One of many unprocessed photographs just sitting in the archives. Another case where missing focus works. I think. Last night, bored with not drinking and eating healthy foods in small quantities, I made some tea and sat down at the computer to look through files to try to determine if I could make a website. Jesus, yes. . . there are simply too many images that I like. Photographers never say that, at least in recorded interviews.
"If one make five or six pictures a year that are good. . . ."
They know something I don't, sure. I don't care.
So first off, I was overwhelmed when I dug into the files of my last trip to San Francisco. It was not a trip where photography was my focus. And yet. . . there are some terrific pictures there. I took many more than I remember. As I went through the folder, I would stop and cook up images that I couldn't believe I had not processed before. It is good, I guess, to let images sit before you decide.
Maybe this image just spoke to me last night in my isolation and loneliness. I thought there was something Hopper-esque in it. So. . . alone, sober, and hungry on a cold Friday night. . . .
I will make a website if I can cull these files. I need to have an organizational plan in mind, though, and I am one of the most disorganized people you will know. I am sloppy. I blame my heritage. Stereotypes didn't get born from nothing. Still, I know people overcome it. The woman who barely asked me out is a self-proclaimed West Virginia hillbilly. She may be for her beauty belies her age, and we know how that happens sometimes, but she is meticulously organized.
I, on the other hand, still don't tighten jar tops all the way. Inherent laziness, I guess. I still just throw things into drawers. There are pleasant surprises sometimes when I open a drawer to look for something.
"Holy smokes--I forgot all about this!"
Which happened last night with the digital files. I was already sleepy, though, and had "the music" playing, and didn't get through looking at even half of what was there. I shut down for the night and went to bed.
I should have stayed up. It was another miserable night of not sleeping. What is going on? I've been sleeping pretty well until I jump started Dry January. Am I still in some funky detox shock? My hands don't shake. But I can't seem to sleep. Even a gummy didn't help last night.
So I stumble through my days slow and sleepy. Up at four, I am at the gym before the crowd gets there. I've only been doing stretches and cardio this week, but the cardio alone is taking over forty-five minutes. Every other day, I sit in the sauna and then the steam room sweating out the toxins. I read that this increases the production of growth hormone and speeds up the metabolism. I drink plenty of water and am not dehydrated from booze. Then, after the gym, and after showering, I eat a five hundred calorie meal.
There is no way I'm still toxic.
Of course, I'm being more productive. Not a lot, but some. I have my storage locker nearly cleared out now. A few more trips will do it. The rental fee has doubled, so I will be glad to have that off the debit side of the balance sheet. I have been manly and fixed some cabinet doors that were not working well. I've scheduled appointments and. . . and. . . well, I've done other things. Yesterday, for instance, I took back a pair of shoes I had ordered online because I read they had excellent support and were a top-notch walking shoe. I ordered the right size, but I could barely get my foot in. Maybe, I thought, I had ordered women's shoes. That must have been the case. So, after I had dropped those off in the original packaging at UPS, I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and bought a pair of Hokas which I had also read were great. When I slipped them on my feet, I knew these were the ones. I was amazed that after Xmas, they still had them in stock. To celebrate my victory, I bought a pair of Adidas Gazelles. Super cool. I bought some expensive inserts, too, that say they are the thing for those who suffer from plantar fasciitis. And twelve pairs of socks. I mean. . . I was more than productive.
The day was clear and bright, and I should have been out "practicing photography." But I wasn't, and I didn't. Rather, since I was on her side of town, I went for an early visit to my mother. She liked the shoes.
I came home, poured a cranberry and soda, lit a cheroot, and sat outside trying to pretend it was the same as (or better than) drinking a Campari. I rubbed my belly to see if it was working. Then I made a beet, goat cheese, walnut, and Balsamic vinegar salad. Now THAT WAS good. I ate that outside, but I was getting too chilled to eat my early dinner there, so I moved into the house. Dinner and some camera porn. It was early. It was Friday night. There was no place to go, nothing to do. I was bored and felt as if I were under house arrest. Shit piss fuck goddamn--this was no way to live. Well, I thought, next week you won't be limited to 1,200 calories. You can up that a bit to 1,500 or so. That really cheered me up. Kidding. A little maybe. I really did it, didn't I, going dry AND low calorie at the same time after weeks of eating and drinking like Pantagruel?
Bored, anxious, depressed. . . I decided to meditate. I fell asleep. I opened my eyes. Shit, it was early. And so. . . I decided to look through the old photo files.
The Liberator Creator called me. He is making even more refinements to Black Cat camera. He asked me to order something that he needed but didn't have online. The Liberator will be in fine form, but I have already forgotten what I intended to do with it. Maybe. I think I have just lost my nerve. I know what I need to do. And maybe that is why I can't sleep.
Or it could simply be the lack of booze.
Whatever. I'm down to 88 pounds now, so there is that. I was told that the Wan look is in. I can't believe I've lost all this weight in only four days.
Aimee Mann is one of the most wonderful pop musician ever, I think. Her music was playing while I was culling. It is funny that I like her stuff so much and cannot appreciate Taylor Swift. But that is just the way I am. I liked the review I read in the Times about Swift's music. The reviewer said that she did not begrudge Swift the money nor the fame, that she seemed like a nice person, but that Swift had simply not made the music for her. And that's it in the nutshell, I think. Swift did not make her music for me. I probably wouldn't like Mann as much if she had been half as popular as Swift, either. There is something about the swelling crowd that rebuffs me. But last night, looking at that image above alone on a cold Friday night, this song spoke to me. . . but for the reason to believe part. I looked out the window. It was Camus' window. . . Beckett's.
I hate when that happens.