery)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The cemetery stretches along the center of the town, taking up the greater portion of Main St. Headstones outnumber houses here in Middleville (just as the death rate outnumbers the birthrate through the region.) The Valley is spotted with little townships like this one. A few homes. A fire station and a post office. A gas station and a convenience store if you’re lucky. Trains still run through the backtstreets twice a day but, even in the heyday of the railroads these places never had stations. <br /><br />At the cemetry entrance, nailed to a old tree whose roots threaten to topple nearby headstones, a hand painted sign reads, “NO ARTIFICIAL FLOWERS.” I snap a shot. It occurs to me later, when I print the image, that a photograph is a kind of artificial blossom, a synthetic memory token, fading eventually in the sunlight. <br /><br />Denise and Peggy hurry into the cemetery. I watch their plump forms disappear into the darkness. They become floating heads. Cameras flash on headstone inscriptions. Names and lifespans from centuries, decades, and even months ago flare up and fade into the darkness. A few small, pristine flags are revealed –servicemen? National Guard boys or girls trying to get out of the valley, ending up dead in Iraq? I can't tell. In the distance I hear Denise speaking softly, trying to draw the spirits to her. We wait. All is quiet. If the spirits speak, it's on tape. If they manifest, it's on film. Our senses mean nothing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGK7i34buL4cEXJHP9-Uwcw-Z4FE0ctuCLQovnoGVGSM6vHQ01jInHEnoO72b_gnYxsoQcdnZ9De6by3V3jsH4flBWU_ZYyy4w4w9peSJfqk7uU2Ox45_DPNVbvmvAt97t7ewsA4ARPfj/s1600-h/scan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGK7i34buL4cEXJHP9-Uwcw-Z4FE0ctuCLQovnoGVGSM6vHQ01jInHEnoO72b_gnYxsoQcdnZ9De6by3V3jsH4flBWU_ZYyy4w4w9peSJfqk7uU2Ox45_DPNVbvmvAt97t7ewsA4ARPfj/s400/scan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237121635992013746" /></a>(Peggy w/ thermal scanner)<br /><br />On the ride home, Denise and Peggy bitch about their health, about work and welfare checks. They gossip about adulteries and trade tales of local hauntings. They will put tonight’s investigation in notebooks full images, incidents, and folklore. I’ll do the same, just as I have since I started photographing this place. Dark trees and houses decorated for Halloween sail by the car window. <br /><br />It’s not as strange as it seems, stomping around the boneyard with these two women. We are continuing an upstate NY tradition. In the 1700’s Shakers arrived here and became possessed by Indian Spirits during their Sabbath meetings. In 1848, in nearby Rochester the Fox sisters initiated the spiritualist movement by cracking their toes to mimic ghostly tappings. The long conversation with the dead has continued ever since. Denise thinks the presence of the Remington rifle factory guarantees the valley is full of restless spirits. I think of all the canal routes and hollows of the valley, a natural version of Sarah Winchester’s house, a labyrinth that traps and confuses the angry dead. