Inner Harbor Panorama

Baltimore's Inner Harbor as seen from atop Federal Hill this morning.

I've been trying to capture a panorama of Baltimore's Inner Harbor for over a year. Each attempt brings me a little closer to a good image. This image above is made up of 8 individual shots stitched together by Adobe Photoshop's "merge" routine. If I printed it out at full size it would be well over 5 feet long.

The detail in the panorama is amazing, however there are still a few stitching artifacts visible. It's always a gamble for me to get some time to play and then to make sure that the weather and the camera cooperate for the best photograph possible.

To see the surprising level of detail available in these kind of shots, click on the full image here. Expand the image in your browser and then you should be able to scroll. Can you find a woman pushing a stroller in front of Rash Field near the yachts? How about the Hard Rock's guitar atop the old Power Plant?

After 40 years of working, this sums it up ...

To be of use
by Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

The Meeting: An Audio Essay

I've been a government employee for almost 30 years. Meetings are a big part of my life. But I rarely enjoy them.

The following audio essay captures how I feel after so many meetings, especially the "good" meetings. I produced it this weekend after a particularly difficult meeting.

I've been experimenting with a new software application for producing podcasts. This essay gave me an excuse to try it out.

Click here to hear "The Meeting: An audio essay". It's absurd, dark and cynical but I was trying for a different vibe. If the link above doesn't work, visit here and click the play button. Enjoy.

A tip of the headphones to Joe Frank . Visit here for Joe Frank's podcasts.

EMAIL: AUTO REPLY

Thanks for your email. However, I'm sorry to inform you that Rick Wilson is spiritually dead. He died recently from latent implementation atrophy (LIA). In layman's terms, he died from generating too many ideas without ever DOING any of them.

A rare type of extremely painful psychic constipation, LIA is known to afflict bureaucrats and other mentally sedentary people.

All of his email messages are being forwarded to his kingdom-come email account. He may occasionally be reading email on an after_life Blackberry in purgatory.

By the way, he wanted everyone to know that exactly 2.3 x 10^8 angels can dance on the head of a pin: But they can only comfortably slow dance.

His purgatory-mandated "angel on a pin" counting sessions are continuing for the other dance categories; foxtrot, swing, lindy, salsa,...

Respectfully,

Rick's Professional Soul Tender

Sunday Morning in Oldtown

It's so quiet you can hear the house age. Floors creak like my fifty-two year old knees. A faucet drips with the slow rhythm of a Sunday morning hymn, tic...tic...tic...

No NPR warning me of crisis nor folly. Even my Blackberry is quiet, its battery exhausted from a week of what passes for work these days.

I step outside for the Post. Laurel Ave sleeps. Route 1 is still, bracing itself for the crush of the after church crowd in a few hours.

I love to be the first one up on Sunday morning. I wallow in the quiet. Alone with my coffee, dog and paper. No need to rush for the Marc train. No need to steal myself for the countless noisy duties of the day. I seem to even breathe and think better in the quiet. A thought comes to mind and I have the quiet to savor it thoroughly.

I hear the shower. Someone has turned on Morning Edition. I've got to get ready for Mass at Saint Mary's. I plug in my Blackberry.

Sunday morning in Oldtown has recharged me.