Loose ends

Ahhh, so much to share.

First, thank you all for your recent comments.
I haven't had the energy or focus to answer them in the timely manner to which I'm accustomed. I just haven't been at the computer much these past few days.

I'm not going to try to describe all of the recent events and feelings in perfect chronological order.
It has been a mishmash of emotions, and I suppose this post will reflect that ...

On Thursday, I met with one of my surgeons -- my first surgeon, actually. We were discussing palliative care as my illness enters its final stages. He joined in consensus with my other surgeons and doctors that I have just months at this point.

I have been experiencing excruciating pain recently in both legs, from just below the knees down to the ankles. The pain, tolerable during the day for the most part, hurt so much that I had been unable to sleep for several nights and was suffering for it. The surgeon on Thursday prescribed Percoset, which helps a lot but sometimes takes longer than I would like to take effect. I don't think I would be able to cope without it.

The painkiller prescription brought me face to face with an issue I had been reluctant to confront. I want to preserve my natural state of mind, such as it is, to the greatest extent possible. That is, I want to be aware of what's going on around me and inside me. I was worried that narcotic painkillers would dull this awareness, and this nearly lifelong fear was keeping me from doing the right thing. But I don't want to be in pain, and I need my sleep. So, I'm taking Percoset without hesitation.

A dear friend in Kyoto admonished me during a visit there four years ago that I should let flexibility become my most important weapon. She said it would help me confront this illness and adapt to it, rather than become mentally, spiritually and physically rigid to the breaking point. I see that she is right.

Given that toxic levels of calcium in the bloodstream can have far-reaching effects on a person's brain chemistry, I consider myself pretty blessed to have my faculties at this point. So, I think I should try to enjoy them pain-free.
As my aches and pains increase, it's amazing how quickly stoicism flees my body.
There are no brownie points in being a martyr.

I'm finding it difficult to live on my own now -- coping with the stairway to my apartment while carrying laundry or groceries, trying to keep the place clean and so on. My doctors are imploring me to be careful because a fall could be catastrophic.

Soon, I'll be moving in with my brother in New York. I'll have my own room, the tremendous help and comfort that he'll provide, a visiting hospice service, an instant circle of new friends (my brother has lots) and a simplified lifestyle.

He graciously is allowing me to bring my two cats with me. I've declined the offer and instead have found a new home for them. My brother isn't a cat person. And frankly, it's time for me to let go. If I wouldn't be seeing to the cats' future now, then it would have to be done for me soon enough and the timing won't be the same.

I'm going through my possessions now -- books, to start -- and am earmarking things for family and friends. The trash and treasures I have accumulated over a lifetime have given me much joy, and I want to share that joy now. I think it would be a great emotional burden on my family to try to distribute things the way they think I would've liked.
I am taking indescribable pleasure in this process of giving. Truly, I want for nothing.

On Wednesday, I called my karate teacher to tell him that I can no longer study my beloved martial art. I told a friend of my decision. "Sure, you need to stop if you're no longer getting anything out of it," she said. I corrected her: It's not that I'm no longer getting anything out of it. It's just that I can't bring any more into it. Classes were leaving me feeling as if I were coming apart at the seams.

I visited the dojo Saturday with bags of books for my teacher. The morning's class had just ended and most of the students had gone home.

Sensei invited me out onto the floor. "Just follow me as I do these moves," he said. "We'll do them slowly. Don't do what you can't."

He led me in very slow, measured, gentle steps through three kata. I knew these were advanced, black-belt-level kata but I can't recall seeing them performed in the dojo and I'm not even sure of their names. I am a brown belt. Were I to continue studying karate, I wouldn't have been taught these kata for several years to come.

I was overcome with emotion at the profound emotional and spiritual meaning of his gesture of symbolic instruction.
Words won't work.

Thursday, I visited my mom.
Of course it was great to see her, but I was arriving just two days after my eldest sister and her husband told her of my medical situation. I'm sure my physical appearance when I walked in the door provided all the details she needed to know.

