Unless It Doesn't
I was thinking, walking this morning in downtown Oakland on the way back home, there's a ten pound limit on the amount of weight I'm supposed to lift for these first weeks after the operation lest something slip. How much, for example, does this backpack weigh with the camera inside (and the strobe, the extra battery pack and two bottles of vitamins bought at Rite Aide down the street)? Because I'm aching quite a bit. Maybe I should sit and watch the people pass as I wait for a bus. Eight pounds of backpack and camera it said on the bathroom scale when I got home, nothing to worry about. Still, I'm not there yet. Another week, I think.
I rented two movies at the local video store when I got back thinking: stay in bed, watch these movies, take a pill, break your routine, stay away from the computer, take care of yourself. The usual check list. Neither movie turned out to be worth watching, but I have stayed off my feet. The time line, the rhythm and rime line varies between patients, they say; no need to chronicle it here for posterity. What does it mean, anyway, "it aches"? I won't remember in another day, let alone another week. Aches, schmakes.
What then to talk about? My lack of photographs? All that money I spent on camera gear to kick start my interest again and so far no luck? Half baked politics? Half baked depressing politics? The fate of nations? The life of Emmy Cat in Oakland: a detailed account of her no stick, no cholesterol, not allowed outside existence? Well? If those are the voices I hear, on this day in May before Mother's Day, I guess I go with it.
You really think you've lost your interest in photography?
No. I would have said that when I was younger. You learn over time: when it goes, it comes back. Phoenix from the ashes. Unless it doesn't.