tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34339804027595460322012-02-16T01:33:19.516-05:00Photographs, rambling, poetry & strong opinions on matters large and small.Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.comBlogger221100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-22134420049219848132010-11-06T09:00:00.000-04:002010-11-06T09:00:45.819-04:00

Time and Place 2011

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-40328875207957876582010-10-10T15:41:00.001-04:002010-10-10T15:41:29.734-04:00

Godbless you, Rabo KarabekianOriginally uploaded by Jaci SueThere was a moment when we were driving that I thought, "This is what it feels like to be a grown up."We got a call at 11:30 that morning from my husband's aunt. We were waiting/not waiting for it to come. "Matt, your dad's probably not going to make it to tomorrow." And so we went; south and east, to a state that so far has been home to

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-49378054196099351192009-09-29T14:59:00.004-04:002009-09-29T15:27:20.407-04:00

While we've been hunting down the American Dream, America has been dreaming us. America dreams of itself: of it's land and those who inhabit the land. America is oblivious to the idea of itself as a nation-state. It does not care if the people who live inside of it are real Americans or not, it does not judge us on the merits that we judge ourselves. America dreams in train whistles, in high

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-40406395101312034412009-06-29T10:48:00.002-04:002009-06-29T10:51:42.174-04:00

Felt In Passing Photographs of my ... By Jaclyn Sollars I have a little book of photography for sale. I'd love it if you'd come take a look.

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-12400055329180732112009-06-21T20:37:00.006-04:002009-06-21T21:45:31.233-04:00

I.Sometimes I find myself still in the grips of your schoolyard poetry;your voice, grit in my memory.The feel of your hands,cool and dry and boney hard,has stayed on the palms of my own.In my headI've confused you with the other ones too oftenand I'm sorry for that. You were a different story altogether, all the time.II.Then, there were a thousand summers in every summer.There were a thousand

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-8484547825247965112009-06-13T13:10:00.001-04:002009-06-13T13:10:06.449-04:00

Originally uploaded by Jaci SueI was standing in this little log church that was built in the early 1800s and it was just starting to rain. There was a glassless window there and I leaned out to see how hard it was coming down and I saw this; this perfect light. There is something in these things that we see every day that holds magic. To name it would be useless. It's been here all this time and

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-64836797914868917632009-06-05T08:02:00.001-04:002009-06-05T08:02:14.583-04:00

There's an angel that nests in the tree of lifeOriginally uploaded by Jaci SueThere was a man in Tennessee who lost his wife in mysterious circumstances. He was so struck by her death, so aggrieved, that he (who had never done anything like it before) took up a hammer and a chisel and began to carve her a grave stone. On the cross is the tree of life and atop the tree is an angel. On the left

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-34011380524423315362009-05-23T23:05:00.001-04:002009-05-23T23:05:26.541-04:00

all of it is proofOriginally uploaded by Jaci Suespeak the lost word of heartacheblond sunlight on the riverreflects green water on the leaves

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-9827179348449712702009-05-22T08:07:00.001-04:002009-05-22T08:07:15.629-04:00

Originally uploaded by Jaci SueI'm starting to figure out that Ohio is about the things that aren't said, more so than the things that are.Because the things we think, but don't know for sure are the things that are often the most beautiful and, ultimately, the things that are the most true.

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-12045312955759030782009-05-14T20:47:00.001-04:002009-05-14T20:47:20.271-04:00

forget everything elseOriginally uploaded by Jaci SueI think I found somethingBut is the finding more importantThan the thing itself?Or is the act of finding necessary To make the thing itself?

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-31040441741846661442009-03-24T21:08:00.003-04:002009-03-24T21:24:00.199-04:00

Remember the winter you were eight years old? There was an evening you stood in the field behind your house, right before your mother called you for dinner. You stood there and unzipped your coat because it was warmer than it had been. You stood there and breathed so deeply you thought your lungs would burst. And when your mother called your name a hundred starlings rose up into the twilight.

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-24063625266717006372009-03-08T23:20:00.003-04:002009-03-08T23:58:02.649-04:00

Why do we need to remember all of this? We're recording roadsides like they're lovers we're afraid to loose;every moment held tight in our handsto keep them from disappearing,or maybe to keep us from disappearing;to keep our hearts in the right placeeven if our feet aren't.

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-56093506359076269662009-03-03T21:33:00.002-05:002009-03-03T21:39:10.472-05:00

...If love is an awkward, scriptless sceneTo be played out between two people,I cannot write it: I am a patternOf breath and sleep that city will outlive.And if poetry is a bond betweenTwo hearts, it is a bond too frail:That night words failed, I too, was lost--To whiskey, memory, a photograph.East of that city, the green fieldsAre winding away beneath your gaze,And here, west of that city, there

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Rutherford County, North Carolina; Spring, before the kudzo comes

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-79605446451162957702009-02-27T20:54:00.002-05:002009-02-27T20:55:25.593-05:00

Originally uploaded by Jaci Sue

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-14333043628045831992009-02-22T20:50:00.001-05:002009-02-22T20:54:32.987-05:00

"There is a book inside us, written by the finger of God, through which we may read all things."-Jean Baptiste van Helmont

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-76029225029272773212009-02-19T22:37:00.002-05:002009-02-19T22:46:35.270-05:00

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Plaster deer with Stations of the Cross.Shrine of the Holy Relics- Maria Stein, Ohio

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-9101153048444927432009-02-12T20:09:00.004-05:002009-02-12T20:44:07.414-05:00

And it poured out like springtime- like breathing in a storm cloud. In the lost pages of childhoodand here in the twilight of who I used to be images hold my hand and heart still. It is a mirror held up and dropped again; it is the road spooling out behind;it is a river writen on the palm of my hand; it has broken my heart wide open.

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-81566547695274175672009-02-12T11:26:00.004-05:002009-02-12T11:53:35.622-05:00

The steps outside Cearsars Palace- Las Vegas, NV July 2008(for some reason when I think of Las Vegas I remember everything as being pink.)

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-6884562610298477272009-02-10T21:59:00.000-05:002009-02-11T07:16:48.401-05:00

I have studied the geography of  youth; mapped my regret and rapture in the trees and roads of Miami County. I have found causal links in cracked sidewalks; patterns like the lines in my hand, criss-crossed in railroad ties; photographs never taken in fields with lonely trees. The music of what was once said was put on mixtapes and forgotten in a moment; the names unspoken, the faces

Jaclyn Sollarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05130480547770491244noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3433980402759546032.post-48034329864112899522009-02-10T08:06:00.000-05:002009-02-10T08:35:52.699-05:00

In the past few years I've heard several people lament the loss of the night sky for most of the world's population, and I'm right there with them, lamenting too.  What will perpetual twilight at night do to our dreams; to our selves? There is a stillness that comes in darkness. The stillness of being small and quiet and anonymous in the night, especially during a night spent in the wilderness;

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