Ambitious resolution

Sometime in mid-November, as I looked a window or took notice of a particularly pleasant autumn scene before me, I lamented the lack of a camera nearby -- or was just flat-out lazy and didn't make the effort to walk inside or upstairs to get it.

Then, one late, quiet night at work, in the early-morning hours, I whiled away the final few minutes browsing Flickr and found myself (as I often do on such virtual strolls) inspired. Hopefully, that inspiration carries over into action, because as I've thought about it over the last few weeks, I'm excited for the potential this project could bring.

My resolution for 2009? One photo a day. Every day. Three-hundred and sixty-five new images, each taken during a different 12 a.m.-11:59 p.m. period. I know it's not a new or novel idea, but I think it's just the thing to spark my creativity and avoid the regret I feel when I see a particular scene and think, I've got to remember to come back here with the camera tomorrow, and then never do.

Ideally, I'll not only shoot at least one picture a day, but I'll post one, too. I'll give myself more leeway in the posting department; while I'll have only 24 hours to shoot a photo for a particular day, I'll allow a few days' worth to pile up if I can't get to a computer or take the time to organize the images. That may be the project's undoing, but so be it.

I understand that I won't be able to produce 365 stellar images. Not every day is going to lead to a praise-worthy shot. Maybe not every week will. But that's not the point; the aim is to see what a different scene each day leads to. I'm sure there will be more than enough days when I post a picture of the cats or a closeup of a leaf just to mark that day done. But I also expect that setting this goal will lead to some new personal discoveries in my artistic eye, method and results.

I'm excited to see what comes of it.

Here's one last 2008 picture to start things off as the snow comes down on New Year's Eve in Boston.

Snow on Tremont

"Seventh St. Bridge," Pittsburgh, August 2008

Pittsburgh beyond the Seventh St. Bridge

When I determined this pic was my Best of 2008 -- or at least my favorite -- to post in the FlickrCentral group, I knew I'd be posting it for Photo Friday's ear-end challenge. That foresight enabled me to reach an all-time high of being the fourth person to post on a Photo Friday challenge. It's a small thing, but I was always curious as to how high I could get. I'm not sure I'll ever top it (or try to), because I usually take some time to select a photo to fit the theme. I had an advantage this time, because I knew what i wanted for this category, and I had an idea that it would be this week's challenge.

Anyway, this image is the result of always having a photographic eye and having shot thousands of photos (and read enough about the art). My wife, in-laws and I were walking back to downtown Pittsburgh from a Pirates game in August and I managed to look away from the fireworks over the ballpark to see this view, pause a moment to compose the shot, and fire off a single frame. The bridges of Pittsburgh are works of art in themselves, which could be expected from a city known for its steel production. I can't take too much credit for the technical specs (I probably had the camera set to auto, or at least shutter priority), but I do give myself kudos for not caring so much about where I was walking as I did about what I was walking past. (Casey's dad waits for no one, so if you don't keep up the pace, you'll have to jog to catch up.)

I suspect 2009 will produce enough images to make next year's choice for "best of" a bit tougher. But I'll know it's coming, so we'll see how high I can get it in the Photo Friday pecking order.

Whether or not I can look at the hundreds of images posted in "Best of 2008" is another matter.

"City Lights Books," California, September 2005

City Lights Books

Among my resolutions for 2009: Read more books. It's not that I don't read, it's just that I read mostly magazines and newspapers and websites and not nearly enough books. I think I started two books in 2008 and finished zero (though I have three days and only a few pages in one book to at least get to 50 percent of that small sample). The problem is that I continue to buy and ask for new books, so each new acquisition just gets added to the shelf.

In 2009, I'll take them down and see what they have to say.

"Grapes on the vine," California, September 2005

Grapes on the vine No. 2

Our first stop on the Napa Valley leg of our honeymoon was Pine Ridge Winery, where we nibbled on a couple of these grapes, in their pre-wine state. Pine Ridge's post-wine product is damn good, too.

