Do you think you can tell?

Tomorrow is the entry day, the day to take the art work to the Gateway College Performing Arts Center to enter in the Spring Art League Show. Last year I missed the deadline by an hour. The year before that I got an honorable mention. Each entrant is allowed up to three works. Two I had chosen simply out of laziness and the fact I have no other 11x14's on hand. Suwannee Burning and In a circle they met. The third? Do you think you can tell what judges will like? I cannot. Do I go black and white, shock value, conservative and pretty? Perhaps the third will be something I do not usually do, perhaps the shadow selfie.
Intrusion of Illusion. Whatever it is, I went to Office Max and again came away with 80.00 in ink and paper. If time frames were not of essence, I swear the sending out for printing has to be less expensive. And I say that I want to move up to at least 16x20 and larger, with fancy frames and mats? No so fast cognoscenti.
Sam just called and he wants me to be on hand tomorrow around noon to take photographs for the club. I will likewise be at the gallery from 1-5 tomorrow. And around 1:30, Melanie is having an executive conference call. She feels tomorrow they will tell the people of the layoff. And we will definitely be printing 8x10 and 5x7's.

Who Shot Jackson?

by john clare stokes

When our evening sinks and we stand in the great assize,
to give an account of our earthly words and deeds,
stand not too proud, smug in the blood covering,
for the Great Judge has His own ways of revealing,
and when He asks. "Why shot ye Jackson?",
do not glibly say, "Why would you ask such a question?"
"Everyone knows it was the 18th Carolina volley,
upon the Plank Road on the night of May 2, 1863."
And the Master will continue his long, SMH stare,
"IT WAS YOU! YOU WERE THERE!"
Do not at this point, try and win the argument with God,
He simply wants to hear you say, "I was the one."
He knows you shot Jackson on February 22nd, on a Saturday,
He knows you never understood His speaking in mystery,
He knows you thought all your deeds were past history,
He knows you hadn't a clue that Jackson was a mutt,
He knows you hadn't a clue it was his master,
who took your bullet.

It is finished

And so the ministry of Russell Taylor plays out in Lake City, forbidden of the Holy Ghost to preach the word in Lake City. The final sermon text was Acts 16:6-10. The Spirit suffering them not, Come over into Macedonia, to help us. Assuredly gathering that the Lord had called us for to preach the gospel unto them.
We shall not re-tell the story of the journey from the panhandle back to the panhandle. Those who lived the journey know it all too well.
The Christ's Fellowship that Russell leaves met following the service in order to share that John Cleveland, the once Youth Pastor with Russell, after two weeks prayer, was led to remain in place with his youth group in Brooksville. Ken, Tony, Gary and Scott were appointed as a pastor search committee.
In my mindless messing with the camera last evening, the sermon was erased. Mercifully so, for Russell called upon me to offer the closing prayer. In my stumbling, bumbling tears and broken voice, I embarrassingly threw out some gibberish. But, those there know the journey all to well and understood I trust the difficulty in getting those words to flow.
The small fellowship is on the boat to regions unknown. The man who troubled the city is on his ship to Navarre. It remains to be seen if we land another babbler who will come and set forth strange gods, preaching unto Lake City Jesus and the resurrection.

Behold the Crunch

I need some humor to keep from weeping. Today the Taylor's lost their beloved dog Jackson, the Pit Bull Terrier that came to them when we were first meeting in their home on Sundays. Jackson was part of the Christ Fellowship family. When he contracted parvo we all were with Christina, Russell, Nate, Ben and Ashlynn for his recovery. It was a long and drawn ordeal. We rejoiced when Jackson pulled through.
Tomorrow will be Russell and Christina's last Sunday at Christ Fellowship. They will soon be moving to the panhandle, to Navarre, to start a new church plant. Our prayers and heartfelt sorrow go with them, in the leaving of Jackson behind. I know that when we moved from our previous locations, we wanted to exhume our pets and bring them along as well. I told Christina on Facebook tonight that while I have attended many human funerals over the years, never have I cried so hard as over the graves of our beloved pets.
In a way, the death of Jackson, like the death of Stonewall Jackson, was a final blow that ultimately ended the war for the South. This is a metaphor for the final blow that Russell and Christina have endured while in Lake City. They have stood, like Jackson, as a Stonewall. We salute Russell and Christina and their family who will move to greener and friendlier pastures we pray. They need a respite from the battle. Grant it Lord.

