Just Discovered Speed
Yesterday was hopeless. Came home, turned on the computer, looked over the contact sheets and managed to scan the photograph below, which is not a very good photograph. Writing was impossible, so I naturally assumed the worst and thought this journal was over. What a wuss. Lasted about an hour. Read more L.A. Confidential. Wrote the Great American Novel in the bath this morning, wonderful book, but I'd totally forgotten plot and phrasing by the time I reached the office. Drove in - what else? - it was raining.
Perhaps I should take notes. Seems not unlike dreaming, you write it down or your forget it almost immediately. I've written the Great American Novel, short story and journal entry five hundred times in the last three years and don't remember a one of them. Still, I could take notes or babble into a tape recorder, which would allow me to throw money at the problem. All it takes is a long bath or a walk into work. I prefer the bath. But you knew that. And besides, if I wrote it down, if I fed it onto tape, I would undoubtedly find out my idea of the Great American Novel doesn't translate all that well after breakfast. The best writing is often the writing that never sees paper.
Nothing wrong with any of this, of course, I looked at the photograph of the two kids, remembered the situation when I was shooting it, remembered I thought it not quite right when I took it, but didn't, for whatever reason (hi, ho), stand my ground and shoot until it was right. Lack of enthusiasm or just in a rut, take your pick, I need to change locations, get out of the house and go to new places or, at least, places I haven't been with a camera. Lot's of those around. Lots of places I once frequented because I thought they were swell places to visit that I haven't returned to in years.
So I should get out of the house this weekend and drive somewhere else, except it's raining like crazy and cold so I probably won't, but it might be a time to scout what's coming up in the next months and think about making reservations. Life in the slow lane, life in the fast, it all flows together in the bath every morning, dreams of living, dreams of excitement, dreams all forgotten before breakfast.
I worked on a set of web pages today, something a little different from the usual stuff. It's a
project that's due Wednesday and I haven't received any copy from the various people who are responsible for what the pages are about. My position is a little different in the web production side because I'm both a techie and a writer and a web designer, so I pretty much know what the copy should say since I'm also involved in conducting the projects we're writing about. Except, if these particular pages are to be successful, I have to do it on my own to make the deadline. Yes, I want to make the deadline, but I also want something nice to show to a prospective employer. "You did these? How delightful!" Yes, Martha, there is dreaming after breakfast.
I left this morning without feeding Spider Cat, by the way. No, he wasn't out of food, but yes, I feel guilty about not going upstairs and letting him know that he hadn't been deserted, that I didn't sit down and pet him, tell him he's a nice little cat until later this afternoon. "Thou art a nice little cat, Mr. Spider Cat, but you jump around like a jumping bean who's just discovered speed.