October leaves ~

Maple Leaf

Maple Leaf

Sycamore Leaf, St. Francis River, Mo.

Sycamore Leaf, St. Francis River, Mo.

Shadow on Leaf

Shadow on Leaf

I got exactly three photos of fall foliage this year that I’m happy with. The top photo was taken with a Fuji X10 and not adjusted in any way. The second and third photos, taken with a Pentax K-r with 50 mm lens, were cropped slightly and needed a bit of color correction. I’m getting very few sharp pictures lately, even with the image stabilization that is built into both cameras. Frustration!

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Tail-light detail ~

Tail-light Detail

Tail-light Detail

Pale Moon Rising

Pale Moon Rising

These pictures show some of the kind of abstract photography I’ve been trying to do lately: nonrepresentational images found whole or as snippets of other photos whose composition, color, or other qualities resonate with me the way an abstract painting would. The first image is a crop of about one-sixteenth of the original, taken through a dirty windshield with a point-and-shoot camera zoomed out to the equivalent of 500 mm. The second image is a larger crop from an out-of-focus version of the same subject. Technically, both are all shot to hell. (Pun most emphatically intended.) Do the pixelation, luminance noise, etc., matter? In these cases, I’m not sure they do.  What I’m trying (and mostly failing) to do is, I hope, sufficiently outside the realm of conventional photography to skirt that problem. But the flaws bother me nonetheless.

Art only for the web? Amateur failures posing as art? (The first shot I planned; the second was serendipitous.) Not art at all? The work of a wannabe painter? It’s quite possible that these images would lose the character I’m looking for if they were printed, with all their technical flaws more apparent. Therefore I prefer to find subjects I don’t have to crop, or crop so much, and to shoot under better conditions using better equipment. Lately I haven’t been able to get out much to do work. I hope that will change.

Some things I never thought I’d say ~

All teenagers, however precocious, are shortsighted. It can’t be helped. As a teenager, I never would have thought I’d say any of these things.

  1. “I’ll have the broccoli.”
    (I’m not sure I ever saw broccoli until I left home. My mother never acknowledged its existence, or that of most other vegetables. I’m still confident I will never eat turnips, beets, rutabagas, chard, or many other healthful things. That goes double for kale, the celebrity vegetable du jour.)
  2. “I’m here to get my ears pierced.”
    (When I was in my mid-30s, two friends of mine finally dragged me to the mall to undergo this rite of passage. Convinced that it would hurt like hell, I’d never worked up the courage on my own.)
  3. “Okay, I’ll sing in the recital.”
    (I have terrible performance anxiety. In high school I had two mandatory piano recitals. Knowing I’d play worse if my parents were there, I banned them from attending either one.)
  4. “Let’s go ahead and color my hair.”
    (My parents derided women who tried to disguise their age by coloring their hair. Of course, that was before women of all ages, not to mention teenagers, began coloring their hair just for fun. When you don’t have much to feel good about physically, it’s a real boost to know that most people guess you’re at least 10 years younger than you really are. I’ll take it.)
  5. “Is a biopsy really necessary? It isn’t cancer.”
    (For years and years, before I began taking antianxiety medication, I was convinced that “it,” whatever it might be at the moment, was cancer. Unless it was heart disease.)
  6. “I do.”
    (I was adamant that I would never marry, although I wanted a lifelong relationship. I figured my soulmate and I would just live together. So why, when I was semi-proposed to, did I say okay, without any meaningful reflection whatsoever? Simple: I was still a teenager.)

Celosia ~

Celosia

Celosia

Still getting acquainted with my new Fuji. I liked the curving stems of these Celosia (cockscomb) flowers outside a local restaurant. I’ve been optimizing photos for this blog using PC instead of Macintosh settings so that the photos won’t appear too dark. I wonder if most bloggers use PCs or if they disproportionately use Macs. Any bloggers have any idea?

Into the confessional ~

Caveat: I’m abandoning my principles in making this post. There is nothing humorous here at all, and the few readers I have might usefully be advised to skip it. This post is principally for me to get the refrain of the past six years set down in writing. My friends have heard this ad nauseam, and they’re tired of hearing it. They needn’t read this. They’ve told me I’m not to blame, but I reject that judgment. One can’t absolve oneself of a great wrong because it is emotionally convenient. It doesn’t work that way.

