Wednesday, September 12, 2007

It's the Law!

My jury duty is over. I'm allowed to talk about it now. So I will.

Pima County Superior Court

This is where I spent several hours today: the Pima County Superior Court building. State of Arizona criminal trials are held here, administered by the county. Don't ask me how that works; I didn't think to ask.

My original scheduled date for jury duty was Wednesday September 5th. After 3:30 PM the day before, potential jurors are supposed to call either a taped message or go online to see whether their group is still due to come in, and if so, when. Sometimes they have more people in the pool than the current caseload requires, so that some groups are dismissed then and there. This time, however, my group was merely postponed to Tuesday the 11th at 7:30 AM. Yeegh. That's pretty darn early for me, factoring in the travel time downtown.

So at 7:30 Tuesday morning I was in the Jury Assembly Room. Everyone checks in, they show a little film about the importance of jury duty (citing my old buddy Thomas Jefferson, no less) and what happens in an Arizona courtroom. Then bailiffs started arriving to collect people to go upstairs. It was kind of hot in the Jury Assembly Room, and more so after the 9:00 AM people arrived to fill the rest of the seats. I found an old issue of The New Yorker, and read until my name was called.

A nice female bailiff whose name I've forgotten, a recent law school graduate, handed us index cards with the judge's name and a hand-drawn smile on them, so as to distinguish us from any other jurors who might be sent to the third floor. Forty of us went up in the rather small elevators, and waited around in the hallway for a bit. She then lined up the first twenty people on her list. Those people went into the jury box. The rest of us sat in back.

We were introduced to the judge, the attorneys, the defendant, the court reporter and the clerk. Then the judge explained that the case was a DUI and started asking us questions. Had we any personal experience with a DUI case? Did we know anyone in the courtroom? Did we have friends or family in law enforcement? Did we have strong feelings for or against police? The twenty in the box were to raise their hands if their answer was yes. The rest of us were to remember the questions, and be prepared to tell the judge of any yes answers if we got to the jury box.

For each yes, the judge would ask the person to explain the answer, and whether would it hamper the person's ability to be fair and impartial. If it would, he dismissed the person, and one of the people from the back of the room entered the jury box, there to tell whether he or she had any yes answers so far. I was about the second person to leave the back of the room. I had a lot of "yes" answers by the time we were done, including a longish explanation of my somewhat precarious work and financial situation. But I stated honestly that Dan's death thirty years ago, my uncertainty about work, my course in business law, etc., had no bearing on my ability to behave fairly and impartially. I stayed.

There were a lot of yeses from other people, too, and the pool in the back of the room dwindled to about three people by lunchtime. Nearly everyone in the room had some kind of DUI-related experience: an arrest of themselves or a relative, cars totaled by others, friends or family injured or killed. Nearly everyone mentioned having had a home burglarized when the question was about being the victim of a crime. Sometimes the yes answer made no difference, and people stayed. Then the two lawyers asked follow-up questions. The defense attorney, who has a famous Arizona surname, asked me more about my work situation. I explained further, but admitted I'd only been out of work for a week and was not in dire straits financially. Shortly after that, the judge conferred with the two lawyers, and then announced that everyone still in the jury box was found to be capable of judging the case fairly. The three people left in the back were sent downstairs, back to the jury pool. There was a lunch recess, and then we learned which eight people out of the remaining twenty were to be jurors. I'd had a feeling I was to be one of them. I was right.

The trial started right away. The state called three police and the defendant's brother to testify. (I'll explain the case itself in a bit.) We were allowed to take notes, and even pass up questions to be asked if deemed legally acceptable. At 4:30 we knocked off for the day. I walked outside, and was immediately accosted by a drunken guy who wanted food money, and could not understand or believe me when I explained that I only had five dollars, and that the parking garage was about to charge me five dollars for having left my car there since 7:30 AM. I finally got away, only to find myself waiting at the same crosswalk as the defendant and his brother! Having heard the pretrial instructions about avoiding contact during the case, I hung back, and even took a different route back to the parking garage, only to see the brothers again as I neared my goal. I stayed well away, and did not hear a word they said, or even whether they spoke at all.