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Everyone’s haunted by something around here and the ghost stories tell as much about the living as they do about the dead. </span> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5THM6QBKnd6xgWu9Byd4tAxXlyg_dE7_PojD-zeAAsBMn7MHjLhyDmMGABgremA3AUYj5soX0_mcoyvHnbs2M_P1xcr45VXa2tRB5zq6RDrhrwx1FudmHDWITht8ioeogismPwAGduaL/s1600-h/tower2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5THM6QBKnd6xgWu9Byd4tAxXlyg_dE7_PojD-zeAAsBMn7MHjLhyDmMGABgremA3AUYj5soX0_mcoyvHnbs2M_P1xcr45VXa2tRB5zq6RDrhrwx1FudmHDWITht8ioeogismPwAGduaL/s400/tower2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243070421326895330" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />“You can still hear her walking in the old jail house. She was the last woman hanged in the state.” “Why?” “Her husband beat her, so she killed him, chopped him and fed him to the pigs.” “No shit. I know some girls who should start raising pigs.” <br /><br /><br />“She had a restraining order but she came home from the late shift and found him waiting in her house. She ran out but he caught and killed her right there in the road. After that, they say you’d see her at night, running toward the passing cars. It was a dirt road back then. No one saw her after they paved it.”<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8jtsvDp-hmAKmSnTotA1uG5sf1uzBAPfRit_oDqBbt3Y5hMnunvvVcqsARBrrtVKwq5A7_BzF6UN-BP1hgHJNoAZL_Hg3q94XOCTgKcrXs3V0hUKrinfkxzPzsE2b9z85k2KvcvOaFCH/s1600-h/092.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM8jtsvDp-hmAKmSnTotA1uG5sf1uzBAPfRit_oDqBbt3Y5hMnunvvVcqsARBrrtVKwq5A7_BzF6UN-BP1hgHJNoAZL_Hg3q94XOCTgKcrXs3V0hUKrinfkxzPzsE2b9z85k2KvcvOaFCH/s400/092.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236354878581190338" /></a><br /><br /><br />“All four of them were huffing glue. He said so, the one who survived. They were on the way back from a show in Syracuse and something came out of the woods, right in front of the car. The driver, his head was cut off. His body stuck in the wind shield. Ozzy still grinning on his t-shirt.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lv204EjXv5jD51MgZbInaMdooIJJI-RQG4a9cAExOmDH8NDu4VqSON-baT8sTZxhy4Zc__hFmf0dR-p_WACTwow_iXAcPdpLyxPXbL5ggLUOdge4EMIfrAOqeeQlmWvP-z8v7DoG3xmx/s1600-h/093.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lv204EjXv5jD51MgZbInaMdooIJJI-RQG4a9cAExOmDH8NDu4VqSON-baT8sTZxhy4Zc__hFmf0dR-p_WACTwow_iXAcPdpLyxPXbL5ggLUOdge4EMIfrAOqeeQlmWvP-z8v7DoG3xmx/s400/093.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236354874372373570" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />“He went to work down at Remington’s, making rifles all week and doing the National Guard for the extra cash on the weekend. He liked it. He called it playing soldier. He never expected to leave the valley, let alone go over there. He’d been gone about a month when I saw him under that old tree. Just like grandpa. Grandma Bee knew he’d died in the hospital ‘cause she’d seen him under that tree.”donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7533144263658338853.post-47014518752872802732008-11-13T17:30:00.000-08:002009-03-06T13:25:21.951-08:00Faint OrbsCHRISTMAS<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ftN-eTb1hDvr-ZheljptYR3Rh4nJyiMfuUtGmCiw5RFetnIxQNnu3rtIASsnvDKIwnIykp5pLYSfmOdq4ZZk-T4VxfplEBIwrLz4_k7i4_tjClJ2DSxp0akYCsKQSSKqkCwZut05thy/s1600-h/mom,.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ftN-eTb1hDvr-ZheljptYR3Rh4nJyiMfuUtGmCiw5RFetnIxQNnu3rtIASsnvDKIwnIykp5pLYSfmOdq4ZZk-T4VxfplEBIwrLz4_k7i4_tjClJ2DSxp0akYCsKQSSKqkCwZut05thy/s400/mom,.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241992287435416002" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVVxP9tvjf6Kxt9FC4bADG0OnyxJDyhw7PIZwTfv4ugeLZSJfd0D8go6GL2RXPgLV9Pfy7Q9t7XY7cYXgvV3B7WqwlvEd-qmvvWunJYFjWp3BoziG225WGoF2SUuYPh3Agny_E3uaSEGN/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVVxP9tvjf6Kxt9FC4bADG0OnyxJDyhw7PIZwTfv4ugeLZSJfd0D8go6GL2RXPgLV9Pfy7Q9t7XY7cYXgvV3B7WqwlvEd-qmvvWunJYFjWp3BoziG225WGoF2SUuYPh3Agny_E3uaSEGN/s400/tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241991580288520898" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