Rougher Night

Telling personal stories is by definition a demonstration of self-absorption. The challenge the essayist faces is to convince readers that all this inward attention is justified and worthwhile — that he can see through his own vanities and speak credibly about himself in a way that will be illuminating to others (link).

That's cool, but when it is once said, I can only reply, "Fuck that!"  There is only one way to go, and that is the other way.

Hillary beat Bernie.  And so it is.  We are doomed.

Here is another picture where I have missed focus.  See how sharp the street is behind them?  But I think I am beginning to prefer the wrongly focussed pictures.  They have a quality to them that I cannot yet describe.  Maybe--yes, maybe--I am doing that on purpose.  Do you think?  Do you?

I am groggy this morning, brain fog, body cloud. . . too much of what some people call life, too many coping aids, too much ahead, too much behind. . . .  Chet Baker plays on the "radio." I am waiting in gloom for the repairman to show up.  It is the day for building the deck.  Or part of it.  I don't think it can be done in a day.  I have many other projects, too.  There is no end to these things.

Alone last night with the cat.  I stare at a sprig of mint in a water filled Ball jar.  It would make a wonderful picture.  I remember when I used to take those.

I am too scattered and fragmented for cohesion just now.  I will put on my work clothes and begin cutting boards.  The worker must have had a rougher night than I.