If took me a while to get back to the office, what with all the walking and avoiding, plus the beginnings of rush hour traffic. I checked in with a co-worker, left a note for my boss and went home.


The old and new county courthouses, seen from the municipal garage

Wednesday morning I got up early again, and worked at the office from 8:00 AM to 10:00 AM to put a dent in my backlog of work, and to show my commitment to the job. I was due at the jury deliberation room at 10:25 AM. It took me almost 20 minutes to find my way to the right parking garage, (which was closer than the one from Tuesday, plus they validate parking so it was only $2.00 instead of $5.00). I knew where it was, but the maze of one way streets and the lack of an entrance from Church Street made it very difficult to get into that garage. Even when I got in, I had to drive and drive, nearly to the top, looking for a parking space. With only five minutes to cover the two blocks to the courthouse and get up to the third floor, I ran as much as I could, puffing like a steam engine. I got there before the bailiff, so it was okay, except for the burning sensation in my lungs and a lingering cough.

The second day we heard from policeman #2 again in light of the testimony from policeman #3. The other two witnesses were a criminalist in charge of testing the breathalysers and someone in charge of MVD recordkeeping. The defense called no witnesses, and the defendant did not testify. Then there were more instructions, the selection of a foreman, lunch, and deliberation.

Here is the gist of the case:

In December, 2006, the defendant (we'll call him D) went out to dinner with his Wall Street trader brother (we'll call him B), visiting from New York. D says he had four ounces of wine at dinner. B says that D had a beer with his burger. They then went to the Rialto downtown to see a band. B says he thinks D had one drink at the Rialto, but was not impaired. According to the police and the defense lawyer, D claims he had no drinks there

Shortly before 1:15 AM, the brothers left in B's rental car, with D at the wheel. (D was not on the rental agreement.) The reason given was that B didn't know downtown Tucson, so he had his Tucson resident brother drive. About 1:15 AM, D turned north onto a stretch of Stone Ave that is one way south. The only other person on the street was a policeman on a motorcycle, heading for the station to finish paperwork on another case. The policeman turned around, got behind the car, and put his lights on. D drove two full blocks the wrong way on Stone, passing Pennington (a right turn on which would have been the correct direction for that one way street), and turning right on Alameda - which meant he was now going east on a street what was one-way westbound. He went a quarter of a block and pulled over.

The cop asked D for his license. D handed him B's license, and said that he (D) was B, visiting from NYC and unfamiliar with Tucson's downtown grid. Cop #1 gave D a field sobriety test called Horizontal gaze nystagmus, or HGN. This is the test that involves following a pen or something with one's eyes. There are six possible ways to be marked off on this test. D failed all six.

Shortly after this, policeman #2 arrived, and administered the heel to toe test. D failed 7 out of 8 checks on that one, and refused to take the third test, the one leg stand. Somewhere about this time, D admitted he was D, and not B after all. When the policeman informed him that he was driving on a suspended license, D claimed that that had "been taken care of" and was not suspended. Cop #1 went on to the police station, and cop #3 arrived to administer the breathalyser test, which he was certified for and carried in his car. D blew a .299 the first time, a .286 the second time. Legally impaired in Arizona is .08 or higher. Some people go into comas with alcohol poisoning at the level this guy tested at.

Here was the defense: although D was personally served with a notice of suspension in late 2002, and attended a hearing to contest it, he didn't know it was suspended because (supposedly) the followup letter was mailed to an outdated address. Legally, it is up to the driver to notify the MVD of address changes, and in fact D did so - the day before he drove north on southbound Stone, nearly four years after that letter was sent out. No one made any statement about when the guy actually moved. As for the .299, the defense said it must have been wrong, since he didn't have more than a drink or at most two all evening, and wouldn't have been able to make a competent right turn (from the wrong way on a street to the wrong way on another street) at .299. But the equipment was tested at the beginning of December and the end of December, and passed, and passed a bunch of internal checks during the test itself. For the guy to be totally not guilty,
  • the equipment would have to have suddenly showed more than four times as much alcohol as was truly present, despite many diagnostic checks;
  • cops #2 and #3 would have to be wrong about D having bloodshot eyes, alcohol on the breath and a stagger;
  • D could not be expected to know that his license was suspended after being served with papers and attending a hearing about it (a guilty finding on the indictment requires that the defendant knows or should have known about the suspension); and
  • he would have to have had an unsteady gait and problems with his eyes functioning through extraneous factors such as allergies or nervousness.
Uh-huh. Sure. Is the almost nonexistent evidence for this massively unlikely scenario sufficient to instill reasonable doubt about the guilt of a guy who tried to pretend he was his own brother, and that hadn't had a drink in five hours? I don't think so! Guilty, guilty, guilty!

