I've been invited to give one of my photographs for the poster of an art festival. The fix is in. I know the fellow who chooses. Trouble is, I don't have any art festival photos. It would be a hoot, though, to see one of my images up in windows all over the Boulevard. However, I am just not the art festival type.
Don't know what type I am, really. You probably know better than I.
The misery continues. I am faking it every day now. I put one foot in front of the other and do the task at hand. I am missing the usual joi de vivre for which I am famously known. It is autumn here now in some way. The temperatures have dropped five or six degrees and the air is not as moist. There is the light, too, and I have heard the air smells different. . . autumnal. People so badly want the holidays now, the ones they have in their imaginations, the archetypal holidays of movies and t.v. specials and false memories, the ones that are deep in color and rich in flavor, the ones that fulfill a desire for emotional satisfaction. The ones that make them feel part of the whole.
Retailers want to capitalize on that. Christmas decorations will be up in the stores very soon. Nothing Trumps money.
I work slowly. It is all I can do. And though I keep putting one foot before the other, and though I tackle each task at hand, what needs to be done, what must be done, is piling up all around me. It has taken on overwhelming proportions. It seems to have gained an actual mass.
I must be gentle with myself now. I need days when I skip the gym and just go walking in pleasant places, evenings when I sit in some pretty place with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Alone. Just to visit things. Just to see.
But you have your own burdens to bear. Mine should be purely entertainment. I will try to find the humor in them. . . soon. Now, it is off to the factory for the daily beating.
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