Gripped By Consciousness

Not my photo.  Wish it were.  If I begin photographing again, it will be the carnival series.  It will be difficult, though.  Costumes.  Props.  But the shooting itself will take less time, I think.

I think a lot.  I need to think less and do more, but the proportions are growing constantly in the other direction.

But once in a while I do meet the most interesting people.  As I say, they like telling.  Everyone loves an audience of some sort, even people who don't talk but who write strange journals in very small, neat script.

Of a sudden, though, I am gripped by consciousness.  My tales are, perhaps, too vivid and inappropriate to tell here.  Too immediate, too.  Maybe a blog is not the place for such things.  I haven't worked all that out for myself as I try "going forward."  Whatever that means.

Fucking clowns.  The old ones, I mean.  They don't make them like they used to, nothing as nightmarishly scary.  I want a clown like this to photograph.  I believe they still exist in "the old country" where people continue to believe in werewolves and vampires.  That is where the real life is, where things smell like cooked cabbage and goulash and wet canvas, where old women wear shawls and smell of garlic, where things are lit by torches and lamps, where gypsies live in wooden caravans.

That is what I want to create. . . with some eastern influences.

I'll have to think more about the stories.