Here is John Maloof’s explanation of how he acquired the photography of Vivian Maier:

I acquired Vivian’s negatives while at a furniture and antique auction. From what I know, the auction house acquired
her belongings from her storage locker that was sold off due to delinquent payments. I didn’t know what ’street photography’
was when I purchased them.

It took me days to look through all of her work. It inspired me to pick up photography myself…After some researching, I
have only little information about Vivian. Central Camera (110 yr old camera shop in Chicago) has encountered Vivian from
time to time when she would purchase film while out on the Chicago streets. From what they knew of her, they say she was a very
“keep your distance from me” type of person but was also outspoken. She loved foreign films and didn’t care much for American films.

Out of the 30-40,000 negatives I have in the collection, about 10-15,000 negatives were still in rolls, undeveloped from the
1960’s-1970’s. I have been successfully developing these rolls. I still have about 600 rolls yet to develop. I must say, it’s
very exciting for me. Most of her negatives that were developed in sleeves have the date and location penciled in French
(she had poor penmanship)…She was a Socialist, a Feminist, a movie critic, and a tell-it-like-it-is type of person. She
learned English by going to theaters, which she loved. She wore a men’s jacket, men’s shoes and a large hat most of the
time. She was constantly taking pictures, which she didn’t show anyone.

I found her name written with pencil on a photo-lab envelope. I decided to ‘Google’ her about a year after I purchased these
only to find her obituary placed the day before my search. She passed only a couple of days before my inquiry on her.

To read more about Vivian and see more of her brilliant photography, click here to go to the site.

(i’m posting this after reading about vivian on sweet juniper, another very-favorite blog which you can find in the links on the right side of my site)

My dear friend Gina sent this to me. Damn.

via garconniere.

I recently told the story about being a “punk rocker” for Halloween one year. I think I was 7 years old. My grandparents
belonged to a CB club and every year they had a costume contest for the kids. Various age groups. That year, my sister dressed
up as Minnie Mouse and, if I remember correctly, won her age bracket. I did not win. I wore a striped skirt with a polka dot
top with equally loud tights and little shoes. I had glow-in-the-dark clip on earrings that pinched my lobes(oh those things
hurt like hell) and my eyes were itchy from the make up(I have this vivid, oh-so clear as day memory of standing in line for the
contest, rubbing my eyes violently while my grandmother leaned over to tap my arm and said, “Quit rubbin’ em!”).

The best part about this memory, however, involves my (ex)stepfather Jeff. He insisted on helping me do my punk rock make
up. He made me close my eyes and I couldn’t look until he was finished. Jeff never picked on me really, but he was a big practical
jokester, he he was happy to make me the target of these practical jokes on more than one occasion(case in point: the
time he put a rotten banana in my bookbag without telling me, and then sent me to school, where the banana proceeded
to stink up the entire classroom). So instead of doing my make up in any sort of fancy and/or “punk rock” way, he
simply drew all over my face. Some color here, some scribbles there, some sort of pentagram-like thing on the forehead.
And then he said, “okay, open your eyes,” and I did. And I yelled “JEFF!” But too late–we had to go. No time to wash it off.

Happy Halloween.

A video from a public meeting on Maine’s marriage equality bill on April 22, 2009, via boinboing.net:

My lady Renee lays it down about the library. Go here to read.

Our libraries are in trouble, and I never thought I’d see the day. The library saved my life all throughout childhood–I could
go there and escape. I could check out books on my reading level instead of being force fed the prescribed books in class.
I could go there with my dad and my sister, as a family. I could look up anything I wanted, find resources for my book reports
and projects(what’s up, encyclopedia britannica). I could fantasize about owning my own fully stocked card catalogue. I could
walk through the back aisles and smell the age and time and life between the pages. When home life was too much, too
confusing, too chaotic–I had a safe place to go. That’s the short version. The library helped me survive. My heart breaks
to think that someday our libraries might be a thing of the
past, that my kids may never have that experience..

Go to the link, read Renee’s words. An exerpt:

The library is more important than you. The library is more important than its librarians. The library is more
important than the materials on its shelves, screens, and speakers. The library is more important than the buildings that
house those materials. The library is more important than its director. The library is more important than the newspaper, the
TV and radio stations, and all of their reporters. The library is more important than the mayor, city council, congresspersons,
the governor, and every candidate for those offices. The library is more important than the state budget and the rest
of its funding sources. The library is more important than Andrew Carnegie.

The library is more important, because its potential for change and growth extends beyond you, to your family, your
neighbors, and your community. The library is not just a symbol or a luxury. It is a cornerstone for an informed society to
build its future. Anyone can use the library’s resources to become the next librarian, director, mayor, reporter, congressperson,
governor, anything. The library is open to anyone to educate herself and her children without agenda or bias, to entertain
himself with the media of his choice, to find employment, to research and read and listen and write and watch.

In my cover letter to apply for this job, I wrote, “Libraries, as a free source of unrestricted public education, are a vital part
of our communities.” Now that I work here, I know that to be true. It says right above the door: Free to the People.
The library is not more important than the people. Who are the People? That’s you.

I know this movie has been out for a while, but I just watched it for the first time, and I want to recommend it: The Business
of Being Born. Male or female, expectant or not, you need to see this. Some things I took away from this film:

- The hospital is a business. This seems like such an obvious thing, right? Anyone that’s been in the emergency room can
attest to experiencing the business aspect. Perhaps we don’t expect such an approach with something like birth.

-In the 1900’s, nearly 98% of births took place at home. By the ’50’s, that number was down to less than 1% and STILL is.
This blew my mind.

-The domino effect of pitocin/epidural/inducing/interference. How all of it so easily slips from the mother’s hands and into
the doctor’s. It’s downright scary.

