Easy come, easy go
I think my work computer has Parkinson's or something. Every so often I'll be typing and it will have a little seizure, a pause followed by a solid line of the last two characters I typed spewed across the text box.
What's that, Google? There's no hits for "Ryryryryryryryryryryryryryryryryryryryan?" I'm obviously barking up the wrong tree!
Today I am doing my best to remain calm and even-headed about some shithead stealing my camera and digital voice recorder out of my car. It's not quite existentialism at play here, more a general sense of the karmic economy of my life. I go through periods where I don't use the camera and it sits (sat) on my easy chair o' crap, totally useless, but protected from the dust by its nice, expensive holder.
Yesterday I took the camera with me to Stirling City to cover the Horace Brakebill reunion. I actually got a couple of shots. And let me tell you--Stirling City is otherworldly this time of year. It's like stepping into some mystical forest village where time has no meaning. Scruffy little mopdogs lie in the mottled sunlight on the street nursing their puppies as friends and neighbors all seem to be out of their houses, talking to each other, carousing on the shoulder, reparing sexagenarian fire engines.
For the first time in months, everything was worth looking at. It inspired me enough to realize I had to actually go and shoot some other things--actually produce something when the whim struck. I drove to Paradise Lake and caught some (probably very plain) shots of the distant side of the lake with the setting sun.
Even shot some impulse frames of the sun as it sank below the Coastal Range on my way to Chico. I mean, I /had /this fucking thing, right? Why not use it? Epiphany, metamorphosis, right? Here is the death of some kind of stagnant fear, some kind of will to connect and communicate with the outside world.
Then POW! Tweeker steals my camera. And the voice recorder that contained all of my Brakebill interviews. And my CD wallet, which was full not of useful, saleable albums, but mostly shit burned from MP3--especially live bootleg albums. You can't get money for that anywhere I know of.
It's like I'm being challenged to relate anything about what Sunday was like without the aid of vision or speech. Or music, for that matter. Fuck.
But I'm not quite enraged, just because there's that tinge of humor to the whole depressing mess. Maybe somebody somewhere knows what kind of household cleaner and what kind of cough syrup react with ground compact disc to make a meth variant.
Tweeker, when you're smoking track 8 of the "Thank You Kindly" bootleg, which contains the most harrowing version of "Love In Vain" ever recorded, I hope some cosmic echo of that reverb-heavy slide guitar bursts your heart.