The lighting in my apartment is very forgiving, very flattering. Facial shadows and lines are softened. Harsh angles are mitigated.
It's photographer's light.
The lighting in my mom's house is bright, all-revealing, unsparing. When I undressed to shower, I saw myself in the bathroom mirror as if for the first time. I was shocked. Frightened.
My ribs are painfully well-defined.
There's very little meat on my bones.
Muscle tone is nearly vanished.
I weighed about 155 pounds when my fight with this illness began six years ago.
I'm 116 now.

But, the day before I went to my mom's, I had a massage of my legs, neck and shoulders, which really helps with the pain, at least while the massage is being done.
I asked the masseur -- a genius of intuition and healing -- if my energy level felt as low to him as it does to me.
"No," he said. "It's actually quite strong."
He went on to relate a story about one of his clients, a woman in the final throes of lung cancer. "It made me want to cry," he said, "because when I placed my hands on her body I felt nothing. No energy. It was as if she was hollow inside."
So, I suppose I'm luckier than I think.

And finally, I have learned that my blog has been linked to the Tricycle magazine editors' blog. In the brief blurb about me, I'm described as a Zen practitioner. How ironic: A Zen practitioner without a sitting practice to speak of. I don't know whether to laugh or cry and, in fact, I did both.
I'm not sure what the hell I am anymore.
And I want to work on accepting that.

***

You know, my blog posts these days add increasing levels of doom and gloom.
It reminds me of a Daffy Duck cartoon that I particularly enjoy.
Bugs Bunny and Daffy are in the circus and are pitting their talents against each other.
Bugs, the consummate showman, repeatedly towers above Daffy's attempts to outdo him.
Daffy gets desperate.
He devises an act he's sure will outshine Bugs'.
He begins swallowing every explosive, every flammable substance he can lay his hands on.
Then he lights a match, swallows it and is blown to smithereens.
"You were excellent!" raves Bugs Bunny. "That was great! They want an encore!"
As Daffy's spirit ascends to heaven, he says ruefully, "Sorry, but I can only do that trick once."

Moving closer

This weekend, the Zen Buddhist community to which I belong held an intensive three-day period of zazen, or sitting-zen. This event, which in Japanese is called a sesshin, was held to commemorate the day on which tradition holds that the Buddha achieved his breakthrough to complete and perfect understanding, which many call enlightenment.

I joined the group, or sangha, today, the final day of the sesshin. After a closing meal, my teacher presented me with a kit to sew a rakusu. Rakusu are the bib-like garments that symbolize in vestigial form the robes worn by Siddhartha Gautama, who would become the Buddha, as he set out on his journey of spiritual and self-discovery.

Sewing the rakusu is in preparation for the February ceremony in which I will receive the Buddhist precepts and publicly (and internally) proclaim my commitment as a lay practitioner.

My spiritual searchings have led me over varied and beautiful terrain over many years.
Have I arrived at my "spiritual destination"? I really don't know. I just don't know. I know that I'm afraid of being a spiritual dilettante, but I don't think I qualify as one. It's just time to settle down. And, now that I look back on it, I have been moving inexorably toward this decision for 15 years.

Anyway, these paths I have followed seem to me to be roads leading up the same mountain.

Hiromi

East Village
Manhattan

On gossamer wings
a butterfly
arrives from across the ocean

I taught English in a junior high school during the three years I lived in rural Japan, from 1995 to 1998. During that time, Hiromi was one of my students. She was about 11 when we first met. Now she is a beautiful young woman of 23. Watching her grow up has been such a wonderful experience for me. I've also become friends with her mother and younger sister. They are like a second family to me.

Hiromi spent 10 months in Manhattan studying English at a language school. She returned home in February. On Friday, I had the good fortune to pick her up at the airport for a one-week visit.
Yesterday, we spent a great day having lunch and exploring Greenwich Village and the East Village, two of her favorite neighborhoods.

Her visit has rejuvenated me. Yesterday I was able to walk with little pain or discomfort, and her enthusiasm and fresh perspective on things were like a restorative tonic.

The timing of her visit was exquisite because I don't know if I will ever have the chance to revisit Japan, circumstances being what they are.

But seeing that her adventurous, indomitable nature and free spirit are thriving is really all I need to see.