Happy Sky

Oh Happy Sky, I awoke today
And Happy Flame and Hop
had gone away
Flame told me it would stop
All the dancing
And prancing around
the rusting swing
But we did not want it to end
Can you drift across the sea
Bring a happy word
to a certain little image of me
Tell him Happy Sky
That Flame
Hop
Wonder Pony
Bug
Rocky
JT
Zoe
Big Kitty
Even Carlotta
Is doing some really
big missing?
Thank you
Happy Sky

Sincerely,
Pappa

Happy Flame and Hop

 Once with happy flame
we would swing
and how he would sing
he had no last name
said, he didn't like things
with ends.

he had a friend named hop
and he could dance
he just wouldn't stop
and when happy flame
got the chance
he would ride ole hop
around the swing.

Warning Points

After an afternoon of hard labor and a shower to cleanse myself of the hard labor, I told Melanie, working away in the old converted bedroom of Jordon, later Meme, that I was heading to Alligator Lake for a bit. It was 3:30 and the park would close at 5:30. Arriving, the White Pelicans were near the point to my right off the trail about a quarter mile walk, so I briskly set out. By the time I arrived, they had already moved away from the point, probably because of the menacing Alligator sunning himself, enjoying the return of weather to his reptilian liking. With the long lens attached, I quietly made the change to a wider angle and moved in just a bit, not too much. I was able to get about six shots before he bolted. It was the first shot that I found the best composed. How often does that occur? On this second part of the infernal assessment test I took this evening, they said, do not spend much time on one question, go with the first thought. Well, on tests such as I was taking, I am not sure that would be too wise. But out in the field, it often is the keeper.

Final Acts

Sunset Watertown

This was the final act of yesterday. To drive for gas, then drive to Watertown Lake to view the contrail laden sunset. Four fishers were on the dock and two by the waters edge. I wanted to photograph three sitting on the dock, but was in no mood for asking, so I moved on, taking this before getting in the PT.
That evening, while Vana and later the Olympics were on wide screen, I was answering inane questions from Kmart on being an assistant manager in training. And by the time I had completed the last question, some two hours later, I was in no mood to become a K Mart Assistant manager, or any manager for that matter.
And so today is Thursday, Feb20, I am at 3:17, 6 hours away from watching the moon slip behind the trees over Mrs Duncans house. I sent her a photo of the moon over her house as she recoups in Select Speciality, the same place Melanie was. From 9 til now I have been moving to the backyard the thirteen large piles of leaves for burning.
In between piles, I would stop and photograph the gathering Sand Hills and compose a poem for one. I told one that since no one ever likes the poetry anyhow, I would not bother the sleeping. And that is the gawd awful truth.
A pock upon you poetry shunning ones.
It was suggested I get on some medication to control my fits of anger, to perhaps go into a more, I don't give a damn kind of personality. I again said, I tried it once and I was so flat zone, I really did not even give a damn if I even breathed. I got off the I don't give a damn medicine.

Bombus upon Azalea

Spent the latter afternoon with the bumblebees and azaleas in the front yard. Used the tripod and flash on the cord. It was easier I found to pre-focus the lens and hold the flash off camera, watching for bombus. They dart about so quickly, keeping ones eye upon the viewfinder, you would never catch them coming. This way, I could see them coming and try to time it. One in twenty would be almost right. This was one. The really good one the bumblebee was at the very edge of the upper left frame on his way out. If I had captured him a millisecond sooner, he would have been at the edge of the petal, a nice profile.
I was resting after raking leaves all day in the front yard and restacking the split rails, raising them. I also did a myriad of smaller tasks in the near eighty degree day. I still have thirteen large leaf piles waiting to be drug to the back yard on the old trampoline bed.
Melanie and I still nervously await word on her employment and if a layoff is coming, which all feel will. I took a nearly two hour pre-test tonight as a step in trying to get back into retail management. I was so rusty on math, ratios and problem solving questions, I have little prospect of going very far, especially if I make it to an interview and they see my age(59). The twenty-year old managers will say to themselves, can a relic relate? No, but I have people skills dammit!

Portraits of Olustee

General Jesse and aid

There are countless portraits for the taking every year at Olustee. I just did not take enough this year. I get too preoccupied with the listening to their stories, the ladies in the hoop skirts and hair up in the snoods and I forget to continually photograph. And yet, I took five hundred, most though not up to my standards. A blue snapper. Of all the cards I gave out to people, none at this point have contacted me in order for me to be able to send them my Smug Mug link, which has all the photographs in the Military album should you be interested.

