I know this is going to sound pathetic, but this monthly publishing schedule of mine is quite the arduous task. Thinking of an entertaining and imaginative topic (much less an unimaginative one) is difficult enough, but then having to illustrate those words with fresh photographic content? What am I? Superman?
Over the years, some readers have helpfully suggested that the photos aren’t necessary, and I should just write essays. Meanwhile, other readers have suggested the opposite — that I should just publish more photos and forget about the writing. But it’s my belief that both are essential. That way, one medium can prop up the other in the all-too-likely event that either is particularly substandard that month.
Living smack in the middle of North America’s largest (and only) temperate rain forest certainly doesn’t help with the photography aspect — especially in the winter, when weeks can pass without a break in the rain. Personally, I don’t mind donning the seam-sealed clothing, grabbing a seam-sealed camera, popping on a seam-sealed lens, and heading outdoors. Unfortunately, my fellow citizens don’t feel the same way — and when the rains come, the streets empty. So if you’re someone who’s fond of photographing humanity, the pickings get mighty slim.
There’s also a certain melancholy sameness to photos taken in the rain. One can only have so many poignant ‘lonely traveler beneath an umbrella’ shots, and I’ve probably achieved my lifetime quota. Now and then I’ll get lucky, like the time an unseasonable rain drenched a large street festival, resulting in a decade’s worth of such photos. But that was nine years ago, proving “now and then” is more often about the “then” than the “now.”
Consequently, prior to this year, I settled into a pattern of photographing ‘things’ in the winter and ‘people’ in the summer. But the current pandemic has locked my photography into ‘things’ mode for the past 13 months, and I’ve struggled a bit creatively. One thing I’ve discovered about ‘things’ is that there’s not a limitless supply, and I’m rather certain there’s not a single ‘thing’ in downtown Vancouver that I haven’t photographed a dozen different times, on a dozen different days, from a dozen different angles, and with a dozen different cameras. So the only way this winter differs from last summer, is that I’m now photographing what all those ‘things’ look like when wet.
That said — though I’m rarely happy with the results — I quite enjoy the act of photography. The arduousness of monthly publication stems not from a lack of enjoyment, but from a lack of quality content that springs forth from that act.
Far more burdensome is the essay itself. This probably has a lot to do with the fact I quite dislike the act of writing. What I do like, however, is having written something. Unfortunately, the latter isn’t possible without the former, meaning I spend two days a month living in the glow of self-satisfaction and twenty eight days a month irritated that I have to do it all over again. I’m sure this is some mild form of insanity. So to prevent the encroachment of more advanced forms, I just keep nurturing this one. ULTRAsomething’s in its thirteenth year now, and my walls still aren’t rubber, so I persevere.
Now and then, I do consider shifting my emphasis more toward music, and less toward wandering around aimlessly with a camera and self-flagellating myself into another essay — but my web stats are dismal enough without subjecting the site to such a seismic creative shift.
Fortunately, complaining is one of my fortes — so whining about writing essays has birthed this actual essay. Likewise, whining about taking boring photos has justified their publication for illustrative purposes. So, just like that, another article arrives. In a typical 30-day month, I would now warm myself within the two-day glow of self-satisfaction. But this isn’t a typical month — it’s February. And with only 28 days until the calendar turns, I’m forced to forgo this month’s glow and face the void of another looming publication deadline. I can already feel the tingle of onerousity.
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: As this month’s article is about the article, the “About This Article” part of this article is rendered superfluous. Check back next month when, more likely than not, “About This Article” will have returned to its usual function of providing artificial justification for whatever springs forth from the void.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
If the erudite and respected literary scholar fails to grasp even the most rudimentary functions of smart phone use, can we call them “intelligent?” What about the mathematician whose groundbreaking theories revolutionize mankind’s understanding of the universe, but who’s incapable of passing a fourth grade geography test?
Intelligence is a word wielded in bias — assigned in accordance with the adjudicator’s own prejudice.
Dictionaries often define intelligence as an accumulation of knowledge — a definition that my own bias rejects absolutely. Suggesting that intelligence equals knowledge creates a class structure that excludes anyone without education. That makes absolutely no sense — one should not be able to buy their way into an “intelligent” diagnosis. An educated dolt is still a dolt; and an uneducated genius is still a genius. Besides, everyone has knowledge of something others do not, so the standard definition degrades to utter nonsense.
My personal belief is that intelligence and knowledge have little to do with one another — a belief that’s no doubt prejudiced by my own proclivity to calculate and derive, rather than draw from a database of knowledge. Since I don’t believe the possession of knowledge implies intelligence, I certainly don’t believe possessing more knowledge implies even more intelligence. Rather, I believe intelligence relates to how one applies whatever knowledge they do have. Remembering a million bits of trivia is not intelligence. Going on Jeopardy so you can leverage all that trivia to win a stack of money — that’s intelligence.
And don’t even get me started on the whole anthropomorphic aspect of the definition, in which humans have deemed themselves the most intelligent species on earth. We pants-donning primates are so arrogant, we even rate animal intelligence by how closely their cognition resembles our own. But I bet you Cousin Tammy, unlike an octopus, doesn’t have two-thirds of her brain’s neurons dispersed throughout her limbs. Sever an octopus’ arm and that arm will continue to function in support of the creature — finding food and feeding it. Cousin Tammy? Her severed arm isn’t gong to do a damn thing but lie motionless in a pool of gore. Sure, the octopus hasn’t a clue how to colonize Mars, but neither does Cousin Tammy.
Troubled as I am by the word “intelligence,” you can imagine how I feel about appending the word “artificial” to the front of it. It’s like using one totally arbitrary word to modify a second totally arbitrary word.
Yet here we are — living in a world where Artificial Intelligence (AI) is all the rage. As best I can ascertain, all these newfangled AI products are really just LE products — but it’s a whole lot harder to market “Laziness Enhancement” software than it is to woo customers with the notion of “Artificial Intelligence.”
Now don’t get me wrong — I’m all for software that lets me be as lazy as possible. The less time I have to spend preparing my taxes, buying socks, or transferring files to someone, the better. The greater the number of rote functions a machine can learn, the happier I am. The problem is that companies are developing AI to make our creative and aesthetic decisions for us. The whole reason I want my software doing the rote stuff, is so that I have more time to do what really matters — the creative and aesthetic stuff.
Think about it. If you want to create something that you actually care about, are you going to turn over the decision making process to an algorithm? Particularly an algorithm that’s designed to produce a result in the most pedestrian, middle-of-the road, unimaginative way possible? A way that looks or sounds the most like everyone else’s AI-derived results?
The only time you would want your software making aesthetic decisions is when your end goal isn’t the creation itself, but to do as little as possible to create it. In which case, why create it at all? Why contribute more noise to a noisy world?
AI is designed to produce an outcome that will generate the widest appeal amongst the lowest common denominator — and it’s very good at doing that. It can mix and master your music so that it sounds like the mixing and mastering of the most popular songs; and it can process your photos and videos so they match the appearance of the most widely liked photos and videos on social media.
AI is an ouroboros — a snake that eats itself. The more frequently people rely on AI to make creative decisions, the more the algorithms will feed into themselves — further narrowing the scope of acceptability and further precluding true creativity and self expression.
