Category: California

A Writer Tries and Fails to Find A Metaphor in The Mud

Onion Scented Inspiration

 

Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

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When historic levels of rain and snow came through California this past winter, phrases like “atmospheric rivers” and “bomb cyclones” became just another Tuesday for those of us living in the Bay Area.

After each crazy storm ended, I would put on my muddin’ boots and find my way out to the wild and unkempt backyard to assess the latest damage.

I live in a rental home, and our yard has been neglected for years by several generations of tenants so it’s a bit wild and untamed. I like to garden and I work on it a little at a time, but it’s a lot.

As I pull back the layers of abandoned trash and weeds, I keep finding little surprises. Nature does have an admirable way of prevailing, even when we humans don’t keep up our end of the bargain.

One such little surprise arrived when I moved a plant pot that had sat in place for many months. In the soil underneath I found a tiny snakelike creature.

The conversation went like this (because yes, I talk to the wildlife), “Oh, let’s see, what are you? Are you a worm? Wait. You have arms and legs? WHAT?!”

Turns out I had found something called a California Slender Salamander. I have since found three more. Cute little things. A little creepy. But also cute.


The Odorous Discovery

After carefully returning the salamander to its home, and going about my business dumping water out of several overloaded plant pots, I finally got around to draining out a very large bucket that was filled with a variety of garden items.

I poured out black water, oh my did it stink. In addition to the rotting and molding funk, I could smell the very distinct aroma of onions.

I wondered to myself “Did that water get so gross it now smells like onions? Is that even possible”

As I continued to tromp around the yard, I kept smelling what was a fresh oniony smell and not a rotting leaf sort of oniony smell.

It took me a while but I finally looked down between my rubber boots and saw ’em. Green onions. In my yard. Everywhere.

The rains had come and apparently brought onions to the yard.

I didn’t remember onions being in the yard last year. Did birds or squirrels poop out seeds in our yard? Did the heavy rains wash onion seeds down the hill? Were onion seeds buried deep in the soil and the heavy rains brought them out?

I had no idea. What I did know was that I had several patches of green onion all over the place.

As I yanked them from the muck, I had a moment of clarity. “Oh,” I said aloud to the scrub jay supervising my work (I told you, I talk to wildlife), “That’s why the British call them Spring onions. It makes sense. I’d always wondered.”

There were a lot of onions and since onions’ main defense mechanism is their aroma, the more I yanked, the more my yard smelled like onion.


But where’s the metaphor?

Since I am a writer and observer of the world, I thought that these unasked for and unwanted onions were perhaps a good opportunity for a metaphor.

I envisioned a whole neatly written, clever, and profound essay where I tied the onions to something in my writing mind.

Say, for example, surprises grow among the clover. You never know what you might find when you explore the wilds of your brain.

Or maybe, be careful tromping around in the wilds of your brain, you might stumble upon something stinky and eye-watering.

Perhaps, you might plant green grass but be ready for green onions instead.

Nah, you know, none of those really seem to work. I’m pressing here.

I really thought I could be writerly and make a metaphor happen.

I guess sometimes an onion is just an onion.

And sometimes when I want to write something profound, what I get is squappity**.

So I guess I’ll keep exploring the wilds of both my yard and my brain trying to yank out both the real and the metaphorical green onions.

Tears are optional

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** Squappity is one of my favorite made up words meaning nothing, nada, the mental equivalent of TV static.

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This post was originally published on Medium and more of my work can be found over there @karenfayeth.

In The Beginning…

Learning as I go.


This past year has given me a new hobby, my “COVID hobby” if you will. I have been spending time learning about Monarch butterflies and about Monarch conservation.

The Monarch butterfly is considered endangered, however in 2020 there were other species in more dire situations, so the Monarch didn’t make the official federal Fish and Wildlife endangered list for 2020. It is expected that the gorgeous butterfly will make the list in 2021, as the numbers from the 2020 migration were down dramatically.

And so combing my recent research and my love of photography, I wanted to share my first Monarch egg of Spring 2021 that arrived a lot sooner in the year than expected. Thankfully I have enough milkweed to provide the food needed to sustain this new little life.

The first photo is a Monarch egg that is about 20 minutes away from hatching. The second photo is moments after emerging from the egg. The egg is about the size of the tip of a mechanical pencil and the baby caterpillar is about one quarter inch (6mm) long.

Both photos were captured using an Olympus mirrorless micro 4/3 camera and a 30mm macro lens.

 

Monarch egg soon to hatch©2021 Karen Fayeth

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Just hatched monarch egg©2021 Karen Fayeth

 

I can’t wait to follow this little friend on its journey through growing into a large caterpillar, turning into a chrysalis, and eventually emerging as a gorgeous orange butterfly.

