Category: NaBloPoMo

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 11: Close

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Do you ever secretly snap pictures without the subject knowing? Tell us about a secret shot you’ve taken.

No. Or yes if I’m someplace where lots of photo-taking is expected. Weddings and other social gatherings. But out in public, with strangers? Never.

Almost never. One time I was out at a street fair, you know, one those things where booths are lined up selling arts and crafts and small jars of home-made jelly. I was taking pictures of dogs, since it was a nice day and every other person seemed to have a corgi. This one lady had a nice-looking husky, so I snapped off a few.

Then this guy next to me says “Come on, creep, taking her picture without asking?”
I looked at him, and said “I was just getting the dog.”

Guy wouldn’t even make eye contact. He goes, “While she was licking an ice-cream cone, real nice.”

Let’s be clear here: I had a longish lens on the camera, and it had obviously been pointing downward. Even if I had been taking her picture, not the dog’s, I would have been shooting her knees. She was wearing a long skirt, as well, so I can’t even be accused of having gotten a picture of her legs.

So I repeated myself, adding a little edge and volume to my voice, “I was just getting the dog.”

And he walked away. That’s when it occurred to me: I hadn’t even known she was eating ice-cream. HE was the one scoping her out, not me; HE was the perv.

The thing is, I was sort of doubly offended by his accusation, since, as I said, I don’t take candid street snaps of people.

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Close

I apparently accidentally gave my garbage disposal a penny for its thoughts.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 10: Three

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Free Write

Woodinville, y’all, where the wind bends trees over into worshipful poses, and grape vines like twine twist round them knotty poles. I met a man in the streets of Woodinville, wearing a cowboy hat on a string, it was hanging on his back because the clouds that day were fat like a kitchen momma in slippers and a nasty old robe. He told me, go into that saloon over there, they’ve got wine so nice you’ll want two bottles. But don’t drink ‘em both, son, save one for that sweet lady waiting for you, domicile-side. So I went into the place, all of that polished oak and shined-up brass, and laid down my ten dollars for four samples of Syrah. Each glass was more purple than the one before it, and I had a vintage mustache in no time.

I put one bottle in the back pocket of my jeans and walked out into the rain, one of those playful rains where winter plays summer dress-up. But some bully, probably an angel, said something mean and the clouds turned from gray to black. The rain turned to needles. The streets turned to slicked-up shit and I got lost wandering around the streets of Woodinville.

Fell down a few times, got mud on my jeans. Never did break that bottle of wine. A man on a horse tossed me a worn but clean blanket, and said not unkindly, go be a wino someplace else. But nothing sobers like a weather-shellackin’, and I was too shivered-up to be much good to Bacchus anymore. I found a path between some trees and plodded along and up a hill and into a dale and never knew even what a dale was before that.

Thunder in the distance, running away the way children’s laughter does from the park near my home and dusk threatens and I have to close the house windows against the dying light. But I was too all-moist for drying out. My boots clobbered my porch steps, and my old lady standing there in curlers, holding a rolling pin. Big grin on her face. We like make-believe in our marriage. I fished that bottle of wine out of my back pocket.

She snatched it up and me too, tossed one of us in the shower and the other in our latest can of trash. Ain’t it ironic, the best recovery from a soaking is a few hours in the tub.

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Three

The photographer is not defined by WHAT he shoots, but IF he shoots. Woodinville 2015.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 9: Light

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Free Write

A pop, fuzz, fizz, crackle, from the other room the AM radio and voice says something about baseball. It blends into the whir of the fan, the hum of a clothes dryer rolling, and then the smell of coffee and it’s been there the whole time. Clammy bed sheets from night sweats. A dagger of sunlight from between disturbed black-out curtains. Raggedy breath, uneasiness in the belly, a gurgling, warm pressure in the bladder. Damn it.

Legs like shards of broken glass, a coalescing in the knees. The creaking of the bed. Feet numb and puffy, but not too insensitive to feel the transition from scratchy carpet to cold bathroom tile. There’s more light in here. Too many windows. A fat hot stripe of pain behind one eye. And now a green cloying in the back of the throat.

