Heeeeere we go

To fall back on the old cliche, the last few days have been a blur.

The flight was smooth, but uncomfortable. Delta Airlines purchased NWA recently and, judging from the NWA nameplates on the service carts, this was one of the birds that came with the deal. The interior was somewhat antiquated with vinyl seats and now integrated entertainment system. Sure, there were movies, but none matched the in flight catalog. With luck I'll get a better bird for the flight home.

As soon as I met Ron and we left the airport I realized once again I am through the looking glass. This is a place where balagan (clusterfrak) is used in polite conversation as a description of the normal way things can be. A place where it is sometimes difficult to tell from a distance if a building is being put up or knocked down, and a place where a civilian carrying a pistol is almost the only one who can walk into a shopping mall without getting searched.

I'll go a little bit into the activities. I've spent a few hours now in Ron's airsoft shop. It is a converted CONEX container at a large shooting range. The walls are finished, there is a water hook up and most importantly, an air conditioner. The peg wall is a bit sparse and includes mostly King Arms rifles, and a number of pistols of a few makes and models.There are shelves of magazines and another wall of tactical gear, nearly all of it Israeli made.

Today the main activity was fishing in the Kinneret. (Gallilee) We exclusively used spoons and had decent luck. I landed two keepers, but I have no idea what kind they were. I lost count of how many times the lures were hooked on the rocky bottom. When that happened, one of us would wade out to where the lure was and give it a tug in the opposite direction to dislodge it. I had the fun of trying that with my own line only to rapidly find myself doing some extreme multitasking by way of keeping my [borrowed] rod and my head above water while treading water one handed, dislodging the lure and reeling it in without hooking myself in the process. I managed that at least three times.

With the exception of being up since about 3AM to go fishing, my sleep schedule has largely stabilized into what would pass for a normal, day walking schedule. Hell, I even managed to do a little work on behalf of my real job. However, when I get home I have a feeling that my 28 year streak of not being a regular coffee drinker/addict will be over.

More will be written as I think of it and as I get a chance. I'm having a hard time finding the words. I think I'm feeling a certain sense of normalcy- which doesn't make a whole lot of sense what with being so far from home, not speaking much of the local language, etc. Perhaps it is the compliment I get every time an Israeli starts asking me something in Hebrew not thinking for a minute (Until I open my mouth.) that I'm an American.

Apparently my food tolerance is not quite up to spec.

Last night was a family mangal, the Israeli version of barbecue. Yellow curry chicken breast, some other marinated chicken, lamb, chicken wings, pita toasted on the grill with either a paprika or pesto based spice along with the usual selection of salads, humus and tahini all washed down with a Carlsberg. I got razzed a bit for not cleaning my plate but considering everyone else got to pick and choose what they had and I had a massive pile of some of everything given to me, I think that I did all right. Besides, I protested, “I took extra wings!”

Ron's father can not eat them so someone had to make sure they were enjoyed. Oh boy were they ever enjoyed.

Now's as good a time as any to revisit my pre flight nerves. I still don't know where they came from. I still don't know how they were able to so quickly disappear once I looked out of the 747 and saw I was feet dry over Tel Aviv. It could be one of my ongoing emotional issues, the one where my mind says, “You're here now, time to get this done and think about it later.” I really hope not. Because that's a stress response and the closest to real stress I've gotten since I've been here was the previously mentioned aquatic multitasking while fishing yesterday. Hell, the sunburn I got doesn't even hurt that bad.

Well, time for a shit and a shave- not much point in a shower right now, I'll be outside most of the day sweating my nuts off. Today's going to be a long day- but a good one. One in a long series I think.

The fer is now largely gone, replaced by a mass of nervous energy. A few hours sleep punctuated by waking every couple hours to re-arrange the insides of my luggage. There is now a pile on my chair of things I wanted to bring but could not find space for, or removed to save weight.

It is not as if I will be trekking all over the place with my huge rolling duffel. That will stay behind as I move on with a backpack loaded with just the essentials. But it does have things I need in it.

