Group Rantings

Posted on Thursday, August 12, 2010 by Jefferson Davis

I have a gripe that perhaps some of you have as well. There are tens of thousands of groups on Flickr. Over the years, I’ve joined quite a few and contribute when I can. There is an entire segment of groups centralised around the cities in which we reside. I too think this is grand. It gives us an opportunity to show how beautiful or ugly our city may be according to the filter we use to perceive our surroundings.

Again, the premise is grand but the implementation of such a construct is atrocious. My home cities group is filled with pictures of food and humorous expressions! What does that say about the city in which I was born? We’re funny and fat? In all fairness, there are shots of grand architecture, landscapes, portraits, and lovely shots that tell compelling stories. Photography, at least in my wee opinion, is about evoking an emotional response in the viewers. The trick is to get the actual reaction
you were hoping for. In just as many instances, however, it is just as important to tell a story with that simple yet daedal medium.

Ask a different photographer, and you’ll get a different answer every time. Enough rambling. I’m going to bugger off now and have a cuppa tea.

To Blog?

Posted on Friday, July 31, 2009 by Jefferson Davis

I’ve been having a rough go at it this last year. It was a year ago today that I quit my job and started making plans to leave the states. Plans don’t always come to fruition. In a way this was a good thing. I learned from my mistakes and will not make them again.

2009 did not start out any better. I suffered financially for months, but again, I gained more than I lost. Sometimes things happen for a reason. People tend to blame ‘God’ for everything that goes awry in their lives. I do not believe that God puts us in bad situations. It is of our own doing the majority of the time. I do believe in free will. What happens in our lives is up to us!

We can’t stand back and hope that good things will happen to us, we have to make them happen. If you want to be a famous musician or mogul, you’ve got to make it happen. It takes dedication and a lot of sweat. It is true, however, in America and elsewhere in the civilised world that it is not what you know but who you know. This vexes me but it is a part of life we have to contend with just like disabilities or other problems that inhibit our abilities.

Recently, I became aware that the server that this blog resides on was about to expire. I could renew the contract with the server company for another two years for a nominal fee or just let it go into the ether of the internet. I struggled with this for a while, not really knowing what to do. On the one hand, it is an archive or my work and on the other it’s archive of mistakes. It’s a double edged sword or sorts.

So, I called a dear friend yesterday and the subject of the blog came up. I told her that I was going to shut it down. She threatened to come o’er here and kick my arse for doing such a vile act. She really inspired me saying that my poems and pictures bring hope and beauty into the lives of those that view them. She went on to say that the world needs more people like me to be inspirational in tough times such as these.

In an enquiry that was not about vanity but about honesty, I said that life is a play and somewhere along the way I’d like to get up on stage if only for a moment. She told me to fight. To get out and fight for a spot rather than let my stomach curl up into a ball of knots. She went on to say that I should knock those that never paid their dues off their pedestals and fight the actus reus of the world with an iron maul. She may not be my lady anymore, but she is one hell of a friend.

After her pep talk, I decided to keep the blog going. The world isn’t getting rid of Jefferson Davis just yet! First thing Monday morning, I’m going to pick a fight with a newspaper editor. I want and deserve a job, dammit!

A flash of broken Mirrors

Posted on Sunday, June 21, 2009 by Jefferson Davis

Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs. As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me. One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.

Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way. But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge. I have nothing against people in suits. I have a lot of suits. I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.

“What is your problem?”

He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.

Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.

“Oh Yeah?” He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.

“Yeah”, I boldly stated.

“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”

““*** Davis.”

“The *** Davis?”

“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.

“No.”

“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls. I know him. My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.

“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.

“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.

The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him. I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.

Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said. As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth. I had not talked to him in months. We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue. I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.

I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland. I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle. Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle.

A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show. The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night. While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.

I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden. While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head. So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door.

I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare. Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist. I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are. Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.

So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path. When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine. She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night. She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.

12:30AM Ring…ring…ring…ring

“Hello”, she whispered.

“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.

“What time is it?” She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.

“It’s 12:30. I’m at the bistro. I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.

Click

I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee. The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused. I took my time walking home. The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place.

It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street. I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down.

By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered. I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop. Scared, I drew closer. A figure came into view through the vapours. I got closer and realised it was…

It was her. She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.

Slap

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.

I had never been prouder than at that moment. It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.

For Her:

Freckles is a savage word.

How about dapples of lust,

Honey sisters,

Blunders of the Sun,

Love in lace,

Damsel’s shivers,

Silent baubles,

Caramel kisses,

Blotch of arcs,

Or a serene flock?

To Pops: Happy Fathers Day, dude! You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day. A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.

P.S.: Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start. I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.

P.P.S.: Most of us have father issues in one form or another. Our fathers are our fathers no matter what. Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning.

