I came across this photo while searching through some folders today. This photo was taken in a moment of desperation, while I was crying in a borrowed car.

This was just after I had dropped my camera during a wedding photo shoot. My grandfather had lent me a neck strap because I didn't own one at the time, and I soon found out that the strap was faulty. I had been standing on a chair trying to get an interesting shot of the bride having her make-up done when my camera fell from my neck and onto the floor with a thud. At least it didn't land on the bride, I remember thinking. But when I picked up the camera to continue, my lens wouldn't focus, the shutter speed wouldn't adjust, and I couldn't access the menu. The camera I had saved up for for a year was suddenly rendered useless, and I didn't have the means to repair it, much less get a new one. The next day I was scheduled to fly out for the sole purpose of taking my mother's author photo.

My uncle, who had invited me to shoot the wedding with him, must have seen all this cross my face. He tried to console me saying he'd been there before when he dropped his Canon in a stream once. He immediately offered me his car keys and told me to drive to a local camera shop to have it checked out, see just what the damage was, and get an estimate. Perhaps the mirror just needed to be adjusted, perhaps it was a simple fix.

I drove around Portland lost, not because I didn't know the streets but because I just couldn't get myself together. So much more had happened that day to lead up to that awful moment. Seve and I stressed about our finances, stressed about finding a job. Stressed about leaving Simon behind for the day for a photo shoot none of us were being paid for. Stressed over a thousand other things I can't even remember now.

I eventually found the camera shop where a kind man in a paisley shirt named Tom fiddled with my camera only to tell me he wasn't sure what was wrong, not specifically, but something on the interior must have been damaged and it would likely be cheaper to replace the camera than repair it. An estimate of about $1000 was given to open the body and find out for sure. Having held my emotions in check up until this point, I headed back out to the car where I locked myself inside. Cried. Felt stupid.

At that time everything felt so dire. It's weird to look back on it now. I remember praying, though I don't remember what I said. It wasn't all about the camera, but some group of words all blubbered together about everything I was terrified over. And after that prayer, I picked up my camera to take a shot, which actually took. The lens whirred and the shutter shutted and that's where the picture for this post came from. So, this shot, this boring shot of a borrowed car's dashboard, actually means a lot to me, as it was the revival of my camera in my moment of need. And my camera works fine to this day.

Thanks for letting me borrow your car, Uncle John. Thanks for the neck strap, Gramps, but unfortunately I'll just need to buy my own. Should have bought one a long time ago. And thanks for my answered prayer, Father. Things have worked out after all.

I've had a few blog posts lined up, but have been passing on them since they were kind of abrupt and silly and I've had more serious things on my mind.

Have you guys heard of Woody Allen? Of course you have. Have you read that piece Dylan Farrow published in the New York Times? The one about Woody Allen sexually abusing her as a child? And how her whole life it's kind of been brushed aside because "it's Woody! Annie Hall was so good!" I've been thinking about this, about how easily media wants to debate/disprove her claim of abuse because they love the accused . . .

Anyway, it's been on my mind because I recently found out someone I knew was sexually abused by Stanley Marsh 3. For those who don't know, I grew up in Amarillo, TX and millionaire Stanley Marsh 3 is kind of our Andy Warhol. The rest of the world sees him as this inspiring and quirky artist (best known for Cadillac Ranch) but those of us in Amarillo know him as a pedophile. It was known in our community that he targeted young guys in the punk scene and would invite them to his mansion to become fellow "artists." Plenty of allegations had been brought on him before, but he always, always, paid them off. I remember laughing about it as a kid. "Oh, that Stanley, what an awful man!"

Why I ever found it funny is beyond me. After reading the previously linked article I sat in my room, alone, feeling dark and disgusting, thinking of my friend and all he went through. Looking back at our relationship, I know the time period it happened, when everything changed between us, when he started running with Stanley's crowd, how what was possibly happening to him always lingered in the back of my mind and I never said anything. How, after moving from Texas, people would ask where I was from and when I said "Amarillo!" they said "Stanley Marsh 3!" and I would say, "Yes, the terrible pedophile," and they would dismiss it, because no no no, he's a great artist.