Some have opined that AI technology is a dangerous path — one that will take us toward a dawn in which machines become more “intelligent” than man, and thus our overlords. I fear the exact opposite — that AI will take us toward a dawn in which machines become so narrow-mindedly unintelligent and prejudiced that mankind’s reliance on them will render us incapable of expansive thought. Sadly, both theories achieve the same end — mankind is toast. So, you might want to stock up on your favourite jam.
Call me unfashionable, but I believe one’s creative output should be an expression of oneself, not the algorithm they purchased. Otherwise, the ‘likes’ that someone gathers on social media are every bit as artificial as their intelligence — however you choose to define it.
ABOUT THE ARTICLE: In case you can’t tell, I’ve been messing around with the newly released Luminar AI photo editing software. For now at least, my belief is that mankind is safe, since the product seems to be more a collection of ‘presets’ than it is actual AI. But there’s still an insidiousness to some of those presets — particularly all the ones designed to sham your Instagram feed with altered faces, idealized bodies, and stock-imaged skies. But if you stay away from that kind of crap, Luminar AI does have some decent (albeit typical) editing tools hiding just below the surface.
In any event, no Luminar software (nor any AI) were employed in the creation of the hodgepodge of film and digital AI metaphors included with this article. I have no doubt my webstats will suffer accordingly…
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
Several years ago, while forced into chit-chat duty at some evening event, I wandered into conversation with a young graduate student. It’s my tendency, during such obligations, to keep only one brain cell engaged and idling in neutral — so I don’t recall exactly how or why the topic turned to high school. But I do recall her grousing about the difficulty of writing so many research papers.
“They didn’t teach you everything you needed to know, so you had to spend extra time googling the topic!” she exclaimed exasperatedly.
This struck me as a curiously nonsensical complaint that warranted further exploration, so I stepped on the gas and shifted my single solitary brain cell into first gear.
“I dunno,” I answered, “isn’t doing research one of the main components of learning? Plus, having it all online is far better than driving to the library and searching through stacks of encyclopedias, like when I was in high school.”
She cocked her head, furrowed her brow, and gazed off into the distance — as if trying to make sense of what I had just said.
“Oh,” she replied, relaxing her expression with a sudden glint of recognition, “I’ve heard of those. They were called CD-ROMS, right?”
“No, this was before CD-ROMS,” I said.
Her countenance transformed once again — the blankness of her gaze informing my need to elaborate.
“CD-ROMS,” I added, “only existed for a few short years in the 1990’s. They weren’t around when I was in high school.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They were actual books,” I said. “Every year, encyclopedia companies would publish a three foot high stack of books, which contained information about thousands of subjects, all arranged alphabetically.”
Her jaw dropped and her eyes bugged out like an old Looney Tunes cartoon. “Noooooo waaaay,” she exclaimed. “You had to use books?!”
I flashed back to my own similar moment of disbelief — around age 7 — when my grandparents casually mentioned listening to plays on the radio. “Noooooo waaaay,” I exclaimed. “You didn’t have television?” Recalling how this revelation filled me with questions about humanity’s existence within such a void, I offered the woman a few elucidating tidbits.
“Yup,” I answered. “And since encyclopedias were really expensive, libraries rarely replaced them — which meant you were often looking up information that might be 10 years old.”
Watching her recoil in horror, I quickly doubled down. “So before there was a web to surf, I’d sometimes surf the encyclopedias for fun. I’d just grab a book off the shelf — Maybe the “G” book today, or maybe the “T” book, and randomly read all about whatever subjects began with that book’s letter.”
“Wow,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s terrible. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”
At that point, another gentlemen sauntered into the conversation, telling the woman, “That’s right, my parents told me about those days.” And as they began to discuss how lame people were in the past, I shifted my single brain cell back into neutral — slinking off to the corner in an effort to avoid any additional chit-chat.
I have since identified this evening as the very moment when I first stepped into the tar pit. Other instances have followed, such as the time an incredulous techno musician, upon finding out I designed, developed, tested and documented electronic music synthesizers for a living, exclaimed, “How can you know anything about synthesizers? You’re old!”
But there is probably nothing that makes me feel more like a dinosaur than watching the changing nature of music and photography. Unlike many of my Mesozoic brethren, I do not believe either medium is ‘dead.’ On the contrary, they’ve never been more alive. The difference is in what people choose to communicate, and the channels with which they communicate it.
Any kid with an iPhone and a few free sound loops can assemble a collage of beats and publish a new dance tune — and they do. Tap another app on that same iPhone, and an entire team of Silicon Valley A.I. engineers spring into action — applying every algorithm necessary to compute an image that will match all the most popular attributes of similar images. Photography, like music, has become democratized and disposable. Neither are particularly vital anymore, but both are ubiquitous. They are a part of the fabric and currency of everyday life. That’s not death; that’s full adoption.
The problem is that democratization leaves little room for creativity. When everyone’s music employs the same rhythms and sounds, and when everyone photographs the same subjects while hoping for the same results, the opportunities for anyone wishing to express themselves outside accepted parameters become more limited. Of the dozens of musical genres I enjoy, exactly zero have a dedicated channel on Apple Music. The photography I like is never seen on Instagram, but rather in those same dusty, antiquated, paper tomes that once held every high school student’s collected knowledge.
And so, little by little, month by month, I sink deeper into the tar pit — still consumed by a desire to pen an opera for those who only want to dance, and driven by the need to mount an exhibition of murky, black & white, metaphorical photos to an audience only accepting of the sharp, colourful, and literate.
One part of me is comforted by a dream that some future generation might one day unearth my bones and — appreciating them for their love of hard bop trumpet licks and crunchy silver halide crystals — choose to display them in a museum. Another part of me recognizes that museums will likely no longer exist — having themselves become dinosaurs.
But tar is like quicksand — the more you struggle, the deeper you sink. And so I’ve learned to simply accept the inevitable — that there is no future in becoming a dinosaur, and yet we are all destined to become one. In my case, I’ll just get there a few years earlier than the grad student.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Speaking of dinosaurs (and murky black & white), this month’s compliment of photos springs forth from my latest roll of Tri-X — exposed at ISO 200, and spooled through a Ricoh Auto-Half, which is a half-frame film camera from the 1960’s that I enjoy using perhaps a little too much.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
The goal does not change. Whether writing a song, taking a photo, or envisioning films I would make had I ever the time — I commence with a desire to create enigma. Enigma is the province of the nighttime; of a faltering thrum; of the space between words. The questions within shadow; the beauty within impurity; the fertility of the incongruous. Enigma is thought made infinite — inconvenient but rewarding; undervalued but revelatory.
Rarely, upon completion, do the results reflect this goal. Perhaps in an effort to be understood; or perhaps in an effort to understand myself, I stumble with alarming regularity toward perspicuity. Perspicuity is the dominion of the daytime; of the dance floor; of instructional prose. The delineated edge; the crack of a beat; the bulleted list. Perspicuity is closure — convenient but facile; popular but perfunctory.
Like so much of my work, these nocturnes lie in the vast chasm between these ends.