Oracle of philaDELPHIa

Gerald "Ski" Evans
Mentor, friend, karate teacher, chess fanatic, gentleman

I spent Saturday in Philadelphia with my longtime friend and mentor, Ski.
I hoped to talk with him about my worsening medical situation. I wasn't seeking advice necessarily, but I always find that when he and I discuss something, I invariably walk away with a deeper understanding of the matter at hand.

We skirted the topic of my health. The crux of the conversation was Ski asking me if I believed in reincarnation. I have no idea what happens after death, I answered. I neither believe nor disbelieve in reincarnation. "You will," he said.

We wound up going to a big chess tournament at a Center City hotel where I met old acquaintances, made new ones and took photos of people engrossed in pitched battles fought over 64 squares.

Coming out of the tournament, Ski and I discovered that my car had been towed. I swear, that car is a magnet for the parking authorities.

I came to Philadelphia wanting to talk with Ski about mortality, perhaps seeking advice even though I wasn't aware of such an intention.
We instead went to a chess tournament and my car was towed and I spent a couple hours getting it back, paying $125 cash for the tow and owing $41 for the fine.

And perhaps therein lies the answer: Life goes on.

Anniversary

On this day in 2005, I began this blog as a chronicle of my fight against parathyroid cancer.
It quickly grew into much more than that. It became an outlet for my poetry, photography and random thoughts. And it also has served its original purpose of detailing my ups and downs, and will continue to do so.

To my regular readers, thank you sincerely for sticking with me these two years.
To my newer readers, welcome aboard. Speak up now and then.

Sage advice

I found this poem by Nanao Sakaki to be especially skillful. Sorry, the Wikipedia entry is in French.
One interesting thing about his life is that while in the Japanese army in World War II, he saw on his radar screen the B-29 that minutes later dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki.
That's heavy stuff.

Just Sit Here

If you have time to chatter
Read books
If you have time to read
Walk into mountain, desert and ocean
If you have time to walk
Sing songs and dance
If you have time to dance
Sit quietly, you Happy Lucky Idiot

Giving thanks for inspiration: Gary Snyder

Gary Snyder,
at Columbia University
Manhattan

I came face to face with Gary Snyder, one of my icons, at a poetry reading Wednesday night at Columbia University. The Pulitzer Prize winner spoke about the influence of Japanese poetics on his work and read selections from his early and more recent poetry to illustrate this influence. It was wonderful to hear his measured cadence reading poems I had read many times before but which now came to life.

Snyder was a friend of Jack Kerouac, who based the autobiographical novel "The Dharma Bums" on his relationship with Snyder, portrayed as protagonist Japhy Ryder in the book.

Reading "The Dharma Bums" and Snyder's poetry years ago stoked my growing interest in Japan and figured big in my decision to move there in the mid-1990s.

After Wednesday's reading and after I took my photographs of Snyder, I shook his hand and thanked him for his wonderful poetry. I told him how his work inspired my own journey across the Pacific, which seemed to please him. "And how'd it go?" he asked. "It changed my life," I told him. "I went there expecting to learn lots about Japan, which I did. But I wound up learning more about myself." He smiled.

There was a reception going on in the room behind where he spoke. I saw him sitting at one of the tables, patiently signing the books and photos that people were placing in front of him. Earlier, I saw a star-struck but earnest fellow give him a manila envelope with his poetry for Snyder to critique. Snyder pressed it to his forehead and thanked the man with a gassho, a Buddhist bow with palms pressed together.

I wanted to go over and chat some more with Snyder, who seemed absorbed in thought even in the midst of this throng of admirers. And then I thought, what more did I really have to say? What could I tell him that he hasn't heard 10,000 times before from fans and friends over the decades.

I had expressed my gratitude to him. What higher compliment could I pay than to acknowledge his influence on my life?

I decided to let it be.

Just to let it be.

Irony

Age and illness are the cause of such joint pain, especially in my knees and hips, that practicing karate is becoming increasingly painful and difficult, at least from the hips down.

But I can still sit easily and comfortably in the full lotus posture for extended periods of zazen.

Karate is something I actively pursue, something I regard as food for my spirit. Yet my pursuit is encountering higher and higher hurdles.

Zazen is something I used to do regularly. My practice faded long ago, but its physical underpinnings are as good as new.

I pursue the one and find my body mired in the mud, so to speak.
I've let the other fade from my life, but could return to its physical posture as easily as slipping into an old flannel shirt.

