Change

This morning I started reading through this journal from the beginning, seeking material for a particular project, tagging as I went. It's startling how I've changed since April 2003, and how not. It might be useful to describe my impressions, but they're complicated. Just then I was happier and more socially active than I remember. I was about to meet Danny; then I would be even happier. But hard times would also come. I am sad about certain friends who didn't stick through the difficult anxious and reclusive period I went through, but I am as satisfied with my relationships now as ever. In 2003 I was more naive, impulsive and florid than I have become. I wonder what I'll think looking back five years from now.

The flow of time is changing. There never seems to be enough to do the things I want. The crush of opportunity is overwhelming; that's why it's hard to get out of bed in the morning. It always has been.

Maybe the problem is in how I perceive it. Really, I have a wealth of time. Assuming my health will remain good, I could write a few novels in my lifetime. Even if I want to do lots of other things, I could write one or two novels. Novels, photography, travel, new skills to learn—the specifics don't matter. What's necessary is that I allow enough room in this given day for both distraction and concentration. That's the thing: they're both important. Distraction is only bad when it takes over. Learning to embrace it in moderation must be one of the features of my unique creative process. Photography is blessed distraction.

Lately I have been choosing more of the things that matter.

And the river, the river! It is exquisite when the sun shines. It's exquisite in the deep blue light of a cloudy winter day.

In summer the river doesn't change much, day to day. Besides rising a little after a rain, it mostly just flows the same way, teaching me strength and dedication. Everything around it changes. Each week a new flight of insects appears. I keep returning to the swamp milkweed to see how it has opened overnight, anticipating its intense perfume.

Now the life of trees is suspended, the grass and milkweed are mummified, the warblers have gone away, insects have metamorphosed into something arcane and motionless.

But the river is alive like an adolescent trying on a new look every day. It rarely freezes completely, only in the deepest cold. The water itself is heavy and perilous as mercury, but arrays itself in gowns of crystal and veils of light. Whenever a weather system passes, its aspect changes.

I haven't made it a necessity for myself to visit each day, but once I'm out the door, halfway down the block with camera in hand, I can hardly restrain my feet. How will the Eramosa look this afternoon? What new treasures, what moods?

And, O Muse, central metaphor of my life, what on earth do you mean?

Exegesis 03

You must see the incredible composite image bitterlawngnome created from the photo shoot on Saturday. Again this shows subtle nudity. This is part of a new series Bill introduced recently, and I'm excited to see where it will go.