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BLOG THIS! Highly Suspect Wisdom for the Widely Disinterested Masses
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Just a shot back from when I thought you could make money as a photographer. Real film developed in darkroom, no effects or filters. 
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Oh, just that week in 1989 when we stayed at a little house on Lake Erie into which I scandalously dove naked every morning ("It's natural, man!") and made cheap pasta and played chess and sat on the candlelit porch deep into the night typing terrible poems and Malbec-addled free associations (actual typewriter!) on delicate onionskin paper, a sheaf of which I still have but have never once read, the hiss of an Ellington cassette and its compositional brilliance keeping the mosquitos away, still imbued with the idea that it was only art that would save us, nourish us, that aesthetics weren't a subjective philosophical construct but a concrete mechanism that we both, in our youth and naiveté and as-yet-discovered sparking creative brilliance, knew the exact formula to. It was just a matter of time.  |
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February 2022
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