Photography Portfolio

http://jpgmag.com/people/JamesHarmon Find my Photography Portfolio

Just Waking Up

 

Hiding in Plain Sight

I am big on starting something and not following it through; however, the distance I've taken things has been much longer in periods of activity than it used to be. It used to be 3-6 months, and I was done and gone--people, places, and things. This blog is an excellent example. Going to the gym is another. I hate working-out, lifting weights, and any overall exersize--except walking. I spend quite a bit of time by myself working on-- technology, photography, and other creative endevors. I hate crowds: Clubs, ballgames, flea markets, malls...especially where long-distance, bumper-to-bumper driving is involved! (Even within the cyber-world).
On the other hand: I took 11 years of Bel Canto voice lessons, have been an avid photographer for over 30 years, went back to school and received my teacher certificate, stayed at the same job for 10 years, still maintaining my learning and activities with technology for 15 years, have been with the same woman (barely at times) for over 30 years, and (most important)have been sober for over 26 years.
Like most others, I have my plus-side and my minus-side. The difference today is that I admit that to others, and that I also recognize and share that the plus-side is much greater in amount and value today. It really has been that way all the time--as I look back. The only thing that changed over the years was me. Being the center of the solar system was getting much too dificult to maintain, and at some point I took my place somewhere next to Pluto. I have my privacy, and can maintain an overview of everything else. I don't look behind me, because that would be much too overwhelming--and I would be setting myself up to be quitting something else. Life!
Peace, James Harmon

Accidents, Injuries, and Diseases

Besides doctors and nurses, does anyone really like to be in hospitals--or any other medical facility for that matter? All my senses become 'on-guard', because of the plethora of triggers: the smell of Ethyl alcohol, the moaning of the sick and dying, the sight of blood and vomit, the cold waiting-room seat, the taste of hospital food, the encompassing shroud of foreboding, etc...
I think, however, that the main difference between most people and how they deal with such things is how one was raised to deal with the adversities, tragedies, and taboo-subjects enmeshed within our lives. For someone born reasonably healthy, I'd never enjoyed much time being in that same place. Being of Celtic background, 'dirt-laundry' was never shared or exposed--including mental and physical maladies. My family was loaded with them, from which I would not be exempt. My siblings and I rarely saw anyone in the medical field unless it was an emergency--and that was loosely defined. (On the other hand: Today, people use the emergency room like a baby uses a pacifier.) The way I see it today, it's not only what we experienced in health issues , but even more poignant, it was what we were exposed to in relation to the collateral damage related to these types of matters. Many times I was left to process things by myself, and consideration to the mental and emotional issues that often accompanied such experiences were left unattended--sometimes even ignored. What I witnessed had as much, if not more, impact on me than what actually happened to me physically. Before I was 6, I saw: a pot of hot coffee spill over my sister, my brother's split-open head from a fall to the couch, and a husband and wife fighting and the wife was hit over the head with an old-fashioned frying pan--just to name few examples. The smell of burning-flesh, the sight of a loved-ones brain-matter and blood gushing from a woman's eye socket; all indelibly marked in my memory and left unexplained and twisted in denial and false-truths. At an early age I was admitted to a hospital for a 'stiff-neck'. I still don't know what the hell it was except that I experience 3 days of lonely-fear. Even before I was a young adult I saw: a axe slice into my brother's knee and watched , not blood, but fat oozing out of him; one of my sister's ride-by in an ambulance with a ripped-up face after falling off a speeding-bike down a stony road,a small car flip over several times and the driver crawling out as a bloody mess, my father cut off his thumb off in a powerful window fan, friends 'beat-to-a-pulp' by drunken fathers,and this is the short list. As for some of my maladies, I had: the worst cases of eczema and acne, all over my body--for years. The emotional pain far outweighed the physical uncomfortableness's--and those moments by themselves were many. Between the two, I produced a constant flow of puss that continually soaked my clothes and provided fodder for the constant mocking from peers and teachers alike. (The fact that my parents smoked non-stop everywhere(including an enclosed car) didn't help much either towards our overall good health.) My nervous system was stretched to the limit constantly, and the only real relief and solution came when I became a daily drinker at the age of eighteen. It didn't work for my parents, but I was determined to make it work for me. Actually, it worked most of the time; however, it was a short-lived solution. I began to mimic my parents and most adults of the time, and began dealing with life on my terms. The insanity increased, and I eventually began to perpetuate the same behaviors and results. Everyone else was the problem, and there was plenty of blame to go around for others--and eventually self-pity and disdain for myself. I knew it all, but had so much to learn. What I was exposed to as a child, I was now experiencing the same two-fold--through my own participation. In some ways the alcohol and drugs saved my life, but it was the absence of them that gave me an opportunity to be reborn. The problem now lied in the fact I was thirty going-on fourteen-and I had to make a daily decision to willingly move towards doing the work in order to 'begin' to grow-up. It wasn't until years later in therapy that I uncovered some others reasons I choose alcohol and drugs to deal with the strangeness that accompanied and inundated my life experiences--as well as psyche.

Images

The night grows as I do,
old and still.
Darkness as a dam,
blocks my windowsill.
Small breezes trickle through,
to rustle and enhance the 'dance-of-light,
that reflects an image,
off a silvery-knife.
That ragged-edged knife,
in the shape of a spoon,
a disguise well made for one that's not used.
The turning and twisting of a branch through the mist,
is like an unbroken-heart pierced...with one kiss.
Emotions would do better,
to follow nature's way.
To die before the evening,
relive in time for day.