"Separate the art from the artist."

We're more important than art, aren't we? Human beings and our experiences, more important than art? I had a friend once tell me she wouldn't read or go see Ender's Game because Orson Scott Card belongs to a church that doesn't support marriage equality, and no matter how good a story, she couldn't support him. And I respect that. I, too, struggle with my church not supporting marriage equality, because I belong to the same church Orson Scott Card does. And even though I want change and he doesn't, at the end of the day we still belong to the same organization, and if someone decides never to read my work because of that, I'll respect that decision too.

If you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I want you to notice the group of boys lingering to the side in lawn chairs. They're there to spray paint the cars at the end of the day, so the canvas is fresh for the new set of tourists to graffiti tomorrow. That's what they do, maintain the art for Stanley. They've been there for years, faces always changing, ages always the same. Maybe they're not there anymore, now that Stanley's had a stroke, now that the pile of paid-off allegations has gotten too high. But the fact that they were ever there, instead of some professional, middle-aged paint crew . . . if you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I challenge you to try and separate Stanley's art from Stanley's darker activities when they're standing side by side in front of you.
 
Andy Warhol's studio was called "The Factory" because he was able to produce several works of art on an assembly line. But, after reading a biography on Warhol, I think it was called "The Factory" because it treated people as nothing more than objects to be exploited, used, and recycled. I'm wary of the artist who uses people for art, and those who insist I separate art from people. Why? The artist doesn't.

My Grandpa used to be a professional photographer, and after cleaning through the garage this week he found his old set of Nikon lenses. He offered them to me, and lo & behold they work with my DSLR just fine. So, you know, been playing with that lately.

This coming week I'll be heading to Utah for the funeral of my Aunt Valerie, who passed away recently after a long and lentghy battle with cancer. I've been having a lot of internet-regret lately - that feeling when you aren't blogging/commenting enough . . . and the few times I have been on, it's been to play on Pinterest.

But the worst is my lack of emailing. More importantly, that I was told that though Valerie wasn't up for responding to emails much, she still loved receiving them and having them read to her. I promised myself I would write to her, but didn't get around to it. Now she's gone, and I have no one to blame but myself for my lack of commitment to simply sit down and write an email to my aunt.

So this one's for you, Valerie:

Remember when my father and I came to visit a few years ago? 2006 or 2007, I think? Your hair was thinning from all the treatment you were getting and you asked if I could cut it for you into a more flattering style. I did my best; I wanted so much for you to like it. You're a kind enough person that you never would have told me if you hated it. You used to make me bracelets and necklaces for every birthday & Christmas. I still wear them from time to time.

I remember that you weren't fond of driving, particularly unprotected lefts, and you hated those green wheat smoothies the doctors insisted you drink. But you did so anyway, with a smile on your face, joking that the cancer in your tongue made it so you didn't really taste it anyway.

Jaclyn and I used to say that you and Grandma should have used all that money on a never ending trip around the world, just the two of you on a private yacht. But you were more selfless than that, and cared for family more than pyramids or ruins or oceans or caves. I thank you for that. I love you, and loved every moment I had with you, even if they were few.

I hope you and Pam are making fun of us from heaven.

Love,
Jules

If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.

My week in Texas is coming to a close and it has me reflecting on my past, present, and future. Mainly the future. Seve and I are currently suspended in that "Where now?" limbo of post-graduation and pre-job. We're interviewing and scouting out our next move, ready to get on with it but relishing the downtime before another sweeping trek across the country. Opportunity is knocking on our hallway of doors and new ones open just as quickly as others close. Ugh, I'm waxing a little too poetic tonight.

I'd rather not get into specifics, (not until we have our feet firmly planted where they're going to live for the next five or so years, anyway) but we've had some high highs and low lows I didn't see coming. And the surge of it all has left us in a . . . "calm before the storm" kind of peace?  Not sure how to explain it. Despite the uncertainty, I feel really, well, happy. I look around and I see my paradise already, even though we have yet to get where we're going. It's a funny little feeling, and makes me appreciate all the unexpectedness that happens.

