Monday. The beginnings of a new week, the round trip to breakfast safely navigated, the sun streaming in through the sliding glass doors, the writing drifting toward nausea for its upbeat flavor this early in the morning. I slipped into a kind of sing song feel good mantra at the end of my last entry and I guess I'm feeling guilty. I did go back and kill some offending adjectives, but not enough, not enough and I guess I have a need to make some mention of it to clear the air.
We seem to be drifting into the opaque and incomprehensible here, my friend. You feeling OK?
Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. I was thinking about art and life and reality this morning coming home from breakfast asking, for example, what's real about this particular written universe of mine? About the much larger mainstream media universe? The YouTube universe? The after the third shot of whiskey universe? All or any of them versus the universe of that guy packing a gun out in the middle of a street checking a beat up white van, wondering if it might not have been placed there to lure him closer? Maybe not a good idea to start a fresh week wondering what's real and what isn't, but I'll take journal reality over Bombs in Baghdad reality (playing daily on your local news channel) any time.
We're coming up on an election which one hopes will have an effect on that guy with the gun and I was wondering how our various personal fantasies instruct us in selecting our candidates? That three or more shots of whiskey reality, for example? How useful is that when you're standing in a voting booth? Mainstream media reality? Is it a bad sign I'm wondering if whiskey might produce the better result? Then I lapse back into journal/photographer time, the sunlight moving across the rug and, if I get ambitious enough later, I'll take a nice walk; but on the sidewalk, not in the street, certainly with camera in hand instead of a gun, watching for something other than parked cars that might mean trouble here in Oakland. Ain't no trouble here in Oakland.