____________________________________________________
Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice…
—Robert Frost

There was more than one nightmare on Elm Street. I lived on the street by that name in our town for 15 years, and the experience was bracketed at either end by deaths. One I had nothing to do with. The other I caused. There were accomplices, including the victim, but I dealt the killing blow.

The night before my second husband and I closed on the first and only house we bought together, a young man—a kid, really—raced his car up our portion of Elm Street, lost control, briefly went airborne, and struck the big sweet-gum tree in what would soon be our front yard. He died on the spot.

That’s what we learned when we arrived at the house the next day for the last walk-through before closing. The police had been so thorough in removing signs of the wreck that it took a moment to realize something very bad had happened. Tire tracks cut across the neighbor’s yard and her flower bed and disappeared into our front yard. On this balmy spring day, thousands of small pieces of glass glinted like ice over the lawn. An elderly woman from the apartment building next door told us what had happened the previous night. “If that tree hadn’t been there,” she said more than once, “I would have been killed in my bedroom.”

I felt sick for the boy and sick about this ominous development. Although my rationalism rejects superstition, my emotional side remains vulnerable. We’d looked a long time for a house, but now I wasn’t sure I wanted this one. I’d been afraid of death most of my life and I didn’t need my own front lawn serving as a perpetual memento mori. Everything seemed marred and wrong. I was prepared to forgo the earnest money and walk away, but when I brought up this possibility, the real estate agent said dismissively, “Well, it’s not as if someone killed himself in the house. I could see that bothering a person.”

We signed. Not having witnessed the accident made it easier to put out of mind. Still, I often thought about it when I looked out the living room windows. Fifteen years later, we were still picking up stray pieces of glass from the front lawn.

In my mind, that boy’s life ended in ice. My husband’s ended in fire.

We had a rocky marriage. I didn’t realize it until almost the end, but he was an alcoholic, and I fear that certain problems of my own caused his alcoholism to become worse. He lied about his drinking, as alcoholics do, and the lying was what really bothered me. Steve—I can write his first name instead of using initials, because what I write can’t hurt him now—wasn’t a mean drunk. Most of the time I didn’t even realize he was drunk. He went to bed early and I went to bed late. I didn’t know he was drinking in the mornings. I didn’t know he went home at lunch so that he could drink; he said it was to walk the dogs. I didn’t know much of anything. After his DUI he stopped drinking at the bars but found creative ways to hide his drinking at home.

Three times I told him if he lied again about drinking, I’d leave. Three times I went back on my word.

The fourth time I said I was leaving, I pushed Steve to call C., a friend of his who had gone through hell and successfully quit drinking with the help of AA. After the conversation he came into the living room, sat by me and cried and said I’d been right about calling C. The next morning he went to work drunk, clung to his boss and told her she was his family now, and was suspended for three weeks.

He begged me not to leave. I knew he probably wouldn’t make it without me; he had no friends in town and was completely emotionally reliant on me. Still, I bought another house and I went to San Diego to move my disabled sister back to live with me—both decisions proving to be additional disasters in the making.

Meanwhile, Steve was reassigned to another job, which he lost after a little more than a week. This time there was no appeal, although I met with the university authorities and did my best to advocate for him. My sister lived with us for two months while I had repairs done to the new house. In retrospect I can’t believe I was cruel enough to subject Steve to that, and even to ask him for help in doing things.

At some point shortly after he lost his job there came a morning when I couldn’t wake Steve up. He was barely conscious. After my sister and I followed the ambulance to the hospital, I realized I hadn’t brought his wallet. When I returned home I went into the basement, Steve’s locus of operations. All of his pill bottles stood empty, along with an empty whiskey bottle. I estimated that he’d taken 200 pills of various types. He hadn’t left a note. He was unconscious for three days and in the hospital for nine. Only then did I really start trying to help him, but it was too little too late. Why not earlier? I don’t know the answer to that question. To say that I was stupid and naive seems insufficient.

The insurance company refused to fund an inpatient rehab program, saying that Steve needed to have failed at an outpatient program first. On his first day at an outpatient program, such a violent fight broke out between two participants that the police had to be called. Terribly frightened, Steve had an accident—he only told me this much later—and never returned to the program.

