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  • Welcome to my blog!

    Here you will find the latest on my work, photographic in nature most of the time, interests and anything that catches my eye...or heart and doesn't let go...I love all your visits. Please leave a trace and visit often :)


rooms are inspiring, at least to me. They tell so much about their inhabitants – some decorations, collections of knickknacks and important things, books read and yet to be read, or written, sheet music piled up on a bookcase, animal collection on a window sill, beloved instrument on the floor, trophies, a doll family stuck in a corner -not played with any more but still loved too much to be rid of.. welcome to her room…

playing in the rain

It’s been hot…really hot. The heat and I don’t mesh well. I’ve been craving rain, and so did our little backyard vegetable garden. Our tomatoes were thirsty, and the cucumbers refused to grow into their usual oblong shape… We stayed at home a lot and we  went to the pool, but when even the pool water temperature reached 93°F it was too much. Enough is enough…Finally the rain came… wonderful, lovely…every drop felt like a cold needle on our skin though it was warm and summery….a relief. It was short, too short and the street dried off  almost immediately but we managed to squeeze some fun out of it… and later that night learned it was only a prelude to the scariest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen/heard.

MonikaMM - Love it, I used to run in the rain as a child, the best memories ever!!! Great memory for your children!!!

Malina - and the dirtiest feet in the world 😉


Images are quick, and simple, and quite straightforward. You can immediately see, sieve an move on…or start contemplating and interpret to your heart’s content. It is quite easy for me to say something with a picture, try to convey certain emotion, a state of mind, my voice – but there my control ends. My image is out there and I have no power anymore – no telling anybody how to see it.

With words it is different but photography made me use them less. I miss words although I have a hard time with them. They are inconvenient, and awkward and time consuming, unlike images. And unlike images, they are precise – you can  tell your story in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. But they don’t come easy to me even though I try and wish I could express precisely what my mind conceives.

So can you really tell the same story using either words or pictures? Is  a picture really worth a thousand words? Do we stop for long enough to process the images passing through our minds with a speed of light? Do we care about words now that our language got simplified to abbreviations and emoticons? Just some food for thought…

Lonely – photographed in Virginia


my muse is growing – just a month left to having a “real teenager”. Bitter-sweet. Bumpy but joyous road. Where did the time go?


onion and tears

She was quiet and shy. Much more preferred her solitude to fame and fuss about her. She was loved by many. I will still read her poetry with great delight but with overpowering sadness now, for  not being able to look forward to new beguilingly simple, beautiful word plays that only she could create. What  heartbreaking news to get on one’s own birthday… Rest in peace Wisława Szymborska…
   The onion 

the onion, now that’s something else
its innards don’t exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears 
our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there’s only onion
from its top to its toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity 
at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there’s a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polyphony compressed 
nature’s rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in its
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions’ secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections 

    Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh  

 and I will always shed some tears over cut onions- how prosaic, the antithesis of poetry – or is it?