maybes and fortunes and books on the way

These are strange and excellent days, veering wildly from one to the other. I don't know that there's room for anyone. I don't know that there is anyone, that apparently rare composite of not-dull and not-crazy. Which is sad, maybe? I can't decide. Live by yourself long enough—especially when you work from home—and autonomous luxury bleeds into odd habits and self-isolation.

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next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all

Teaching teaches me, though to call it 'teaching' isn't quite right. But maybe it is. I always start off heavy, with a cast-iron pot of the required stuff of aperture and directional light and focusing modes. I begin as a school marm, a hardass, because I still believe inspiration is rootless without the language to self-diagnose. Then we play, and I sprint from one shoot to another and it's exclamation marks all over the place, and that's when they teach me.

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