To do your part to help the dwindling Monarch populations, look to see if milkweed is native to your area, and if so, please plant some in your yard. Also, if you can, refrain from using insecticides that have so decimated the Monarch numbers. Thank you!
 

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This post can also be found on Medium and you can see more of my work @karenfayeth over there

Every Picture Tells A Story

The Story is in the Eye of the Beholder

 

Photo by the author, ©2019 Karen Fayeth

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My photography teacher and mentor holds regular photo review sessions where we, her students, come together to show our photos and receive feedback from the group.

The rules are that we show our photo but stay silent. The photographer says nothing while the audience to reviews it, forms their opinions, and then provides feedback. Once feedback begins we are allowed to answer questions but the preference is to stick to the aspects of the photo and not stray too far into the backstory of why, what, or how.

Our teacher learned this from her own mentor, the legendary Al Weber. It was how he worked sessions with his students.

There are plenty of juicy quotes out there in the world about how a photo should tell the story without further explanation. How the photographer should say what they want to say visually and refrain from adding more explanation.

I understand that view and don’t entirely disagree. In a different photoclub meeting a few years back, I had quite a spirited debate with a fellow photographer who insisted that the technical aspects of the photo were all that mattered and “telling a story” was unimportant.

I insisted that a photo that doesn’t tell a story is boring. We agreed to disagree.

His technically superior landscapes remain astounding in their quality and dull in aesthetics. My photos have something to say, but are technically imperfect. Both of our photography styles are relevant and fine. The artist makes their art as they see fit.

You see, I’m an unapologetic logophile — a lover of words. I’m a storyteller from birth and when I look at photos, I like to hear what the photographer has to say about how and why they took the photo and what it means to them. I find sitting in silence a challenge when I’m so creatively inspired by my peers.

Also, the story a viewer gets from my photo may not be the story I was trying to tell. I know, I know, that’s fine. Everyone sees art in their own way, through their own filters, and that is valid. Of course.

But sometimes, like the photo in the header of this story, I want the viewer to know more. I want you to feel what I felt when I took the photo. I want it to resonate on a deeper level.

So now that you’ve seen the header photo, I’m going to tell you the story.

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t was the first week of this past December and I was traveling home to California from Tennessee. My itinerary said that I would fly on a small commuter plane from Knoxville to Denver, and then from Denver to San Francisco.

Riding on the very small commuter plane gave me no small amount of pause, in fact I wrote about it here:

My Fear of Flying

Before heading to the airport, I’d checked the weather in Denver and the news was not good. Snow. Lots of snow. Here I am flying on a very small plane right into the heart of a winter storm. Due to land in Denver around 6:45pm, it would be when the storm was expected to be the worst.

I was, to put it in crystal clear terms: Freaked Out.

Snow, small plane, winter, ice, terror, tired, just want to get home, will I even make it home tonight, I don’t want to die, pleaseohpleaseohplease… Like that, swirling around in my head. (Isn’t anxiety just so helpful?)

That header photo, the one with the beautiful sunset, was taken over eastern Colorado. Above the clouds was the most magnificent view of the sunset from the plane’s large window. The roiling storm clouds gave a great foreground. The contrast of blue and orange are a perfection of complimentary colors that only Mother Nature knows how to create.

Now, let’s be honest with each other: There are a lot of beautiful photographs of sunsets out there in the world. Plenty of astounding locations, views, and colors. My photo is surprisingly clear and well-focused for having been taken through a plane window. I used a Sony Cybershot as it was the best camera I had on me at the time.

I look at that photo and I love the brilliant colors, that I managed to mostly (but not precisely) center the sun, and the clouds make it very moody. But when I see that photo, what I feel is fear.

The dark and foreboding clouds below that gorgeous Colorado sunset were a metaphor for everything I was feeling when the shutter clicked. This photo was taken at the edge of the storm, you can see the ground on the right lower side. We had not yet begun to find the center of that winter storm when this photo was taken. It still lay ahead.

I should probably title the photo “Yearning for the Runway” because as I both watched and photographed that sunset, I kept visualizing over and over in my mind a smooth landing, pleading to the universe for safety.

Turns out by the time we got to Denver there had been a break in the storm and the runways were clean, dry and perfect. We landed pretty much as I had visualized. The snow was projected to start again soon, so after a little deicing, we took off late but made it home to SFO on time and intact.

I don’t know if telling my story makes you see the photo any differently. Maybe what you see when you read the story of that photo is different from mine.