Not long after that I drove him five hours to an inpatient program that said they had an open bed. When we got there, however, the bed had been taken and the program had been told that insurance wouldn’t cover Steve’s stay anyway. I argued with the insurance company; the program argued with the insurance company. Nothing.

I scheduled him with a self-pay inpatient program locally, but the program required that the patient call to confirm that he’d attend. He never called. Two months later I tried again. He never called.

The day before Thanksgiving, he told me he needed help. After several hours at the local ER, a hospital two hours away accepted him into short-term rehab. Nobody mentioned an ambulance. I drove him up there in darkness; by the time we arrived he was vomiting. The day after Thanksgiving he called to say he was being released. Less than 48 hours in detox? I made the drive again. He said he would never go back to a locked ward. They had confiscated his belt, without which his jeans wouldn’t stay up, and his shoelaces, without which his shoes wouldn’t stay on. He was afraid of the other people on the ward. The next time he had to detox, he refused to go to the ER, so I persuaded him to detox at my house. All I knew to do for him was to make sure he kept drinking water. I had already begun suggesting that he move in with me and my sister, but he refused.

I proceeded with a divorce. The lawyer had said that assets from my parents’ estate, which were earmarked for my sister, could be jeopardized if Steve had a DUI and killed somebody. Much later I found out this was almost certainly untrue. Steve wanted to put off signing the papers, but I wouldn’t let him. When he finished signing, he gave me a look of rebuke and hatred. I deserved that.

I took him to doctor’s appointments, the ones he didn’t cancel or refuse to go to. Once you try to kill yourself, we discovered, many helpful medications are off-limits. Nothing allayed his anxiety. Finally his psychiatrist put him on Seroquel. I thought he was sleeping so much and missing AA meetings because he was drinking. He was, but he also was knocked out by Seroquel. One morning he called at 4 a.m., thinking it was afternoon.

I went to Al-Anon meetings, which I found useless. I called complete strangers from these meetings and blurted out every sordid detail of my behavior and his problem, but there was no consolation. Steve was dying in front of me. It was like watching a disaster unfold in slow motion. C. flew in from the East Coast to see if he could help Steve. When I called him later, he was pessimistic. Steve wouldn’t talk to him seriously, he said. Steve was in denial.

Filled with anxiety, I lay on my couch or in my bed day after day and tried to get warm. My bones were cold, a feeling I’d never experienced before, and I couldn’t stop shaking. Nor could I get to work very often. The roof, which I’d had inspected before I bought the house, leaked every time it rained. Then came a major ice storm, which caused a tree limb to drop straight through the roof and attic and impale itself in the ceiling of my spare bedroom. The sun came out then, blindingly, glaring off all the ice-covered surfaces.

When the end came, it was on a day we had argued. Two days later the coroner called me at work, at my ex-father-in-law’s request. Alerted by neighbors, the police had broken into the house on Elm Street and found Steve’s body. It wasn’t hard for them to reconstruct what had happened. Steve had run out of matches and tried to light a cigarette from the stove burner. When the fire caught, it caught him too—alcohol was on his shirt and his beard. He inhaled fire. The police said he could not have suffered more than a couple of seconds. They were soft-pedaling it for me, I believe. Steve had time to stagger into the dining room, grope at a chair, and overturn it as he fell. There were burn marks on the floor. There were burn marks on the buffet. His pocket watch, which the police retrieved, was burned; his wallet was not. At the hospital we weren’t allowed to see his body.

I knew I might be killing him by leaving him, and I left anyway. I didn’t have to do it. There was nothing I had to save myself from. My guilt and grief threw me into a severe depression that eventually forced my retirement and caused physical debilitation. It’s something I’m struggling to fight my way back from. Steve exasperated me with his unwillingness to converse or to plan for the future, yet I have missed him greatly over the past years. He will never leave me. One of the few things I’ve learned in life is that the people you’ve loved never do leave you entirely, even as you go on to love others.

The last time I saw Steve was at our local grocery store. He was wearing his ratty old suede jacket. I threw my arms around him and began crying. His face was impassive. As far as I can remember, he didn’t say a word.