C 1977 James Harmon McQuilkin II

I wrote this piece just before the summer of '77, after my soul-mate broke my heart and strained my aching-soul to a place I never imagined could exist. At the end of that sleepless night, I decided not to take my own life. From then on writing, and the rest of the creative arts, became my outlet for expressionistic-healing.

Fear, Faith, Fact, and Friction

Is faith truly the opposite of fear? If we know all the facts about what we are indeed afraid of, should that knowledge resolve the friction between fantasy and reality and quell the fear? I accept that 'part' of my humanness is existing and surviving in a universe of many more unknowns than knowns. Fear reminds me that I don't like it; however, acceptance does not rely on my approval or understanding--in part or in whole.Being a child has its advantages, and one of the disadvantages (more so seen through the eyes of an adult)is the naivety that accompanies youth. Being a parent has taught me more about myself and the world around me, than any other life experience.I have always been aware of the burden and powerless-feeling part of fear. Fear is not only what it is, but more so what I make it out to be or turn it into--facts or not withstanding. As a child, I was not as concerned with the rational behind a fear--much less behind anything else for that matter. I have always been petrified of bees. The first time I was stung was as an older adult, so that was not part of the factual basis for the origin of the fear. Bees had an immediate and deeper connection to me that I couldn't explain to any one else. It was the: big eyes, dangling and skinny legs,insidiously-quick movement, and my instinctive-belief that these creatures displayed an attitude of brilliant-entitlement. They were 'the boss of me'. I remember during the age of 3, watching over the summer a wasp's nest form outside my top bedroom window. It got so huge that it began to spread open into the top crack of the inside part of the frame. Eventually, the wasps made the inside of the window almost as much a part of home as the outside. As often as I pointed this out to my parents, they'd just as often reply
with the same response: " If you don't bother them, they won't bother you." During the day I would curiously and cautiously watch them from the doorway of my tiny room, which both my younger brother and I shared. (Very little ever seemed to phase him)I was glad that the bees slept too, yet I learned to sleep with one eye open My father eventually sprayed the 'little demons' to death, and the room was off limits for the day. After years of the same insanity, I began to take matters into my own hands. My actions mostly consisted of running away, but soon I got the hang of using the can of Raid, as well the longest, stiffest weapon I could find and wrap my little hands around. In the ensuing years, I : jumped off roofs, swerved my car into on-coming traffic, halted outdoor performances, knocked over good friends to the ground, and frightened anyone in my presence to death when they were unfortunately in my company, when a bee flew onto the scene. Other than getting stung a few times since, nothing has changed. As for fear being the opposite of faith, all I can say is that I know that: "There is a God and I'm not Him, and hope that bees are not-as well.

Worth and/or Value

Every once in a while, I assign a creative-writing, warm-up task to my students: How can a quarter have more worth and/or value than a dollar? From K-12, the faces all look the same--puzzled. I realized a while ago that not all young people have the analytical and inquisitively-existential mind I did and still do--well....with what's left! Isn't that what a more affective teacher tries to do? Stimulate, motivate, inspire, model..etc...; however, the truth is that I do these types of things to keep from going insane and complacent in my own learning--maintaining a zest for life.

Even the most 'financially-challenged' of us have been able to (one way or another) relate to money, and the 'what's' and 'how's' of its usage and power. Before I discuss the students answers, I lead-in with a few examples from my youth about what one could purchase with just one penny. ( Not to mention all the coins over the years smart-ass students threw at me while I was only a substitute, of which I would always pick up around them--in my usual didactic manner)So, when I found a penny, or any change for that matter, it was a special moment. Growing -up poor in a well-to-do area was difficult and often embarrassing. However, I lived and learned how to value what was available, and assigned my own sense of worth to things. Not much came to us, we had to go out in search by ourselves--more often in a group of the neighborhood friends. Money mistakenly left in vending machines and telephone booths was one of our first sources of 'income'--not an allowance. I remember the first time my siblings and I pooled our money together to get a 'Hamburger Platter' at the local Milk Shed. We always walked by this downtown place(which we had no business being there at such young ages). We had years of experience just admiring and savoring just the smells of foods that we had little or no access. One of our bus stops was at the Pizza Mia, and the smell of the food was worth the bumpy bus ride home. Back then, bread was left in front of the store before opening, and my friends would help themselves--not to eat , but to toss the round pita around like a Frisbee. If they weren't looking I would eat a piece, and it still tasted wonderful. Finding and returning soda bottles was another 'found-treasure' in those days. Around a mile away, I would love to visit 'The Dump'. Man, the things we would find; however, bringing the stuff home would make my proud parents upset. Their excuse was that the stuff was dirty and diseased, but their cigarettes and scotch were fine. At least our stuff was free! We could buy so much for so little back then. This was a post-war time when money was backed with gold and silver, and people still had a conscience about producing products of quality. The stories change somewhat over the generations (prior and since), but in proportion they mean much the same. A quarter in the 50's was worth more than a dollar in the 90's-even considering things like: the GNP, inflation, minimum-wage, and cost-of-living. A quarter at the dollar store has a distinct possibility of being worth more than what a dollar gets at a mall shop. Our discussions always reveal a new angel of thought--and that is worth a great deal to me, and I value the experiences much the same as my childhood memories relating to much the same resourcefulness, adventures, and relationships. I still treasure a hamburger platter the most, because it is usually the best value, more so because its taste always reminds me that 'worth and value' don't necessarily equate to just matters of money; however, I still count my change.