Clunk of the seat going up, ice on the ass. Lava flows. Tension and then a moment of peace and then a small circle of pain, sharp, instantly fading, unphysical throbbing. Kegel one two three. Paw blindly at TP. That stupid scented paper. Scrape, drop. Stand. Head rush. Two finger flush. Leave the seat down, lid up. Screw him. Who listens to baseball at his hour.

Gimme some of that coffee.

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Light

<blockquote class=”instagram-media” data-instgrm-captioned data-instgrm-version=”4″ style=” background:#FFF; border:0; border-radius:3px; box-shadow:0 0 1px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.5),0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.15); margin: 1px; max-width:658px; padding:0; width:99.375%; width:-webkit-calc(100% – 2px); width:calc(100% – 2px);”><div style=”padding:8px;”> <div style=” background:#F8F8F8; line-height:0; margin-top:40px; padding:50% 0; text-align:center; width:100%;”> <div style=” background:url(data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAACwAAAAsCAMAAAApWqozAAAAGFBMVEUiIiI9PT0eHh4gIB4hIBkcHBwcHBwcHBydr+JQAAAACHRSTlMABA4YHyQsM5jtaMwAAADfSURBVDjL7ZVBEgMhCAQBAf//42xcNbpAqakcM0ftUmFAAIBE81IqBJdS3lS6zs3bIpB9WED3YYXFPmHRfT8sgyrCP1x8uEUxLMzNWElFOYCV6mHWWwMzdPEKHlhLw7NWJqkHc4uIZphavDzA2JPzUDsBZziNae2S6owH8xPmX8G7zzgKEOPUoYHvGz1TBCxMkd3kwNVbU0gKHkx+iZILf77IofhrY1nYFnB/lQPb79drWOyJVa/DAvg9B/rLB4cC+Nqgdz/TvBbBnr6GBReqn/nRmDgaQEej7WhonozjF+Y2I/fZou/qAAAAAElFTkSuQmCC); display:block; height:44px; margin:0 auto -44px; position:relative; top:-22px; width:44px;”></div></div> <p style=” margin:8px 0 0 0; padding:0 4px;”> <a href=”https://instagram.com/p/juAcmzyqbZ/” style=” color:#000; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:normal; line-height:17px; text-decoration:none; word-wrap:break-word;” target=”_top”>Waiting for the sun to rise. #Seattle</a></p> <p style=” color:#c9c8cd; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px; margin-bottom:0; margin-top:8px; overflow:hidden; padding:8px 0 7px; text-align:center; text-overflow:ellipsis; white-space:nowrap;”>A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on <time style=” font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px;” datetime=”2014-01-28T16:14:47+00:00″>Jan 28, 2014 at 8:14am PST</time></p></div></blockquote>
<script async defer src=”//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js”></script>

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 8: Focus

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Do you think you smile more honestly when you’re taking a selfie or when someone else is photographing you?

For years my mom, who is herself a real shutterbug, would holler at me whenever there was a group photo. I was always making faces. Nowadays, it’s my wife who yells at me. I guess they’re the only two people who simultaneously care and feel like they can speak their minds.

Not that I smile in selfies all the much. So the real answer is: my smile is captured in its most genuine state in candid photos. And oh boy. Nothing reinforces my disdain for being photoed than seeing my goofy doofus smile.

Here’s what’s sad. Most of them time if I know I’m being photographed, I make a face. Finally I decided to stop taking myself so seriously, and one time I didn’t make a face— and my wife still hollered at me. I was trying to be normal, and she still that I looked silly. Sigh.

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Focus

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


I got into photography for a variety reasons, and one of them is a fascination with depth of field. This picture is one of my favorites— I took it with my DSLR,then saved it as JPG and manipulated it a bit further in Pxlr and Instagram. Depth of field let’s me focus on one key element, and the rest is balance.

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 7: Your Time

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: When was the last time you asked someone to take a picture of you?

Can’t recall specifically. Other than selfies, which means I’m asking myself to take the picture. I’ve probably asked my wife to hold the camera. “Take a picture of me doing something stupid!”