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: If I honour that old trope about a picture being worth a thousand words, then surely a song is worth five? At least when one considers how much time goes into its writing, performance and production. So with six thousand virtual words hiding within this month’s allegorical content, there’s little need for an abundance of traditional nouns and verbs. A Leica M10 Monochrom fronted with a v4 35mm Summicron f/2 lens was employed for both the photo and the song art. A Leica M10 Monochrom fronted with a v4 35mm Summicron f/2 lens was not, however, used in the production of the song.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
I thought I was finished writing about the whole ‘gotta-do vs wanna-do’ struggle that plagues humanity. But with last month’s thumb resting even more heavily on the gotta-do scale, I realized I’d only highlighted the problem — and not solved it. Without the necessary assemblage of free minutes required to partake in any long, leisurely, multi-episodic crime dramas, I instead turned to YouTube for some satisfyingly short snippets of restful pablum. Unlike most folks, however, I tend to skip over the adorable animal videos, and head straight toward the math and physics channels. It seems I’m as big a sucker for a good quantum mechanics video as I am for another Scandi Noir.
Inevitably, and as predicted by quantum physics, this month’s gotta-do excesses became entangled with my YouTube viewing preferences. And it was through this entanglement that I solved the whole gotta-do skew — recognizing that the imbalance exists solely because I’ve bothered to monitor it. In other words, I’ve been looking at my reality through the lens of classical, Newtonian mechanics.
But in quantum mechanics, Schrödinger’s equation shows us that an object exists in many different states simultaneously, until such time as you choose to look at it. All this woe-is-me, I-have-no-time, my-photography-is-meaningless existential angst that is ULTRAsomething would disappear if I simply stopped trying to measure my progress. For example, it’s only when I look at my web stats that the site’s precipitous 95% decline in readership becomes reality. Instead, I should consider web stats through the lens of quantum physics, where the site is simultaneously both an abject failure and a phenomenal success — and everything in between. All I need to restore my ego, and reclaim a smidgeon of dignity, is to avoid ever checking on how I’m doing — thus un-entangling the site from the constraints of a single universe.
Quantum physics reminds us that the best way to eliminate the problem of mounting gotta-do tasks is to simply stop measuring whether or not they were completed. Since Schrödinger has shown us that they’re just as likely to be complete as not, I might as well assume they’re done and get on with the more soul-satisfying wanna-dos.
Buoyed by the promise of Schrödinger’s equation, I next sought to apply it to my bank account. If I stop checking the balance, then the account remains in the multiverse — where I am both millionaire and nillionaire. Unfortunately, our science-denying society demands we pick a universe, and that we pay our debts to that universe. Which means that while I’m here in this world, wondering if I’ll ever get to retire in time to do the things I wanna-do, there’s some other version of me that’s already kicking back, writing music, and mounting photography exhibitions around a COVID-less world. Lucky bastard.
But just because the electric company demands I pony up payment every month — triggering a measurement that forces the collapse of my bank account into a single value — that doesn’t mean mathematics and physics can’t offer an even better solution.
Consider the Banach-Tarski Paradox, which proves (mathematically) that it’s possible to divide a single object into five parts, and then reconstruct those five parts into two objects — each an exact duplicate of the original. Finding a way to apply the math to, say, a shiny gold bar would go a long way toward hastening my early retirement goals.
The problem with Banach-Tarski is that the soundness of the mathematics are constrained by the physical properties of matter. So while it’s theoretically possible to turn one gold bar into two; two into four; and so on, the tactile nature of those bars, given current technological constraints, prevents it from happening.
Which is when I stopped thinking about money in terms of gold bars, coins or stacks of currency, and started thinking of it in terms of what it really is — a virtual concept. If you have $5000 deposited in your bank, that doesn’t mean they’ve stuffed fifty crisp $100 bills into an envelope and scribbled your name on it. Nope. Your $5000 isn’t really there. It’s a number on a spreadsheet. It’s virtual. It’s math… just like the doubling process made possible by Banach-Tarski.
So without the physical constraints of an object, I surmise that it’s possible to virtually separate your bank account into five different bank accounts, and then recombine them in such a way as to have doubled the account’s original value.
I probably need to watch another few YouTube videos in order to get my math chops up to speed — after all, I can’t just willy-nilly divide my bank account into five new ones — I need to calculate exactly how much to allocate to each one. But I have no doubt this will work perfectly.
I find it hard to believe there are people who prefer to spend their precious wanna-do time watching kitties getting stoned on catnip, when they could instead be learning useful skills — like mathematically doubling their money! But just remember: if you decide to try this technique yourself, always honour the principles of Quantum Physics, and never be so stupid as to check your account balance to see if it actually worked.
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: This article, along with Folding Time, might just constitute the first two chapters in my new book, Physics by Mori. A mori, should you be wondering, is what a moron believes to be the plural of the word. Which is admittedly inaccurate — what with me, the author, being only one moron, and not a plurality of mori — and thus a rather moronic title to choose. Though it’s probably no more moronic than my wanton misappropriation of physics, which I am all too wont to do.
And speaking, as I was, of quantum entanglements — the concept is readily apparent in many of the photos I’ve taken this month. I seem to be merging DNA from various distinct art movements into new and unholy abominations — a bit like when Seth Brundle fused with the common house fly. Hence we get a neo-impressionist rendering of a subject more associated with Julius Shulman; a pictorialist manifestation of J.M.W Turner’s mannered paintings staged directly into brighly lit skys; a collision of Sophie Taeuber-Arp’s abstract-geometry with German Expressionism; and a mashup of Egorian-style anti-fidelity photography and a bit of René Magritte inspired surrealism. And yes, I designated my own photography as a ‘genre’ — after 12 years of toil and turmoil on the ULTRAsomething site, I think I’ve earned it.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
I have a serious problem with self-discipline. I am a strident practitioner of the “you gotta-do what you gotta-do before you can do what you wanna-do” philosophy of life. Which means I’ve managed to get a heck of a lot done in my many decades — none of which has really mattered one single bit in the grand scheme of life.
By continuing to capitulate to the endless stream of life’s gotta-dos, there’s rarely enough time for more than the simplest of wanna-dos. In a single week, I can write several owners manuals; update and revise others; systematically test new hardware & firmware updates; discuss the design and development of future products; research and learn competitor’s products; manage personal finances; troubleshoot computer issues; fix a few broken items around the condo; chase down several OPS’s (“Other People’s Screwups”); make a few market runs; cook; clean; the usual. The wanna-do side is often balanced by nothing more than the mundane act of watching a movie on Netflix. Which, besides failing to provide actual ‘balance,’ isn’t even something particularly high on the wanna-do list — it’s just the only thing that fits within the time and energy constraints that remain after addressing all those gotta-dos.
And if plowing through the weekly wanna-do list isn’t enough, I’m forever and proactively plowing through next week’s too. Between the inevitable obstructions, my decades-long battle with migraines, and having the immune system of an enfeebled centenarian, I can’t just do what I gotta-do today — I also gotta-do what I gotta-do for tomorrow. That way, when the monkey throws its wrench into the works, the gotta-dos still get done.