kEQXWmHQysdQsiJChTWMJtlGAhGSRPlEKWvN1w9hFQtmcrmRLmLAjwDCtMrbIYGqvQQSU8FgflV81YA4TlTil77tvN8Pqa4Pgp4vJFzMDupxFXvzoTJVD2eohldSbpNHY_70NKgxi9LW/s1600-h/flag"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kEQXWmHQysdQsiJChTWMJtlGAhGSRPlEKWvN1w9hFQtmcrmRLmLAjwDCtMrbIYGqvQQSU8FgflV81YA4TlTil77tvN8Pqa4Pgp4vJFzMDupxFXvzoTJVD2eohldSbpNHY_70NKgxi9LW/s400/flag" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240856000077715042" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHk7vuKGokeUpKXfulTzThE2XfOq_R45_PgsGylTpWHCpUY6Z37wqxG_rdwSA5abVGhNEmJ9bp9fKsP2czKgHRxyx6nqIl8FAYWlJAZuS9Q4XiFrRAjG5TIUYpbyFkTfNMS-4G2no-AY7A/s1600-h/arms.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHk7vuKGokeUpKXfulTzThE2XfOq_R45_PgsGylTpWHCpUY6Z37wqxG_rdwSA5abVGhNEmJ9bp9fKsP2czKgHRxyx6nqIl8FAYWlJAZuS9Q4XiFrRAjG5TIUYpbyFkTfNMS-4G2no-AY7A/s400/arms.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241993051921112578" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdrPTs9lI0cpBtUDw0N8RMUuSq0Vp_G6k71Qa1XWiD7W5DLa1-DinEW15MfkVkCSzoVN4XcdYXk57F9yRSI4ZpbusrW8hLpM15KoCAcvEuKInYj-f1tFmw1_MRF2dsKJfkMjdrlJe3lvV/s1600-h/a+manhole+cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdrPTs9lI0cpBtUDw0N8RMUuSq0Vp_G6k71Qa1XWiD7W5DLa1-DinEW15MfkVkCSzoVN4XcdYXk57F9yRSI4ZpbusrW8hLpM15KoCAcvEuKInYj-f1tFmw1_MRF2dsKJfkMjdrlJe3lvV/s400/a+manhole+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241993057945603666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYzsFrWATVFSV4JWhuN2tWLY3F2EUH4NHEuiPhFt71TC338Y4T4reCbjNySjI6cPUh6kqLPwmlYhtPFg0Klj_YFVWwN1KN7w89wW3_w2dzHSdhXtSG1R95JwknH9I6_5lUTv0sP5wyZOG/s1600-h/a+tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYzsFrWATVFSV4JWhuN2tWLY3F2EUH4NHEuiPhFt71TC338Y4T4reCbjNySjI6cPUh6kqLPwmlYhtPFg0Klj_YFVWwN1KN7w89wW3_w2dzHSdhXtSG1R95JwknH9I6_5lUTv0sP5wyZOG/s400/a+tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240854367654139458" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVJEVXrSrSnzce9DuX77CibWNzNTe9WraaM8wt01RWiT90QkbPHJOCw0Yzhh7QgvMhAvVYSZ2affvgDWhEeAN6SshK5dbXcrC4-idoDevQAXw-ZP5qyeXc0GFwjLljaI7b2STAJcJljQf/s1600-h/ice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVJEVXrSrSnzce9DuX77CibWNzNTe9WraaM8wt01RWiT90QkbPHJOCw0Yzhh7QgvMhAvVYSZ2affvgDWhEeAN6SshK5dbXcrC4-idoDevQAXw-ZP5qyeXc0GFwjLljaI7b2STAJcJljQf/s400/ice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242764811627263650" /></a><br /><br />RUBY ON HER DEATH BED<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hZWP7L6QWML8jtJGZvbc7a4roiDTDqkSD6AKJ9XJtpzID6tX6cCqMUI7ZtETbpLofYmlhi9PJZ0YsOvliZEToeN0btECoWaYQkg6DDoGOgma-rxVoUq8Lud5XHDiCjkk35DF64kBJs3N/s1600-h/12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hZWP7L6QWML8jtJGZvbc7a4roiDTDqkSD6AKJ9XJtpzID6tX6cCqMUI7ZtETbpLofYmlhi9PJZ0YsOvliZEToeN0btECoWaYQkg6DDoGOgma-rxVoUq8Lud5XHDiCjkk35DF64kBJs3N/s400/12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241997140272523634" /></a><br /><br />On the wall of the hospital room there is a wooden clock decorated with blossoms made of flat-headed nails. Each hard, round petal is coated with pink or yellow nail polish that gleams in the cool clinical light. From the bed, her death bed, my grandmother Ruby says, ”Nice, isn’t it.” The clock is one of the few personal items in the room though she has been in hospital for over 5 months. She speaks softly, with many pauses. Gone is the hard, nasal tone of the woman who wore lipstick as red as her namesake stone and met her first husband while serving drinks in seedy, dockside bar in Manhattan. The distinctive sound of her is drying up, evaporated by the loss of a lung and the quiet atmosphere of the elderly ward. <br /><br />Our own voices are