It’s been touched on before, how much I don’t like being in pictures. Aligned with that is my displeasure in asking people to do things in general. And strangers especially! I just don’t like putting people out. I’ll spend 15 minutes balancing my camera precariously on a rock before I’ll ask someone to squeeze the trigger a few times.

My wife’s not so shy. She’ll grab any old person walking by and ask them to take our picture. And you know how people will take the picture, and kindly say, “is that good? I can take another…” I die inside whenever my wife says, “Yeah, can you take it again?” Aaaaah!

But they don’t seem to mind, And my wife has one of those faces that makes people smile— I’m sure the walk away (eventually) thinking “I did something nice today. I’m a good person!”

For what it’s worth, I, personally, am always flattered when some strangers asks ME to take their picture. So you’d think I’d get over myself, and ask others if needs be… but then, I don’t like being in pictures anyway, so…

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Time

Nice little yard-work break.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


My time is leisurely. I work from home. I spend time on con calls, and puttering around the house with the laundry, the dishes, making the bed. Occasionally I get outside and do yard work. But no matter how much work I do, I always break it up and spent as much or more time doing nothing. You tell me if blogging is “leisurely.” 🙂

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 6: Your Love

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: How often are you in your photographs?

Rarely if ever (except for selfies). I’m the photographer. I’m the one behind the camera, and even if someone else happens to have a camera, or happens to take mine from me (which I allow; more below) I don’t wind up in the shots too often.

As described in yesterday’s NaBloPoMo post, I don’t like being photographed. And while I do like taking pictures of people, it’s not my first go-to, so to speak. Sure, everyone gathers around for the group photo, and thanks to Ellen, the group selfie is hot right now. But if I’m going to take pictures of people, they’re usually candids, and candids of me don’t happen to often.

Now, on the subject of other people using my camera— I don’t just allow it, but encourage it. I truly believe that taking photos is easy. The camera does all the work, and I know there are photographers gnashing their teeth when I say this, but let’s be honest: once you’ve got the right ISO figured out, auto-shutter speeds and image stabilizing lenses take care of a lot.

Too often I think people shy away from trying things they think are difficult. So when folks see a schlep like me clicking away, and they want to try it to, I’m all for it. And then I stand behind THEM and help them choose the shot. Which is never of me 🙂

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Love

Weekend island hijinx. #orcasisland

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


Woke up with a headache this morning, and my love, my wife, crawled back into bed after taking a shower and getting dressed, and sat on my temple. It worked. For about a minute.
Above photo from a visit to one of the Puget Sound islands. I don’t recall which one. But as soon as I read today’s prompt, I knew which photo I wanted to post. I asked her permission first.

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 5: Your Style

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: What is your favourite angle for being photographed? Head-on? Slightly above, below, to the side?

I don’t like being photographed. Hate the way I look when I smile. See photos of myself and think, good God, is that what I look like? How come no one told me? How are people not falling down in hysterical, terrified laughter every time they see me?

Very arrogant.

I’m sure, 90% of the time, no one notices me at all. That’s not self-deprecation, that’s just logic. Heck, it’s probably more like 99%. And that other 1%, I can’t possibly know what standards are in any other mind. It’s silly to assume I can understand an entire lifetime of context that a person brings to whatever they view.

That said, I still don’t like being photographed. So I have no real answer for what my favorite angle is, although: I do like a good selfie. And for those, in the mirror, I’m usually going head on.

My wife tells me that people should always be photographed from slightly above, to hide multiple chins. Ariana Grand, I’m told, always demands being photographed from only the left. Old west cowboys (the actors who portrayed them, at least) were always photographed from below to show how huge and manly they were.

So you can see my dilemma. I don’t think I’m photogenic, I want to hide my chins, maintain my pop starlet style, and show off my machismo. Talk about existential angst, sheesh!

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Your Style

Took a WFH day. Getting chores done too. Shame is for sissies.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

My style is: throw on clothes. Tend towards gray. I like looking stylish, don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who doesn’t care. But once I’ve tried, and failed— then I don’t care.

Posted on

NaBloPoMo Day 4: Your Energy

Today’s NaBloPoMO Prompt: Do you think one side of your face photographs better than another?