There was one person on the jury who was a little hinky about the equipment's reliability due to the high reading, but she eventually conceded that her doubt was not reasonable. So we went in and gave the verdict, the judge thanked us, and we walked out again. We were done - almost.

We weren't required to stay for the next bit, but nearly everyone did. The judge came to the jury deliberation room, and we were allowed to ask questions about the case and the process. We asked about whether suspensions expire (yes) and whether you had to do something to make the license valid again (also yes). We also asked about the equipment. The judge said that every time a new model comes out, it fixes the previous model's problems. Defense lawyers then challenge the validity of the new equipment, that is fought out in the courts and then the equipment is ruled to be reliable. The judge felt that the current model was extremely reliable.

And we asked why, given that the defense had very little to offer, why the case had even gone to trial. The judge explained that the aggravated DUI over .08 on a suspended license carries a minimum 4 months in prison before probation. For a drinker who nevertheless functions well enough to hold down a job, and who can afford the attorney fees, that's an unpleasant enough prospect that the person will try anything possible to avoid or delay the jail time. That was sort of sad, but the fact remains that the guy broke the law, repeatedly, lied through his teeth, and was trying to duck the consequences or his actions. Under the law, we did the right thing.


I have just a few more photos to show you tonight as I wrap up this long-winded entry. This building, across a park from the old pink courthouse, is a really interesting shape. I think it's the Main Library for Tucson and Pima County.


Here's another extraordinary view from the parking garage, taken after the trial was over. I was back at work by 3:45 PM. This photo is looking north toward the Catalinas. You can see a freight train going by in the middle left of the photo.



And here's yet another view from that parking garage, this time looking west toward the Tucson Mountains.

Enough. Must sleep now. Good night!

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

A Stroll Downtown

The old United States Court House

I had a long and interesting day today, most of which I can't tell you about yet. For now, suffice it to say that this is the first time my jury duty has ever resulted in my actually being on a jury. This is not at all convenient, financially or in terms of impressing my bosses at ARR! as they decide whether to keep me. Aside from that, though, it's something I've wanted to do all my adult life. Yes, I'm weird.

The old Pima County Courthouse

Anyway, it meant that I had the opportunity that I lamented not having last week for the Round Robin shoot: I got to walk around downtown Tucson at lunchtime, taking pictures. The top photo is of the same Federal courthouse I showed you last Friday night. The pink and green tile building is the beautiful old courthouse on Church Street, adjacent to the modern building I was in today. The old pink courthouse was the location for a scene in a 1962 Route 66 episode, "How Much a Pound is Albatross?", where Julie Newmar's character is taken after deliberately speeding on her motorcycle in front of a policeman, because the policeman "looked bored."

Hitchcock classics at the restore Fox Theater

I walked past the old Fox Theatre (Theater?) a few times today. I liked the colorfulness of the restored movie house, and was mildly surprised by the films being advertised.

A few of the other towers downtown

I took this particular shot because the tower on the left reminds me of Florida beachfront hotels, and the blue tower on the right is all tile on that side, with no windows except at the top and maybe the bottom. Odd, that.


UniSource Energy Tower

And this is downtown Tucson's signature building. These days it's called UniSource Energy Tower, but when we first got to town iit was the United Bank building. United Bank branches locally became Citibank became Norwest became First Interstate became wells Fargo, and somewhere along the ling this building ceased to be associated with banks at all.

Gotta go to bed now - I'm going to try to cram in an hour or two at work before I'm due in court. But first I must sleep!

Karen

Monday, September 10, 2007

Mugs of Memories

Your Monday Photo Shoot: Take a picture of one or more interesting coffee mugs you might have. Because it's my experience that people have coffee mugs with interesting stories behind them. At least, I do.