muffled by the surgical masks we must wear during the visit. Years of smoking and close proximity to house cleaning chemicals have not only taken one of Ruby’s lungs, but left the other fragile and possibly cancerous. Any bacteria could be dangerous. My face itches beneath the mask. The air within the white folds is warm and moist, soured by fast food grease and coffee. When the nurse is not in the room however, I pull the mask down, giving my grandmother the first, full glimpse of my face. She smiles and nods. Under her white sheet, her left leg quivers repeatedly. Ed, her current husband, reaches to sooth the fluttering limb. He says she gets the shakes, but she mumbles defiantly, “I’m shaking it.” I had forgotten she was half- paralyzed by a stroke. Five months ago the left side of her body abandoned her and if she is indeed moving her leg it is an ambiguous a triumph – a reminder of both the strength of her character and how much of that strength she has lost.<br /><br />Now I watch her, passive and pliant, suffering the rough efficiency of the nurses. She retreats, leaving her flesh to the well-practiced hands that chaff her, sit her up and strap on an oxygen mask. For the next twenty minutes I watch her frustration and discomfort grow; her eyes acknowledging her weakness while her mouth, softly sucking the air, fades from view behind a clouding, plastic shell. I realize that her death will likely be a continuation of this condition – a dull, extended drowning in discomfort. My father, adept at mischievous rescue, pulls the cotton swath far enough away from his lips to stick out his tongue. With her good arm, Ruby puts her thumb to her and wiggles her fingers. When the treatment is over, my mother combs her hair, performing a role reversal so seamless that you could easily miss the fleeting embarrassment on both women’s faces. That night I dream that it is snowing inside my grandmother’s oxygen mask, flurries eddying, swirling as she breathes.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx97J0BcJrl2CnevMrUVz5mozIq2hYCfeYERfV80RpFufm_q6-rFh29GQZtm0vrUbVXl_7fPjcY1nrgP3gJv1rWOWd5cl_az4Zno6f_AtLVbs3orqUh19liBmZnMd10VfE9ZQYW8nUZWNh/s1600-h/13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx97J0BcJrl2CnevMrUVz5mozIq2hYCfeYERfV80RpFufm_q6-rFh29GQZtm0vrUbVXl_7fPjcY1nrgP3gJv1rWOWd5cl_az4Zno6f_AtLVbs3orqUh19liBmZnMd10VfE9ZQYW8nUZWNh/s400/13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241997145260563010" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />FAINT ORBS<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-CMuJlfXqQO39nAAKOL3s_5R86uCYa53H9ePEa4JmfQZY_CUuUI8rv2lcXxlVF5Bj_Sar8vD8wwUxXYo3g5QJTCpaLUu9qvOr9iCDpm6hPAey6bnaLh3c3gYiaV1eW_kv6TCUPHSini6/s1600-h/unicorn.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-CMuJlfXqQO39nAAKOL3s_5R86uCYa53H9ePEa4JmfQZY_CUuUI8rv2lcXxlVF5Bj_Sar8vD8wwUxXYo3g5QJTCpaLUu9qvOr9iCDpm6hPAey6bnaLh3c3gYiaV1eW_kv6TCUPHSini6/s400/unicorn.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242764815606946130" /></a><br /><br /><br />I am spending the evening with my aunt Denise, the witch watching the Osbournes on TV tucked into a press-board shelf encrusted with crystals, unicorn figurines, swordsmen and sorcerers. Wizard’s abound here. Anywhere you look in the tiny room, some gaunt, bearded keeper of arcane secrets peers down at you from beneath bushy brows. Above the couch, elven queens stretch long, samite clothed limbs. The lengthiest super models, viewing these twiggy princesses, might suddenly feel their own bodies dumpling-like in comparison, and head off to the nearest national park to live on a diet of dew drops, and practice cat walking along