Impossible instant color film. The film has horrible flaws. For some of us, that is the "charm." The image will not last. It is not nearly archival. The model said, "I look just like my mother in this photograph." I've not met her mother.
I am having a reaction. I like such metaphorical statements. It is the symbolic language of doctors. I, like they, cannot be sure of the cause. I am just sick (of it). Perhaps it is a reaction to having just spent so much money on Polaroid film and a camera. That was stupid. I am sick of all of it now, of the images, the process. Think of all the writers and artists who in one impulsive moment destroyed their entire body of work.
Perhaps it is to working too much. I just realized that illness may have cost me my vacation. And I need to get away badly or I will become a voluntary shut-in. I am not supposed to be away from the factory in August, but now if I vacation, it cannot be avoided. I have not paid attention and now I panic.
Or maybe it is due to "other things." There are a host of them. Twenty-seven may not be the perfect age for checking out, but by forty-two it might be advisable. I shouldn't say that. I'm not making suggestions for any friends who are that age. This is merely personal.
I came across a quotation on another website today. I am in a thieving mood, so I took it.
"Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies."
-Emil Cioran
from Syllogismes De L’amertume [ All gall is divided: gnomes and apothegms]
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