Sunday. Another walk through Art and Soul. No visiting the office this time, though, with some thought on how to approach this festival for the future: best attend with friends who are interested in hearing one or another of the acts, have a little lunch, have a few drinks, cut out when it closes at six and continue on into the evening. For the serious photographer there are always opportunities, for the less serious laid back no editor looking over his shoulder photographer, well, a couple of desultory hours then back home on the bus, a day of whooping it up in the big city now done. No complaints. One or two good pictures. Nothing happening today to include in my biography, nothing to impinge on my reality except that everything ultimately impinges on your reality and it's best to remember that.
What in the hell does that mean?
I don't know. I said I was going to stop thinking yesterday, plenty of time to start thinking again tomorrow to begin the shortened work week. Not thinking doesn't seem to have any effect on my writing, though.
What is there about your office that requires thought?
Probably best not to trumpet these things, but the office doesn't really require thought although it does require energy. These days most of the energy I generate sleeping is expended just getting out of bed, bathed, dressed and on my way to the office. I walk through the front door and I can tell something is missing. Me, mostly. I'm obviously somewhere else reading the paper over a decent breakfast. My body, however, is standing on the elevator on its way to work. Something of a disconnect.
It's this keeping a roof over your head thing, of course: the old three hots and a cot. Now, I've kept that to a minimum: no wife, family or tuition to support, no real responsibilities, but this isn't enough to skip going into an office every day to cover the overhead. I was able to go a number of years in my thirties and forties where I pretty much did art and life and avoided going into an office, but old age and a need to cover retirement, some kind of retirement, has led me back to the herd to practice these bad habits.