Ramblings
Hmm . . . these things seemed pertinent tonight.
1. My body almost refuses to go to bed before 2.00 a.m.
2. Girls will never make a bit of sense. Instead they will continue to confuse and cower me. I probably want it to be too easy, and that stems from a dormant self-doubt that reappears at first chance when dealing with attractive females. It's like I look for any opportunity to count myself out, when I should be actively convincing this girl, through confidence and casual assertiveness, that she should date me. I've been rejected; it's painless. So why am I always tucking tail?
3. No matter how many independent bookstores Barnes & Noble, et al., glutton themselves on, they'll still manage to not have the book I'm looking for.
4. While looking at a photography book, I was struck by how strongly I react to the medium. Black and whites from the early-20th-century masters, in particular, engage me. Today was Edward Weston, before it was W. Eugene Smith, and so on and so on--sometimes, unexpectedly, I come across a book and study it until my eyes hurt. When I look up, everything is photogenic, from the fashionably-dressed, muscle-bound black guy sleeping in the chair beside me with a paperback in his lap to the sparse fake red flowers shooting from their vase like bland fireworks on the table in front of me. I again start telling myself that I need to carry a camera around with me at all times, and I start daydreaming of becoming a photographer's assistant and pouring all my efforts into the artform for a year.
Photography is probably the one area of my life in which I'm really confident. I think I could do it professionally, and do it well, probably better than writing. But it's hard for me to imagine photography as a career. I write because I want to share something with others; my audience figures directly into my efforts. But I photograph because I want to capture something for myself. If others happen to like it, great, but the work is never for anyone else nor does it mean the same thing to anyone else nor is it ever motivated by anyone else. An internal compulsion pushes me, so it's hard to imagine submitting the results for approval or taking cues from an editor. But only photography can stir up my thoughts and emotions so much that it makes me want to scrap all my plans for the future and go someplace where I can make it my solitary priority. I can't accurately describe what this inclination feels like except to call it a burning. Maybe I need a muse.
---
Hmm . . . these things seemed pertinent tonight.
1. My body almost refuses to go to bed before 2.00 a.m.
2. Girls will never make a bit of sense. Instead they will continue to confuse and cower me. I probably want it to be too easy, and that stems from a dormant self-doubt that reappears at first chance when dealing with attractive females. It's like I look for any opportunity to count myself out, when I should be actively convincing this girl, through confidence and casual assertiveness, that she should date me. I've been rejected; it's painless. So why am I always tucking tail?
3. No matter how many independent bookstores Barnes & Noble, et al., glutton themselves on, they'll still manage to not have the book I'm looking for.
4. While looking at a photography book, I was struck by how strongly I react to the medium. Black and whites from the early-20th-century masters, in particular, engage me. Today was Edward Weston, before it was W. Eugene Smith, and so on and so on--sometimes, unexpectedly, I come across a book and study it until my eyes hurt. When I look up, everything is photogenic, from the fashionably-dressed, muscle-bound black guy sleeping in the chair beside me with a paperback in his lap to the sparse fake red flowers shooting from their vase like bland fireworks on the table in front of me. I again start telling myself that I need to carry a camera around with me at all times, and I start daydreaming of becoming a photographer's assistant and pouring all my efforts into the artform for a year.
Photography is probably the one area of my life in which I'm really confident. I think I could do it professionally, and do it well, probably better than writing. But it's hard for me to imagine photography as a career. I write because I want to share something with others; my audience figures directly into my efforts. But I photograph because I want to capture something for myself. If others happen to like it, great, but the work is never for anyone else nor does it mean the same thing to anyone else nor is it ever motivated by anyone else. An internal compulsion pushes me, so it's hard to imagine submitting the results for approval or taking cues from an editor. But only photography can stir up my thoughts and emotions so much that it makes me want to scrap all my plans for the future and go someplace where I can make it my solitary priority. I can't accurately describe what this inclination feels like except to call it a burning. Maybe I need a muse.
---
posted by Matt at 12:29 AM
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