John Segale

United Vices

black eye

Kezia Dubi

Kezia Dubli and husband

friend of Straggler

friend of Straggler
Straggler has missed the last two Olustee's. He is famed for his camping under stars, no tent, shoes with holes, all askew and rough. 

Kimberly Johnson

mothers lament

Mary Stanser

grandmother turns away for Federal encroachment

John Segale

John Chovis

Scott Baumgarner

Chaplin Joey Young

Chad White

John Chovis

Friend of Straggler

John Chovis

John Segale

John Segale

Tierney Dubi and Zac her son, as boys were often dressed in the period as girls.

Separation of Shadow Selfie

I sent this selfie into the art website hyperallergic today. I doubt seriously they post it, nevertheless.
I wrote the following:
The struggle always ensues in the attempt to compose a selfie as shadow always competes with image. Shadow with latent shyness draws from the light, image gravitates toward the light. I engage the services of compliant hand to pull shadow kicking into the light.
BA Art Florida Southern
I reside in Lake City as a photographer.

This quiet Monday Melanie works away, possibly her last week, probably since her company she works for has lost 90% of a contract. She has filled out some applications, one 24 pages long! I have been outside all afternoon raking the leaves in the backyard and piling them against Paul's side. The two Rhode Island Red Hens follow me about scratching for insects.
I am in a continual state of heaviness over Nathaniel and the one year since seeing him coming up. My anger toward Landon and Amber has remained as strong, not easing, if anything, growing with time.
I see them over there in ignorant bliss with one another, no telling what poor Nathaniel is having to cope with.
We cannot be there for him. Is greatly saddens me. He got such nurturing from us. Even Jordon commented how Landon just wasn't engaged as a father, if anything, treating Nathaniel as a rival, bullying him at times, making him cry by aggravating him. No grandpa to rescue him. I trust Landon in all this father time he has created is putting it to good use, and not just being absorbed in himself and Amber, as they were while here.
Harsh. But true. Anger tempers and bitters the words.

Swine Flew

A letter to a prodigal son:

Dear Son,

   It is coming upon the one year of your leaving us and cutting off all communication from home. We do not know how you did in basic training in Texas, how things went in tech school at Biloxi or at Mobile at Kessler AFB. We do not know how the move went to Japan to Misawa Air Base, where we assume you are now. We have no idea how Nathaniel our grandson feels about losing so suddenly his beloved pappa, or his grandma and great grandma or Uncle Jordon or cousins, Pearce and Carson he has never seen.
It had to affect him for a time, for when he woke up that March day, the first thing he asked for was pappa, going all over the trailer and yard looking for me.
You have affected a cruel and unusual punishment upon your family and friends who loved you. The false offense you based this upon, that we were interfering with your marriage, is a lame and baseless excuse.
You are simply being lazy and belligerent in your separation from us. Yes, we hold ourselves to blame, but we came to you, and you know it, with humble, open arms asking forgiveness and restoration. And for whatever reason, you have chosen to keep that channel closed, not allowing us the opportunity to even express our willingness to confess our sins. In that, the burden for the sin now rests upon your head.
I wish so badly that I could get a letter or a word to you, and it would affect the change in you that would open again the communication between us. I know that in your younger years, I was not the prime example of a father. I was working way too much at a stressful job, allowing your mother to stay home and raise you.
I know early on we spent many happy days in the woods and waters together, and I do feel we were close. When Nathaniel came along, I poured myself into him, perhaps too much, in an effort to make up for any short comings I may have failed in you. And when on that day I last saw him, and I knew it would be the last time, well, from that day until now, my heart has grown weaker and weaker with sentiment and sorrow.
We simply exist here in your imposed exile and I trust this is pleasing to you. I trust that you are seeking God through all this, as you were so ardently before you left for basic training. That same fervor that wanted to be a missionary.
But fervor I find, has a way of floundering upon low hurdles and I fear that you have allowed hurdles to impede you. You have chosen a path beyond the track, a cross country if you will.
I too attempted that journey, without compass or pack, thinking I was sufficient in self. But as I did,  and you will eventually find,  you are hopelessly lost and too far from home, with a longing to return fading as well. The longer you wait, you will never make it home. Like little Nathaniel, the memory will be gone.
Home too will be gone if you happen find it. Return while there is time.  While the lights remain on. The fire sticks you made are waiting for you to spark the flame again in the old syrup kettle.