Who Says You Can't Go Home?

I've been asking myself that question for quite some time now. I knew there was an old adage somewhere that stated that you couldn't go home again, but I never knew quite why.

After some research I found that there was a book written in 1940 by Thomas Wolfe called "You Can't Go Home Again." So the story goes, it's about a writer who leaves home and writes a book about his experiences. When the residents of this mythical hometown read his book, they are displeased to find that he has shed their town in a rather unflattering light. Although the book is held in high regard throughout the county, the hometown folks are sending this guy death threats.

The story like many today, explores the changing of our country from the great economic collapse, how our perspectives change with time, how our hometown looks from a distance, and how difficult it is to "go back."

For whatever reason a person leaves their hometown, there is a feeling that you can't go back. The idea of going back to the place you left behind somehow makes you some kind of failure. I don't understand that. Why you left may not have had anything to do with going somewhere to be a success and leaving everyone behind. It may have just been time for a change.

In my case, I left my hometown of Portland, Oregon back in the 80's when the economy was horrible and it was time for me to leave home. I hopped a plane to San Diego, saying goodbye to my friends, family, persistent rain, and economic doom.

Things weren't that much better in San Diego, but I had a friend their I could room with, and it was sunny and warm. The change of scenery was much needed in many ways. I at least found a job and could afford my crutch of cold Corona's and nachos at LaHaina.

The entire time I was their, about two years, I always longed to go "back home." I don't know why, but I knew that while my time in San Diego was going to be a good time, and that it was a great city, I knew too that it wasn't going to last. Two years and a lot of good times later I boarded a plane and went back home, a changed man, ready to go back.

The second time was about 13 years ago when my ex-wife and I tired of the weather and longed for an area we fell in love with called Central Oregon. We made the move and here I still am.

Even though I love it here, it hasn't been without it's heartaches and pain. The economy in this area is a struggle during good times. Right now it's as bad as it's ever been. The whole state is bad, so moving isn't much of an option, but the longing for 'home' grows strong at times like these.

One thing I know to be true, and that is you can take the boy out of his home, but you can't take home out of the boy. Will I go back? I don't know. I have a little girl to get through school and then we'll decide. Home will always be there so there is no need to make a decision now.

Still, the question won't go away, and the beat goes on......

On with the show, this is it.

When I was a kid, I couldn't wait to wake up on Saturday  mornings, make my toast and peanut butter, cold glass of Nestle's Quick, and get ready for another hour of fun and frolic with my pals from Warner Bros. cartoons.

After a hard week at school, nothing took the edge off like watching Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn, Yosemite Sam, and the rest of the cast of merry misfits making my Saturday mornings complete.

It was one hour of hilarity that made the rest of the week tolerable. A place where I could escape into the slapstick world of make believe. Where much like Kenny from South Park, a character could be fried, shot, or otherwise laughably disfigured, only to return later in the show or next week, back for more.

But like everything in life, that hour had to end. The toast and Nestle's Quick cocoa were finished; time to mow the lawn, clean my room, or go play some baseball with the guys.

Saturday was a forget it all kind of day. A day to be a kid and enjoy being alive, not worrying about the homework assignment you knew was waiting for you. The one you weren't going to do until late Sunday evening.

We don't get enough Saturday's in our lives. Mostly seems like a Sunday, a day you do the laundry, clean the house, and get ready for work the next day.

Sunday is the day you close the chapter on a book, preparing yourself to start a new one the following day, wondering what it is you're going to read, and if you're going to like it.

Today is a Sunday of sorts, but today it's not so much about finishing a chapter, as it is finishing the book and going on to the next one. The hard part is deciding what it is you want to read, or do you want to just get through the week and wait for Saturday morning where once again you can forget about it all for that one hour. That hour where you can hit the heights, the night of nights.

And oh what heights we'll hit. On with the show this is it.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

As I start to write today’s contribution to the blogosphere, I’m sitting here watching it snow, again.

After about four or five weeks of being missing in action, old man winter and his friends, snow and wind are back, and it looks like they’ll be hanging out on my couch like a drunken friend who doesn’t know when to put the bottle down and go home.

With winter proclaiming that reports of it’s death have been greatly exaggerated, my mind takes me to that special place where the days are long, the beer is cold, and The Beach Boys are playing on the radio.

The Beach Boys we all know were a great American band of the 60’s and early 70’s, with their creative peak being 65’-67’. The Beach Boys as we knew them are long gone. 

Drummer Dennis Wilson checked out in 1983 drunk diving for memorabilia he had tossed off his boat into the marina. Lesson kids, don’t drink and dive.

Carl Wilson, he of the angelic voice of songs such as Good Vibrations, Don’t Worry Baby, and God Only Knows, died of cancer in 1998.

Numerous legal battles between the surviving Beach Boys, Mike Love, Al Jardine, and creative genius Brian Wilson have carved what’s left into pieces of nostalgic imitations that nobody wants to see unless you’re losing your ass at the slots at Chinook Winds and have nothing better to do than sing along with Mike.