the treetops. Its happy hour among the elves, they all bear cocktails in silver chalices. Stiff ones too, by the looks of the steam rising in the shape of dragons, screeching spirits and of course Unicorns. Another wall is devoted entirely to those pure and virginal beasts. It’s hoof and horn floor to ceiling. Against black velvet they stand, with flanks of clotted white paint, thick as snow banks. Lint clings like stars in the night sky to the soft, unpainted cloth of their eyes. If they were to stampede the blows of their sparkling hooves would surely fall and feel like snowflakes on skin. Herds of them roam the house. Virgins beware the bathroom! They stare questioningly at the lap of any who sit on the toilette. The kitchen is full of them, grazing at the houseplants, trotting along the back of the stove, quenching their thirst at the sink,.<br /><br /><br /><br />But this housing project apartment is not only a sanctuary for mythical beasts, it is a headquarters for investigations into the paranormal. Denise sits me at the kitchen table, pulling notebooks from a pile that blocks the window. Inside are pictures of blurs, orbs, streaks of light crossing the frame. On their plastic coverings she has circled every and any speck that could indicate spectral presences. “Orbs or spirit manifestations on film,” she informs me, “are perfectly round unlike water drops or snow flakes.” I have the feeling of being in a horror film scenes where the unbelieving protagonist consults the reclusive, but enthusiastic expert on matters occult. Denise, I think, has the same feeling, her soft voice explaining “You can’t see them with your eye, but you can feel them, try putting the camera over your shoulder and shooting behind your back.” She shows me image after image, graveyards, colonial manors, homes she has had, even snapshots stolen from family albums. A magenta 70’s sprint of my sister and I at play, flecks hanging in the air above our heads. My aunt in NC, two days before announcing her desire to divorce my drunk, verbally abusive uncle. White circles float in the dark windows behind her. And a shot of ruby, My recently deceased grandmother, outside on a winter’s night. According to Denise, what I see spinning in the air around her is not snow, but a flurry of spirits, a precipitation of souls, falling so thickly that we will have to shovel them from the path come morning.<br /><br />I could argue but what good could come of troubling her world. Besides, if I were to step out into the snowy evening, I’d know she was right. It’s dark when I walk home. All around are the sounds of the valley, the highway, the trains, dogs barking, movie soundtracks drifting from the windows of darkened houses –the town and hills disembodied. Behind the electric candles in one of those windows I can see Stallone's face repeatedly battered by a boxing glove. An American flag beats against yellow aluminum siding. The faint orbs of Christmas lights are blinking in little clutters along the unlit stretches of the street.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiod4CYXKwgNh2lsxvsIjAewCdMPTmDdof6dlhUSYNzaBdAVPftrAL_sroqlF3pfkcWm6U-eqUHe2Y2qjhyphenhyphenQcREtlRjaqs4AK-L9l94apQi805L7TzLm59cT0_SK6kP1_URZJJvQA8UFwTA/s1600-h/ghostsmall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiod4CYXKwgNh2lsxvsIjAewCdMPTmDdof6dlhUSYNzaBdAVPftrAL_sroqlF3pfkcWm6U-eqUHe2Y2qjhyphenhyphenQcREtlRjaqs4AK-L9l94apQi805L7TzLm59cT0_SK6kP1_URZJJvQA8UFwTA/s400/ghostsmall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242767671682809346" /></a>donal Mosherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10385180403029151095noreply@blogger.com0