Semi lucid, sluggish state of being. I’ve slowed, puttering to a standstill. These recent days have been unfruitful. My camera on the floor, sloth like its keeper. My editing hand evasive, not once have I examined an image, played with its features, tweaked to highlight the crowning beauty within the person. Rather, I am fond of my soft mattress, my warm orange hued cover, plump pillow for my head to lay. I wait the day away to dream.
I watch lies on the tele, empty promises for a future nation. No story these young ears haven’t already heard. The news, so sad, overabundance of such feeling, the broken dollar is the new Iraq. Unethical. Investing stock in media is unwise.
I have captured nothing. Motivation is dormant. Sky has gone sour, gray and bleak. This weather is infectious to the soul. Several weeks I have been awry, on the road, hours with a painter, on the road lost in Aiken, twilight at Jasper, eyes of a preacher reaching to me for a hope, for a line, for a congregation I can no more provide than his fraying tent. I am but an eye and lens, let me see, this is my plea.
I fear. Something inside.
Be but a spell.