The exception here of course is Brian Wilson, the now 68 year old writer, producer, arranger, and mastermind of the Beach Boy sound, who has less business being alive than Keith Richards.

Brian went through depression, drug addiction, and serious mental illness, which ultimately led to creative and physical burnout, of which he never really recovered, thus rendering The Beach Boys a nostalgia act sometime after about 1968.

Being a very competitive person, Brian felt that he always had to one-up the Beatles, and managed to for the most part. The Beatles ‘Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band’ was a response to Brian’s then masterpiece ‘Pet Sounds’, which was in response to The Beatles ‘Revolver”.

While working on the ‘Smile’ project, which was supposed to be Brian’s ‘teenage symphony to God’, ‘Peppers’ came out and Brian was devastated. Already in the throws of mental illness and drug abuse, Brian scrapped the project, never to be heard again.

Actually, bits and pieces showed up in other Beach Boy albums through the late 60’s and early 70’s. Gems like ‘Heroes and Villains’, ‘Surf’s Up’, ‘Our Prayer’, and others.

Shortly after scrapping ‘Smile’, Brian retreated to his bedroom and the occasional visit to the piano in a sandbox for the better part of eight years, his constant companions, acid and cocaine.

He returned to help on a project or do a tour, but increasingly looked befuddled on stage. His voice, once a thing of beauty was severely damaged by his drug use and cigarettes. His creative output was basically nil, except for co-writing Sail On Sailor, and probably his last great song ‘Till I Die’

Fast forwarding to 2011, Brian Wilson is still alive and producing great music. His creative peak long past, he has at least gotten healthy, had his mental problems diagnosed and now has it under control, and is touring again with a crack band, performing his own songs as well as Beach Boy favorites that are so true to the originals it makes you forget the only Beach Boy on the stage is Brian.

In 2004 he dug out what tapes remained of ‘Smile’ returned to the studio to finish it, and released it as a Brian Wilson solo album to stellar reviews. Remarkably, we hadn’t forgotten Brian and his genius.

Most recently he released an album of George Gershwin classics titled, ‘Brian Wilson Reimagines Gershwin’. With vocal arrangements right out of the best of the Beach Boys, Brian re-interprets such songs as ‘Rhapsody In Blue’, ‘I Got Rhythm, and ‘Summertime'. It is truly amazing work.

To see Brian now, the daze is gone. The eyes look clear and focused, and I imagine he is finally at peace with himself and his legacy.

We can always wonder what might have been had he had a stronger mental disposition. If maybe some of the other Beach Boys could have been a Lennon or Harrison, but alas we’ll never know.

What we do have is a library of music that will live forever. It will always be there for the times when you long for that first warm day of spring. That first day that you can hop in the car, turn up the sound and blast ‘Fun, Fun, Fun’ out the window, remembering the first time you did that as a kid, and knowing full well that longer and better days are on the way. And while you’re driving down the road with the sounds of summer emanating from your car, stop for a moment and remember the fragile genius whose music can still take you back, yet still move you forward at the same time, all with a smile.

Thank you, Brian. Surf’s Up.

The Gauntlet

A gauntlet is described as an 'open challenge', and used in phrases like, 'throw down the gauntlet', or for those in the epicurean set, 'throw down with Bobby Flay'.

Over this past weekend, I took the opportunity to comment rather sarcastically on an article written in my local newspaper. Having taken an interest in the author of this article, and others, I critiqued the article for being more an advertisement for a local establishment, than an article for the opening of a new business enterprise in town. And, I also rather pithily critiqued the article for it's exuberance for a particular word that many may have known, but for the vast majority of readers would be met with a 'huh?'

Now the reason I've given the name of this blog 'The Gauntlet', is because my critique caught the attention of the editor of said local newspaper, who so eloquently challenged me basically to either 'put up, or shut up'.

Those were not his exact words, but as I have contributed to the paper as both a photographer, and less as a writer, his challenge was for me to contribute my own work and not criticize the work of others.

I've always appreciated the opportunity to contribute as a freelance photographer, but the dilemma for me was when I was asked if I would like to contribute as a writer. Needless to say, I was flattered to be asked to write, even though my last journalistic attempt consisted of a rather poorly written piece for my high school newspaper some 35 years ago.

The idea to do some writing was thrust upon me much like my photography. I always had an interest, but never felt compelled to pursue it, until economic circumstance, and a little guidance from above left me questioning what it was I was going to do with the rest of my life.

One of the reasons I decided to start this blog, was that I enjoy putting my thoughts down in words. It's a release of sorts to put down in words whats rattling around in my brain. The blog is ultimately about the photography, but it must also be about the writing. While I am not formally trained in either photography or writing, I think I have a knack for both of them.

While getting my friendly kick in the ass yesterday, and being asked why I hadn't contributed much in the way of writing is because I don't consider myself a writer per se. My editor commented that if you don't consider yourself a writer, you'll never write. The very fact that I'm sitting here banging this out would lead me to believe that maybe I do have some tools, and as my editor said 'can string sentences together'.

