News, thoughts, finds – and the odd rant
On Nick Sandmann, Nathan Phillips, and coming of age in Trump's America: In my own childhood and adolescence, I said things and did things that can still fill me with shame when, decades later, I remember. I’ll bet that you did, too.
When my younger photographer son challenged me to take a 52-week photography challenge, I accepted. Gulp.
So that's how one is sucked into a rabbit hole, by America's $1.6 billion US mega millions lottery draw.
The colourful Oceans industrial plant in Vancouver's heart seems less about concrete than playful illusion.
Donna Strickland, a leader in the science of ultrafast lasers, joins the tiny, tiny, tiny cohort of women who have won the Nobel in physics.
Despite my Swiss-cheese memory and tongue of clay, I am trying to learn a few essential words in the languages of the people I encounter daily.
The Gastown Grand Prix on a sunny evening, with cobblestones lighted by glaring late sun or cast in dark shade by tall buildings, was a fun playground to experiment with the photo challenges of the contrast of blinding light and deep shade, and intense speed.
The songbirds ushered in the Solstice, singing spun light from the northeastern horizon, pouring it into my neighbourhood, spilling a beam on the bench in my front yard.
Had someone tortured my child as the nuns and priests and bigots tortured the children depicted in the film, had bigots treated anyone in my circles as Saul was treated by many people, I'd have fought them all to the death. Had I known, I'd have acted. Which, of course, is the point of a movie like Indian Horse.