Okay, then. Here are six of them, each one representing a particular time and place.

That brown mug on the left above was from a pottery sale at Syracuse University, when I was in college the first time. I've drunk a lot of tea from it over the years, sometimes in connection with a diet, sometimes doing my best to pretend I was in Mâvarin, where a mug like that would not look out of place. Some of you have seen a picture of this mug with my character Fayubi's face reflected in its contents.

The mug on the right above is from Disneyland, almost certainly the Emporium. It's the second one John has had - we broke the first one. circa 2005 or 2006, this one is, I forget which.


Hooray for the BBC! This one is a souvenir of a trip to London circa 1995, when John, his business partner and I went to Wood Lane to select photos for the next series of Doctor Who trading cards. We also went to a Doctor Who exhibit at the Museum of the Moving Image (MOMI), had dinner with Gary Russell (who was editing Doctor Who Magazine at the time), and went to a signing by Alan Moore (who had nothing to do with Doctor Who; just thought I'd mention him).

The EPCOT Center mug dates all the way back to 1986, when John and I were driving around the country, looking for someplace it wasn't winter. What John really wanted was a really magnificent statue of Maleficent, but he settled for a mug, a cap and a gray Hawaiian shirt.

The KUAT mug came from the KUAT prize closet during one of the many pledge break shifts for which the United Whovians of Tucson manned the phones, usually during Lawrence Welk, some special or other (I remember Deepak Chopra, Dr. Laura, the Eagles and some polar bears, but not all the same night) and, of course, Doctor Who. When KUAT stopped airing the latter show, we stopped doing the pledge breaks. The club itself fell apart a few years later.

The Diamondbacks mug is a souvenir of the team's World Series win, the one and only shining baseball season that mattered to me after the dismantling of my beloved Tucson Toros. The mug itself came from the Tucson Sidewinders dugout store before spring training 2002.


Okay, there are no mugs in this last shot, but check out that rainbow! This is from today's drive home from work.

Karen

How I Got Here

I've been dithering for several hours, trying to decide what to write here tonight. I thought earlier today about writing something called "More on Madeleine," but really I mostly said it all last night. There's just one major thing I didn't point out.

You may want to skip this one, Paul.

It's probably eleven years now since I first walked into St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal church at Fifth and Wilmot in Tucson. I was at a bit of a spiritual crossroads at the time. I had probably much abandoned the Roman Catholic Church after my marriage in 1979, having been annoyed with the church for years about its teachings on birth control and other issues. I wasn't quite sure what I believed, and had spent well over a decade waiting for inspiration to hit, without doing any actual work on figuring out what to believe or not believe, and why.

By 1996 or 1997, I had realized the flaw in this plan, but was unsure how to resolve the issue. My one visit to a Catholic church since moving to Tucson had left me with little remaining affinity for that denomination, and yet I was even less comfortable with the idea of trying a radically different one.

But maybe a less radically different one?

Father John Smith of St. Michael and All Angels

  • One of my best friends back in Syracuse was an Episcopalian. She'd even applied to enter the priesthood, but had been turned down. I'd attended her church once, and kind of liked it.
  • Madeleine L'Engle was Episcopalian. I wasn't wildly enthusiastic about her religious non-fiction, but what I had read was generally compatible with my own beliefs, such as they were, and even with my doubts and uncertainties.
  • There was an Episcopal church just a few miles up Wilmot from me. The yellow pages listing said it featured an Anglican style of worship, which I took to mean as fairly close to a Roman Catholic sense of formal rites. The church also featured a sign out front that I rather liked. It said, "Jesus was a refugee."
So I went to St. Michael's one Sunday morning. There I was welcomed by a parishioner named Suzanne, and by the relatively new pastor, Father John Smith. The service was remarkably like the Masses I'd grown up with, but without the troublesome elements that drove me away from there. I went back the next Sunday, and the next, and the next.


This morning's crew of acolytes. For once I had the week off.