It's been difficult since the loss of my 'real' job almost two years ago to contemplate doing something other than what I was trained to do. But the more I look at my life and what I have an interest in, it seems that someone or something keeps pointing me in this direction, and opening doors that I never thought would be open.

I'm finally seeing that perhaps maybe, just maybe, taking pictures and writing is something I was always supposed to do, but only now, have I recognized it.

It's a bit intimidating to think that this might be what I do now. It's very competitive, and the prospects for making a 'real' living are slim. But everywhere I turn, I have people who believe in what I can do. That being said, it's ultimately up to me whether or not I succeed.

Where does it all lead? I wish I knew. Life is a journey full of gauntlets, some of your own making, some thrown your way by others. I think it's important to view all of them as challenges, and opportunities to succeed.

A favorite saying that I've adopted says: 'It's never too late to be what you might have been'.

So in addition to being a husband, dad, cancer survivor and friend. I also find myself a photographer, and yes, a writer.

All Down the Line

I posed a question on Facebook yesterday, Art or Shit? I posted a couple of shots I took from home and asked for some feedback (You can see the shots on the Williams Photography Facebook page). As is typical of Facebook, I didn't get much, but I still pondered the question.

Art is a very subjective and passionate thing to people, and can lead to some very heated debates. I posed the question to a colleague who looked at the pictures and came away with a very astute observation.

Taken in context, the two shots were very interesting due to the subject matter; a shot of some music books, and a shot of my CD collection. The CD's I shot with a fisheye; the books I shot in color, but added some HDR effects in post processing. Ah, but were they Art?

This person thought that individually the shots were just alright, but because he looked deeper into the subject matter he saw something most casual observers would not have. What is that you ask? Well let me try and explain.

The cover you see above is from the seminal Rolling Stones' album 'Exile On Main Street', one of the greatest rock albums of all time. The black and white shots on the album cover are a collection of people, places and things, woven together to create a wonderfully schizophrenic montage. The pictures, taken individually are nothing spectacular. Pieced together they're brilliant, but you have to have an appreciation for the music to really 'get it'.

The two shots I took, taken individually are just nice simple shots. Together, they create a contrast between old and new, young and old, black and white, and color. Without the context of really looking and seeing what they're about, you miss it. Now are they great shots? Probably not, but if they are at least interesting and create a thought or two worthy of debate, than I have probably created something one could call Art.

Have a great weekend. I'll be seeing ya, all down the line.

There's a woman on my lap and she's drinking champagne

Well not really, maybe later.

When attempting to get this blog formatted over the last couple of days, I discovered you could add music to it. After much thought I decided on Bob Dylan's 'Things Have Changed'. It was the theme song to the movie 'The Wonder Boys'. I won't go into a movie review here, but it's a movie you should check out. It starred Michael Douglas, Toby McGuire, and the great Robert Downey Jr.

Anyway, I liked the song from the start. It appealed to me at my age and where I was in my life. Zimmy reminds us in his uniquely Dylanesque style that 'people are crazy and times are strange'. Well ain't that the truth. Taking a look back he states, 'I used to care but, things have changed'. I can relate to that. As I've grown older, things I used to care a lot about, I no longer do. I can't really explain why, other than I used to care, but things have changed. I wish I could have written a song about it.

Any of us who have made it to their 50's know all about walkin '40 miles of bad road', probably more. However many miles you've walked, whether you're 20, 30, 40, or in my case 53, you know it's a long walk and you get tired, and no matter how long you walk, you never 'get as far away from myself, as I can'.

Oh well, it's a great song, and Bob takes us all on his journey in a way, only he can. All I know is that in life there goes a lot of water under the bridge, and other stuff too.

So don't get up gentlemen, I'm only passing through.

Welcome to my blog

Hi everyone, and welcome to my blog.

When I woke up this morning, creating a blog was not high on my list of things to do, but sometimes things happen for a reason, so here I am typing up my first blog. I'll be quite happy if anyone should decide to come by and read my ramblings.

I've always considered myself to be a bit of a frustrated writer. Never really knowing if I was any good at it, I always knew I enjoyed it. Much like my photography, it was a latent interest that I decided to finally explore.

I'd had a hunch that I could be be good, because I wasn't much good at anything else. I can play a guitar, but I can't play it well. I've always felt there was an artist of some sort lurking in my soul, but for whatever reason never explored that side much.

I had to work, pay bills, be responsible, you know, all that adult stuff that gets in the way of pursuing a dream, or dreams. Looking around, it was obvious that time wasn't going to wait for me to figure out what I wanted to do when I grew up, so I figured now might be as good of a time as any to get off my ass.

That being said, here I am, and I'm not planning on going anywhere for awhile. I hope you'll find me, choose to follow, enjoy the photography, and maybe get a laugh or two out of the musings of a morally bankrupt, financially struggling, artistically frustrated, middle aged Jeffrey Lebowski.

Till next time.