I have had no time to write, no time to photograph, no time to do anything other than work. So. . . film again. And I am in a hurry this morning. So much to do at the factory. So much to do everywhere. Blah, blah, blah. . . .
Last night I stayed up too late playing Beach Boy songs for Ili. Only the early ones, the naive ones, the ones that shaped a generation's idea of summer fun. We watched Mike Love prance around with his subtle pre-jagger moves, his striped shirts tucked tight into his sans-a-belt high waisted trousers looking like a young James Caan.
I'm not sure she enjoyed it nearly as much as I did.
So this morning I am late and tired. Why do I do such things?
It is just a part of my peculiar charm, I think.
My friend C.C. sent me this article which I emailed to all my ideological friends telling them that they were to blame (link). I am full of microaggression.
I read this in the New York Times this morning and blamed a lot of other people for it, too (link). Here is a preview. You may not want to read the article in its entirety.
In the moments before he raped the 12-year-old girl, the Islamic State fighter took the time to explain that what he was about to do was not a sin. Because the preteen girl practiced a religion other than Islam, the Quran not only gave him the right to rape her — it condoned and encouraged it, he insisted.
He bound her hands and gagged her. Then he knelt beside the bed and prostrated himself in prayer before getting on top of her.
When it was over, he knelt to pray again, bookending the rape with acts of religious devotion.
If the two articles juxtaposed don't make you wonder at the imbecility of ideologues at best and incredible horror at worst. . . .
But all our sins will be exposed eventually, or so it says in religious texts. I think, however, that it will be science that does it. Old Warren Harding had a kid which he denied. Genetic tests have nailed him now.
He died thinking he'd gotten away with it. You can read about it here (link).
And that is all I have today, lacking any life beyond the Beach Boys at Bedtime. But I promise this weekend will be different. I am going to have it to myself. If I don't make some pictures then, I will sell everything photographic that I own. I might even have some stories to tell, too.
For now. . . Selah.