- in 2005, 1 out of every 3 births result in c-section. Again, scary. Also scary: the doctors in the documentary who admit to
exploiting the patient’s interest in c-section(cuts down on length of labor, cuts down on doctor’s work). Also the concept of
“too posh to push.” A c-section is major surgery–not a route of convenience.

- The difference in the footage–the footage of hospital delivery vs. the at-home deliveries in this film–is incredible. The
hospital births, frankly, scare the shit out of me. Of course, the at-home birth footage is scary as well, but also pretty damn
empowering. At home, the women are not on their backs with their legs in stirrups. They are on exercise balls, in the water,
squatting down, standing…however they need to be. It’s amazing.

Anyway, see it. It’s incredible.

I need to discuss how the past few weeks have been for me, I know I do. In order to
process them in a more complete manner, I’m going to have to hammer it down into some
words. That’s my method of final comprehension–pushing the words, the sentences,
the thoughts out of my veins and out of the hands, onto a surface or into the air. The
time is coming to do that but not yet. I will touch upon it soon, as I hide nothing when I
say times have been difficult. Until I do some more living, breathing and quiet thinking on it,
that’s all I can say.

Onward.

Today marks fall break which means no class, which means my Monday class will be
tomorrow and oh dear I hope I remember to stick around the big tower and not go to Posvar.
I will probably have to write a reminder on my handback. One never gets too old for those kind
of post-its. I’m also pretty darn excited today because in about an hour I am meeting with
my advisor to discuss the academic future(as well as next semester which is quite technically,
I realize, part of that future). Advisor meetings are exciting to me because I get to check
and and make sure I’m doing things right, making progress on my goals. I like figuring out what
classes are available for next semester and daydreaming about them, feeding off the
possibilities. Sometimes the weeks get long and it’s nice to have a reminder like this. As
in hey, you’re working towards something, don’t forget that.

Another reason for this advisor meeting to mean a lot to moi: plain and simple, this semester
is changing me. I wasn’t prepared but I’m welcoming it. I think I’m taking the right classes
at the right time for myself–it’s much different this semester, taking more than one class
and being a semester in…I’m back into the swing of things, so to speak. For as much as I may
gripe from time to time about my squashed schedule, or how nowadays my Friday/Saturday
nights are dedicated to homework, the truth is I love it because I care about
my classes. I care about my input(as well as the output) and I care about the material
we are covering. It’s difficult at times, but what isn’t? I mean, what of any value is not challenging?

A friend of mine commended me on bravery–for going back to school so “late in the game,”
and initially I brushed aside her praise. That tends to be my reflex reaction with praise in general,
especially in regards to school. But you know what? She’s right. I’m pretty damn brave,
whether I want to admit it or not. It isn’t all pie and roses to return to the academic setting
after nine years out of it. Some people will downright snort at the idea of homework when
you’re nearly pushing 30. Some people think it’s all Rodney Dangerfield, that the
struggle isn’t worth it, that the time nor the sacrifices made are worth it.

And, frankly, some people are silly.

At the end of every class, I am thankful for my age and the time I gave myself outside of
the classroom. I’m still working on my undergrad, so the majority of my classmates are babies.
Young things. A decade under me. A decade! This is something that leaves me flabbergasted
at times(like the night where most of my classmates did not know about The Andy Griffith
Show, or the time the majority of them crowed, ” But we were ten years old during
September 11th–it’s hard to remember!”). Yes, there are times like that. However, running
alongside that is a wonderful yet strange sense of responsibility–I’m one of the oldest(though
usually THE oldest) in class, so in a way I represent the future. As in hey, I’m ten years
older than you but you know what–ten years older is pretty alright. Lookit me, not being
crochety. I also abstain from a lot of the “when I was your age” talk(and you’d be surprised
how often I am oh-so-very tempted to do so). I’m learning a brand new level of tolerance,
understanding, and respect. Thanks, school!

I met with my writing professor a couple weeks ago and left feeling pretty darn good
about my work in her class thus far. My poem was up for workshop last week and discussion
went much, much better than I anticipated. A few classmates responded with feedback
that made me blush(one even mentioned that some of my wordplay reminded him of
Dylan Thomas). My writing outside out of class feels quite stunted–I tend to ball up all my
energy and thought for assignments, which is fine but not completely necessary.
Sometimes I act as if the creative reservoir comes with a capacity limit. Old habits.
Anyway. Between this and my Women’s Studies class I am learning that I must
not, I cannot, forget my voice. And I must use it. So I continue to submit work to publishers,
and apply to a writing “contest” through school, and square away a gig for next month.
Still fighting to do what makes me happy. Still fighting to hold myself together so that I can rightly enjoy it.

More soon.

I had another horrible migraine last night. I managed to keep myself out of the emergency
room by fighting tooth and nail against my urge to go. I woke up with less pain this morning–
less as in I can talk, walk, and open my eyes(which I could not do very well last night), but
I feel like I’m hanging on by a fraying rope. I feel transparent, like I could blow away at any
second. My hands shook while locking my door this morning. I am a shadow of my former self.
Time to call another doctor.

Do me a favor. If you know me at all, please read the following. This is an interview from
KPBS with Andrew Levy, who wrote a book called “A Brain Wider Than the Sky: A Migraine
Diary.” I try and try and try to put what I go through into words, but I still wonder if people
in my life get it and/or understand. I read this interview and felt a bittersweet relief. I can’t
tell you how amazing it is to hear/read someone explain what you know as your day-to-day
reality. I also can’t tell you how heartbreaking it is. Anyway, please read. I’m going to
post some of the interview’s text, and the link for the entire thing. Please, please, read it. Thanks.

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