So week-by-week, month-by-month, year-by-year, the gotta-dos are achieved and the wanna-dos are not. Which is precisely why I began this article by asserting that I have a serious problem with self-discipline — one that, admittedly, is counter to that which plagues folks with teetering inbox towers; dishes in the sink; and a thriving community of frisky dust bunnies under the bed. I’d like to be more like these people. Really, I would. Except I can never fully enjoy participating in the wanna-dos while the stress of all the gotta-dos is staring me straight in the face.
To date, the only way I’ve found time to slip a few wanna-dos into my life is to convince myself that they’re gotta-dos. This is probably why ULTRAsomething is still hanging around after nearly 12 years — even though it’s the proverbial tree falling in the forest. By making the care and feeding of this site a gotta-do, and by making photography a central component of the site’s language, I manage to turn a wanna-do (photography) into a gotta-do. This elevates photography to the same level as, say, reclaiming a little drawer space by scanning my 1990’s tax returns. ULTRAsomething is an artificial construct whose sole purpose, I believe, is to allow me to accomplish a few things I wanna-do by masquerading as gotta-dos.
Curiously, the one thing I always wanna-do the most is create music. But my particular methodology makes this a totally immersive task — one that requires I dedicate large blocks of time across multiple days in order to achieve the results I desire. Which is precisely why the thing I wanna-do the most is the thing I actually do the least. I’ve simply never found a way to convert something as time and labour intensive as music production into an actual gotta-do. Photography, by contrast, takes very little effort, and is usually accomplished with a simple press of a button while I’m out running my day’s gotta-do errands.
As I slide into the final quarter of my life, all these unaddressed wanna-dos torture me. But the old gotta-dos just keep rolling in — the need for income primary among them. So until I figure out how to monetize my soul-nourishing wanna-dos, I’ll continue to live the gotta-do vida.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Several years ago, in order to prevent the annual gotta-do grind from having a more serious impact on my sanity than it does, I decided that another wanna-do needed to find its way into the gotta-do category: Tokyo. After three trips in five years, I’ve come to realize how important Tokyo is to repairing my spirit, restoring my will, and feeding my soul. In a normal year, I would probably have spent time this past month sorting out this winter’s travel and accommodation plans. But this is not a normal year. So in a grossly inadequate effort to keep Tokyo close to my heart, I opted to populate this month’s article with a few of last years’ Tokyo photos. All were taken with a Leica M10 Monochrom. I could hunt through my database to see which lenses I used for each shot, but that really doesn’t seem like something I gotta-do.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
Contentment is not an emotion I’m prone to experience.
I’m always on the road from where I’ve been to where I plan to go, but am rarely where I am.
The one exception has been my camera strategy — which has remained remarkably consistent for over a decade. It would probably surprise the average photo pundit to know this, but I am fundamentally happy with my photographic style, and with the equipment I use to achieve it.
The only downside to all this complacency has been its affect on this site’s web stats. Since I feel little need to discuss modern digital cameras, I tend to write about other stuff, like Googling my own name, or driving with a dog on one’s lap. It’s an inclination squarely at odds with the old “better camera gear = better photographer” myth that populates the internet.
My digital strategy consists of three prongs: 1) a Leica M (for the majority of my considered photos); 2) a pocketable Ricoh GR (for the majority of my unconsidered photos); and 3) an Olympus OMD-EM1 (for “swiss army knife” purposes).
Each prong, though fundamentally stable, has evolved somewhat through the years. The M8 begat the M9, which begat the realization that I was converting 100% of the M photos to B&W, which therefore begat the M246 Monochrom, which begat the M10M Monochrom. Naturally, I don’t consider the M10M to be perfect — I’d like a bit of in-body image stabilization; a smidgeon more weather sealing; a sleeker and modern-spec’d electronic viewfinder accessory; and a few less megapixels. But I am invested in the line for as long as Leica wishes to support it. It’s the single most essential piece of photographic hardware I own.
The pocketable Ricoh entered my orbit as the not-quite pocketable GXR back around 2010, which begat the fully pocketable GR in 2013, before the inevitable begetting of the GRIII in 2019. It too, is not as perfect a system as I would like — mostly because I’d still prefer Ricoh make a digital version of the GR21. But for as long as clothing manufacturers make pockets and Ricoh makes GR-series cameras to slip into them, I’ll be there.
I began to dabble in Micro Four Thirds back in 2009, when I purchased the very first model — the Panasonic G1. This begat a lot of dabbling with each new generation of Panasonic body, until 2013 — when I switched to the Olympus OMD-EM1, and the dabbling begat devotion. The EM1 lineup miraculously manages to include every possible blade, spork, corkscrew, gadget and toothpick I could ever want in a single, weather sealed, lightweight and affordable Swiss Army Camera. After its arrival, all my other ‘general use’ cameras found their way onto Craigslist, and I knew I’d be sticking with the Olympus system for as long as Olympus stuck with me.
Uh oh.
Olympus’ sudden departure from the camera & lens business means that, for the first time in a decade, my camera complacency boat is getting rocked.
Fortunately, there are numerous alternatives in the world of Swiss Army Cameras, with each system designed to appeal to as many photographic needs as possible. My own needs are rather pedestrian, and distill to a list of ten basic requirements:
Robust weather sealing
Acceptable quality when used with M-mount lenses
Superb, native format auto-focus lenses
Small and lightweight
Excellent in-body image stabilization (IBIS)
Pleasing image quality
Fiscally sensible
Well-established and supported lens mount
Highly customizable buttons & dials
Decent video (’cause, maybe, one day…)
The Olympus checks every one of these boxes, earning only a single demerit for the 2x crop factor it applies to M-mount lenses (though it means I have a sudden wealth of beautiful telephotos). Fortunately, the wide end is still served by some stellar native lenses, and the OMD rarely leaves the condo without an Olympus 17mm f/1.2 Pro lens acting as the body cap. Inside the condo, the camera is frequently fronted with the 60mm macro lens — a combination that has served as my primary film ‘scanner’ for the past 7 years. My miserly manner appreciates the plethora of used system lenses; my delicate colour sensibilities — though rarely exercised — respond positively to Olympus’ colour science; and while higher ISOs tend to be a bit noisy, I actually like the character of that noise — so it’s never been an issue for me. Video capabilities on the OMD far exceed mine; I never experience any fatigue from carrying it for hours at a time; its 5-axis IBIS lets me hand-hold ridiculously slow shutter speeds; and Olympus’ weather sealing is heads and pompadours above the competition.
The only SNAFU is that Olympus is about to join Minolta, Contax, and other wonderful camera companies in the dustbin of history. So while Olympus may once have been “well-established and supported,” their abrupt departure implies it will not see the light of future innovation.
My first and most prevalent thought is to simply keep using the system for as long as it satisfies my needs. I shoot film, and I don’t worry one bit about the fact that most of those camera systems don’t exist anymore. So, really — as long as I can still find batteries — there’s no reason to move on from a perfectly adequate system. I’m even considering doubling down, and have started to keep an eye out for any panic selling of Olympus Pro prime lenses.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t use Olympus’ exit as an opportunity to see what the alternatives might be. Given my quasi-association with Leica, and the curious fact that I actually own an SL2 battery (though not the actual camera), the new Leica SL2 seemed like an ideal starting point. So after a quick email exchange with the local Leica rep, I found myself in temporary possession of an SL2, a 16-35 L-mount lens, and a Leica M-mount adapter.