Honour thy Father and thy Mother.

Thanks Gramps

Posted on Thursday, May 14, 2009 by Jefferson Davis

As the sound of splintering white oak limbs reverberated across the large ravine, I thought of my grandfather. If it were not for him, I wouldn’t have known what to use to shelter myself from the horrendous rainstorm that blew out of nowhere deep in the wilderness trails of Caesar’s Head State Park. I would not have known how to get safe drinking water, when my water reserves ran out. And, I certainly would not know how to track, kill, and clean deer or bears, if such an extreme were necessary.

Saturday morning I decided to go hiking by me self. It is irritating when someone offers to join me, yet he or she only has a two or three hour window in which to hike. That is utterly useless. When I go hiking, I hike for at least four hours. I go on wild walkabouts simply for the journey. The constantly changing elevation and terrain is better than any tread climber. The scenery isn’t bad either.

On a usual trip, I see snakes (this time too), wild boars, bears, wildflowers, and of course, huge squirrels. It is indeed a treat to hike through the mountainous terrain that is my home.

Grandfather and I spent every summer of my youth camping, fishing, and hiking. He taught me everything I know about how to survive in the wild. He spent ages teaching me which wild berries are edible along with how to clean animals. I didn’t always enjoy it, but sitting here today, I am very grateful that he passed it on to me.

His parents died in a car wreck, when he was seven. His mothers family on the Cherokee reservation took him in and raised him ‘til he was thirteen. The elders of the tribe treated him as one of their own, even though his father was ‘white’. He was taught all of the traditions that were still being passed down through the generations at that time. Sadly, most of these teachings are fading away with the memory of the trail of tears.

Gramps was on his on from his teens until he met my grandmother at a dance in 1949. They were head over heels for each other from that point forward and married in ‘50. Both had jet black hair yet managed to have three blonde haired, blue-eyed children.

Everyone called him Abe, because he was a spitting image of Abraham Lincoln. I don’t know if he fashioned his beard like Lincoln’s on purpose, but he definitely got a kick out of the remarks. At 6’5”, he had the stature of a giant and the posture of a titan. Throughout his life, he had five heart attacks. I never heard the man whine or whimper once in the seventeen years that I knew him.

When I was a wee lad, he would take me bowling. This happened quite frequently, since I was sick a lot and unable to go to school. On one occasion, a drunk started mocking me because of the way I talked. He made the mistake of calling me retarded. Gramps hit him so hard and fast that the man slid halfway down the alley.

He taught me a lot about life, but the most important one of all was to keep going down that wacky, and sometimes wicked, trail we call life no matter how arduous it may become. So, I kept going down that lengthy trail soaked from head to toe and already exhausted. Five miles later, a few blisters and bruises, and wrecked knees I emerged victoriously. Fifteen miles through some of the toughest mountainous terrain the Southern United States can provide.

Survivor Tip: If you are in need of water and it happens to be raining (lucky you/me), simply ring out your clothes. I got enough water out of my t-shirt and a few leaves to almost fill up the water bottle. I could have used water from the rivers and streams that surround the trails, but I would have had to set up camp, start a fire, and boil the water. Because of pollution and disease, the water in the rivers and streams is not safe to drink unless boiled. You’re not supposed to drink from rivers right after it rains anyway due to the animal faeces that washes off the banks.

How ‘bout some pictures?

Two Weeks Late

Posted on Friday, April 3, 2009 by Jefferson Davis

Tap…tap…tap

Whack…whack…whack…

Bang…bang

“This better be good at…4AM”, I yelled whilst wiping the muck from my eyes.

“Who the f*ck is it?” I demanded, as I treaded across the frigid oak floors towards the back door.

“It’s Dr. Don.”

I unlocked the door and swung it open in anger of be awoken.

“What are you doing here this time of the morning?” I pleaded while rubbing my dreary head and heading to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

After putting the water on to boil, I realised that he was sporting a green t-shirt with a big shamrock on it.

“Shite”, I exclaimed whilst running to my bedroom.

“Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, dude”, he said, as he looked through the cupboards for something to snack on.

I grabbed my camera gear and supplies and headed out the door a few minutes later. We got on the main highway about 4:30AM. It’s quite fun to drive early in the morning. The roads were empty at that time of dawning, so I could use two lanes if I so desired.

Just as we started making good time, it started misting rain. I turned on the windshield wipers to alleviate the haze overtaking my view. The drivers side wiper started acting erratic, veering way off its predetermined course, so I turned them off and back on. It fell over and hung precariously off the drivers side of the windshield.

“This is not a good omen”, I cogitated whilst looking for a place to pull over in the pitch blackness of an empty road.

We pulled into a rest area and inspected the damage. We couldn’t help but laugh, when we discovered that the gears in the wiper motor were stripped.