The decision to bring my digital SLR along has taken most of the space in my carry on. I decided early in the process that I couldn't be there for this long and not take it. The point and shoot photos from the last time were pretty good, but my inner photographer wouldn't let it go if I did not go up properly armed to the Holy Land.

There is also the supply of airsoft parts I am bringing my friends. Gerber and Leatherman, multi-tools-- one a request from a friend, the other to give to one of the soldiers I find myself working with. My sense of history perked up as I packed all of that. It reminded me of all the weird things they had to do in '48 to get real military equipment past the various international embargoes. While this isn't nearly comparable, we are trying to circumvent some taxes- which like sheshbesh, is something of an Israeli pastime.

I do have about the same amount of clothes as the last time. Light on outerwear, heavy on underwear. There are a couple exceptions. I had to bring a set of more formal clothes for the holidays. My poorer appearance might be excusable due to my living out of a suitcase, but I'm not going to show up on Rosh Hashanna looking like a schleper.

The mind killer

I can't explain why, but right now I'm more scared than I can ever remember. I'm going back to Israel again. I'm doing another volunteer gig. Just for longer. In fact, this length of time was the plan two years ago. So why does it scare me?

Is it because now I have expectations? Two years ago everything and everyone was a largely unknown quantity. Or more importantly to me- I was an unknown quantity to them. The idea of living in someone else who's not family's home for over a week is just- well, it's pretty much unheard of for me.

It's pretty much a given that sequels don't measure up. My first road trip to the Jersey Shore (Way before MTV had ever heard of "Guidettes.") brought back a new sense of confidence and some really awesome photos. The same trip the next year had me bringing back blisters, a little sunburn and a lot of photos that were just trying too hard to live up to what came before. So maybe I'm just worried that I set the bar a bit too high.

The problem with this fear is that I can't confront something when I don't know where it's coming from. For screwing up on a grand scale- all evidence is to the contrary of that. Maybe it's that I don't know what the endgame is here?

This could be the experience that helps me decide whether or not I want to move there. What then for my family? A job? My friends? The fact that I am an American citizen and the idea of being naturalized somewhere else is a bit of a problem for me with that? I don't know. I've always been the kind of person to think way too far ahead. And now I'm agonizing over what to take, or cut out from my bag which has gotten too full. Sometimes I think that if I ever found true happiness I would stub my toe on purpose just so I had something I could relate better too.

Considering that I'm a middle class, white, American who's already got some stamps on his passport- maybe I'm already doing just that.

Well, until i figure it all out, hang on to your butts because the Gonzo Photographer is going downrange.

Got beer?

I may be well on my way to being a confirmed drunkard. Not an alcoholic mind you, just a drunk. Alcoholics go to boring meetings and drink shitty coffee. If I go to boring meetings, I'm on the clock and getting paid while I nap.

It is an observation of mine that people tend to disparage their local brewery. Naturally there are exceptions. Yuengling being a notable one. I have yet to meet anyone from Pennsylvania who is a vocal critic of America's oldest brewery. The Genesee Brewery in my home town of Rochester NY on the other hand tends to be generally crapped on. Admittedly I engaged in a fair amount of that myself without having tried the product.

I still haven't had Genny Lite or Cream Ale because both of those hold zero interest for me. I avoid light beer like I avoid dinner at my mom's house when she's experimenting with new recipes. And Cream Ale- that just sounds like two things which should not be put together. Regular Genny and Genny Bock beer, those are good for the price if not just plain good beer. Genny costs about the same as Pabst Blue Ribbon or Budweiser and beats both- in my highly subjective opinion.

But like most things, this whole topic can be traced to Israel in less than six degrees. My friends there seem to prefer Heineken and Carlsburg to the local Goldstar and Maccabee. Now, I'll agree that Maccabee is over-hyped piss-water. But Goldstar is pretty good and cheaper than the imports. So guess what I would like a fridge stocked with next time I'm there? I hope it will still be 15 Shekels (That's about $3.00) a bottle from the vendors on the Tel Aviv Promenade.

