It Rained Today
Tuesday. What possibilities might this Tuesday hold, a day after the week's beginning, a day seemingly so far removed from Friday night? I dunno. Is there a problem, my son? No. Actually no. I need something to light a spark, kick off the Great American Journal Entry right here, right now, but that's not always possible on a Tuesday or a Wednesday or on any day in my experience, come to think of it. But today's OK. This Tuesday's OK. I'm OK and the Great American Journal Entry? Well, we'll see. It's out there somewhere, it's just it doesn't seem to have my name on it.
Wednesday. A few beers at the brewery pub, home now, reasonably coherent.
Thursday. Another day that started at the office before seven, finished after five. More thoughts last night about the nature of the world and the fact I've become stale and ossified. The job and the life, of course, but also the journal and the photographs, it's just I'm less concerned about the journal and the photographs. My social life is shot (I have no social life) and my work needs a lot of, um, "work". I've been moved into a new job and any new job is interesting in the beginning. It's going eight hundred miles an hour, but like the phrase "eight hundred miles an hour" you can only use it so many times before it sounds hollow and you notice, well, working at eight hundred miles an hour or six hundred miles an hour or forty miles an hour, sucks. Time to behave like a good techie and get out there into the wider world and see what's about, it's always time to get out and see what it's about. Tomorrow. Certainly next week. Next month. Next life. I've written this before.
Friday. OK. A good day, this Friday. Got an email from "Alias Johnny Stiletto". Said he'd seen the entry and he was glad I'd "half enjoyed it". No halfway about it, Johnny, I enjoyed it a lot. I will occasionally write about crap if it's crap at a level that transcends crap and attains some sort of weird assed stardom, its own place in the artistic firmament, but that's another issue, Pink Flamingoes, that kind of stuff. shots from the hip is an original street shooter's work in a world where "original" is, um, hard to find. And I'm (what else?) jealous, but happy get your note.
Sitting here, writing this, I'm realizing my own particular trip looks not unlike Mr. Stiletto's own observations in shots from the hip, and tonight, mind fuzzed like you wouldn't believe, a good day to have let it rest. Hi, ho. Life is like that. No star in my sky. But again, as I said, a good Friday. My regards to Mr. Stiletto, my regards to the two, count 'em two, whiskey and waters I've had this evening, I think I'll make it three.
Supposed to rain tomorrow. It rained today.
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