This was shot through a picture window in a restaurant where we sat in a small town north of my own hometown. I will be there this weekend, and (to misuse the word) hopefully, I will take some pictures. That is the plan. You know how plans go, though.
I sit and dream of my release from the factory, of the days when I can walk with a camera, go anywhere I want, spend as much time as I want, and use my genius to make the pictures I think I can make. That's how it is in dreams. God knows what the reality might be. But there are others who do it, others with much less creativity and intelligence than I have. Again, that's how it goes in dreams.
I didn't sleep well last night, and now it is Friday the 13th. What madness awaits? I will be on guard today for whatever treachery might be out there, but that is virtually useless (especially now that "virtual" and "literally" mean the same thing). We must be intrepid adventurers through the treacheries of the postmodern world where things are being flattened both figuratively and literally (ibid). Ideology and actuality are headed in opposite directions. These are strange and wicked times.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
One must be so careful these days.
(from "The Wasteland")
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