"PATH view," New Jersey, August 2008

PATH view

On a hot August afternoon, I slumped down in a seat on the PATH train at the Hoboken station, awaiting the ride into New York for work. Drained, I was so exhausted I didn't bother pulling out my magazine to read. After taking a gulp of water, I looked up to see this view in front of me and was glad I had my point-and-shoot with me.

"Bench beneath the fish," New York, March 2008

Bench

I was torn about which bench to feature, but I went with this one over a more recent image because I like the color and balance of this photo better. This is from New York's Museum of Natural History. The lighting and the shadow of the fish are my favorite aspects, but the fact that the bench remains empty on a busy weekend afternoon at the museum (not seen, obviously) says something, I think.

[Jan. 3 update: Among the chosen!]

"Mets celebration," New York, May 2007

Tug the victor

Several things went so right to get this image. I had my SLR and zoom lens with me on this fine May afternoon at Shea Stadium. My friends and I moved down to box seats behind home plate in the loge level for the final few innings. And as the Mets put runner after runner on base in the bottom of the ninth inning -- which began with a 5-1 Cubs lead -- I began to think that I'd better be ready with the camera if they finished their comeback.

When they did -- on a bases-loaded single by Carlos Delgado (he's No. 21 on the right). David Wright (No. 5, on the left) led the team in celebration, egging on a reserved Delgado, who had been struggling that season (and would for most of the balance of it).

I've not taken a better photo of the action at a Major League ballpark before or since. Not that I won't keep trying ...

"The lights this year," New Jersey, December 2008

The lights this year

I'm glad I waited to take the pictures. Instead of getting our house on a bland, cold December night, I waited until three days before Christmas and three days after our first snowfall of the season. It completes the scene.

Happy holidays!

"These subtle stars," New Jersey, December 2008

Subtle stars

They're actually planets, of course. You're not going to see too many stars over the New Jersey Turnpike in Secaucus. The bright one at the top, near the center, is Venus. And as far as I can tell, at about 5 o'clock from that point is Jupiter, with Mercury at about 4 o'clock from Jupiter.

I'm not too concerned about how well it fits the "subtle" theme, but that phrase just stuck in my head as I was posting this photo. So that's what I called it, and that's my entry.

[*Later chosen as a favorite.*]

"Shuttle launch," Florida, March 2008

Taking the shot

Back in March, I checked off another item on my list of life goals and attended a launch of the space shuttle in Florida. "Attended" in the sense that I saw it live -- it's hard (or at least requires plenty of advance planning) to get to any of the viewing points at Kennedy Space Center.

What was for me a pleasure trip, a photo opportunity and a vacation was -- for the astronauts aboard, engineers in Mission Control and scientists involved -- a job, a research mission, a chance to learn more about our world and the universe it inhabits by breaking the surly bonds of earth and soaring into the heavens.

"The patient pine," Wyoming, May 2006

The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone

How could the patient pine have known
The morning breeze would come,
Or humble flowers anticipate
The insect's noonday hum,-

from "The Inward Morning," Henry David Thoreau

"Great Falls on the rocks," New Jersey, February 2007

Hunk of the Passaic

Winters in central New Jersey usually meant more snow than ice, but a few memorable winters do stand out. There was an ice storm in the early 90s that encased all the trees in clear casts, a year or two when the Navesink River froze solid enough to allow the ice boaters to come out (I'm waiting for that one again) and one January or February a few years ago when hunks of ice floated along the Hudson between Manhattan and New Jersey. I also recall one winter when a few friends and I took up an abbreviated version of pond hockey -- maybe six of us out there in our sneakers on a frozen crust not much bigger than a basketball court, if that.

So when we get a cold stretch long enough to freeze the Navesink or threaten cruise ships on the Hudson, it stands out. As does this day nearly two years ago. We were about to put in a bid on our house in Clifton, and I'd driven there to buy some train tickets for our test commute on the train. After discovering how close it is to Paterson, I brought my camera along and went up to the Great Falls of the Passaic, which I had seen once before -- with my dad on a trip to do research for my fourth-grade report on Passaic County. (We had to list our top three, from which the teacher would assign one. I wrote down Sussex and Passaic in the north and Burlington in the south, three of the farthest away from where we lived in Monmouth.)

