Personal Entries · Studio

New camera: a photographic orgy

Have you noticed, my ducklings, that I haven’t posted any photographs in ages?  That’s because my camera died.  But!  A new one is arriving tomorrow, and then there will be an orgy of photography going on at the Vaka Design photography studio.

You know, I’ve noticed that when I use profane or graphic language in my posts, my views plummet.  Obviously, the language causes the site to be censored in searches and by the blog rolls which pick it up.  This time I didn’t even mean to be profane, and I’ll totally get censored anyway.  This time I was just being accurate.


1.   wild, drunken or licentious festivity or revelry. 

My mother is flying in from the Netherlands today;  from the land where  Dutch veins run with lager, thoughts of legal prostitution, and THC.   So yes, some drinking during the photoshoot is likely, and between Karen and my Mom?  Jeesh!  I’ll be the only sober voice of reason to be found, and that’s saying something.  Things have deteriorated badly when I am the voice of reason.
Licentious?  Not strictly so, but I will make that camera my bitch.
2.   uncontrolled or immoderate indulgence in an activity: an orgy of spending.
We have a huge number of pieces to photograph, and while I’m eager to post my own,  I’m excited for you to see what Karen has been working on.  Dude has seriously found her groove, and is churning out some very pretty stuff: pierced and layered silver pieces, some which look almost medieval. 
Brushed gold, diamonds, silver, white gold, earrings, necklaces, bi-metal pendants, lions and tigers and bears.
There is nothing moderate about all the awesome we will be shooting with my new bitch.
3.   orgies, (in ancient Greece) esoteric religious rituals, esp. in the worship of Demeter or Dionysus, characterized in later times by wild dancing, singing, and drinking.
Nope, not applicable.  Unless we find a young Greek guy named Dionysus, give him a glass of wine and allow him to be our eye candy, a la Madonna’s twenty-four year old boytoy, Jesus.  That might be a religious experience. 
4.  Informal. a boisterous, rowdy party.


 To describe my upcoming photodocumentation of new work  as an orgy of photography is grammatically precise.  I don’t care what the fucking censors say.

Personal Entries

Have a kick-a** day

I really enjoy cursing. I think the ability to be creatively profane in small doses at appropriate moments is really a gift,  albeit not one I can share openly with my children.  As they grow older I’m easing them into this fabulous facet of me, sort of like one works solid grown-up food into a baby’s diet. I will teach them to swear when they are ready for that responsibility, just as I’ve taught them to pee standing up, hit a baseball, and have nice manners.

Matthew, at ten, is still exposed to little more than the occasional studio related “Damn it!” and he understands this is a necessity when dealing with bezels.

Riley is being weaned onto terms like “smart ass,” but at twelve he isn’t ready for the big guns. He can’t handle that kind of responsibility yet because he hasn’t yet mastered using his powers for good.

Jake, at seventeen, is almost completely trained and is impressed with my verbal artistry, as he should be.

When Jake was younger he was terribly worried about being good and following the rules, and when he got to middle school I made a point of cursing a bit in front of him to loosen him up. The world will not end if you are not perfectly behaved by others’ standards.

As he would leave the house in the morning I’d say, “Have a kick-ass day, Jake!”


“What kind of a day should you have Jake?”

He’d shuffle his feet and mumble.

“Jaaaake. What kind of daaay?”

He’d sigh, resigned, and exhale, “akickassday.”

By the end of the school year he would announce, “Bye Mom! I’m going to have a kick ass day!”  Mission accomplished.

It seems I loosened him up too much because his friends tell me he has quite the mouth, which has led to discussions of appropriate time and place.  At seventeen we’re still tweaking.

Weeding the flower beds for me yesterday, Jake came in to ask what a big weed with a funny tuber-like root was.

“Mom, these are everywhere. What are they?”

“Oh, those? Those are Fuckers.”

“Really,” said Jake.  “Fuckers. Is that their Latin name?”

“Nooo silly. Stupidus Fuckidus Greenus is their Latin name.”

“And why were they named this?

“Because they are fucking EVERYWHERE and you say “STUPID FUCKER!” every time you rip one out, because you can never get the whole root and they grow right back.  Hateful little Fuckers. ”  I am so pleased when I can incorporate profane language into my day this way.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, Jakers. Now go get those Stupid Fuckers out of my garden.”