Some new pics. Enjoy!
365 Photo Journey
Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.
It’s been awhile since I’ve updated my 2015 365 photo journey blog. Surprisingly, the reason for this unfortunate situation is not because of not taking pictures, but paradoxically, because I’ve taken too many pictures! Since purchasing my new camera, and then learning how to use it, and learning a new workflow with Lightroom, things have been a bit discombobulated. I’ve been posting pictures on Facebook, though. And at last, I’ve finally come around to the blog again. So, I present for your viewing pleasure a bunch of new pics. Enjoy!
Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.
A Saturday walkabout downtown with the new camera. Enjoy!
Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.
Well, I finally bit the bullet and bought a new camera. It’s a Sony a6000 mirrorless camera, and it’s leaps and bounds above my previous tiny point-and-shoot camera. I’m still learning how to use it. And really, I’m just beginning to learn about digital photography and photography, in general.
At any rate, here are few new pictures with the new camera. Enjoy!
Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.
The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge is Rilke’s only novel. He wrote it while living in Paris as a young writer. It contains autobiographical content and was inspired in part by the expressionistic movement.
From Book One
But, Master, were a virginal spirit to lie with innocent ear beside your sound: he would die of blessedness, or he would gestate infinite things and his impregnated brain would burst with so much birth.
Reflection
It all seems so inconsequential.
The artlessness of it. I seem to forget under my moth-eaten quilts. My room is sometimes cold.
Freight cars rumble along a dreary, well-worn track. The train head bellows.
The sound measures the miles between me and it, and I wake.
And then I remember. There it is. I slept too long.