I like knowing that my photo is more than just a lovely sunset, it’s my reminder that life is both precarious and precious.

And small planes are safer than I think.

Just wait until I tell you about my photo of a deceased ladybug.

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This item first appeared on Medium, find more of my work @karenfayeth over there.


 

Stream of Self-Consciousness

A Modern Fable

 

Photo by Alex Parkes on Unsplash

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That moment when you are sitting at stoplight as a pedestrian crosses with the light in front of your headlights and you notice that the early morning sun is giving this gentleman a solid backlighting. As he strolls directly in front of your view, you notice that the hairs that extend well past his nostrils are beautifully set to glowing by the golden California sun rising in the east.

And you think to yourself, “Oh wow. That’s…well that’s something.” And you laugh alone in your car because why not. You can sing in there so why can’t you cackle like a dyspeptic hen in there?

As you turn the corner and head into the parking garage you think to yourself. “Don’t laugh, sparky. There but for the grace of a nose hair trimmer go I.”

So then you surreptitiously check both barrels of your own breathing device to see if the protective filtering is tidy and in place.

And you realize that, you know, you could use a little trim yourself.

So you sit in the car facing east and while the morning light of a California sunrise floods in through the windshield and you use the scissors from your small Swiss Army Knife to give a quick clip, just enough to let your sanity rest during the day that lies ahead. Because no one should have to worry all day long about the nostril streamers that suddenly seem to grow with less control than they once did.

And when finished, you feel both satisfied and mildly crazy and kind of blind because why didn’t you notice a trim was in order when you looked at your tired face in the mirror this morning?

But alas, you did not. Then you vow to take care of this problem more fully later tonight. And you should probably put on your reading glasses and give the eyebrows a check too because I bet those are out of control.

And then you get out of your car and walk into the office and enter this crazy day in a crazy way with crazy hair growing in crazy places.

Did you ever have a day like that? Yeah, um, me neither.

Because this is just a fable. Or a morality tale. Or a work of fiction…right?

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This item first appeared on Medium, find more of my work @karenfayeth over there.

A Moment Matters

And So Does Kindness


 

Photo by Ashim D’Silva on Unsplash

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It’s morning and I’m waking up rough after some really painful dental work. I’m running late for work but I’m trying to stay calm and just get there.

I’m traversing a road that is something of an unofficial border. On one side is a series of slightly rough neighborhoods where gentrification is coming hard and fast. And painfully.

The other side is the “good” side of the road (scare quotes used intentionally). Gentrification has already arrived to this side of the road, for both better and for worse.

I stop at a red light at a major intersection. I am first in line and there is a long line of cars behind me.

“Who Can It Be Now,” plays from the oldies station on my radio. A popular song from my high school years is now an oldie. Don’t get me started.

I tap my thumb on the steering wheel and hum along when to my left, a local denizen, a gentleman who has seen better days, enters the crosswalk taking something of a slanting route over the white lines.

In his hand he’s carrying an open tall boy and holding it close to his chest. He’s smiling, though his face and his skin looks like he’s seen some things.

I am alternately like “right on!” because why not beer at almost nine in in the morning? Then “oooh, damn” because beer at nine in the morning possibly means chasing a few demons somewhere around nine o’clock the night before.

But I don’t know this guy’s story, so I don’t judge.

As he ambles amiably in front of the grill of my very old and very tired car in the center lane, in the right lane an oblivious driver in a black Mercedes whips right into the crosswalk, intent on turning right and doing it right now, and damn near hits the guy.

Our beer drinking friend pulls up short, steps back and slightly bows, waving the Mercedes along. It pulls out in a huff, if I can attribute huffiness to a car.

Then the man in the crosswalk turns to me and smiles a lopsided smile and waves. I do what any decent member of the human race should do, I wave back. I briefly entertain a “I should not have done that” thought because I have learned through enough years living near and in big cities that sometimes it’s just better not to engage.

But I was wrong for thinking that. As I wave, he smiles a little wider, peers around the corner of my car to be sure the coast is clear, then makes his way safely to the other side of the road.

My light turns green and I drive on, thinking about the guy, this city where I now live, the ever growing division between rich and poor, and the implications of gentrification. I also think about how delicious the lemon scone sitting in the passenger seat is going to be when I get to work and gobble it up.

I get to the place of my employment, find a parking spot, quick yank the parking break and start my day. Something about the man with the tall boy sticks with me and I can’t quite figure out why.

One thing I know for sure is that I have to write about it, to capture the fleeting moment and memorialize it for myself as much as for anyone else.

And so I have.

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This item first appeared on Medium, find more of my work @karenfayeth over there.