Over a decade later, Father Smith and I are still at St. Michael's. I'm the church webmaster, the unofficial church photographer, a lector, a crucifer and a torcher. My mustard seed faith isn't all that impressive, but it gets me through, and it's more than I had before. I love these people, this place, the rites, even the sermons. I'm very glad I walked through those wooden double doors a decade ago.

And I might not have done it were it not for Madeleine L'Engle.

Karen

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Goodbye, Madeleine

I've been expecting this news for years. But now that it's actually happened, I don't know what to say.

Madeleine L'Engle died on Thursday.

1960s edition of A Wrinkle in TimeTo most people, Madeleine L'Engle was the author of A Wrinkle in Time, a much-honored early 1960s science fantasy novel for children. In reality the book was only nominally for children; many of the book's most ardent fans are adults. Publishers didn't initially know who the book was for or how to market it. The most common figure given is that 26 publishers rejected the manuscript, because," as L'Engle wrote in A Circle of Quiet, "it deals overtly with the problem of evil, and it was too difficult for children, and was it a children's or and adults' book, anyhow?" Eventually the literary publisher Farrar, Straus & Giroux took it on. It has since won a Newbery Medal, a Sequoyah Book Award, and a Lewis Carroll Shelf Award, and was runner-up for the Hans Christian Andersen Award. It's been assigned to generations of school children and homeschooled children, some of whom (presumably the former group rather than the latter) write rude things about the book on Wikipedia after using the site to help them write their book reports. Other kids have identified heavily with Meg or Charles Wallace Murry and their friend Calvin, and gone on to read other books in the series. Adults who read the book as a child tend to introduce their own children to it, and enjoy reading it all over again themselves. It's also been a perennial entry on banned book lists, ironically because L'Engle's brand of Christianity is viewed as anti-Christian by people who can't see past the literal interpretation of what they see. "Fundalits," L'Engle called such people.

I've told this story before, several times over: it was almost certainly in fifth grade that I came across A Wrinkle in Time in the school library, checked it out and read it. I was probably looking for more books by Lois Lenski. L'Engle's book turned out to be far more memorable than anything else I read in that era. I identified heavily with Meg, the intelligent, socially inept outcast who feels unattractive but finds people who love and understand her, and who makes a real difference in the battle against evil, without any special abilities to help her.

In college I discovered a sequel in a Christian bookstore, saved my money and bought it. The third book came out the year before I got married. Shortly after that I started collecting her books in earnest, buying the newest novels in bookstores as they came out, and picking up the older ones at library sales and used bookstores. This was long before eBay, of course. The rarest book in my collection, Ilsa, John's best friend from college tracked down for me. I paid $40 for it. It's worth over ten times that now, which is irrelevant to the fact that it's not a very good book. It was the second L'Engle novel ever published, and a total downer. I tried and failed to read it back in the Manlius Public Library, the only L'Engle book they had when I was in junior high, aside from Wrinkle itself. It's hard for me to explain the appeal of her later novels, save to say that they push nearly all of my buttons as a reader and a fan. They are full of intelligent, likable, decent, flawed characters, trying to do the right thing but also capable of making terrible messes in their lives. There is time travel and other fun science fantasy stuff, and a huge, consistent backstory built up over decades, with characters turning up in multiple books and even different series of books, sometimes thirty years after their initial appearances.

I've met Madeleine L'Engle exactly once, in an autograph line after a speaking engagement in Columbus in the mid-1980s. She signed my copy of A Ring of Endless Light. I wrote to her after Many Waters came out, and got a reply, written in the margin of a mimeoed form letter about the then-recent death of her husband. I wrote to her twice more, I think; actually I'm not quite sure. I definitely wrote to tell her about the online bibliography, and I definitely wrote to thank her for making such a difference in the lives of her readers, including me. I'm just not sure whether those were in the same card and letter, or two different ones.