I think I'm beginning to see the light -- insofar as there is light to be seen.

Making movies

It was 1947, the year Air Force test pilot Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in a rocket plane.
My mom and dad, married three years earlier, were living in the newly constructed Stuyvesant Town housing complex on Manhattan's East Side, just blocks from where he had been born. My dad had recently finished his Stateside service in the Army during World War II in military intelligence, covert domestic operations and interrogation of German prisoners of war.
He and my mom were ready to enjoy the fruits of postwar prosperity.

My dad, circa 1942

My eldest sister was a year old, and my dad wanted to create a record of her childhood. So he bought a palm-size Filmo Sportster 8mm movie camera made by Bell & Howell.
That little Filmo went on to chronicle in shaky home movies the childhoods of my brother, born in 1950, my older sister, born in 1952, and me, born in 1962.

It also preserved my mom's parents, now both deceased, on celluloid, and also my dad's mother, whose husband had died before the Filmo could be brought to bear on him. I know my maternal grandfather, who died five years before I was born, only through the fleeting images of him captured by the Filmo and through the stories my mom and siblings tell of him.

My dad's mother died when I was 4. She was senile and playing with a Raggedy Ann doll in her nursing home bed in the only vivid memory I have of her. But in the movies created by the Filmo, she is as vibrant and full of spice as she is in the many stories I have heard about her.

Magazine ads for the Filmo Sportster, circa 1947

The last time the camera was used must have been in 1963 or '64, trying to capture me whirling like a little dervish across the basement floor of our house on Long Island, where my parents moved to enjoy the blessings of suburbia.
I still vaguely recall my dad filming me, camera in one hand and set of small movie floodlights in the other, trying to keep the lights trained on me so that I wouldn't fade into the shadows.
I could move pretty fast in those days.

My dad's Filmo Sportster

On Tuesday, I drove out to Long Island to visit my mom, who still lives in the house in which her children were raised.
I was rooting around in that same basement, trodding on the same linoleum floor over which I scooted as my dad filmed.
In a closet, I found the Filmo, still in its original box with instruction booklet, warranty card, film guide and pack of lens-cleaning tissue. It had somehow survived the rough-and-tumble years during which I used it as a toy, pretending to make movies like my dad.
Its leather case was still supple, its gray pebble-finish metal body still unscratched and nearly brand-new.
And it still worked, its motor emitting a soft whir as the shutter button was pushed.

So many gossamer memories almost transparent with age are trapped inside that old camera.

Wisdom and courage

Queen Mother Dr. Delois Blakely,
Community Mayor of Harlem
Taken in TriBeCa, Manhattan

In addition to Queen Mother Blakely's role as a mentor and community leader in Harlem, this wonderful woman also served as queen mother of the naming ceremony at the African Burial Ground in Lower Manhattan, a national landmark and treasure discovered in 1991 during the construction of an office building. This land has since yielded thousands of remains of slaves and freed men and women of color and is a direct link to Manhattan's role as a slave center in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it ...

Courage to tell the truth

Bolivar Arellano is a retired New York Post photographer. On Sept. 11, 2001, he was directly under the Twin Towers when one of them collapsed. To this day, he doesn't know how he survived.

When he was a photojournalist in his native Ecuador and filmed the death squads doing their dirty work, someone tipped him off and told him he was a marked man, and he was advised to leave the country immediately. To this day, he marvels that he survived.

When he was a photojournalist in Colombia, he was accused of being linked to anti-government guerrillas. He was told to leave the country immediately or be killed. To this day, he marvels that he survived.

When he was a photojournalist in Nicaragua, he was kidnapped by the Contras for three days, only to be set free without explanation. To this day, he marvels that he survived.

What this fine and gentle man and talented photojournalist couldn't survive was the greed connected to the gentrification of the East Village. His landlord, who is on a list of the 10 worst landlords in New York City, raised the rent on his modest gallery on Ninth Street by 400 percent.

Arellano survived the greatest terrorist attack in U.S. history and the senseless violence of repressive regimes. But greed has done him in, or at least his dream of owning a gallery. It closed for good this weekend.