Glib Answer: I tend to put the viewfinder up to my right eye more often than my left eye, so I guess I should say yes.

Actual Answer: my right ear is missing a fold in the cartilage, and I have a small blemish on my cheek just to the right of my nose. But when I smile, you can see that my left lateral incisor is recessed, which in high-contrast photos can look like it’s missing altogether. So it all depends on lighting, angle, and sartorial influences.

Today’s NaBloPoMO Photo Prompt: Your Energy

Got a #PR for “Half Marathon with a Leg Cramp.” #running #MercerIslandHalf

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


I get my energy from running. (Mostly I get it from the music I listen to when I’m running). Also, when I’m done running, I have no energy left. So I guess it’s a bit of an oxymoron, the whole running energy thing. Suffice it to say that when I am running, I feel energized, and that’s the very in-the-moment type of thing that grounds me. (Except when I have wicked leg cramps).

Posted on

A Bit of Free Writing

Fathom is a good word. For example: I cannot fathom why the people who park at the Broadview branch of the Seattle Public Library have such a difficult time sticking it between the lines. I wonder if people who drive like that, who care so little for other people, who think only, obviously, of themselves, would ever use the word Fathom. Is it too intellectual for them. Ostensibly they possess a modicum of intelligence: they’re at the library, after all.

But have you seen some of the vehicles. There’s an inexorable association between IQ and income, isn’t there. Not that your average BMW driver is a genius. Indeed, most them are assholes too. Maybe’s it’s an extreme thing: expensive car, park like a jerk so no one dings your doors. Old jalopy: swerve into the space without paying attention to where your tires land.

Come to think of it, perhaps I should eschew the notion that there’s any chance these idiots are smart just because they’d rather get the latest David Baldacci for free than pay for the e-reader edition on their Kindle Fires.

I’ll be honest: I’m not sure, myself, why fathom, a unit of nautical measurement, can be used as a synonym for a thought process. It’s a metaphor, I suppose; one attempts to “plumb the depths of thought.” Or something. But what about that word, “plumb?” And just why are thoughts said to be “deep,” in the first place? As far as I know, if water is deep, light ceases top penetrate it. The deeper the thought, the darker, the murkier.

Forces of nature, is how I reconcile my angst when I see these terrible drives. That’s a bit of synecdoche there (or metonymy; I always get the two confused). I don’t actually see the actual drivers, I just see their terrible cars and their terrible parking jobs. I don’t ever see the wind that blows down the trees, either, just the crushed houses. But I can’t take the wind personally, and certain those awful people in their awful beaters didn’t park like that for my sake.

Maybe I should thank them, though, the way one thanks God. One claims that The Lord works in mysterious ways, and that can be a meditation on finding the Good in tragedy. Look, I know someone’s parking like a total fuckwit is not much a tragedy, but if I can something out it, like, a little self-examination and some pleasure around thinking of a nice word like “fathom,” well, that’s better than the alternative.

Besides, I don’t carry a knife with me, as the alternative, slashing tires, is rather illegal, I’m told.

Posted on

NaPloBoMo Day 3: Your Feelings

#Run until your wool hat leaves marks on your head.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

I don’t know what my feelings are. I feel like maybe doing only Instagram photos for NaPloBoMo could is a good thing. I feel like I should discuss running more often. I feel like sometimes what we feel is a manifestation of the clothes we force ourselves to wear, the friction that inevitably ensues. The difference between want and need. Emotions, we’re learning, are associated with a mental body map. And everyone (EVERYONE) suffers from some degree of body dysmorphia.

I go for a run. I sweat. It gets in my eyes. Next time, I wear a hat to keep the sweat out of my eyes. I take it off and it’s left marks on my forehead. I look crazy. I look angry. Therefore, I must be. I’m crazy to think that running is going to anything to improve my body. I’m angry because I know this and run anyway.

Thankfully, I love to run. I love to blast loud music in my tinnitus-stained ears. I love it when my body is so immersed in synchronizing rhythm and carbohydrate oxidization that my brain checks out completely. The body map disappears and with it, feeling.

I want to run, I need to run. That’s synchronicity, the best feeling.