Sometime in the mid-1990s, when my collection topped the 50 book mark and AOL made it easy for anyone to have a web site, I started an online Madeleine L'Engle bibliography, The Tesseract. (I've since made an attempt to move it to mavarin.com, but I'm not sure I've managed to update all the links.) My interest was mostly in the fiction (still is, really), so that was what the web site covered in the most detail. I never have gotten around to writing about the non-fiction in any depth. There a lot of it: poetry and essays, the autobiographical Crosswicks Journals and a number of books about Christianity, writing, the arts, the relationship between fiction and truth, the author's own life and philosophy, and combinations thereof. I never really finished the web site, but it's been a major resource for teachers, students and fans for about a decade now. Wikipedia has begun to eclipse it, of course, and that's where most of my L'Engle-related research and writing efforts have been concentrated since April 2006. Just tonight I dug through most of the books shown above in order to add inline citations to the Wikipedia article about L'Engle herself.


Am I upset by the death of my favorite writer? It's hard to say, but on the whole I think not. The fact is that her health has been declining ever since I started the Tesseract site. She had two hip replacement surgeries, her son died in 1999, and she had a cerebral hemorrhage a few years after that. She told Newsweek in 2004 that she was still writing, but the only books by her that came out after the 1990s were compilations and a picture book. She gave up public appearances of all sorts, and someone told me a year or two ago that she was in a nursing home. All in all, it's become clear in recent years that her quality of life was not very good, and that she was unlikely to write anything more, at least nothing of any length or significance. This means that The Eye Begins to See, a novel she started in the 1990s about Meg as a middle-aged adult, is unlikely ever to see the light of day. And that is a loss.

Another blow, at least for me, is that The New Yorker published an article about L'Engle in 2o04 that was very nearly a hatchet job. It was full of disgruntled family members acting all resentful of L'Engle drawing on real life in her fiction, and fictionalizing and whitewashing it in her non-fiction. After all the glowing things she'd written about her family over the years, the article read as if her children and grandchildren were all spoiled brats, intent on kicking her when she was down. I don't actually believe that's the case; her official website is definitely pro-Madeleine, and that's almost certainly run by one of her granddaughters. Even so, I got some rather nasty correspondence after that article from someone who claimed to know L'Engle and her ex-son-in-law, and who accused me of lying and whitewashing the truth about L'Engle unless I amended my web site to include the worst of the New Yorker accusations and interpretations as definite facts. It seems strange to say it, but that article and its aftermath were far more upsetting to me than this week's news.

Ultimately, Madeleine L'Engle's decline and death reminds my of my mom's final years. My mom, Ruth Anne Johnson, had been a psychologist and (before I was born) a professional singer, who wrote plays and music and saw them performed, both in Syracuse and in Florida. But by the year 2000 or so, her mental and physical health were both in decline, and she believed that nearly everything worthwhile in her life was behind her. By 2002, all that mattered to my mom were smoking and my daily visits to whatever facility she was in. On her 75th birthday she made her last-ever outing, in a wheelchair, to a Tony Bennett concert. Two months later she was dead, and I was more relieved than sad.

I don't know what L'Engle's final years were really like. She was still writing well into her 70s, and nearly 89 years old when she died, a world-famous, beloved author who still got fan mail, even if she was no longer up to the task of reading and replying to it. Despite the New Yorker article, I have no doubt that she still had family and friends who loved and supported her, and I suspect that her outlook was more positive than my mom's was. Even so, Madeleine L'Engle's body and mind were likely no longer the vessel for her talent as they once were. That being the case, her death is no tragedy, but a completion. Over thirty years ago she wrote a book about the decline and death of her own mother. The week it was L'Engle's turn to go on, and possibly find out whether the God she wrote about so extensively is there to welcome her home.

Karen

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Different Views

Perspective is a problem.

It's Round Robin time again, now on Saturdays instead of Wednesdays. This week's topic, "Something Different," comes to us from Nancy of Nancy Luvs Pix, by way of the new Round Robin suggestion kitty. Nancy suggests that we "take a shot at something that they would never normally try to photograph. It's time for us to get out of our comfort zones, and open our eyes to the various art that exists, but is perhaps hidden somewhat."

I'm not sure I can live up to all that, but this Challenge comes at an appropriate moment for me. As many of you know, I recently started work at a new job, across town from my old job at First Magnus. For over two years I had spent most of my time on one three mile stretch of Wilmot Road, obsessively photographing the many moods of the Santa Catalina Mountains as seen from Fifth and Wilmot, plus the grounds of St. Michael's, sunsets seen from Safeway, and miscellaneous neighborhood sights.

