Trees and the Ghosts and Voodoo Dolls Who Live in Them

On Saturday a couple of us were talking about scary movies, naturally. I don't like them. I claim it's because I have a very vivid imagination and scary things lodge in my head and crop up at inopportune times, like in the middle of the night when I have to wash my hands but can't bring myself to look in the mirror in the dark (because of the Bloody Mary urban legend). Naturally.  

I don't know if I have a vivid imagination factually, because I've never been inside someone else's head so I don't know how I rate. But I assume that's why I like to write stories or listen to people tell me stories—because I can imagine them in my head really well. Seriously. 

And they say writer's live twice, in their head and in real life or something like that. But perhaps I take liberties calling myself a "writer." Though it's better than saying I'm an "artiste" and giving you my card with my name on it with "artiste" written beneath it, like that pretentious guy at the writer's conference I attended when I was 17. I even remember his name. It worked! 

Seriously, though. "Artiste." So pretentious. Like Sassy Gay Friend telling Desdemona to stop saying "Ot-ello, it sounds so pretentious!"

Anyway. So one of the girls there (who's name I withhold because I didn't ask if I could print it here, but she sent me the picture for posting on my blog), told us how she went on a mission trip to the island St. Martin. Outside the church she attended, or built (I didn't get ALL the particulars, but if you're interested, email me), there was this tree with voodoo dolls hanging in it. And she took a picture. When she looked at the picture later there was a creepy woman in the picture. 

I guess I should mention that the woman wasn't there before. The first question I asked when she pulled up the picture on her laptop was, "Is this a double exposure?" Well, no, because it's digital. "Is it photoshopped?" She shook her head vehemently and said she doesn't know how to use Photoshop. From her reaction to the question, I believe her. I even sent the picture to my friend Christy who is a pro at Photoshop (she digitally edits photos for a living) and she said it didn't look shopped.

But Christy thinks the woman looks like a mannequin. Christy is easily frightened by ghosts and has to tell herself lies to be able to live in reality and not crumple into a sobbing ball of fear and anxiety. Makes sense then, for her to find an easy way to dismiss the obvious malevolent ghost in the photo. :) I love you Christy.

Also, Christy has a vivid imagination and has to rationalize ghosts, monsters, and aliens. I do too, but I have no fear of ghosts, while aliens creep me out beyond rational thinking.

Look closely. The woman doesn't look like a mannequin. You can see the tree THROUGH her face.

To me, she looks like a wealthy white woman. Maybe a plantation owner. A dead one. From what I know of St. Martin's history, it's a lot like the other Caribbean islands where they had sugar cane plantations, slaves, and white landowners and all that. So maybe she's cursed? 

Before I saw this picture (I'm not ashamed to tell you), I was pretty skeptical about ghosts and the whole "a ghost appeared in my picture!" thing. But then I got to thinking about ghosts, rituals, and voodoo and the like, and I realized that because I believe in the dual nature of things (sorry to all you deconstruction, post-modernists), it stands to reason that there are rituals and powers of darkness that might be able to bind people.

But THEN, just now I realized, that perhaps covenants and things that bind are in direct opposition to chaos and disorder, which we all know is at the root of all evil things. Hmmmm.

Well, it's a conundrum. Either way, the picture's freaky as hell, no?  

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For My Album Art I'd Really Love an Image of Me Walking Along Railroad Tracks with My Guitar Hanging Casually from My Hand

So far this week I have seen two pictures of people on railroad tracks.  My old friend C. Baugh would tell me that these are not PICTURES.  They're images.  

I don't know why I felt it necessary to disguise C. Baugh's identity, I have mentioned her full name on my blog before.  In fact, lots of my visitors come from searches of her name.  She has no idea how famous she is.  

Anyway C. Baugh once told me long ago when we were mere children in college that two of the most cliche images in beginning photography were your friend holding a guitar and your friend walking along the railroad tracks.  For sheer cliche strength, I suggest merging the two--your friend holding their guitar, while walking on the railroad tracks.  I know you've seen this somewhere.  

The big question is: what are you really trying to say when you decide to photograph yourself strolling thoughtfully along the railroad tracks?  That you're a wanderer?  That you walk a line between here and there?  Are you trying to give your life a sense of movement with the suggestion of motion in the stillness of the tracks and ties?  That must be it.  It's a symbol that's rife with meaning.  

I have to say that I'm instantly launched into a somber reverie the minute I see a guy in torn jeans walking away from the camera along those rusted steel tracks and pitch-stained ties.  I'm forced to confront the vagaries of my existence, the course my life has taken and where it's headed now.  All because of an image of someone strolling along the railroad tracks.  

Its weird.      

I'm thinking about running a counter for the number of times I stumble across images of people walking along the railroad tracks.  Did I mention the obvious, that it's only Wednesday?  The week is only half over. 

