I just spent a week in DC, with Mickey, which was a great deal of fun, even if I did get into a funk towards the end. I don’t like it when I get that way, especially when it causes people who care about me to become concerned (like Mickey). But that is over and done now: I’m back up in Vermont (well, Dirt Cowboy at the moment), and she’s down in DC, working. I’ll be heading back down there in November, though exactly when is yet to be determined.
When last I wrote (on the 15th), I ended because my friend Richard suddenly showed up after not seeing him for a year and a half. Or at least I thought it was him. (I was right). Hopefully, he’ll be around more now that he knows the Dirt is open in the evenings.
Uri picked up a Palm m515 (I have the m505) a little while ago: he’d seen how much work I was getting done with this setup, and decided to duplicate it. I say more power to him: I hope it works out well for him. Lord knows it’s proven useful to me.
Not really sure what to write right now. We’re sitting in Dirt (Uri and I, he on his Palm, me on mine), and writing, looking around the place, sipping overpriced beverages (Woo, Jamaican Blue Mountain, one of the most expensive, best coffees in the world! $36.00 a pound, $2.80 a cup). No one else is around. (It IS only 5:00 now, the evening is still young.)
The flavor of irony,
The home of the soul
Lies not in the man.
Instead, it answers the call
Of the Presence,
One of many parts,
The place to end one journey
And begin another.
Gah, first poetry I’ve written in quite some time. Bad, bad ‘Bil! Remember not thine true self, and instead bury thyself in words!
I came to an epiphany, slow in coming and slow to fruition, that began a little over a week ago, and finished while I was down with my ladylove. The epiphany was twofold:
First, I find myself too soon concerned for that which I am passionate about, killing my creative impulses by worrying of professionalism and caliber.
Second, I am an elitist of the worst sort, one who (like a parent) smiles upon everyone not out of genuine kindness, but more as though I am superior to them and thus forgive them their foibles. This has been entirely at a subconscious level, but on introspection I see its veracity. It is the second half to the death of creative passions that I hold: first painting, next writing, and now photography.
I pursue my passion happily until I try to make something of myself with it, begin to take myself seriously, as if this “hobby”, this “passion” could be changed into a profession or vocation. I could tie any knot imaginable, until it mattered that I could. My writing was becoming quite respectable in scope and style, until my arrogance bit me in the arse. (5 years later, I am only NOW reaching a point of comfort in writing of my own will again.)
Love, rain down on me. Let me feel your cool cool rain.
It’s interesting to see the dynamics of the coffee shop: I can’t seem to get over it, hence why I always seem to talk about it. The reunions (and coyly hidden grimaces in some cases), the coquettish chitchat (that invariably seems more important because it is discussed in a coffee shop, sipping brewed-by-the-cup overpriced coffees and teas), the barristas roaming through the establishment, delivering their materials to eager customers, faux elegance oozing from their black uniforms — an unlikely hostess.
It is time to do another compilation collection. I’ve expanded my music library admirably, and I think it is now time to retire the Nadreck volumes in favor of a new collection, similar in mood, but more emotive, grander in scope. And yes, I’m over exaggerating its importance, but nonetheless, it is how I feel: I think a good compilation serves as an excellent meter for an individual, expressing their tastes and outlook.