I found the falls on a clear February day coated ice. The wind had blown the mist to the opposite rock wall, coating it in ice and creating icicles and small glaciers on the rocks. It was a fabulous find and I'll have to keep my eye on the weather this winter to see if I can catch the cataracts in suspended animation again, perhaps even more so.

"Spring Point Light," Maine, May 2008

Weathered and worn

Sitting out at the end of a jetty the length of three football fields, Spring Point Ledge Light guides ships into Portland Harbor. Exposed to the elements since it was first lit in 1897, it has become weathered over the decades. Yet it stands firm in the water through the Maine winters and the breezy summers as it has for more than a century.

"Three Darlings," New Jersey, September 2005

Exploring Edgewater Cemetery

Forgive me for being morbid during this season of cheer, but in looking for an image of three of anything, this one stuck with me. Plus, I'm excited to have hundreds of new photos uploaded now that I've gone through so many images recovered from my crashed hard drive.

I took these one afternoon when my wife and I explored the tiny Edgewater Cemetery behind our apartment. Despite talk of regular return visits and a hope of researching the history of some of the names, I never did either. I can't even tell you the name on the grave marker on the right -- I'm only assuming he or she is part of the Darling clan -- that's Daniel on the left and James in the middle. (Though there are only two Darlings listed at FindAGrave.com, I'm not sure the inscription on this third stone is legible even in person.)

I guess for a holiday theme, you could think of them as the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future.

"Lighthouse over the rubble, Alcatraz," September 2005

Lighthouse over the rubble, Alcatraz

I take a lot of photos of things that are old and decrepit, but when I saw that challenge, Alcatraz is what came to mind first. It must have to do with the islands sordid past, its history as a prison and its remote location subject to the elements in harsh San Francisco Bay. Of all the things I've photographed that I've qualified as ruins, things like the Goddard Mansion in Maine and the Kruger Mansion at High Point, New Jersey, are parks and settings that soften their decrepitude. There were other Alcatraz photos I thought about but then passed over simply because they also had flowers or a view of San Francisco in the background that softened the image.

"Trucks at dusk," Montana, May 2006

Trucks at dusk

As dusk fell over I-90 on a late-spring day in 2006, my college roommate and I drove east from Bozeman, on our way to Billings for the night. The road was open beneath the big sky, a few trucks speeding in each direction. As we passed them, their radio frequencies would momentarily interrupt the signal from my iPod to the radio, and our song would cut out and a word or two of truck lingo might creep in.

"Color becomes black and white," Wyoming, May 2006

Color becomes black and white

No special effects (as in, the click of a button in Picasa) here -- this is a full-color photo of trees in Yellowstone National Park on an overcast morning. The gray sky and muted backlight render the trees black. It's similar to one of my favorite photos, taken at Oregon's Crater Lake National Park, that for the moment still only lives on film -- yet another reminder that I've got to get organized and start plugging through some of those to get them online.

"View from a Nepenthe chair," Big Sur, September 2005

Nepenthe, Big Sur, California

This is one of my absolute favorite photos. I took it on our honeymoon when we stopped at Nepenthe solely because Jack Kerouac wrote about it in Big Sur. In between lunch and dinner, we ordered snacks -- a salad and french fries, I think -- and a little wine and enjoyed the late afternoon light over the cliffs and the Pacific.

From the baths we go to Nepenthe which is a beautiful cliff top restaurant with vast outdoor patio, with excellent food, excellent waiters and management, good drinks, chess tables, chairs and tables to just sit in the sun and look at the grand coast -- Here we all sit at various tables and Cody starts playing chess with everybody will join while he's chomping away at those marvelous hamburgers called Heavenburgers (huge with all the side works) -- Cody doesn't like to just sit around and lightly chat away, he's the kind of guy if he's going to talk he has to do all the talking himself for hours till everything is exhaustedly explained, sans that he just wants to bend over a chessboard and say "He he heh, old Scrooge is saving up a pawn hey? cak! I got ya!"

-- Jack Kerouac, Big Sur

"Low-note row," Indiana, November 2008

Tuba row

I just had to put up something more soothing -- that is, less agitating than yesterday's post.