The Leica SUPER-VARIO-ELMAR-SL 16–35 f/3.5–4.5 ASPH is an absolute bazooka of a lens, weighing as much as a small mountain lion, and handling just as unwieldily. I suspect the primary reason for its size is that Leica needed to ensure there would be enough room to write the product name. Truth be told, I know next to nothing about native L-mount lenses, so I naturally assumed any zoom this slow, and with a variable aperture, must be a cheap “kit” lens. Because of this assumption, I decided my best choice was to carry this ‘cheap’ lens around town while I familiarized myself with the SL2’s many features and menus. It was only after getting home that I checked the lens’ price — $8,400 Canadian Loonies. I awoke from my dead faint some two days later, and promptly swapped the bazookalion for the M-mount adapter.
From that point forward, it was all M-glass all the time, and I experimented with a wide swath of new and old Leica and Voigtlander lenses — most of which performed admirably on the SL2. Keeping in mind that an M-body’s specially designed sensor is required to achieve maximum M-glass performance, some corner degradation was to be expected — and the SL2 did, indeed, degrade. However, the slight quality trade-off one gets from mounting M-glass on the SL2 might be worth the many other advantages offered by a Swiss Army Camera — particularly since my real M-cameras are either of the film or digital Monochrom variety. I had originally planned to do some detailed, pixel-peeping body/lens comparisons, but once I observed the lenses in actual use, I deemed such comparison unnecessary. Would I use M-lenses on an SL2? Gladly. Do they perform as well as on an M body? No.
Speaking of bodies, the SL2 is quite large and heavy (at least from the viewpoint of a guy who shoots M, GR and OMD bodies). But in spite of the bulk, the SL2 was surprisingly easy to carry for hours on end (with M-lenses, of course). The camera’s ergonomics are much improved over the original SL, though the first version’s Bauhaus-inspired minimalism looks much nicer sitting on a shelf — which is exactly where my Swiss Army camera usually resides.
Image quality can be outstanding — readily revealing both the price of your chosen lens, and the amount of technical effort that went into the care and feeding of those 47 million pixels. This presents a tremendous upside for anyone engaged in a formal, technical photographic discipline. However, if you own a stable of ‘vintage’ lenses and engage in informal, non-technical photography, you will readily see the downside of so many megapixels. I’m not shooting automobiles in the studio, homes for Architectural Digest, nor landscapes to hang over the sofa. I’m shooting metaphors. And it doesn’t take 47 megapixels to shoot a metaphor.
So for my casual needs, a Swiss Army Camera with 47 mpix is probably two times too many. Unless I had a lot of light, used a very fast shutter speed, or locked that sucker to a tripod, I didn’t see any demonstrable benefit to shooting files that clog up my hard drive and slow down my editing process. Obviously, what’s a ‘negative’ to me might well be a ‘positive’ to someone else — but I’m not planning to become Mr. Tripod any time soon. It would be nice to see Leica offer it with a choice of sensor — not everyone needs or wants 47 megapixels. 24 is probably the sweet spot, but I’d be really happy to see some of that modern sensor tech applied to, say, a 16 mpix sensor. Now that would likely yield some truly stellar, low noise, high dynamic range files. I can only imagine the clarity of the metaphors!
All said and done, I’m a bit conflicted on the SL2. It would give me many of the things I want in a Swiss Army Camera — particularly in regards to M-mount compatibility, but the price vs need factor makes the “fiscally sensible” requirement totally out of whack for me. Particularly since I wouldn’t be able to afford a single L-mount lens, thus negating nearly every benefit of owning a “jack of all trades” camera. Sure, I still need to sell my M246 Monochrom, which would help defray the cost — but I honestly think that’s a windfall better spent on food, utilities, and synthesizers.
So for now, I’m going to remain in an awkward state of limbo, and see what transpires with Olympus (specifically), and with the Micro Four Thirds format (in general). I must admit however, that in spite of its video focus, Sony’s new a7s III might just go well with a nice wedge of Emmentaler. Unfortunately, I have no Sony contacts, and thus no way of borrowing one to test. Which is probably fine — I don’t even own a spare battery for it.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: The photos accompanying this article should be all the proof one needs that the current trend in high-res, super-fidelity monster cameras doesn’t really speak to me. “The Middle of Between” (shot with a Leica M10M and an old v4 35mm f/2 Summicron lens) was taken when I decided to take a ‘night off’ from shooting the SL2. It represents exactly the sort of photo I tend to gravitate toward. “Fluxion” (shot with the Olympus and a first-generation ‘Leicasonic’ 25mm f/1.4 ASPH DG Summilux) was taken on an evening soon after returning the SL2, and it represents the ‘status quo’ of my current ‘swiss army’ strategy. “Toyota” illustrates why it’s always nice to have a weather-sealed camera, and it was shot beneath a steady rain, using the Leica SL2 and a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton M-mount lens. It also illustrates why most camera manufacturers aren’t overly interested in having me review their cameras. Sure, I took hundreds of ‘pretty’ shots while I was testing the SL2, but they’re pedantic, boring, pointless, and not at all representative of how I wish to ultimately use a camera. After realizing I’d never be able to afford a native L-mount lens, I shot “Obscura” with the SL2 and no lens at all. Those wishing to duplicate my frugality, but not my infatuation with flare, should avoid pointing their tiny metal pinholes directly at the sun.
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Later this month, the leading digit on the old mortality odometer will advance one click. And while I place zero significance on any birthday that affects only the least significant digit, changing decades always summons a moment of reflection — usually with negative consequence.
Thirty years ago, in order to insulate myself from the emotional impact of a new decades digit, I decided to dispense with the idea of Base-10 mathematics — creating a model that divided life into a series of 20-year stages. This same year, Tim Berners-Lee was still beavering away on an idea he called the “world wide web,” so I hadn’t the technical means to distribute my new paradigm to a global audience. But in the spirit of “better late than never,” I shall present that model now.
At ages 0-19, one is a “kid” — ensconced in a microcosm, and devoid of any practical knowledge or skills. Without any real-world concerns to occupy their minds, the kid years are a breeding ground for the neuroses, fears, habits, misconceptions, and aberrant personality traits that will cripple us for the rest of our lives. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize that other people have an entirely different idea about what constitutes “acceptable behaviour.”
At ages 20-39, one is an “adult” — individually insignificant but, collectively, ruler of the world and dictator of both culture and commerce. Energy, enthusiasm and idealism are at their peak — matched only by ignorance, stupidity, and a seemingly endless supply of demonstrably poor judgement. This is the stage in which no serious psychological trauma occurs, because we are all just cogs in a vast collective, even though we’re too benighted to know it.
At ages 40-59, one is “middle aged” — rulers of themselves, and masters of self preservation. Extensive knowledge and experience enable one to establish niches of expertise, and to build comfortable and fortified castles, with moats of freshly imported alligators. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we discover that our philosophical enemies have managed to build bigger and better castles.
At ages 60-79, one is a “senior” — ensconced in a microcosm, and devoid of any practical knowledge or skills. Though one does indeed possess boundless wisdom, 20 years’ worth of middle aged complacency has rendered it totally irrelevant. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize that we’ve wasted our prime years of life, and there’s no getting a second chance.