   

C. Baugh and myself during college enjoying the railroad tracks in a surprisingly non-cliche way.    

Not that an Exorbitant Raise is Necessary . . . a Small One Would Do

Suddenly, I feel no satisfaction with my job. I’ve been working here since December and at first I was floored to have a position as a copy editor. But then my friend, Hotbaugh (aka Baughtronic, Kiki, CBG, Tofu, Baugh-baugh, Baby Cakes, Hotcakes, HEC, Honey Cakes, et cetera), blabbed her salary to me (I begged her to spill the beans), and now, it’s funny, I feel no job satisfaction. The polls say morale is low at the Nicole headquarters.

I’m reminded of an article I read recently in the New Schmorker about poverty. It was a bunch of crap. The most important thing I remember about it is that if you surround yourself with people in the same economic bracket, you can be happy. But, say your neighbor gets a new boat and you see it, you’ll feel unhappy. They’ve done studies on this. Not that they needed to, you know, because anyone intrinsically knows that it’s difficult to watch others have more than you.

Anyway, it’s the premise of lots of movies, books, and lore about witchcraft in certain Native American societies, and now it’s the premise of this blog entry. The point isn’t that I’m jealous of Hotbaugh’s salary or anything. For hell sakes. I’m really glad for her. She actually deserves more, and the funny thing is, she feels like she should be paid more. I do too. I also think I should be paid more. I mean, my big question is WTF?

Part of the problem is that I’m relatively new to the workforce. I put off entering it for as long as possible. In fact, because it’s so miserable, I might postpone this misery, leave the workforce and go back to school to get a totally useless PhD. What do you think?

Ok, so I’m new to the workforce. It makes sense that I don’t know what kind of salary I SHOULD be making. Plus, maybe Nashville salaries are lower than Salt Lake City salaries. How can I possibly know (the answer to this lame question is research. Of course, but why waste time researching that? The answer won’t lead to job satisfaction. Or will it?)? What gets me is that my mentality is “what I should be making” and not “Sally forth! Carve out your own destiny! Demand the salary you want! Capture the American Dream!” And by carve out my own destiny, I mean shrug off the cubicle life and do something else.

I forgot to mention that part of the desperation I feel about the job is the mindless slaughtering of writing as art. It kills me that people who don’t seem to respect the beauty of language write books. How can that be?! I feel as affronted as Mark Twain was by Fenimore Cooper’s cheap, quick literature.

Hot Grandpas

So, Baughtronic sent this photo to me a while ago. She was photo-shopping it for her grandma. If I were her grandma, I’d ask to have it blown up to poster size and hung above my bed. I don’t know what that means. The point is, it’s weird to see a photo of your grandpa and think, “Whoa, he was hot. I can’t believe I have hot ancestry.” That’s exactly what Baughtronic thought when she saw it. I know because she said so in the email that accompanied the picture. I mean image. I mean photo*.

I guess the surprise for gorgeous people like me and Baughtronic would be to see old photos of our grandfathers and find that they were ugly, bucktoothed creatures with asymmetrical faces and humps on their backs. You hardly expect beautiful people to have ugly children, but it’s not so strange to find ugly people with the occasional beautiful child. At least, I’ve seen it happen.

I’m sure all this can be measured mathematically. There are times when beautiful people have an ugly child. If you look back far enough, you’ll see that one of the genetic lines was muddied by an ugly parent. If an ugly child has two beautiful parents, you might just check out the extended family. Is one of the beautiful parents the ONLY beautiful member of the family? Then it only stands to reason that the ugly gene popped up in the beautiful couples offspring. That’s how genetics work, after all. And plastic surgery can't alter genetics. Or can it?

Wow. I can’t believe I’m writing this. I had no idea I was such a strong supporter of beauty eugenics. The point is, I have a hot grandpa too. And a hot grandma. Boy, was Sarah a looker. The problem is, the man I call grandpa isn’t my biological grandpa. Who knows what my biological grandfather looked like as a young man. I only saw him once, as an old man, and if that had any bearing on how I look now, I’d be bald and wrinkly.

My adopted grandpa was a looker and a real sweetheart of a man. When I finally get a digital image of him, you’ll see. Hot grandpa.



*This hilarious joke illustrates the tension between a photographer and language. Does it cheapen the art to call a picture a ‘picture’ and not an ‘image?’ Or, when it’s not a beautiful photo of a man in a cable sweater with pigeons perched on his arms, should it even be considered art?

Probably one of the most adorable emails I've ever received. At least in the top ten. No, top five. Yeah, top five.

"So I had to show you this cutest thing ever that Jason made me. He was all embarrased that it was crusty and bad, but I thought it was the cutest thing ever. I took it with me everywhere in D.C., in my pocket and it still melted me everytime I reached in and felt it. I wore my coat again last night and it was still in my pocket. I about died. I pulled it out and Anna was like 'it's the perfect size when you need something to kiss,' and she was kissing it. And Ryan couldn't stop laughing at how adorable it was. In case its not obvious how big it is, it's the same length as my palm."



And in case you can't tell, the bear has the name "kiki" stitched onto it's stomach in red thread. I hope he's making me something similar. Homemade presents melt the heart, don't they?


p.s. Kiki is a nickname for Christy. Christy is the chick who wrote the adorable email.