Life is too short to hate.

"Vengeance, thy color is orange," Indiana, November 2008

Orange tops

My wife loves orange. It's hands-down her favorite color. She owns every type of clothing in one hue or another -- tops, pants, socks, jackets, underwear. Our kitchen is painted orange, as are appliances and other implements. I have no problem with the color, particularly because it's one of two that signifies my favorite baseball team, the Mets.

But seeing it like this, on the helmets of the Syracuse football team, now has me vengeful after the Orange ruined an otherwise perfect winter-like Saturday in northern Indiana.

Had I not been so disgusted, I'm sure I could've gotten some stunning celebration shots after the game, but I was making a hasty retreat from the stands. The shame.

"NYC Marathon, 1st Avenue," November 2006

NYC Marathon series, 1st Avenue

I went back into the archives to find an image that represents this week's theme of "Yes we can!" because I love the phrase and enjoyed the task of finding a picture to represent it. I didn't want to simply go with an American flag or the sign I put up in the front yard during this year's election season. So I think this shot, from the 2006 New York City Marathon, covers it well.

[P.S. -- Thanks for the love!]

"Avenue of Flags, Veterans Day 2008," New Jersey

Avenue of Flags, Veterans Day 2008

Five times a year, volunteers in Clifton, N.J., erect the Avenue of Flags through lanes of the municipal complex. The flags go up around dawn and come down at dusk. I have, on occasion, seen them remain overnight into a second day.

They're quite a sight, these dozens of Stars and Stripes billowing in the breeze of a sunny, blue-sky day. As you walk through them, two sounds drown out any others: The flapping of the nylon in the wind, and the rustle of leaves beneath your feet -- at least on Veterans Day, that is. With the city offices closed, traffic in the complex is light, and the main roads abutting the grounds are far enough away so that the sound of the cars doesn't reach the inner lanes of flags.

"Perfect time of day," New Jersey, October 2008

Perfect time of day

The title and music of this Howie Day song were in my head for this shot, taken at High Point State Park in Sussex County. It's a great driving song that goes best on a warm enough afternoon to have the windows down and the sunroof open. While the lyrics take a more serious tone, I tend to ignore that underlying meaning. It has to be late afternoon, when the light is low and tinted gold or orange. The location can vary -- in the rolling hills, along a beach road, across a flat and straight stretch of highway in the plains. And though I stopped the car and made my way to the shore of this lake, the cool October breeze and mid-autumn light still put this scene into "perfect time of day" territory.

Let your colors collide
The time is so right
I keep running behind
But I know your meaning
You love to fall
The perfect time of day

"Out of sync," New Jersey, October 2008

Premature trees

I'm so annoyed with these two trees no our property. Yes, they look wonderful, but they're so mistimed. If only they'd sync up with the two between them. I'm sure it has to do with the types of trees they are and all, but that doesn't help with the art.

I'm using my day off this week to head up to High Point and hope that the leaves are close enough to their peak to make it worthwhile. The timing should be right, but I'm worried about the wind we had today -- it picked up in the late afternoon, and from what I've heard, it's still going into the wee hours. I'll find out shortly.

"NYC, 5:30 in the a.m.," June 2008

NYC 5:30 in the a.m.

There's something special about walking out of the office and standing on the streets of New York "finishing" your day while the majority of the city's residents are just about to start theirs.

"Here comes the 7," New York, June 2006

Here comes the 7

Shea Stadium's iconic Home Run Apple is the biggest, most satisfying apple I can think of when posed the question.

"Down the spiral staircase," Maine, May 2008

All the way down

Descending the spiral staircase of a lighthouse -- in this case, Pemaquid Point, Maine -- can be tougher than the climb. Pemaquid's a short tower (only 38 feet) isn't that bad, but climbing one of New Jersey's three sister towers -- Barnegat, Absecon (in Atlantic City) or Cape May, the shortest of which is 157 feet -- involves a rather simple, if arduous, climb to the lantern. You can pull yourself up with the railing and focus your eyes on the steps in front of you.

