This morning’s walk at White Rock Lake entailed a photographic experiment for me.  With clear skies and bright sunlight, I decided to put the UV and polarization filters on the camera for the entire walk.  Albeit a few images taken in partly to mostly shadowed environments would have been well served without them, mostly the experiment succeeded in teaching me more about these two filters, how to use them together, and what conditions do and don’t warrant them.

While tinkering with the camera before I left, however, I regrettably switched the ISO control back to automatic.  Many photos which otherwise would have been spectacular have been rendered useless because too high an ISO setting resulted in significant image noise.  Some of those will still work when reduced in size, but many had to be deleted.

I’m angry at myself.

I began the day continuing my image migration to Flickr for those posts impacted by this latest Zooomr snafu.  After uploading almost 40 pictures and editing the appropriate posts, I realized I still had to process another 162 photographs and edit another 50 entries.  And all because Zooomr fouled up the latest migration, the same thing they did with the Mark III upgrade six months ago which resulted in an utter disaster followed by a continuing fiasco of broken or missing functionality.

I’m angry at Zooomr.

Chris Clarke has posted some heartfelt and emotionally tumultuous reminiscences about Zeke, his dog who died a year ago.  His beautiful letters remind me of those who have come before, those who have been lost to time, those like Derek and Henry…and a great many others.

I’m angry at death.

I wished nothing more than to make reality by now my move from urban Dallas to rural East Texas, nearer the family farm, surrounded by nature and the pastoral life that beckons to me, far away from city dwelling which now vexes me to the core.  Yet I am only a few steps closer to that relocation because of tighter finances, a shriveling economy that has limited greatly the jobs available, and a crippling lack of minutes for even life’s necessities, let alone wants.

I’m angry at time.

Dreamdarkers has languished in near limbo for months for too tight a work schedule that steals more than it gives.  Setting aside that it pays the bills, more and more this company demands sacrifice after sacrifice while offering nothing in return.  I see people working five or six hours per day on a regular basis, people who undoubtedly make the same or more money as I do, and I wonder how they can do so little while I do so much—all while betraying that which matters to me most.

I’m angry at my job.

I saw an article recently that a major salmon line has collapsed to utter nonexistence.  Numbering only a tiny fraction of what they were last year, let alone a few years ago, and with the number of young at only 5% of what they should be from year to year, king salmon appear to be the latest casualty of overfishing, pollution, diversion of fresh water, and climate change.  To put that list more succinctly, this species has been pushed to the brink of extinction over the course of five years by one thing: people.

I’m angry at humanity.

al-Zill has camped on my patio for the last week.  I finally put a cat carrier on the patio, including a towel inside it, so he’d have a place to sleep and rest away from the unrelenting wind and chilly temperatures of late.  In turn, he’s become my best friend, greeting me almost every time I go outside, crying to me with that raspy voice of his that sounds more like a weeping child than a feline, rubbing against my legs with a wrenching consistency, and otherwise becoming a family member by proxy.  I can’t adopt him, at least not now, and I couldn’t even care for him if something happened.  And it did, for I’ve attempted to care for a major wound on his head which appeared a few weeks ago.  He’s left blood on the towel…if that tells you anything.  I give him food and water, and as much affection as I can, yet my very being tells me I must do more.

I’m angry at my heart.

Our economy has tanked while politicians spend millions on campaigns and billions on unjust wars.  More and more people are jobless, too many die from hunger or disease or violence or any number of anthropogenic means, yet the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, patricians gain more control while plebeians suffer increasing torment, and all the while our elected officials look the other way because the whole process brings them their thirty pieces of silver.

I’m angry at the U.S. government.

Truth be told, I could go on ad nauseam, for every direction I look provides yet another target for my wrath.  The world is going to hell in a handbasket, the environment is falling apart around us, life in all its forms is being pushed to the brink of extinction, litter clogs the streets and creeks, pollution colors the air strange hues of unnatural, ailments never before seen pop up around the globe, the power pendulum continually swings further in favor of those already in power—and those with money, what should be done gets ignored for what must be done to survive day to day, and all the while I suffer in a putrid pool of ire.

I need a stiff drink…

A form dark and true, I recognize him even before I see him, a shadow skulking about the patio, a whisper in the dark that shows me his presence only when light reflects in his eyes.

Then his voice.  There’s something about the raspy, weak, child-like voice, something powerful and wonderful, yet something equally heartbreaking and lamentable.  He speaks.

The sound floats upon cold air like a plea for love, a begging for that which he knows so rarely.

I kneel and pet him.  He soaks it up like a sponge does water.

All the while he talks.  Cries, really, for that better describes his voice than anything else.

They all have distinguishable vocal sounds, yes, and his no less than any other.

Trembling and broken, a melodramatic hint that touches the right heartstrings, he talks.  Each word a question, each question an appeal.

To them I have no answer save no.

What he needs I cannot give except in the darkness of the night.

As each of The Kids approaches this window or that window, he runs to greet them, speaks to them in a language only they understand, affectionately rubs against the glass in salutation, asks them for a spot in their home.

A warm corner will do.  Not much is needed.  A spot of water, a bit of kibble.  It’s only for one night, one cold night when the wind relents not for a single moment, when the stars offer no embrace from a cloudy sky.

They look on unable to give what is needed, unable to offer that for which he yearns.

Then he returns to me, The Shadow in a night full of shadows, a hint of predator full of love and need.

All the while his voice scratches my soul.

When spent and weeping for another life I cannot save, I leave him to his meal.

Instead of eating, he cries at the door.  And cries.

Light reflected inward does nothing to hide his presence.  He is al-Zill, the Shadow, and his presence goes where he wills it despite my best effort to block it from my mind.

There, next to me at the patio door, he sings a woeful song, a piercing tune of desire for things I cannot provide.  Simply can’t.  Six is more than enough.  So I keep telling myself.  Far too much in this place and time…

A scramble, a brief slide of claws upon concrete, then more sounds.

The food bowl tumbling over.  Loud crunching.  More pushing and shoving of the bowl.

I look again through the glass and see a raccoon, a large male at least three times al-Zill’s size.

And the cat moves to the bedroom door where he continues his entreaty.

Only now he’s cornered, caught between what he wants most and what he cannot face.

I go to him, to the patio, and I try to scare away the raccoon.

Perhaps because I have little intent to harm or perhaps because his size and age give him more strength of will than I anticipate, the raccoon challenges me, challenges the cat, remains in place at the bowl.

Now mad, however, for I do not relent.

That low hiss of such creatures, the throttled exhalation of deep air caught between the neck and mouth, and he rears up and gets louder.

Too much commotion and al-Zill takes to higher ground, a quick leap to the top of the fence, a movement so silent as to epitomize his name.  Then he’s gone.

And I face the raccoon.

I let the cool wind give rise to my arms in a motion slower than time.  And I become bigger than life.

The masked invader retreats, all hisses and snarls.  At the fence he challenges me again, pushes in toward me with a final lunge.

My arms still floating on restless winds, I lift my foot at him, a motion to block his path as much as to put an impenetrable object between his advance and my person.

He flees.

But the damage already is done.