Who am I?

Who Am I

Life on this earth, as we know and understand it, is not a permanent thing. We are born, we live, and we die. There is no exact timetable in that process. But it does bring up many, many questions as to the why of our existence. Life literally begs the question, “Who am I?”

Now, it would be quite natural for me to launch into an exhaustive expose, from my perspective, concerning the purpose of why we are born, why we live, and why we die. Suffice to mention that the answers to those questions are readily available to those who diligently seek truth. However, that is not the primary purpose of this post. Instead, I am offering a mind-bender for you to ponder.

I want to briefly touch on how we view ourselves in comparison to how others view us. I would also like to suggest that neither of these viewpoints is ultimately correct. Your perception of yourself, at best, is inaccurate. And, yes, that expensive shrink you visit each week does not perceive you accurately either – not even close.

Continue reading “Who am I?”

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The Ghostwriter

ghost_writer

It would seem appropriate, in this halloween season, to write about ghosts & goblins. But, is that what a ghostwriter is?

According to Wikipedia:

A ghostwriter is a writer who is hired to author literary or journalistic works, speeches or other texts that are officially credited to another person.

Those lofty words spoken by Barack Obama, during his two terms in the presidential office, were predominantly written by someone else. Yes, apparently Obama is an accomplished writer, having been a former editor of the Harvard Law Review. Nevertheless, the majority of his public speeches were written by an army of ghostwriters under the supervision of a Whitehouse Director of Speechwriting.

Have you ever heard of Jon Favreau or Cody Keenan? I didn’t think so.

Yet, the entire world was mesmerized by the content of Obama’s speeches and his skills as an orator. The people behind the scenes did not receive the public credit due them.

That is the life of a ghostwriter – all work and no credit given.

As a former professional communicator, I have had my fair share of speech and article writing on behalf of another. I was paid to do a particular job and had to be satisfied with that alone. Yet, it has never ceased to amaze me how CEO’s, Directors, and Politicians alike have accumulated mass followings based on their lofty words – the content or literary emphasis being the brainchild of someone else.

Another creative area similar to ghostwriting, is the photographic works that individuals produce. Often those works are produced by individuals for the companies that employ them or are directly commissioned by government. Personally, I have had considerable work published and/or displayed in public spaces that I will never receive credit for. All credit and copyright belong to either the company(s) that employed me, or are the public property of government. That is the nature of commissioned works of art, at least in my neck-of-the-woods.

It may seem that I am a little bitter about that – truthfully, I am not. But, I do visit the aforementioned places approximately once a year or so. I wander through the halls of these majestic public buildings searching for photographic works that I had something to do with, in whole or in part. What was done in “secret” as a ghost photographer is sufficient for me 🙂

Now that I am considerably far removed from the hustle and bustle of the work world, I am quite content. I had invested a significant part of my life in being a ghostwriter and a commercial photographer. I have no regrets.

As an amateur blogger, I do not feel the pressures of corporate deadlines, nor the need to be overly concerned about content. Grammar, spelling, sentence structure, etc. are secondary to just having fun.

Whatever tickles your fancy. Have fun  🙂

A Place of Solace

A Place of Solace
Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia. f/2.8 @ 1/15 second.

It’s hard to imagine why any couple would simply sit quietly, huddled closely together upon the icy-cold granite outcrop, despite the howling gale and the tumultuous roar of the mighty Atlantic crashing against the rocky shoreline.

But that is exactly what my wife and I undertook one early evening in mid-August of 2014. It was a charming, itsy-bitsy place called Peggy’s Cove, situated along the rugged coastline of Nova Scotia. We almost had the quaint little locale all to ourselves. Only one straggler was lollygagging on the lee side of the statuesque white lighthouse. The octagonal tower, with balcony and lantern, has stood proudly upon the granite rock for over a century, guiding troubled and weary sailors through many a stormy night.

Our place of solace was almost desolate, barren of the hordes of tourists that visit during the daylight hours.

We envisaged ourselves to be ageless, timeless, listening to the rhythmic ocean waves pound upon the rock, like nature’s drum echoing in the hidden alcoves of an eternal mind. As the ethereal light began to vanish, I turned around and took a snapshot of that frigid, unbreakable place of many secrets. It was an idyllic place, a halcyon that brought us peace.

Just a stranger and a pair of prairie landlubbers, never to pass a word. There would be no salutation amongst shadows in the fading light.

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