But going down, you slide your hand along the brass rail and watch the steps in front of you. The vertigo creeps in and the windows notched in the brick walls provide a good excuse to take a break and look out into the distance, giving your eyes a rest from the monotony of the winding stairs below you. It doesn't help that the wrought-iron steps have holes in them (easier to keep them clean and provide traction when wet, I'd imagine) so that you can see way, way down.

"Call the bishop, New Orleans, after Katrina," January 2007

Call the bishop

At first I didn't want to post this one, because it's not in sharp focus. But then I realized that religion itself is a bit blurry. It's open to interpretation, subject to debate and viewed differently by nearly everyone despite drawing from many of the same texts for their beliefs.

It was taken from a moving car driven by a friend and local reporter as she took us on a tour of Lakeview, Gentilly, the Lower Ninth Ward -- the hardest-hit neighborhoods. New Orleans is still in shambles, struggling to get back on her feet after Mother Nature beat her down and her government abandoned her.

Maybe someone needs to call the bishop.

"Manhattan from Sandy Hook," Sept. 2, 2001

I don't get to the beach nearly as much as I used to these days. It used to be a regular summer ritual, considering I grew up about five miles from the nearest one, in Sea Bright, and a mere 15 minutes from one of the most beautiful, Sandy Hook. So into the archives I go for this shot, and deep "into the vault," as the DJs used to say on WNEW, back when it was a classic rock station with Scott Muni and some of New York's best throwback jockeys. I've only begun scanning in the negatives from 13 years of photographs I took with my film SLR and I haven't uploaded any of them to Flickr yet, figuring I'll wait until I can do them in chunks, either by year or month or something. It's a time-sucking project to be sure, just one of several I have lined up these days. It may have to wait for winter and conditions more suitable to spending an entire day in front of the computer.

So this shot was taken on my birthday, Sept. 2, 2001, just nine days before those towers in the background fell down. It's the last picture I have of the World Trade Center as we knew it. My sister, my friend Mia and I were out at Sandy Hook enjoying a summer-like day on Labor Day Weekend before attending that night's Lakewood BlueClaws game and stopping by a bar in Belmar on the way home. Despite the apparent haze, it was actually a clear day by comparison to what we might normally get when we look toward Manhattan from the Jersey Shore. If I recall correctly, I left my camera in the car -- a somewhat arduous trek across the hot sand and the parking lot, at least a good 5-10 minutes -- and went back to get it once I saw just how clear the view was and how close the Twin Towers appeared.

I'm glad I did.

"The Fallingwater Classic, No. 5," Pennsylvania, December 2007

Classic shot No. 5

Yeah, this is an oft-reproduced image of Frank Lloyd Wright's most famous private residence, the Kaufman house in the western Pennsylvania woods, Fallingwater. But this one's mine, and I prefer it as a means of depicting "The Great Outdoors" because it touches upon what Wright tried to accomplish with his projects when he fused man-made structures with nature. He tried to make the houses part of the landscape rather than just building on the landscape.

It's great that Fallingwater and a few other Wright projects I've visited -- Taliesin West and Kentuck Knob, which is privately owned but open to the public -- are now accessible, but damn if I wouldn't love to live there myself.

Made in Maine, May '08: Streaking past Portland

Streaking past Portland

I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And keep him company.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
And live by the side of the sea.
I'll polish his lamp by the light of day
So ships at night can find their way.
I want to marry a lighthouse keeper
Won't that be okay!
We'll take walks along the moonlight bay
Maybe find a treasure too.
I'd love living in a lighthouse,
HOW 'BOUT YOU?
The dream of living in a lighthouse baby, every single day.
The dream of living in a lighthouse,
the white one by the bay.
So if you want to make my dreams come true,
You'll be a lighthouse keeper too.
We could live in a lighthouse
The white one by the bay, hey hey.
Won't that be okay.
Yada tada ta ta ta.

"I Wanna Marry a Lighthouse Keeper," by Erika Eigen

So maybe the shining sun got to me on a bright day on Cape Elizabeth. The following, though, isn't mine ...

Made in Maine, May '08: Perched on the rocks at Portland Head

Perched on the rocks at Portland Head

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
and on its outer point, some miles away,
the lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
in the white tip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light,
with strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!