Stone Avenue southbound, looking downtown

But now suddenly I'm driving about 19 miles roundtrip each day, down Golf Links to Aviation Highway, and north across downtown and beyond to get to my office. Instead of staring at Mount Lemmon and the Crosswalk of Death, I'm navigating a corridor that separates the city from Davis Monthan Air Force Base, and through construction, heavy traffic and one way streets at what is called City Center but is really just east of I-10 on the western edge of Tucson. That's where downtown is, near the ancient, buried habitations of people that came before, cowboys and miners, the Spanish and, across many centuries, several different native tribes and civilizations.

This crumbling warehouse has a lot of character.

Of course, I'm not actually seeing the Spanish and the Hohokam and the rest these days, much less photographing them. What I've photographed this week, mostly pointing my camera out a car window as I rush past shortly before sunset, is a selection of 20th century architecture.


The old Federal courthouse building is tricky to photograph.

This is not an ideal way to photograph anything, let alone large buildings that are too close to photograph in their entirety, without perspective problems and bits of my car showing. But here are some of the more successful attempts, mostly edited to compensate for pre-sunset murkiness and distorted angles.

A modern sign and mural adorn an older building on Congress St.

This isn't the first time I've set out to photograph architecture, though. When I was about 13 years old, I went to Cape Cod with my family, and blew an entire roll of film on Cape Cod architecture. Since then I've occasionally photographed buildings and bridges, signs and structures. Even so, it's different from the bulk of what I've been photographing over the past several years.

The underpass on Stone near Sixth, as a freight train starts across.

I have to say I'm not terribly happy with the photos I've managed to take so far. If I had an hour for lunch, or got off work when the sun was higher in the sky, or dragged myself across town before rush hour instead of during or after (yeah, like that's going to happen!), then maybe I could find a way to photograph these buildings and bridges and signs properly in bright sunshine, from the right distance at the right angles. But these will do for now, snapshots of my daily commute, very different views and different subject matter from the same old mountains, the same old sunsets.

Construction blocks the way to the rail station, and obscures our view.

I suppose if I really were to go for photographic subjects that I normally stay away from, I'd try for butterflies and bees, or human portraiture. These aren't feasible for me right now, though. I've been working long hours at this new job, with nary a butterfly in sight. And while I'm surrounded by people, I hesitate to ask to photograph anyone. My job is not really a done deal yet. I'm still a temp, hoping to learn next week that I'm to be a real employee of the company itself. Even though I'm careful not to write anything too specific about Anonymous Regional Retailer! online, I'd rather not advertise the fact that I take my words and pictures and put them online. Although I'm not be doing anything wrong, explaining the whole blogging thing and related privacy issues would probably not be a good idea right now, with my professional future on the line.

If you'd like to participate in the Round Robin Photo Challenges, you're more than welcome! Please check the Round Robin blog for details. Meanwhile, here's a list of people participating in this Challenge. Check them out!

Karen


Linking List

Karen - POSTED!
Outpost Mâvarin
http://outmavarin.blogspot.com

Carly - POSTED!
Ellipsis
http://ellipsissuddenlycarly.blogspot.com

Janet - POSTED!
Fond Of Photography
http://fondofphotography.blogspot.com

Annie
Pictures of Craziness
http://krspkrmmom.blogspot.com

Nancy - POSTED!
Nancy Luvs Pix
http://journals.aol.com/nhd106/Nancyluvspix

Suzanne R - POSTED!
New Suzanne R's Life
http://newsuzannerslife.blogspot.com

Jessica - POSTED!
QuickSilver Dreams
http://www.thewatersedge.us/QuickSilver

Boliyou - POSTED!
Percolation
http://boliyou.blogspot.com

Vicki - POSTED!
Maraca
http://mymaracas.blogspot.com

Gina - POSTED!
Gina's Space
http://journals.aol.com/rbrown6172/Ginasspace

Gattina - POSTED!
Keyhole Pictures
http://gattina-keyholepictures.blogspot.com

Tara - POSTED!
A Long Walk Home ***Welcome New Member***
http://journals.aol.com/tarastomsgirl/LifeisWonderful

Steven
(sometimes photoblog)
http://sepintx.blogspot.com

Teena - POSTED!
It's all about me!
http://purple4mee.blogspot.com

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Human Animals

Weekend Assignment #182: Compare yourself to the animal whose best-known traits are most like your own personality. Note this isn't "what animal would you like to be?" but is instead "what animal is most like you?" Also, don't be too worried if your identification is not totally biologically exact; listing your similarities based on the general cultural impression of the animal is fine, too. We're not doing science here, after all; we've doing end-of-the-week diversions.

