saint john river

saint john river, April 1999
Originally uploaded by searmid.

It's been cold lately. Really cold. This morning it was -22C and I don't think the temperature through the day climbed any higher than -16C.

The Saint John River is frozen solid from one bank to the other. At least that's how it appears. I spoke with the head forester with Fredericton's parks department a couple weeks ago about ice on rivers and lakes. He said the Saint John River is never safe. Even if the ice is two feet thick. He said it wasn't always that way, but things changed when the dam went in at Mactaquac. As flow rates are increased or decreased through the dam, the height of the river fluctuates. The ice might look solid, but it stands a pretty good chance of breaking up underneath you.

Try telling that to the locals though. Tales abound of having drag races in the middle of the night out on the river. I spoke with a fellow who had a stripped down VW bug he once took onto the river. He said he was speeding up and down the ice along the city's river front. The next day, not too far from where he was doing donuts, he said a car went through.

Venture down to the banks along the Northside of the river and you can see the tracks of snowmobiles driven out onto the river. Parallel lines run up and down the river. Those who ride the river claim to know the river. They say they've been doing it all their life, and nothing ill has come of it. Over on Union street there are even houses with snowmobiles parked in the front yard.

one a day #2

worth 10,000 words, originally uploaded by searmid.

A picture a day. It's not my intention to post exclusively one-a-day images, but two out of three days indicates such a trend. I'm not one to follow trends.

I wasn't a photographer when I met Meaghan. I never owned a camera of my own, and the one we had for our trip was a little on the fritzy side. Our thumbs were a little fritzy too - I've never seen so many thumbs.

More than ten years have passed since that trip. The photos from it that I cherish can be counted on one hand. The memories that I cherish can't be counted. So I wonder now, living in a world where I spend so much time taking photos of events, processes, and moments in time, if the photos really matter.

Had I been the photo guy I am now when Meaghan and I travelled across the United States would there have been the same opportunity for magic? We spent a lot of time talking. We drove long days, took long walks, and sat for long stretches of time around campfires, and all through that time we talked. There were the odd private moments for each of us, enough time to give us space - for me I wrote poems - but for the most part we just hung out. The photos taken, for the most part, weren't thought out. They were spontaneous, taken in the moment. I didn't know anything about composition. I just looked and snapped. Meaghan did the same.

When I take photos today, I put thought into them. I look at what I'm seeing, think about what I want to convey, and try my best using the tools available to me, to capture the image as appropriately as possible. I enjoy a finely crafted finished product, but does the process get in the way of maximizing my enjoyment?

Lately I think it does. I mentioned something in yesterday's post. I've lost the gift of wonder - perhaps misplaced is a better word - and I'm coming to the realization that wonder is integral to a healthy engagement of the world around me. I want to be awed.

My writing lately has been awkward. That will change. My photography has been tight. This too will change.

good luck.

one a day #1

one a day #1
Originally uploaded by searmid.

This is the beginning I guess. We'll see. I've had plenty of beginnings in the past and many have ended long before their best before dates. Inertia I need.

Up until this point, this placing of words with this image, I thought I was involved in an exercise in photography. Apparently not.

This is more than photography.

It's appropriate that the first photo posted is a reflection. I look at myself in a mirror.
What do I see?

Aside from a man long overdue for a haircut I see a certainty in my eyes. It's a certainty that is always lingering in my heart and soul, but rarely makes it through the clutter to the surface. I see eyes that desire only to see, to understand, to penetrate.

It's been a long time since I was in the habit of writing down my thoughts. The observations of a man on the street, for that's what I once was, living in another city, the one in which I was born. I was a writer of words, of verse, of prose, of nonsense strung together on pages bound together between black cardboard covers; all born from my desire to see.

The black bound books sit on the bottom shelf of the giant ikea monolith hovering over my shoulder. A dozen plus volumes - I think a fairly prolific generation of words considering the short time period they cover. Then one day the writing stopped. I thought about that today, about a poem I wrote about John McDermid, and wondered why I don't write poems about John McDermid anymore, or for that matter, why John MacDermid doesn't write poems anymore.

I don't think it's completely answerable a question. But i have an inkling it has something to do with wonder and the exercising of certain parts of the brain.

So, this is day one of one-a-day.

goodluck.

smokey haze

walking bridge
Originally uploaded by searmid.

I dropped Meaghan off at the usual time this morning and headed for the river. From up the hill I could tell there was a fog of some sort making its way down the valley. By the time I got to the river it was obvious it wasn't a fog. It was more like smoke. Probably coming from one of the mills up river.

I hadn't thought about it until now, but events like this probably aren't all that uncommon. Living in Vancouver the same thing would happen. All the exhaust from cars and industry up the Fraser Valley lingered in the air. We often looked down at the city from our North Vancouver apartment at an ochre haze.