In walking out this morning, I wore my shooting jacket: A pocket full of film, a backup set of batteries, a long lens in one pocket, an F5 over the shoulder. I haven't worn this rig since the operation. A bus was pulling up when I got to the corner, so I got on, went downtown, had breakfast and walked around for a while. A short while. Another bus back, a cup of coffee at a cafe on the way, now here in front of the monitor. Although I am here, I am still not quite here, wherever here is. Or was. Not to fret. Here, whatever here may be, will resolve. With time. He said. And repeated.
I am discovering how difficult it is to sound, well, even coherent on a daily basis. I occasionally read an earlier entry when I see one in my referrer logs (people, I think, search by title, and my titles, fortunately or unfortunately, having nothing to do with the content), one, maybe two, in a day. The early one's are embarrassing. The later one's are mostly embarrassing. The latest ones read better, if banal and boring. I am realizing it might be easier to work on something larger where the day to day is polishing and rewriting and the initial brilliant impetus carries you forward without additional day to day effort.
There is the problem with the initial brilliant impetus. You need one. You need to be able to recognize one when it comes, whenever it comes, wherever it comes. You need to write it down, make little notes on why you thought it worthwhile to write it down, hope to hell it makes sense when you read it again in the morning.
Best not to think about it. Yes, I went out today loaded down for pictures and shot not a one. I sit here talking trash about brilliant initial impetus and have the impetus of a snail. On a nail. Perhaps that's what growing (really) old is about. The world just floats away in bits and pieces, no urge to rearrange any of what's left into a coherent sentence. Then again, maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just me, this sunny Saturday, grousing.