Some of the most amazing portrait photography I've ever seen: http://www.100youngamericans.com/home.html

As promised, a flag picture. We were supposed to take pictures of tattered post 911 flags, but this one is actually outside a fire station. Regardless, I like the picture, so I guess it'll have to be good enough.

Geometry

The Colors are Changing...

It's fall, and so we change, because it seems the thing to do. Out come the puffy collared ghetto jackets. The homeless stake-out bridges, the wood-burning stand back to look at their woodpiles, hands on hips, cynical. And here at school, we lucky few worry over marks on paper. It's fall, and so even litter takes on a certain amount of significance. The waste of trees is hard to ignore. Our waste in turn becomes a kind of monument to the things we needed for our energy, and then dropped behind us. It's fall, and the sky is a blue that can break hearts. On a day like this, I wonder how we go about the mundane, faces down, hair tied back against the wind, without turning our faces to the cold sun and howling. Flocks of birds move across the parking lots, and I can hear the call, too. It's a time for moving.
It's fall. The world does its best to shake us up, exploding into a riot of color, but we lucky few do our best to ignore it.

The Fall Festival

The Ashfield Fall Festival is one of those truly small town things that make you feel like you just stepped back about 200 years into a nice post-colonial town. Each year, the same people attend, the same craftsmen display their glass, silver, wooden spoons, and quilted tea-cozies, and the same food-booths offer baked potatoes, maple syrup snow-cones, and fried dough with maple cream. The symbolic (and for many of the residents of Ashfield, still quiet pertinent) harvest is upon us, and pumpkins and gourds line the streets, while the telephone poles are sheathed in corn stalks.
It's hard to believe that a town like this truly exists, a town where the kids are left all day to run among themselves without danger, where everyone greats you by name, where the largest store is the tiny corner gas-station, or maybe the hardware store, packed full of odds and ends (and offering 50 cent ice-cream cones, no less). But it does, truly, 2 hrs west of Worcester, and the fall festival is one place where you cannot deny the authenticity of the town.

Why is it that whenever I go home I end up taking a thousand pictures of my little brother, Sunil, and sister, Raine. Actually, I think I know. When you take a picture of someone you love, sometimes, not always, but sometimes the resulting photo shows not only the subject, but the love of the photographer too.

I can fly!

So I was zooming around testing out my wings, when all of a sudden I accidently ended up on the roof of the Goddard Library. Oops! How the hell did that happen?