He'll survive this unfortunate episode in his life, too. But the East Village just lost a wonderful artist and gentle soul whose exhibitions breathed life into the neighborhood.

Better look over your shoulder. You could be next.

Sucker-punched by the truth

I respectfully dedicate this post to Mathew B. Brady (1823-96), the first successful photojournalist and, by extension, street photographer in the United States.

His images of the carnage wrought on the battlefields of the Civil War shocked a nation to its core. He (and his various assistants, including Alexander Gardner) gave those who saw his photographs a much-needed dose of reality -- straight up, no chaser.

People ran from the galleries in which his images were displayed, unable to comprehend the scope of what they were seeing -- unable to comprehend the scope of the bloodshed they helped bring about through inaction and apathy.

There's no room for complacency, my friends.

Another step on the path

Richard Rohrman-sensei, right, and me

My karate adventure moved a step forward today with my promotion to ikkyu (1-kyu), the level immediately before one tests for shodan, or first-degree black belt.

As with all promotion tests at the dojo where I train, this one was unannounced. When I walked in the door, though, the presence of several black belts, some of whom I haven't seen in a while, was a tip-off. I'm sure glad I ate my breakfast this morning.

I can't begin to describe the benefits I've derived through seven years of training in karate, including more than four in the style I now study, Okinawan Goju-ryu.

The camaraderie and instruction are exceptional, and my doctors have pretty much ascribed my ability to adapt to the rigors of parathyroid cancer in large part to karate. So, you see, my very life depends upon karate, but not in the usual way.

I can't move with the grace and flexibility that I may once have had in greater measure, but to focus on just that would be to lose sight of the meaning of karate completely and hopelessly. It's much more than that.

Passing this test enables me to say that I'm still here despite medical setbacks, and that life continues and the battle we all wage with ourselves is still engaged.

Now, it's time for a nap. I'm exhausted.

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker ...

Back row, left to right: Nikon FM (circa 1979), Nikon F2 with DP-1 finder (circa 1974). Front row, left to right: Nikkormat FT2 (circa 1976), Nikon F with FTn finder (circa 1972). And I used to think nothing worthwhile came out of the '70s ....

Digital photography reigns, but when I need to get downright medieval with a subject, there's nothing like doing it the old-school way. Here's hoping the 35mm format never dies.

Giving due props

My mentor, friend and co-worker Bill has taught me more about the art of photography than just about any other person.

Through him, I've learned how essential good cropping is to crafting a good photo, and how an effective crop can reveal the picture within the picture, thus opening the door to something that wasn't perceived when the shot was taken.

Bill has also shared with me his encyclopedic knowledge of Adobe Photoshop photo editing software. Bill works digital alchemy with it. To watch him free a photo's hidden potential is to watch a master at work. And he's just as adept in a traditional darkroom.

If this man were paid according to the worth of his skills and his mastery of not only taking images but bringing out their full beauty, he would be vacationing in Hawaii a couple times a year.

He's a damn good photojournalist and technician and an equally good mentor and friend.

I can be pretty cocky and irreverent, but when Bill talks, I just shut up and absorb what he's saying.

Thanks, Bill.

It's about respect: This ain't no sideshow, this is reality

Carl

Tompkins Square Park
East Village, Manhattan

I had the pleasure of chatting with Carl today during my wanderings through the East Village.

"Hot day," I said as we finished our conversation. "I don't do too well in this heat."
"I'm of Norwegian extraction," Carl answered. "How do you think I feel?"

***

I love chatting with the people whose photos I take -- time, theirs and mine, permitting. And that leads to my answer to a question posed by my blog friend Jean:

I was wondering if you might say something some time about interaction with the subjects of your photographs and getting their consent or not for taking and publishing the pictures.

To me, photographing people without getting to know at least a little about them is no more than going on a human photo safari. I think one of the things that makes street photography so vibrant is the context into which the images can be put by providing even the sparsest background information to the viewer. Otherwise, the photos sometimes can easily mislead. Sure, it's not always possible to get a person's name or an insight, however limited, into their lives. But usually, when I make the effort, I benefit personally for it and so do my photos. It's very easy to misinterpret the context of a photo's setting, a person's facial expression and so on. Interaction between the photographer and the person photographed can minimize this.