Extra credit: Would you want to own the animal you identify with?

I'm not really like a tiger, not even Tony

Sometimes John Scalzi's Weekend Assignments feel like almost-reruns when they're not, because I previously wrote about a similar subject for the Round Robin Photo Challenges, or even just on my own. In this case, there was a Round Robin challenge a year and a half ago, called "The Animal Within." Over the course of two nights' entries, I wrote about a childhood fantasy of trying to communicate that I'd been transformed into a tiger, and how that eventually led to my writing about Rani Fost, a teenaged boy who becomes an animal called a tengrem. There are definitely times when I'd like to replicate Rani's experience, not in outward appearance but in truly knowing what it's like to experience the world through sensory impressions and instinct, rather than intellectualizing every moment.

None of this really answers Scalzi's question, though. It's one I find nearly impossible to answer, and a trifle annoying even to consider. It's always bothered me that humans insult or criticize each other using animal metaphors. I doubt that there's anything especially sleazy about a real weasel, for example. And women are objectified and debased under a bunch of animal names: cow, b-ch, fox, sow, nag, chick, hen, and so on. None of this has much to do with the actual animal, but in most cases it's an insult to both the animal and the woman.

Setting all that aside, though, let's try to do the assignment as written. Am I most like a dolphin, who is clever, friendly and highly verbal, but not so good on handling objects? A parrot, who can talk intelligibly and understand the words of others? A wolf, who sometimes travels with the pack but other times is alone? A mockingbird, singing all night? A tiger? A tengrem?

I suppose on the whole, I have to go with the obvious answer: a dog. Despite that maxim about old dogs, canines can learn a number of tasks, and are generally eager to please. Dogs are greedy for food and approval, keep irregular hours and are a bit lazy; but they usually get on well with people and are good at communicating with them. Check, check, check check check!

And of course, I've owned one or more dogs continuously since my senior year in college, and hope to do so for the rest of my life. Growing up in a house where at least one person was allergic to all the major kinds of pet except fish and possibly turtles, I always longed to have a dog. I collected bone china dog figurines, and planned a career as a dog breeder, whose specialty would be to breed purebred Pomeranians back up to sled dog size. I even remember petting dogs when at age 15 I toured Europe with my family, almost as pleased to do that as to step into the Louvre.

Really, though, the answer I want to give is that I'm most like a human, that fascinating, complex, contradictory animal which often tries to pretend, in its arrogance, that it's not an animal at all. Even when I'm writing about Rani at his most feral, chasing down foxes, grazing or growling, ultimately what I'm trying to examine is an aspect of the human condition. When we apply animal metaphors to people, what we're really trying to do is understand ourselves and each other, identifying traits and putting labels on them.

Ultimately it doesn't help much. Humans are too varied in their abilities and their reactions, their triumphs and their faults, their reasoning and their emotions, ever to be crammed into a tiger or a tabby cat, a pig or a pomeranian, a cow or a chicken. We are what we are: homo sapiens, that knowing animal that walks on two legs and thus looks down on other animals as something apart from us, or like us in a few handily labeled traits. Stuck inside our own human experiences, our unique way of viewing the world, we cannot truly know what it means to be a dog or a pig or a monkey. Heck, we don't really know what it means to be human; our own species continually surprises us with its brilliance and idiocy, kindness and cruelty, and any other behavioral continuum you care to name.

But it's interesting to consider, as Desmond Morris and others have done, how animal behavior works, and how some of those same imperatives underly our own behavior. Humans sometimes form packs of one sort or another, fight over territory, seek to protect our young, and on and on. Hmm. Maybe there's something in this animal comparison business after all.

Karen