Friday. A day to pull the various lost pieces of rationality back into orbit methinks, a long night's sleep last night, breakfast at the usual place, then a two hour nap. I was thinking another nap this afternoon, but decided to take the bus downtown and have lunch, pick up some pills, make a bank deposit and return to the apartment all tuckered out.
I hope you're kidding.
Not as much as I'd like, but the recent epiphany I had puffing along at seven thousand feet this week was that I should be walking the lake every day and tomorrow (notice I didn't say today) is to be day one of the new regime. It will be interesting when I have a couple months walking the same lake under my belt: how do you find an original photograph when you've covered the same territory some sixty times? Maybe you do, maybe you don't, maybe you will, maybe you won't. It's often like that, here in Oakland.
I've had some thoughts on the photographs. The thing with photography for me is finding my bent, the way I look at things, the images that cause me to go back and take more and so on this trip I pretty much shot anything that seemed to have something, anything that caught my attention. One problem with Yosemite, of course, is the fact that anyone who's ever picked up a camera has seen Ansel Adam's black and white images. What's a good Yosemite photograph? Does it have to fit into Ansel's vision of the spot? Doesn't hurt if it does, of course, but maybe the vision you bring to your photographs involves rocks and shadows, small rocks and pale shadows not taken at magic sunrises or stupendous sunsets, but rather in the middle of the day with the sun beating straight down on your head while everyone else is inside taking their afternoon nap. You just sort of keep your eyes open and keep taking photographs and keep looking for a whiff of magic and it will happen - bing! - and then everything you've shot will fall into focus.
That seems rather pompous.
Fuck it. I'm too old to change now.