Another day, another (similar) photograph.
Today slipped by slick and fast like a silent river, calm, cool, not a ripple. One minute I'm in the office drinking a cup of coffee, another minute and the day is over and I'm walking home. Some things happened, some things didn't. It's Tuesday. I look at my calendar and I have meetings planned that will eat up Wednesday and Thursday and maybe Friday too and then this week will be finished. What happened to the week? I'm sitting here wondering about the year 2000, the month of January and now February, already the 8th. It goes fast, comfortably fast, much, much too comfortably fast. This is neither good nor bad, I suppose, unless there is something out there (in here) somewhere, that I intended to do before all of this is over. What is it? Or is there an "it" all all? It wouldn't surprise me if there wasn't. Life is a strange proposition. I wonder, sometimes, what it might be about.
Then again, fuck it.
This is one of those days when you need to find that one true clean clear sentence to start
the flow and I'm not sure repeating the "comfortably numb" routine cuts it. Carpe Diem was wondering today that "there seems to be something oddly solitary about journal readers and writers". I would say so, about the writers, anyway. About this writer. How much time do I spend with internal dialogue? Walking to work running little internal routines, little stories about this or that, testing the sounds of the words as well as their meanings. We're supposed to be social animals and I can't think that I haven't been, haven't had friends, certainly in the earlier years, friends now, but fewer friends now and no one close. No particular thought or need for people around once I get out of the office. That would have been very worrisome twenty years ago. Maybe it should be worrisome now. Techies are probably more loners than not, but I've not always been a techie and the kind of thinking photography brings has nothing to do with the technical, although, of course, now that I think about it, it's certainly a solitary pursuit. The observer. Writing was always a solitary pursuit. You and the typewriter (or the screen), wondering how it sounds, wondering what people reading might think, if any of it works.
And then again, as I think about it, what the fuck. Life is a strange proposition. Maybe it's best. About the comfortably numb part.