You know that little tickle you get in your throat? Not so much a tickle, but a single small pinhead sized spot that, well, hurts? A precursor to what is usually an hellacious cold? Or the flu? Or whatever? Woke up this morning with the small spot that hurts. I have some variation this evening as I'm writing. I have a couple of flasks of sake in my stomach - soothing to the throat, don't you know? - hoping that things won't have deteriorated when I awaken tomorrow morning. We have a company sponsored dinner tomorrow that I hear last year degenerated into heavy drinking and debauchery. I, for god's sake, hope I don't call in sick tomorrow and miss any debauchery. At my age you don't want to miss any debauchery.
I'm in an odd mood. I feel good, the energy is good, I've been walking quite a bit and the weight has been receding, but the days are fairly atrocious: long hours juggling tasks aplenty, and although I'm appreciative of the fact I'm feeling better, I'm spaced out half the time with the pace and no hope for any reduction in the future. My job is changing, the new job starts at the end of the month and I'm looking forward to it - it's a promotion of a sort - but there's nothing on the horizon that indicates the pace will falter. Is this the lament of the growing older? Probably, but I say fuck it. I'll turn in my shoes when I'm not able to tie them anymore and I've got this new pair of lace less shoes that feels just fine at the moment.
Lately you've been concerned that no one understands what you've been writing. You're not even sure you understand it yourself. Doesn't that seem freaky?
Well, who knows? I'm going through my changes, both the photography and the writing and, who knows, the life and the art and the screaming meemies. Let it go through its changes. Maybe this just means life is geting better and in the process, whatever the process might be, the writing is getting incomprehensible. What price to pay for progress? If the writing is incomprehensible and the life is tighter, who's to complain? Certainly not I.
You don't know what your'e talking about and you don't give a crap about it. You're getting ever more lazy. Snap out of it!
The life has been getting better - the energy, the outlook - and I can only say that's good. I'm not sure I want to snap out of it. I see changes in the making. And I say that's good. At least I don't want to think otherwise. If I'm writing gibberish (and one assumes that's not good), then so be it, but otherwise I'm in good spirits. Isn't that what journals are about? Bitching our way to good spirits?
Well, at least people seem to like your pictures. I'm not sure anyone is reading your journal.
Ain't that the berries? How many photographers do I know who would like to think of themselves as writers? The mind boggles.