No one alone: from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night o'er taken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn
They wave their silent welcome and farewells.

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers when a child,
on his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink
And when returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same,
Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosum clasp
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace:
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of love,
it does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
but hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says: "sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse.
Be yours to bring man neared unto man.

-- The Lighthouse
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Made in Maine, May '80: On the point at Pemaquid

Vantage point

I must've shot this lighthouse more than any other, with every camera I've ever owned, beginning with my first -- a Kodak disk point-and-shoot. It may be 500 miles from where I grew up, but I have to have photographed it more than Twin Lights or Sandy Hook, only minutes from home. But those, I'd visit on a whim, not always with a camera, and I always knew I could go back at any time to shoot them. At Pemaquid, I always start from behind the light, walking from the parking lot toward the tower, then make my way down to the rocks and around the point, covering it from every angle. It's a tradition, a ritual, one I expect to continue on future visits.

Made in Maine, May '08: Churning sea at Pemaquid Point

Churning sea at Pemaquid Point

The weather during our trip was amazing. When we left Bar Harbor on this morning, it looked like this. During the three-hour drive, we passed through some intermittent as well as steady rain. When we arrived at Pemaquid, we had blue skies and wispy clouds above a surging ocean.

After leaving Pemaquid, it began raining again, but stopped shortly after we arrived at my uncle's house an hour later (with a stop at Round Top for ice cream).

Then we had clear skies again, for the most part.

Made in Maine, May '08: Boardwalk in the woods

Boardwalk in the Maine woods

Most of the western side of Jordan Pond is a delicate ecosystem, so boards have been laid for hikers. Casey and I stepped aside onto a rock at one point because three sullen teens were gaining on us -- one had her iPod blaring in order to keep out the annoying sounds of the calm forest -- and let them pass. Their parents soon followed, apologizing.

"I promised them ice cream at the end," their father said.

"We're following you, too!" I replied.

"Backseat driver," Pennsylvania, December 2007

Backseat driver

Night driving pics, with the longer exposure for the effect of motion, are difficult shots to take. I've tried a couple of times (some of which are on film and not yet linkable), with mixed results. I kind of like this one, because it gives a little more perspective taken from the back seat. It also helped that it was Christmastime, so there are more lights as people decorate their homes for the holidays.

I know I'm not the first to use this type of photo for this challenge, but I'm not sure how many difficult shots I have digitally (even out of 4,000). I have several other difficult shots that I haven't yet pulled off -- star trails, a bone-jarring home-plate collision, lightning -- but I'll keep trying.

"Springsteen," New York January 2006

Strumming

I had just bought my new digital SLR after the New Year and was itching to use it. The cold, gray winter days didn't provide much inspiration, but I did stop at a park overlooking the Hudson River during my lunch break on one sunny day. I took pictures of the George Washington Bridge, the New York skyline, Yonkers, and even leaves on the ground and cracks in the sidewalk -- anything to try out the camera.

But then I saw that the New York Guitar Festival was going to open with a tribute to Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska, a bare-bones solo acoustic album he put out in 1982 but recorded on a four-track recorder in his bedroom in 1981 (thus the "25th anniversary" arc for the festival's staging of the songs). They brought together a collection of artists to interpret each track as they wished, so we decided to go, for free, to hear a great album played live. And I figured I'd get to really try out my new camera.

I also had a slight suspicion that Springsteen himself might drop in.

At one point, I left my wife standing off to the side where it was less crowded and there was a wall to lean on or sit against and moved into the crowd to get a clearer shot of the artist on stage, Laura Cantrell, who was signing "Used Cars." As I lowered my camera after taking this picture, my cell phone rings. I see it's Casey, who is no more than 50 feet away. I'm already heading back to her, so I don't answer it.

"He's here!" she says to me. I turn around to see that I'd just passed him. I retreat and approach him, brushing him on the arm to get his attention. (It may have been a bit of a "grab," but I don't think it was that extreme.) He stops and turns, we shake hands and I simply say I love what he does and thank him for doing it. He responds, though I have no idea what he says. It may have been along the lines of, "Thank you. I appreciate it," as his wife, Patti, smiles and says hello.

