What do you do when you wake earlier each night? Do you get up or stay in bed to fight with the pillows and the covers, maybe drifting off into that light sleep that is more like thinking than dreaming?
I try to push the horrors far from my mind, concentrating on the things that are making or, I hope, will make me happy. And that works for a while. Then the sudden jolt, and I realize I had drifted off into semi-consciousness where the anxieties again have had free reign.
Hemingway couldn't sleep, and he was up early, at his desk writing until noon or so when he would knock off for the day. If only. I mean working until noon on what you wished to work at, finished then for the rest of the day.
This project that I am presenting here unedited is beginning to overwhelm me. The more I shoot, the better the selection, but I am overwhelmed with work. I have shoots coming up with people who have agreed to work with me, people I have not met but who want to be part of the project. For a minute I was confident, but I vacillate wildly now wondering what I might have been thinking so long ago when I began. I am preparing a portfolio to send out next month to several. . . oh, I should not say where. It is a vanity that shall be smashed to pieces by summer's end. And for those of you who come here and read, it should be mildly entertaining. A schlemiel cannot fall but from an imaginary perch. That is called comedy.
But it surely must be the moon. Everybody knows that. I have been awake for too many hours already this morning. I will post this and go back to bed now that it is light. Perhaps I will have a little peace.
But tonight. . . well that's another story.
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