OK, enough of the philosophical underpinnings.

I always ask a person for permission to take their photo. If they say no, I thank them and move on. If they express reservations, I sometimes ask if I can photograph them in a way that would preserve their anonymity. Back in December, I saw two men playing chess in Tompkins Square Park. I asked if I could take their photo. They said no, they didn't want their faces captured. I said OK, can I just photograph your hands, and they assented. I was given lemons, and in this instance I made tasty lemonade:


In June, I approached a man who had similar misgivings about having his photo taken. So I asked if I could shoot him from the shoulders down. I like what resulted:


I'm very lucky, in that I've been turned down fairly few times when I ask to take someone's photograph. For every 10 requests, I may get one rejection. There are days, however, when it seems I can't even pay people to say yes. I accept some responsibility for this, because success lies in the energy I project and the way in which the question is presented. Happily, such strikeouts are infrequent.

As you would expect, when a person feels he or she is being approached for a photo in the same way one would photograph someone in a circus sideshow, that can lead to confrontation. And that's where respect comes in. I have found that if I approach people candidly and sincerely and explain my reasons for wanting to photograph them -- because of the way their face appears in the afternoon light, for instance, or because of an interesting tattoo or the position in which they're sitting -- they often agree. But I've also learned that people have pretty accurate bullshit detectors, and if there's a whiff of insincerity or exploitation to a photo request, people see through it really quickly. Honesty truly is the best policy. I tell people straight up why I want to photograph them -- even if my reasons sometimes aren't particularly flattering to them -- and I explain about this blog and how much recording the places and people of the East Village means to me. And then I offer to e-mail them copies of the original raw images.
And usually, they're cool with it.

I take lots of photos in Tompkins Square Park. And let me make it very clear that there are some people in the park who would just as soon beat the crap out of me or any other photographer and smash our cameras as say good morning. My friend Bob Arihood has alerted me to this danger, and forewarned is forearmed. Sometimes, these confrontations are sparked by unlikely instigators. I've already had a verbal tussle with a fellow photographer who thinks he has proprietary rights to photograph the park's denizens, and who bases his feelings on his disdain for digital photography. I wish this man would let me chat with him so that he could see what I'm about.

But I also have gained the friendship and respect of some rather reclusive people by extending to them the same courtesy and dignity I would demand for myself. And this leads to photographic access that isn't granted to just anyone. And yes, I'm proud of that. Very proud.
And I hope I do justice to their confidence in me by portraying them in ways that highlight their humanity.

Jean, I hope I've answered your question without going off on too many tangents.

Reality check

Lorcan Otway, left, and Bob Arihood
East Village, Manhattan

Whenever I get to feeling overconfident about my photography, I look at Lorcan Otway's portfolio and my ego is given a quick and decisive reality check. Lorcan's compositions highlight the capabilities of the human eye to portray beauty and pathos in ways that make me jealous as hell.

Similarly, Bob Arihood has an amazing ability to tell a compelling story through photographs. Sometimes it's a story of beauty. Other times it's an account of injustice and iniquity that makes you want to holler. Always, it's compelling.

I'm very fortunate to have become friends with both artists. My own work can only improve and my own horizons only broaden as a result.

They are my older, wiser brothers in photography.

Happy birthday, Mom!

Turned 87 years young on Saturday

Back to the source

My new friend Raul held a sidewalk sale Saturday in the East Village. Nestled among the clothing and household goods he had on a small folding table was a 35mm film camera that I zeroed in on from a distance.

Up close, I saw that it was a mid-1970s-vintage Nikkormat FT2, a quality camera made by Nikon to allow photographers on a budget to own a genuine Nikon product at an appealing price. More importantly, it gave such photographers a camera that would accept the dizzying array of Nikon's professional-quality lenses.

Raul was asking a ridiculously cheap price for it.
I thought to myself about the comprehensive 35mm film system -- two camera bodies (one of them a superb Olympus OM-3Ti), assorted lenses, the works -- I had sold last fall. I thought about the investment I made in a great digital SLR with the proceeds of that sale. I thought about how much better the computer-based "digital darkroom" was, compared with the "wet" chemical-based darkroom of film photography.
I put the camera down, thanked him for letting me handle it and started to walk away.
He responded with a price even more ridiculously low than the first.
I couldn't resist.