At ages 80-99, one is a “geezer” — historically rare, but through the miracles of modern medical advances, is now a “thing.” Much like kids, geezers accept their standing as second class citizens and also enjoy bragging about their age. Unlike seniors, geezers have managed to re-purpose their vast reserves of knowledge into more practical concerns, like devising tediously complex medication schedules. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when we realize we haven’t a clue how to operate any of our household appliances.
At ages 100-119, one is a “living monument” — possessing first-hand accounts of events long-relegated to the dusty tomes of the past. Living monuments often pique the interest of local television news editors, who frequently punctuate their town’s upcoming celebration of an historical event by interviewing the one person, still alive, who was there to witness it. Unfortunately, these brief moments of celebrity are soon forgotten — both by the viewer and by the monuments themselves. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs when, in those rare moments of lucidity, we realize who we are, where we are, and how damn old we are.
At ages 120 and up, one is a “vampire” — possessed with a thirst for blood and a chronic sun allergy. Vampires gravitate toward dank, dark, secluded recesses where they feed on vagrants and other societal misfits who were unable to build or retain castles of their own. This is the stage in which serious psychological trauma occurs whenever some yokel with a torch cracks open the coffin and shoves a crucifix in our face.
In hindsight, I think these classifications might be a tad bit naive — after all, I conceived them during the age of “ignorance, stupidity, and a seemingly endless supply of demonstrably poor judgement.” But, like most psychological games one plays with oneself, they did help ease the pain every other decade. Turning 30 was a breeze for me; as was turning 50. Turning 40, however, was an existential train wreck, and it took several years before I could fully reconcile that I had graduated into ‘middle aged.’ I know now that the blame for all that turmoil rests solely on the shoulders of this ridiculous classification system of mine.
Fearful that I’m about to succumb to another psychological meltdown like the one I endured at 40, I recently revisited my life stages theory, and discovered that I’ve basically failed to adhere to any of my own definitions. My kid years were often spent reading history books, biographies and philosophy texts, while my teenage musical forays extended well beyond the pop music of my time, and deep into the classical and avant-garde canons. My adult years, though filled with the requisite idealism, did not reflect the idealism of my own generation — and I rebelled against it with the ferocity that others rebel against other generations. And in middle age, I failed to command a niche, build it a castle, or purchase a single alligator for its mythical moat. And yet, in spite of this, I never became vampire food — even with my proclivity for hanging around dark alleys at night, taking photographs.
So as far as I’m concerned, my whole “stages of life” thing is total crap. Debunked. And if that’s the case, there’s no reason whatsoever to put any merit on a decade shift that’s about to propel me into some nebulous fourth stage… At least that’s what I’ll be telling myself later this month.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: I don’t really know why I’ve adorned all these photos with latin titles. Given my age, I’m going to chalk it up to a case of nascent senility. Should I ever start publishing photos that should be read literally, rather than metaphorically, you’ll know my brain has entered an advanced stage of senescence. Mercifully, by that point, I will no longer know how to operate any of my digital devices — so any tangible evidence of my cognitive demise will remain unpublished.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site. Serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls — even the silly stuff.
Troubled by a peur du jour? COVID is a trendy choice — particularly if, like me, you’re of the wrong age; the wrong sex; and were inexplicably absent on Immune System Installation Day back in the womb. Or maybe the economic collapse has you distraught over an inability to pay this month’s bills; or perhaps disquieted by a realization that, if you can pay this month’s bills, your life savings might be drained in the process. Maybe you’re casting a nervous eye toward the receding ice caps, the erosion of civil discourse, or an emboldened North Korea. If you’re lucky enough to live near my home in Vancouver, then you’re now at the epicentre of the North American Murder Hornet invasion.
Death by viral infection; death by exposure; death by nuclear fallout; death by hornet venom — so many fresh new demises that weren’t nearly as probable just a few months ago. If only there was a place we could go and hide for a little while — a kind of “safe place.”
I might just have a solution…
Several years ago I did something wildly out of character — I took a class in self-hypnosis. A few articles hinted at its potential benefit to migraine sufferers, and as a decades-long combatant, I thought I’d give it a shot. I’ve experimented with every medical, scientific, and pseudo-scientific “cure” known to man, and none has yet succeeded. Which make me an easy target for snake oil approaches. Enter “self-hypnosis” school.
I don’t much like taking classes. Classes contain people. And more often than not, all the people in a class are of a like mind with one-another, and of an unlike mind with me. Within the first hour of the first class, I discovered this experience would be no different.
On our maiden voyage into self hypnosis, we were told to clear our minds and recollect a distant, long-forgotten memory. I closed my eyes, shut off my brain, and immediately flashed back to an experience I had not thought about in decades. It was high school, and I was on stage in the school’s auditorium, performing in front of the entire student body and faculty. This was the era of prog rock, and my ‘band’ consisted of me on Rhodes electric piano, and Ralph on an enormous drum kit, which comprised about an octave of tuned toms, gongs, snares, and whatever else Neil Peart, Carl Palmer, or their ilk would have hammered on back in the day.
The performance was going well — and we easily navigated our way through numerous odd time signatures and key changes, until we reached my favourite part: the part where I stomp on the fuzz pedal, crank my Fender Deluxe Reverb to maximum volume, then slide it in front of the piano’s four 12″ speakers to create a feedback loop that screams like a dying banshee. Using all the strength available to my scrawny high school physique, I would then shove, angle and tilt the 88-key monstrosity around the stage. The changes in distance between the piano’s amp and the Deluxe Reverb amp would alter the pitch and timbre of the banshee howls, which allowed me to actually “play” a melody composed solely of feedback.
At least that’s how it normally worked. And indeed, that’s how it worked for about the first half of the feedback solo… but then, right at the climax when it sounded as if the banshee couldn’t possibly scream any more, she didn’t. She died. The wails fell silent. Suddenly, the only sound emanating from the stage was the flailing of Ralph’s 5/4 stick work and the thunder of his double kick drum. My contribution to the atmosphere was no longer auditory, but olfactory in nature — the distinct smell of burning electronics wafting from my Rhodes.
A wave of panic washed over me. I’d entered unknown territory — territory that could well define my very reputation and permanently impact my delicate high school psyche. The endorphins hit with the intensity of a car crash. I was going to have to improvise my way out of this. I looked back at Ralph. His eyes were wide as dinner plates. Knowing instantly that something had gone awry, he’d leapt into frantic drum soloing mode.
Time slowed to a nearly imperceptible pulse. Within the span of a single second, I somehow managed to conceive and consider several courses of action — ultimately deciding that the best path forward was to find a way to keep making some sort of sound. If I didn’t make a sound, and make it soon, the audience would likely figure out that my piano had blown up, and I’d be standing there like an idiot in front of the entire school.
So I reached out with one leg, and kicked over the Deluxe Reverb amp, which contains a spring reverb that, when jarred, creates an explosive crash. The enormity of this sound, when experienced at full volume, was reflected by the front row of the audience — all of whom winced in pain. Perfect! I kicked the amp again, sliding it into the base of the piano with an even greater crash. Then, with amp underfoot and wedged against the bottom of the Rhodes, I began to kick it repeatedly — in time with Ralph’s drumming — as I tore into the guts of the piano hoping to find and repair the issue; ripping off the top shell, and tossing it aside to a smattering of audience applause. White smoke spiralled upward off a circuit board, and glistened in the hot stage lighting.
