All Work and No Play Makes Priscilla a Dull Girl

I admit a great folly of mine as of late, I’ve been struck melancholy. Loathe it. Fogs my vision and head. It makes me long for my bed, to slumber, for silence, to be alone, segregate myself from it all. I blame winter, I blame work, I blame myself for letting it fester and consume. 

With winter is an absence of light. It depresses me. The cold, the darkness by six. I wonder about depression rates of those that live much further north than I? Perhaps they sedate through fermented grain. I have yet to acquire a recreational outlet of that nature, and never thought much of it until stumbling into the working world.

But truly, the lack of light, the confinements of my access to light when the sun is out, greatly alters me. And the domino effect even trickles down to photography. How rare my camera has been picked up in the last thirty days. No inspiration. No daring spirit about me to find and capture. The thought of the effort exhausts me a bit even. And I think how I squander the two days a week I get to succumb to my whims. How time will be approaching for a submission I greatly want to find acceptance in. Time will go quick and I need a portfolio that is strong in narratives of people.

Finally, photography seeped into my dreams. Came at me in unconscious state. How it won’t let me forget her. And I’m in a restaurant by water, and ocean view on a breezy day, windows open wide welcoming in the salty air. And I fiddle with my camera, without notice of her, until I see gestures and movements and jewelry that could only be her. What am I doing? What am I waiting for? Photograph! And she’s scrambling around, slicing homemade cakes and pastries behind a counter, though I have no idea why. And old man and his dog come, sit for awhile, and I watch them through my lens. I know she’s over my shoulder, looking, watching me. In a bit she’ll critique, but I just keep on. As the crowd comes in, I find myself at the counter, swiveling on the stool, my camera drops, and I cry out. The color is gone, it only shows black and white. And the gent next to me is eating ice cream, obnoxiously, it’s dripping down the corners of his mouth. I’m in panic. I want my color back. And I’m smacking the camera body, popping open little doors, shutting them. After striking the bottom, the color bleeds in, and I sigh with relief. And out of the corner of my eye, I see a delicious grotesque site. A cake, tiers upon tiers, tall as can be, teetering on collapse and this woman in a canary yellow gown, old Southern in style, cinched at the waste with a flowing round skirt is on top of the counter standing beside it. Almost as if its potential collapse will cause hers. She is pungent against mint green walls and a white marble top, and I ask a waiter if hazelnut cake is on the menu today. I’m disappointed when he tells me no. And just as I finally raise my lens to capture the woman in yellow, I wake up. I realize it all a dream. And then am irked and saddened because all those images I took aren’t real. A few good ones lost in my dream mind. Curse this brain as I am obviously cursed by photography, marked in waking state and sleep alike. It has become me.

This entry was published on January 25, 2009 at 6:41 am. It’s filed under Art, Photography, Psychology and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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