His memories in a trunk

Reflections on literature, language(s), and music

Archive for the category “Photos”

Aranea aestiva

From late summer till now our front porch has been the residence of a golden silk orb-weaver, a large and beautiful spider (genus Nephila) that spins strong strands in great webs. Her web has had four settings, it being accidentally damaged twice, and she having moved it of her own accord another time. She is around 9cm at the longest, but with her legs not fully extended. There was a diminutive male around briefly, but he has long since disappeared. The pictures speak for themselves, but more is here, and for some related folklore, be sure to note the Jorōgumo (aka “whore spider”)!

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Taken soon after she arrived. Comparatively smaller than in the later photos.

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Preparing to dine on a bumblebee. From time to time you could hear crunching as she worked on the insect’s body.

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Old iron and wood

Today my family and I were fortunate enough to visit Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park in McCalla, Alabama. It had probably been two decades or so since I’d last been there, but it was much the same as I remembered. This time I was armed with a camera, and here are a few photographs of its old inhabitants.IMG_5183 IMG_5184 IMG_5185 IMG_5186 IMG_5188 IMG_5189 IMG_5190 IMG_5191 IMG_5193 IMG_5194 IMG_5195 IMG_5196 IMG_5197 IMG_5198 IMG_5216 IMG_5220 IMG_5222

Underbelly of the bridge.

Underbelly of the bridge.

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Conducting water to the mill-wheel.

Conducting water to the mill-wheel.

At the mill's wheel.

At the mill’s wheel.

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Recent photos, mostly snow

This is on a very frozen lake. I like it because there is a focus on the children (all on the left side), but that it also gives a hint as to how huge the sky can seem in Minnesota.

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Pre-de-corking of some French wine. Nothing particularly meaningful about 2006 as opposed to its neighboring years, but I thought it would make a cool shot.

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I took this a few days ago for my mother, who lives in a place where snow rarely falls. It doesn’t quite show how the snow sparkled like glitter, both in the air and on the ground, but there is some of it. The morning sun is just peeking in at the top of the photo, and the tree casts its spreading shadow all the way to the viewer’s feet.

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This ice-hole — be careful how you pronounce that — forms several times every winter at a place where melting snow and ice from the roof drip onto the inches of snow on the ground, itself too thick to be easily erased. This one, here full deep and reaching to the rocks below, even shows the no-longer-frozen snow giving in to gravity, a drop at a time.

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A couple of large books, so large that they must rest supinely. If this doesn’t make you love old-style numerals, I don’t know what will.

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This is one of my favorite photos that I’ve taken in the past year or so. Again on the frozen lake. He has stopped and seems to look at the chapel ahead, and he’s surrounded by snow, ice, cold. He stands out in his yellow mantle. No one else is near. Is he wondering what’s in the chapel, why it’s there, whether to go on ahead? Is he tired, glad, surprised, disappointed? Is he on a pilgrimage to this place, or does the planned end of his road lie elsewhere, this building in the woods an unexpected find? Is he the first one to come to it, or does he know there are others there?

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