Gazing down at the charred, melted electrical components, I knew for certain there would be no miraculous resurrection of the piano. But the audience had bought into the dismantling, kicking, and crashing sounds — believing them to be all part of the act. I looked back at the flurry that was Ralph — who, under the influence of his own adrenaline rush, had pushed the tempo to imminent embolism range.
With the piano now dismantled and the reverb springs still quivering within the inverted amp, I’d done all I could. I needed an exit. With both hands, I lifted the amp to my waist, then tossed it several feet across the stage. It landed with the most incredibly horrific noise ever heard, and as the sound of colliding springs echoed around the auditorium, I calmly walked off stage. Ralph played on for another thirty seconds — sticks and feet flying in a frantic effort to match the sonic intensity of the pummelled amp — before kicking over a few cymbals and calmly walking off himself. 75% of the audience sat in stunned silence, while the remaining 25% cheered loudly — pretty much the usual response to any performance I would give. I had snatched success from the jaws of defeat.
When my hypnosis classmates and I emerged from this first session, the instructor informed us that whatever memory we just experienced was our “safe place” — the place where we feel protected, comfortable and totally at ease. This, she said, was the place to which we could always return when we needed to feel balanced and secure. She mentioned that, while everyone’s “safe place” would obviously be different, most involve relaxing on the beach, or fishing, or maybe sharing a meal with friends or family. Everyone in the class confirmed that yes, these were exactly the memories they had.
When queried, I mentioned that my “safe place” is apparently a place of abject fear — where fate conspires against me at the most inopportune instant. A place where I’m forced — with no preparation and no time — to devise and improvise a solution. My safe place was the opposite of relaxing — it was an adrenaline fuelled panic rush of sheer exhilaration.
From that moment on, I was ostracized by my classmates. And for the rest of the semester every one of them would avoid making eye contact with me. To her credit, the instructor did continue to inquire about my self-hypnosis experiences for another class or two — until the time she had us visualize a shape and go ‘inside’ of it. Every single person in the class pictured the exact same shape — a box. When asked what shape I created, I said “I went inside a unipolar triangle wave that was being both modulated and folded by a pair of bipolar sine waves of different frequencies and I was enjoying watching and trying to predict the varying shapes that evolved around me.” That was the last time she asked me to share an experience.
But the funny thing is, I do now flash to that high school stage performance whenever I get stressed, and I always feel calmer as a result of doing so. So it apparently works, exactly as promised. Which means, perhaps, that each of you can employ this same technique to define your own “safe space.” Only, unlike my teacher and classmates, I won’t judge you negatively if your space is a tad bit eccentric.
And for those left wondering, the answer is “No. Self-hypnosis had no impact whatsoever on my migraines.” So my search for the ultimate cure continues. Maybe next time, I should just try actual snake oil.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Sometimes it sucks to be your own sole source of stock photography — particularly if you, yourself, are not a stock photographer. Unlike most bloggers, who can select appropriate photos from an online pool of billions, I’m stuck thumbing through whatever meagre puddle of images I’ve shot myself. Fortunately, both my photography and my essays are derived from my own personality — and since the psychiatrists have all assured me that I am, indeed, only one person, there’s usually a wealth of synchronicity between my words and my images. But this was not the case here, where I chose to write about a topic well outside my usual sphere of being. So once again, I had to dive into the Lightroom catalog to see if any of this years’ photos could suggest ‘hypnosis’ in any way at all. I like to think, if you squint your eyes tightly enough and spin around until you’re dizzy, you might actually believe these photos all work to support the article. Then again, I am a trained practitioner in self-hypnosis…
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Possessed with a shoddy immune system and a hair trigger bronchial inflammatory response, I’m one of the more diligent members of today’s virtualized physical distancing “crowd.” Fortunately, as a devout and practicing introvert, I’ve worked from home since the mid-1980’s, and am comfortable with my place on society’s periphery — more eyewitness than participant. Like a sperm whale that needs but a single breath per hour, I can easily subsist for a month or more following a single social interaction. It’s made me uniquely qualified to endure the current social distancing measures with relative ease. As others succumb to the lassitude and melancholy of extended isolation, I simply continue to operate, as always, in my role as observer.
But even a whale needs oxygen; and even I need social interaction. So before my brain turns to mush from a dearth of human contact, I decided to publish a few COVID-related observations that I’ve jotted down this past month — totally random and without benefit of narrative.
CARTESIAN GEOMETRY: When lining up for groceries, my fellow citizens have proven to be fairly adept at maintaining two meters of separation between themselves and the person in front of them. Alas, when the line snakes back in on itself, they pay absolutely no attention to the proximity of those immediately beside them — blithely unaware that objects exist in a 3-dimensional space. While this is certainly a frustrating phenomenon, I can’t help but to be fascinated by the psychology behind it.
THE FIVE-SECOND RULE: We humans are also maintaining separation while we wait for an elevator. Upon its arrival, we then cram together into a coffin-sized box — returning to prescribed distances upon exiting. I have identified this as a modern variant to the “Five-Second Rule,” which is the mythical belief that it’s perfectly safe to consume food dropped on the floor, as long as it’s picked up within five seconds. In the future, because hoarding will insure the majority of humanity won’t have access to food, I predict the meaning of the “Five-Second Rule” will no longer be understood, and the term “Elevator Rule” will be used in its place.
NOTE TO SELF: Make sure, prior to the start of the next pandemic, that I’m not already seven weeks overdue for a haircut.
EXPOSING REGRETS: Had I ever known I would be forced to eat my own cooking for months on end, I would have put a little more effort into learning to cook.
NANOPHOTOGRAPHY: My photography style has been decimated by the pandemic. Though it’s still technically possible for me to photograph people using either of my preferred focal lengths — 21mm or 28mm — social distancing insures they will be rendered at a height of 7 pixels.
TELEPHOTOGRAPHY: In light of the above, and in order to conform to physical distancing measures, I’ve taken to walking around town with a 135mm lens on my Leica. Alas, with nothing going on anywhere, all this has done is enable me to bear photographic witness to the vast amounts of nothingness “over there” rather than the vast amounts of nothingness “over here.”
THE LAW OF RELATIVITY: I’m a tiny bit jealous of those people who were able to put the CO in COVID, and have isolated in pairs. Social distancing must be a lot more fun for those who can do it together.
DARWINIAN AMENDMENT: All this obsessive hand washing has resulted in the transformation of my soft, supple human skin into hard, leathery reptilian scales. From this result, I have devised two possible theories: 1) Reptiles have excellent hygiene; 2) Reptiles are the mutated offspring of humans who once endured prehistoric pandemics. It is highly possible — if not downright probable — that both theories are true.
SUBLIMINALISM: Am I the only one fascinated by the background objects chosen by each and every home-bound, self-isolated pundit that Skypes into cable news? The carefully selected artwork that obviously does not normally reside in that location; the curated collection of books selected to imply gravitas and intelligence; and the oh-so-popular framed diploma. It’s like you get mainline access to each and every individual’s insecurities, neuroses, and baggage. It’s a psychiatric treasure trove.
