self-portrait, porcupine

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I called the plumber (#16) and finished the book (#1), the big one, at least finished with air-quotes, and then I started wondering if maybe I should just do everything on my to-do list and prove it by showing you entrails. And then I started wondering if maybe I should have put easier stuff or cooler stuff or more serious stuff on that list, beyond dead mice and dead mouse disposal.

It was #13 on the list but Smell Better was next.

I felt a little embarrassed when I realized the hammock was that long ago, and there hasn't really been a proper attempt since. Things that are difficult—things that resist effort—are the very ones that need it. Not now. No way. A self-portrait is derailed by the prospect of being looked-at. Not public attention, but the attentiveness of oneself to oneself. A self-portrait is an inherent statement of worth. And when you don't feel worthy because of deed or history or identity, you're sure you don't deserve a blow dry and half an hour in pretty light.

Photographers disregard the claimed unworthiness of the subject because there isn't room for it. There's too much else to consider. Stuff that matters: aperture, shutter speed. When you stink, pretend you don't. Sweep all that subject's bullshit off the table. Disallow anything other than method and math. Straighten a crooked back, be patient, and employ a medium that has no nose. 

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