So try your local non-microbrew beer. Unless you live in St. Louis or Golden Colorado, odds are it's better than you think.

What dreams may- HOLY SH- WTF WAS THAT?!!!

I don't know how it is for you, but I tend to go through dry spells when it comes to dreams. Not the dreams of world domination, I mean you standard REM sleep dreams. The ones that you have to decide whether or not you should tell anyone about because it may let out far more info than you want.

Anyway, with me it seems like weeks go by without any dreams I can actually remember. But in the past few days it's been one after another. The most memorable one made me wake up with a big grin on my face. (No it did not involve a Felicia Day- Natalie Portman threesome.)

It started out with me laughing at a news article I was reading. In my dream it seemed that 80 or so neo Nazis had busted out of prison, gotten themselves SS uniforms and WWII vintage German weapons. And then ran smack into a detachment from the contemporary Bundeswehr who, like most Germans nowadays really don't like that Nazi shit. The results were pretty predictable which is why I was laughing. There's nothing quite like the surrealist dream image of Nazis being told by modern Germans to shut the fuck up. With bullets.

The fun part about dream you can remember is trying to figure out just where the imagery came from. With this one it's pretty easy. I was helping a friend of the family who was making a very low budget indie film set during the Holocaust. Specifically, since I have a longstanding interest in militaria and this time period I mostly ended up helping her procure and set up a uniform for the film's antagonist.

I guess dreams are kind of like a pressure valve. There when you need relief, but otherwise not particularly memorable.

This post doesn't seem to make much sense, but having not posted anything since July, I just needed to get soemthing up here to get back into it.

No one wants to see your butt pack

Hopefully, by now my photos from Operation : Northern Wind VI will have been released. If not, wait a while. They're worth it. In any case, this gives me an opportunity to climb back up on my soapbox and spout off about the blending of my two hobbies which will hopefully be the genesis of something leading me to the famous “Step 3: PROFIT!”

When I was at RIT I had to endure a few weeks of shooting sports photography. I hated it. I really don't give a damn about any sports except for the Olympics and those are easy to follow because most of them are races of one form or another. Maybe I should have tried to photograph some track meets, they'd have been easier to keep up with than high school soccer or tennis. The rule was: try to have the kid moving, face visible, with the ball in the frame. If you want to do mediocre sports shots that you can pass around at a PTA meeting, that's how to do it.

The thing is, I just didn't have the timing down and hated every second of it. While I can watch, enjoy and certainly appreciate the athleticism of sport, I have no interest in recording it. Photographing the fans was always a hell of a lot more fun. I've got a great shot of a soccer mom staring laser holes into a woman rooting for the other team, and another one of a Teen Girl Squad with one hanger on sulking in the background. They're good shots, you'll have to take my word for it.

Photographing airsoft is a little different. First, I actually like doing it. Second, I know how things go, I know what people do when, where they're going to go so I can put myself in the right place. There's a third one in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I think it has something to do with marking anyone who ruins a shot for a future burst to the face.

Of course, there are some unique challenges that come with wearing the blaze orange safety vest. Not the least of which is being able to hide that blaze orange safety vest. Well, that's actually impossible, but the point is that I don't want to give away someone's position. The easy way to do that is to just sand there looking stupid, checking the time, looking at a map or compass until the guy watching me turns around and does something else. Then I can resume photographing the person preparing to put a burst into his center of mass.

Another challenge goes back to the rule for mediocre sports photography. A soccer mom does not want to only see her kid's jersey number and no matter how much money they spend on their fake radio and hydro carrier, no one wants pictures of only the ass end of their kit. (Even if they have a large “Mud flap girl” patch that says, “Big Sexy,” on it. So that means getting in front of someone who is in the process of putting rounds downrange, often while they are dealing with incoming. This is where I can get my ass lit up from both sides at once. But the photos look good. And, two more names get added to the “In the face!” list.