“I hope the rain stops”, I laughingly muttered whilst getting back in the truck.

“Ah, throw a string on it and yank it every time it starts to mist”, Dr. Don muttered, as he stared into the vacuous rest area.

Luckily, the rain clouds dissipated and we continued down I-385 S. Once we got on I-26 East, the driving was a breeze. I put the truck in cruise control mode and relaxed a bit. Dr. Don freaked out a bit, when I pretended to be asleep and let the vehicle veer closer to the concrete median.

After breakfast somewhere near Columbia, SC, Dr. Don went to sleep and I sliced about a half hour off the trip by speeding. When I saw the Savannah River in the distance, I turned up the radio to wake him. We arrived about an hour before the parade. People of all colours, shapes, and sizes were painted in green. The one’s that weren’t covered themselves with a lovely green beer. It wasn’t Guinness, but eh?

After fighting through a crowd of a half million people, I finally found a spot to take pictures. I normally hop from place to place to get different perspectives, but because there was a mass of people and I was trying to stay within seeing distance of Dr. Don, I stayed in one spot the entire time.

It was an all out celebration of Craic. Some whacky and legless college guys ran out into the parade street and high fived everyone while screaming, "Éirinn go Brách". Others would run up and yell, “Irish, yeah”. It was a party on wheels.

I watched bands march by from about thirty US states, including: Georgia, Wyoming, Florida, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, and Delaware to name a few. Heck, there was even a bagpipe band from Edinburgh, Scotland.

An African-American woman with a hellish attitude and seven kids tried to root me out of my spot. I didn’t mind the kids getting a decent spot, but when she tried to push me out of the way, I got irate and decided to leave before saying something and causing a riot.

Dr. Don was arguing with her husband, so I grabbed him out of the crowd and walked away.

“On the one day when American’s with Irish ancestry can celebrate their heritage, someone has to start some shite”, I muttered, as we walked away.

“She was just dreaming that Obama was in the parade and had to get a closer spot, being that he’s Irish and all.”

“Yer not Irish, unless yer born in Ireland”, I muttered, as we walked into a quaint little cigar shop.

“Does the north count?”

I laughed and we picked out some proper cigars. We sat by the river and watched babes in short shorts and skin tight T’s compete in a wet t-shirt contest.

We hung around for about another hour talking junk to the fairer sex. One woman thought I worked for a paper, so I went with it.

I hadn’t been down there since I was knee high to a grasshopper, so it was nice to go back even for a day. When we returned to the truck, we decided to take a wee side trip to Charleston, S.C.. It is older than Savannah and even more picturesque. The city was formed in 1670 and was once the fifth larges city in the United States. The first shots of the Civil War were fired there as well. So, it is truly a historic playground. One of my ancestors, a Mr. McManaman (can’t remember his first name at present) from County May, died there during the Civil War.

We hopped on I-95-S and sped away from Georgia. I stayed behind a big rig that was speeding, so we made good time. We crossed the massive Cooper River Bridge around 4:30PM. It is the largest cable-stayed bridge in the Western Hemisphere. And, people say we’re a bunch of hicks in South Carolina!?

I took a few shots of the coast and the Cooper River. We walked through battery park. The architecture of the plantation houses and mansions is awe inspiriting.

After observing the rich women (A person has to be well off to reside in auld Charleston.) jogging through the park, we treaded down some side streets. The streets are very narrow, so I was not surprised when a lady in a minivan ripped a mirror off the side of a painters van. The painter ran out into the street discovering his drivers side mirror laying shattered on the paving stones. The nice lady returned and apologised to the gentleman.

“dun’t w’rry ‘bout it ma’am…these types ah t’ings happ’n down ‘ere”, he muttered as the lady helped him pick up the mirror shards.

She offered her insurance information and her number, but he wouldn’t take it. After she left, he got all of his things together and proceeded to leave. As he pulled away, the rear bumper fell off. He parked, got out, rubbed his head, and yelled, “Shit’”.

Dr. Don and myself got a good laugh out of this and headed back up the road. When we arrived at his house, my hands were stuck to the steering wheel, and I was unable to bend my arms.

“So, how long is it gonna take you to get this on the blog?”

“I’ll have it up by the time I pay dearest deeds to the moon before it fades away.”

“Yer full of shit…”

“Within a fortnight”, I mummbled whilst puffing on a cigar in the mountainous night air.

Dr Don sighed and went in the house.

I drove a wee bit over 600 miles in a day not including all of the walking. We had a blast! I look forward to doing it again soon. Although, next time I may have a chickidoo with me.

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Jefferson Davis

The writings and scriblings of an inquisitive American.

Category Archives: Pictures

Group Rantings

To Blog?

A flash of broken Mirrors

Thanks Gramps

Two Weeks Late