I then leave them alone and take a few pictures of their silhouettes in the darkness of the Winter Garden at the World Financial Center in Lower Manhattan. Though he was recognized, maybe only one or two other people approach him. Had I not reached him while he was still walking in, I doubt I would have, either, choosing instead to let them enjoy watching other artists interpret his work from nearly a generation ago.

As the album nears its end -- the artists came out to perform them in the order they appear on the album -- Bruce and Patti make their way to the side of the stage, where he goes over some lyrics with the festival's founder. Then he gets on stage to sing Woody Guthrie's "Oklahoma Hills" with the full roster of musicians.

It put the perfect cap on a magical musical night.

"Window cleaners," New York, September 2007

Washing the windows before the day

Professionals. Do not try this at home.

"Women go fast," Daytona, January 2008

Women go fast

Daytona, Florida: Where you'll find fast cars ... and fast women*? Maybe that's no secret.

*In their CARS, people. In their cars.

Though my secret could also be that I established a new personal record in being the seventh to post this week's Photo Friday.

"Neon fielder, Gate E, Shea Stadium," April 2008

Neon fielder above Gate E, originally uploaded by NJ Baseball.

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway -- but the same holds true for Roosevelt Ave. in Queens. Here, the electricity from the neon designs outside the ballpark (and the thousands of watts of floodlight illumination both inside and out) courses through the old concrete colossus on gameday -- or night -- as the fans come out to cheer for their Mets. They won on this night, defeating the Washington Nationals, 5-2.

"Outfield green," Florida, March 2008

I never get tired of reading it...

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.

-- A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind"

From the cold gray-brown Northeast, I flew to Florida for a Spring Training spring break and wasted no time enjoying the warm sunshine. From the plane to the car to the ballpark -- no dragging my feet. Beneath a blue sky and upon a green field, a touch of summer under the Florida sun.

"Monochromatic sky in the Pennsylvania hills," December 2007

Monochromatic deck view

It was one of those overcast winter days when the landscape seems colorless. The sky, the trees, the hills all wore the same sheen of a muted, dull gray or a washed-out green. The trees looked black against the sky and as we walked away from the house to the edge of the hill at Kentuck Knob, it was only then that color came back into the world when we looked down the hill at the farmhouse in the distance.

"Waiting, Clifton Station," February 2008

Waiting, Clifton Station

Winter really hit us last week. We'd had a few snowfalls here and there, two or three days where I had to get out the shovel and clear the sidewalks, but our first storm of the season came on Friday. Four or five inches covered the ground by the time we left for work at 8 a.m. and we walked down the middle of our street because the inch or two that had fallen since the plow came through made it easier to walk than trudging along the untouched sidewalks. Trains were running a little behind schedule, but we settled into a seat and watched the blanketed landscape as we passed through the towns and crossed the Meadowlands. On the bridge over the marshes, the clouds obscured everything to the north, so that looking out over the water we saw nothing beyond a few hundred feet -- no sports complex, no Harmon Meadow office complex and condo tower, no highways. It could have been the open ocean out there in the mist.

"Viewing art, Carnegie Museum, Pittsburgh," November 2004

Viewing art, Carnegie Museum, Pittsburgh

Moments after I took this photo, I was informed by security at the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh that photography was not allowed in this part of the exhibition, so I put it away. But I loved the fact that I got this shot of a woman looking at one particular work of art. I wish I'd taken note of what piece it was, exactly, but I don't think I have that anywhere. I was drawn by the colors and the chaotic lines, but the otherwise calm woman gazing upon the canvas gave it scope and made this picture for me.

"The Nebraska road," May 2006

The Nebraska road

Nebraska Route 71 seems infinite, a straight line to the horizon, disappearing over the slightest bulge in the landscape, no doubt continuing straight on the other side.

"Chompers," Chicago, August 2007

Last view dinner has

What is that?

Inside or out? Upside or down? Where do we go from here?

"Golden Gate Bridge in the fog," September 2005

Golden Gate Bridge in the fog

Is this not iconic or what? The Golden Gate Bridge belongs in the mist.