Before the game starts I try to learn all I can about the objectives for each team and the lay of the land. I want to put myself where most of the action is going to be. In the case of Northern Wind, that meant spending a lot of time around a cluster of buildings. But, being sneaky myself I was able to channel both teams and find some other good fights. I was able to cut through the woods and find myself in a position to get some minor fights which otherwise wouldn't have been covered. Not everybody likes to be in the big battle. Everybody likes to find themselves looking badass in the photo gallery.

The last really big challenge is the dance. The dance, is what happens whenever you get more than one photographer or videographer covering in event. We all see the shots we want, but go through a crazy set of motions trying to keep the the orange vests out of our shots while staying out of theirs. We are a shy, sneaky and slightly evil lot. We don't like to be recorded. We like to be ghosts, 6”2' skinny, day glo orange ghosts. The only evidence of our passing being what we decide other people get to see. Seriously, the next time you're at a wedding watch how it works. There will be the guy getting paid to photograph, and at least two people with expensive cameras and an artistic bent out to get their own version of the same events. (Whenever I'm at a wedding I always introduce myself to the guy getting paid to shoot the thing and tell him to shove me out of his way if I'm in the wrong place. He's got money riding on this, I don't.)

The dance gets really fun when shit is hitting the fan all around you. Yelling, 'nades being tossed, smokes being thrown fusillades of bb's going in at least two directions- and on top of that you're trying to stay out of Nikki with the telephoto and Jeff with the DV cam's shots while getting close enough with the mid-range zoom to do some damage. And then you have to dodge game control's Humvee as they roll up to check out the fun.

I'm sorry does that sound like bitching? Let me pull down my balaclava so you can see the grin. I'm getting shots fucker! Good ones! Keep popping smoke and keep me happy! Too close for missiles? Switchin' to guns!

Never die, never fade away.

One of the most important books I have was a parting gift from my high school photo teacher. As he was packing up his things getting ready to retire he gave me the pick of some of his old photo books. They stood in a cardboard box like records at a store and I looked through them the same way. Landscapes. Ansel Adams. Industrial and commercial. Stock books. I stopped at a slim, white hardcover. There was a man on the front in a strange looking coat, wearing an Uncle Sam hat and a sign advertising haircuts. I picked it up and looked through it. This was something completely strange to me. Strange images devoid of context. It showed another time, I could tell by the prices in the windows, the cars but most of all the clothes.

Men women and children dressed to the nines. Or the eights. Families proudly walking down city streets in suits, jackets and no one without a hat. It was much more my father's time than mine. And yet, something about it drew me in. Each photograph had a story behind it. A conversation, a passing glance. But none of it was there. The story was a blank as the large areas of white surrounding the photographs. There was no context and it drove me crazy. I wanted stories, I wanted to know what was going on.

Mr. Littwiller noticed the book and said, "Ah, I thought you'd like that one." I had no idea why. At least not until I was long done with RIT and had been put through the ringer by Mr. Litwiller's old friend Gunther Cartwright.

Though those years at RIT I always focused on what the images in that book never had. A story. I wanted to tell the stories. I worked so hard at making the images match the words I wanted to say. That is to say, I was miserable. The happiest I was making photographs was when I said, "To hell with the story. I want to take photographs I am proud to put up. Photographs where people ask me to explain what is happening, not photographs where I have to explain everything to get them to see the image."

The photographs that capture my imagination are not the ones which tell a story, but the ones which begin to tell a story. The ones which make people wonder and feel the need to do a little digging on their own.

A photograph of a man jumping from a boat to the dock with a mooring line makes us gasp a bit. Does he make it? Does he go in the water? But I find myself asking: What made him take the jump? Who's on the boat? How many times has he made the jump before? What's he going to do later? In five minutes of thinking I can fill in, in my imagination the guy's entire life's story. And then i wonder what's this guy to the photographer? Was he hoping for a splash?

I guess I've come around to thinking that telling stories is not nearly as much fun as trying to get other people to make them up.