TINDERING YOURSELF: I continue to shave, shower, dress and groom as if nothing has changed, yet I know full well that I will not interact with another human being that day; nor the next; nor even the next. Why do I do this? At first, I thought it was habit. But I’ve come to realize that I simply like to look good for myself, since I’m the only person I ever get to see.
BLACKLISTS: I’ve recently started to maintain several blacklists. One contains the name of every company that continues to televise product advertisements depicting happy customers engaging in fun group activities and enjoying a life no longer possible. Another lists companies that feel compelled to email me and tell me they’re “here for me in these difficult time.” Just because I bought some crappy software from your company in 2007 doesn’t mean we’re BFFs — though I have been tempted to test the theory and call one of them for emotional counselling.
INCONGRUITY: If the letters we use to communicate are called the “alphabet” and not the “letter system,” shouldn’t the numbers we use be called the “enadio” and not the “numerical system?” Or does this make too much sense? And yes, I realize this has nothing whatsoever to do with COVID-19, which is precisely how I know the brain mush is settling in…
ABOUT THE PHOTOS:“Pandemic” was shot just prior to the lockdown using a Minolta 28mm f/2.8 M-ROKKOR lens on a Leica M10 Monochrom. Although not its original intent, it now serves as a rather dark and foreboding depiction of a single individual’s sphere of contagion. “Cartesian Distancing” illustrates the proper (but rarely adhered to) 3D social distancing technique, and was photographed with a Ricoh GRIII in the early days of the pandemic. “Over Here” was shot on a Leica M10 Monochrom fronted with a 1967 Leica Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 lens. The photo itself is not all that compelling, but having mentioned that I’d recently started to hunt for photos with that particular lens, I did feel compelled to include one — both as an example of that experiment, and as an example of why I’ve decided to abandon that particular experiment.
REMINDER: If you’ve managed to extract a modicum of enjoyment from the plethora of material contained on this site, please consider making a DONATION to its continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
For those who seek to pierce the darkness and peer into the nightly self-isolation tactics being practiced within ULTRAsomething’s top secret lair, I present “Banjo” — a totally improvised, 7 minute, one-off exercise in meandering, mucilaginous and moody modular synth noodling.
Aren’t you glad your COVID-induced social distancing measures don’t include being quarantined with me?
REMINDER: If you find the photos or music enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
I recently strolled into my building and caught site of a freshly printed stack of newspapers, piled high and awaiting distribution. “You can get fined a whopping $109 for driving with a dog on your lap” screamed the headline — the only actual news story to adorn the front page.
Several things should have come to mind: Such as why, in a world immersed in fear, uncertainty and chaos, this particular story rates as front page news. Or why so much physical space is being occupied by such a wordy headline — surely a decent copy editor could have honed this down to something snappier? And the word “whopping” — really? That’s the adjective they chose to describe the fine? Even if I offer blanket amnesty for the use of trite colloquialisms, I still don’t think “whopping” is the word I’d use to describe the enormity of $109 Canadian dollars. That’s less than the cost of the average cable TV bill — yet I guarantee you I’d get more enjoyment cruising around town with a Clumber Spaniel on my lap than I’d ever get from a month’s worth of broadcast television. That’s not whopping. That’s value!
But, curiously, I didn’t think about any of these things. Rather, all I could think about is how unjust, arbitrary, and vague this law really is.
What if your dog’s a better driver than you are? What if you’re blind? Are you telling me a sightless human is better equipped to guide a vehicle through traffic than a service animal? Would such a fine be levied if the human slid over into the passenger seat and relinquished total vehicular control to the pooch? Is the law really about sharing a seat, or is it about whose hands (or paws) are on the wheel? Would I still be fined if I sat on my dog’s lap, rather than he on mine?
And isn’t this whole lap law discriminatory against dogs? I didn’t read anything about it extending to any other sentient beings. If I drive home from the pet store with a goldfish named Rudy swimming in a Ziploc™ bag upon my lap, am I getting the same $109 fine? And if not, what’s so great about Rudy that he’s excluded from the law?
If this legislation really does apply to all living creatures, then what about plants? Would operating a motor vehicle with a 5 cm tall Tillandsia nestled between my thighs cost me $109? What about a 2 meter tall ficus? What about inanimate objects? Will I receive this same fine for driving home from Ikea with a queen size mattress perched on my lap? I’m pretty sure it would impede my ability to drive, but it’s most definitely not a dog. So where’s the line? My seatbelt is on my lap when I’m driving. So are my pants. Yet, were I to remove either, I’d be fined once again. Is there no logic? Is there no consistency?
If the legislators are singling out dogs, then why? Are they suggesting it’s a public safety risk if your beloved Norfolk Terrier rests her head upon your lap as you drive her to the euthanasia appointment? Call me a moron, but I don’t believe this is a greater source of reckless endangerment than taking your pet racoon for a joy ride — lap or no lap.
Frankly, I’m sick and tired of seeing dogs bear the brunt of such senseless discrimination. My building allows cats, but not dogs. What’s the rationale here? Siegfried & Roy can live next door in an apartment full of lions and tigers, but the nice young couple down the hall can’t have a happy little pug?
Most buildings that do allow dogs will limit their size and weight to only the smallest breeds. Many of these possess the very qualities that neighbours find the most irritating — barking constantly or racing around the hardwood floors as if it had a pair of Energizer batteries up its butt. But an Irish Wolfhound? Most buildings will ban those outright, yet they never bark, don’t shed, and are guaranteed to sleep for at least 23 hours/day. Plus, their back legs are long enough to easily reach the clutch.
The depth of banality behind this law is incomprehensible. What if you drive an autonomous vehicle? Will you still be fined? Seems to me that it doesn’t much matter who or what is in your lap when you’re tooling around town in a car that’s guided by satellite. And speaking of satellites, I bet you $10 they don’t let dogs ride in those either.
It’s a silly world, chock full of silly people making silly laws, and writing silly articles about them in silly newspapers. Fortunately, you can always count on me to see past the daftness, and provide a counter-argument both sensible and wise. Maybe it’s time I run for mayor.
ABOUT THIS ARTICLE: Like most people in the world, the bulk of my media consumption this past month has been dominated by COVID-19 news. The virus’ toll is staggering, and the prognoses devastating. Worldwide demand for fresh content from irreverent wordsmiths, cheeky photographers and experimental musicians is currently rather low (in contrast to our vast importance during normal times). Consequently, I see no benefit to penning an article that encourages hand washing and social distancing — you all know this already. It’s not like anyone visits the ULTRAsomething site for news and public health alerts. In light of this site’s current irrelevancy, I flirted with the idea of shutting it down for a couple of months — before remembering that it’s irrelevant even in the best of times. So I decided that the best thing I could do is to continue doing what I do: publishing total frivolity for the enjoyment of those who seek it. Whether that decision makes me a welcome distraction or a “covidiot” is up to the judge and jury of social media. So stay safe. Stay vigilant. And whatever you do, don’t drive around town with a dog on your lap.
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