I need to get away from this place again. Summe's are always this way. I can't sleep. The heat and humidity foster a paranoid insanity. Read your Faulkner. He was a reporter as much as an artist. It is in those vast southern summers that the atrocities are worst. Yes, I must get away from the summer atrocity. . . but what about the cat? Seriously, you will find it stupid, but she keeps my foot nailed to the floor. I want to go away every weekend, but there is that.
When I think about my life, I wonder how I was once so alive and able to do so much with such aplomb. History is an anchor that we drag from place to place. If this had happened instead of that. . . . I avoid that thinking, of course, but it is there when I "sleep" if sleep it can be called. There is that and the insanity of the culture in which I live and the increasing population, the growth of technology. . . oh, I will become a Catholic, enter the priesthood, live in rectum or whatever they are called. . . a rectory, I think.
Street portraits are so awfully telling about the human condition. People rarely look happy. Nine out of ten images make you feel that everyone is suffering from the same internal sadness and doubt, the same sort of madness as you. That is what I like about them, the candid shot in which the person is unprepared and stripped of the momentary artifice of a moment.
I want to block others from my consciousness for awhile and concentrate on what I am thinking, feeling, doing. I will, too. Gone will be that silly smile we think is a sign of happiness. People will worry. "What's wrong," they will say. "You don't seem yourself." Oh no, I will say, I am totally myself today. It is awful, ain't it?