I finally received a lens for my Travelwide yesterday.
Today I was looking forward to trying it out. I installed it and set the focus ring, then set off for the waterfront. I had a pre-loaded film holder of T-max 100 in the car.
I HAD a preloaded film holder of T-max in the car. . .
. . .until I cleaned the car on Saturday. Oops.
I've changed my mind on the 365 Project. I'm enjoying myself but feeling constrained by my instant cameras. There are so many more engineering and artistic marvels just sitting on my shelves begging to be used.
Details after the jump.
FP100c in Beth's 'new' Polaroid 420 with electronic flash.
Impossible PX680 / Sun 660 Autofocus
Beth with her 420 and me with my 230, reciprocal shots on FP100c
Impossible PX680 with ND filter / One Step BC Series box camera
I've decided to go in a new direction with my photography projects. March 1 marks the beginning of this year's #MarchofFilm challenge, and I will also be kicking off a new 52 Cameras project. I will be shooting a different camera each week for at least a year and sharing the results here.
For most of my EMS career, I've worked three shifts a week or less. Three 16s, 24/16, two 24s. I have spent over a decade with more free days than working ones.
Until last November, that is.
I had been stuck on weekends and hating it. With Beth in school, I was very upset to be working 24 hours on one of the only two days she was home, so I did something rash.
I volunteered for a four-by-12 schedule on the transfer truck. Everyone told me I would hate it, but I rationalized it. I would sleep in my own bed every night, and I would have Sundays off. The transfer truck goes everywhere and does everything; fun!
It took less than two months to bring me to a point of frustration equal to almost five years at my old job. I had gained Sundays free at the expense of three afternoons and most evenings. The trade off was simply not worth it.
Fortunately I was able to trade back into a pair of 24s, with no weekend. I'm counting the hours (96 to go. . .)
When last we left the saga of the Return of the Howe, we were sitting in a Walmart parking lot in Tilton, NH with only five functional tires. I haven’t felt like writing the rest of the story in detail, but here are the bullet points:
- Emergency tire replacement x1.
- Ran out of daylight
- Limped into safe storage in NH.
- Went back another day to finish trip.
- Blew hydraulic brake booster.
- Towed home & placed in garage.
- Fixed booster at last minute before big parade debut.
Which brings us to Saturday morning. I didn’t want to let the big annual Lynnfield parade pass without my Howe. There are other parades in the area, but this is THE one for me. The brakes are working, the alternator is questionable, and everything else seemed OK.
I made it to the lineup without incident, arriving early enough to be at the front of the parade. I don’t care about being first, but I wanted a bit of buffer time in case things went wrong.
And here she is in action, 6th unit from the head of the parade:
I made it home safely with electrons to spare in the charging system, and I’m still smiling.
A small city-owned apartment. Usually they are filled to bursting, a honeycomb of micro-hoards straining against steel doors and cinder block walls. This one is different.
It still consists of the obligatory two rooms plus kitchen and bath; it’s still painted Institutional Cream; it’s only accessible via a smelly, undersized elevator. Instead of the usual hoard, its living room contains only three things: a television, an old wing chair, and Jenny.
She called 911, but I can’t imagine how as she writhes around in the chair, feet planted firmly on the floor. She stiffens and leans waaaaaaaay out to one side, then to the other while mumbling and whispering.
If you could even call it a whisper. “Help me,” she breathes over and over again, Scarlett O’Hara in a silent film.
She doesn’t really want our help, though. I’m not sure what she wants. She pushes the oxygen away, breathing “It doesn’t work.” She balks at the cardiac monitor, and she adamantly if quietly refuses the IV. “The last paramedics almost killed me with an IV.” We don’t pry for details.
We finally coax her onto the stretcher. She keeps demanding yet refusing our help, so the best we can do is a trip to Local Suburban Hospital. Maybe they will have better luck. As she steps aside, he feet reveal a pair of threadbare spots worn completely through the rug to the linoleum below.
I didn’t realize I’d been stressed lately. Life goes on, I have a lot of things going on and a few deadlines on the horizon. Work was starting to feel less fun and more like work, but all in all things are still good.
Yesterday an errand put me north of the notches in the White Mountains. I took the chance to shoot a bit of film at Lost River Gorge and then headed for home.
Warm sunny afternoon, open sunroof, twisty road, a smooth turbo and gears to row. I’ve mentioned before that Pink Floyd makes everything more epic. Pink Floyd played very loudly by the London Philharmonic Orchestra? For. The. Win.
Stress? What stress?
*Seize the granite. Yes, I know it’s not a proper translation.