The camera needed a minor repair that I was able to do in 20 minutes at home, and the roll of film I ran through it showed that it was in good working order, right down to the light meter -- not bad for a camera that sat unused for several years.
The lens that came with it was an old, beat-up Nikon lens that I replaced Tuesday with one in near-mint condition.
A fire was rekindled.

I love digital photography. I love its versatility. I love that the results are visible instantly. I love that it eliminates the expense of film. I love that I can do the same things and more with Adobe Photoshop that can be done in a traditional darkroom, and without the smell, mess and fuss. And, unlike in the darkroom, image editing done on a computer can be reversed if I don't like the result or make a mistake.

But I also love film.
I love the grain one gets with certain black-and-white films such as Kodak Tri-X. I enjoy the ritual I go through in loading the film, composing the shot through manual focus and setting the exposure by hand. It's what a friend of mine in Japan once called "making hand-made pictures."
It's a labor of love that has a more organic vibe than the one I get from my digital camera, even though I'm still setting the exposure by hand and (often, but not always) using manual focus in much the same way as I did years ago, before the digital revolution.

I'm into digital photography for the long haul. I don't plan on completely retracing my footsteps. But I'm going to tote that Nikkormat -- built like a Russian tank, and about as heavy and durable -- in my camera bag next to my digital camera.
I never know when a very special portrait opportunity will require the very special treatment that only a 35mm film camera can give.

I got the keys to the highway

I took a road trip Tuesday to Philadelphia to visit my first karate teacher and to pay homage at Geno's, makers of the best cheese steaks on the planet.

The rain fell in torrents as I headed down the New Jersey Turnpike, but the clouds parted almost on cue as I approached Philly.

The temple of Geno's was my first stop.

"Gimme a wiz wid'out" (Translation: May I please have a cheese steak with Cheez Whiz, and please hold the onions, if you would.)

As I sat down to eat, two youngish priests were chatting at the next table. One was from a Pennsylvania parish, the other visiting from India.
The Pennsylvania priest was telling the Indian priest about what he thought the differences were between Philadelphia and other parts of the country.
"Here," he said with a sweep of his hand, "people will ignore you in the street. They won't make eye contact, they won't exchange pleasantries."
"That's because we can spot the tourists," I chimed in, my freshly purchased souvenir Geno's Steaks T-shirt displayed prominently atop my table.
The American priest gave a curt, polite laugh pregnant with meaning, and he and his friend continued eating in silence.

Can you spot the tourist table? Hint: It's the one with the souvenir T-shirt on top.

I don't know, but in the 10 years I lived in Philadelphia, from 1985-95, I never found the place particularly aloof or unfriendly. Yeah, some days it was the City of Brotherly Love, other days it was the City of Brotherly Shove (to quote Gil Scott-Heron), but on the whole it wasn't that bad. I mean, it wasn't the Soviet-era East Germany the American priest was making it out to be.

I felt bad about my off-the-cuff, unsolicited comment to the priest. So, I finished my cheese steaks (I ate two and bought one to take home), walked up to the Indian priest and gave him my poly-bagged T-shirt. "Here, please take this as a memento of your visit to Philly," I said.
His face beamed. "But I have nothing to give you," he said.
"But you already have: the smile on your face," I said.
I knew fences had been mended when his friend said with a smile that would melt granite, "God bless you."

Bainbridge Street near Seventh

***

Fully sated by my cheese steaks and side order of humble pie, I headed to the home of Gerald "Ski" Evans, who taught me karate from 1993-95 and who has been my treasured friend and mentor ever since.

Teaching kata Tekki Shodan

As always, going to see Ski isn't just something to do. It's an event. A special event.
We talked about life and its challenges and blessings, as we nearly always do, and after we took a break while he taught a karate class, we headed back to his house and chatted some more over Scotch, even though I'm not much of a drinker.


I'm all for change in my life and for trying to embrace it as graciously and gracefully as I can. But I'm also thankful for certain rocks of continuity, chief among them Ski.

***

You can watch 1970s-vintage video of Ski in competition in Japan. Just do a Google search using the terms "Gerald Evans," "karate" and "youtube."