A favorite professor of mine once said that nothing is ever 100% bad; it can only reach a maximum of 99%, because at least 1% is worth sharing later in a hilarious and heavily embellished story.

Here are some shots of my cousin Monika I took this weekend that I'm considering entering into Show & Tell's April photo challenge.

Hey Mormons! Wasn't Conference great? I actually got horribly sick on Saturday and lucidly fell in and out of sleep while Seve kindly streamed the first sessions on his laptop for me. Sunday I kicked myself out of bed and joined some family for the last session, a decision I both do and don't regret. Let's just say I've tucked myself back into bed now.

Elder Evans talk really touched me. The bit about keeping the sharing of the gospel to normal and natural circumstances, and not, you know, being . . . obnoxious about it? I have a hard time talking about my faith with others, even fellow members. I'm not sure why; I know I have a testimony and I'm proud of the decisions I've made in life, and therefore shouldn't feel awkward or ashamed about sharing them, but whenever confronted with a fellow member who is doubting or a stranger who is curious, I close up. Words escape me. I don't even know where to begin; I become consumed with this fear that I'm going to offend or weird out the person I'm talking to.

It's not just my faith, though. Goodness, I can't even talk about photography with people for fear of sounding like a know-it-all. What makes you feel this way?

Anyway, I admire those of you who can speak of the gospel so articulately and eloquently, and recognize how to normally and naturally bring it up, because religion is rarely ever easy territory.

Well, I have a serious post today.

On New Year's Eve, I had a blog post scheduled to go describing my Top 15 of 2010, but scratched it because one of the things on the list I wasn't really ready to talk about, and that was #15, Getting Pregnant. Anyone who's been keeping up with this blog (or me in general) knows that I ended up miscarrying, and to this day I'm not over that sad event. It was so hard, especially in January (my due date had been 1/1/11) to see friends who conceived around the same time I did to have their babies arrive healthy and problem free. I'm very happy for them, but I can't pretend it didn't make me feel lonely.

Now, I wasn't all gripes and rainstorms last month. I had some things I was set on doing to stay positive and keep happy, like my new camera, my new watercolors, and a sneaky art project. But then something happened: I got pregnant again.

Was I planning on waiting to announce this? Yes. Last time I regretted announcing so early only to have to retract the statement, but you know what? By coming out in the open with my pregnancy and my miscarriage, I got a lot of love and support from people who would have otherwise been in the dark. And that support made such a difference.

So, I'm announcing it now. Besides, it's harder for me to hide being pregnant this time around. I've been sick as a dog - nausea, nausea, nausea - and missing work and my RS duties - both have been wonderful and understanding in the matter, but nonetheless, the cat's out of the bag when you're green in the face, not taking any medicine, and refusing the chicken soup that's brought to you.

I guess I just want you all along with me for the ride, no matter what happens. Perhaps I'll post the Top 15 of 2010 later this week . . . now that we're 2 months in to 2011's #1.

I think it's about time I posted on what's been going on.

These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life, and I mean that in all seriousness. I miscarried my baby, my precious baby. I know in a previous post I wrote about my fears of having a child, but never, never, never did I want this to be the remedy. And I never thought this would happen, not for a second. It never once occurred to me that anything would go wrong. After my trip to Philadelphia, I was so excited for our first ultrasound, only to find that my poor child had no heartbeat and had passed away about the same time I announced my pregnancy.

I feel like a fool for ever posting about my pregnancy online so soon, or at all. I should have used more caution, I should have at least considered the possibility of such a sad thing happening and how heart-wrenching and embarrassing it would be to have to post the worst of all retractions.

So, I thought you should all know what's been going on.

Though this time has been hard, Seve and I have been so blessed by everyone around us. I don't write much about my faith in here, and I regret that. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and my fellow Saints have done so much to help me. Many of them didn't even know what was going on, just that something had happened and they were more than willing to offer their help, their time, and their efforts to ensure I was okay.

My boss and coworkers have been amazing. My family has called me everyday. My friends have stopped by to check up on me. My husband has held me while I've cried.

Not once have I felt alone and not once have I been angry at God. I will always love this baby and I will always miss it, and the Gospel gives me the hope and understanding I need to persevere.