Introspection

I really am a quite incapable mess of a person. To think, I should have spent so many years formulating the "Broken Man" as my outwardly facing persona, and it became (or perhaps always was) an inevitable truth of self.

Earlier this afternoon, amid long and excruciating lulls in day-job work, I peered in on the work of others. Artistic work, and idle pursuits as curated and portrayed via the medium of social media. It is an interesting thing that I should realize my role models, those I most aspire to emulate and demonstrate anywhere near comparable skill to, are those many years younger. Partially, this ties into a freer sense of expression, less rigid and confined by developed rules and learned habits. In some cases it does not. Some exercise their art within the confinements of the same rule sets I've adopted with time, however I find myself envious of both their comfort with those paradigms and, especially, the enthusiasm with which they approach the creative process despite those defining technical factors.

Enthusiasm, tied into a general drive as aspiration. "The Muse". It's a core element I lack, the last piece of this great puzzle so soggy, bloated and misshapen, it may never really fit into place for me. My ultimate failure, ultimate undoing.

This especially came to light this weekend. Saturday, I had a litany of mundane tasks, domestic items of self-care, and the struggle to achieve them was enormous despite no clear or concrete rationale as to why. As if I simply lacked the strength of spirit to accomplish basic tasks like "Get a haircut" and "Make an appointment to get new glasses". This sort of thing is most often attributed to laziness, and as it pertains to my own situation I am inclined to label it as such, but realistically I find it difficult to accept as a facet of simple laziness. I struggle to function in the most basic of ways, reliant upon peer pressure and guilt to inspire enough strength to muddle through to completion. Despite being well aware of long-term consequences, the value of simply getting it done now and not worrying about it in the future. I would excuse that wall as being a symptom of feeling impeded in some other area of Maslow's Heirarchy, but how can that ever make sense if my sense of impediment is of an upper tier whereas these are very low-order needs I'm struggling to satisfy?

There is plenty of meme material coursing the internet regarding those with debilitating anxiety issues. One more recently resonated with me, something general espousing the idea that, in the case of one with high-functioning anxiety, the energy invested in maintaining the facade of being "Okay" consequently withdraws from reserves otherwise available to actually feel "Okay". For a variety of reasons, justified or not... My facade is nigh flawless to the casual observer. Only in the last year have I opened myself to letting others beyond the veil, but time restricted to choice individuals permitting my guard to drop is hardly ample to strike a balance in this nightmare equation of energies. And, be it a habitual behavior learned in early life or a genuine inherent affection, I surround myself with other broken people, those I can approach (inwardly) as true peers, yet I most struggle with sympathizing outright and instead invest energy into a White Knight complex that more frequently fails for sake of exhaustion. I am not all-together myself, how could I possibly hope to be a solid foundation upon which others could dream to build a sound self-image?

It is painful to consider the achievements of which I'd be capable if simply I could unlearn this practiced face, this tax on my ability to comfortably exist. These younger for whom I hold such strong admiration seem to have this figured out well enough already. I wish I could learn it at all.

Proof I Still Exist

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 10

Real estate shoot for Conway, a group I recently made connections with over the Summer. Handled a few shoots for them thus far, primarily flips that have some order of roughness about them overcome by a coat of paint and smart staging, but also a couple extremely nice remodels and owner-assisted sales. Arguably some of the first work I've done with a legitimate realtor agency (as opposed to an investment group or rental firm). They like my work, and I like doing work for them.

Shoot wraps up after a bit over an hour, and Rob, who just completed his own property shoot, is hanging out at Order & Chaos Coffee in Federal Hill. It's a short 20 minute jaunt, takes me through the neighborhoods of personality surrounding suburbanites would (incorrectly) label "sketchy". I gun it through the I-95 tunnel because the obnoxious echo of my car's fart-can exhaust pleases me in the acoustic confines of the tunnel. I'm an idiot of simple pleasures. I think of the video on the Greek philosopher Diogenes I watched that morning.

Drop a buck on the meter and walk to the coffee shop with camera bag in tow. Hold an annoying conversation with the barista as soon as I walk in the door. She's selling me on a text message based loyalty program of sorts. I go through the motions to convincingly satisfy her very practiced directions, well knowing that I don't visit the shop with nearly enough frequency to justify constant automated marketing notifications. All I want is a chai latte and to sit with Rob who I notice at the bench on the upper landing. Never been in this part of the shop before, figure I have the 7-14mm f/2.8 wide angle on my camera already from the real estate job and take a snap of the room, college students and all. Before we leave, I take another of the sitting area immediately through the front door. I like its design and style, glass panes permitting a clear view into the design firm in the same building. The openness of the firm's layout appeals to me, and without knowing what in the hell it is they even do, I want to work there.

The rest comes down to meeting a woman and her dog.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

Rob and I play pool upwards of 3 hours straight. I eat half a plate of the most delicious cheese fries I've ever touched to my tongue. We both play like goddamn machines and it feels amazing. Even the relatively idle exercise of walking around the table is exhausting, but it's a great night.

I am not a photographer today. But I do process an old shot for Flickr because I can't sleep without feeling some semblance of creative productivity.

I sleep well.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

A guy has been asking me a couple weeks now to photograph him in his fursuit and I finally commit to meeting up now that my schedule is open. Had a private real estate job on the books for the afternoon, but they dropped out last minute (they always drop out last minute).

Driving to his place is a trip down memory lane, cruising roads I used to street race in younger, more fatalist days. All the houses are huge, and his is no exception, which is a surprise when I find out how young he is himself. We spend a good hour talking, making introductions, and he is genuinely a cool and interesting person with depth of history we barely brush on. He's also quite professional in his approach, and knows exactly what he wants in his engagements.

I only have my bag with a couple flashes so I'm figuring out how to bounce light evenly. His room is big and has slanted ceiling that are just off-white, so it's the perfect environment for a simple setup. Only takes one test shot to figure out the scene. I'm doing my usual methodical thing, letting him decide on the general pose, refining it with verbal direction, then finding the best framing. It doesn't take us more than a half hour and we walk about with close to 40 frames, any of which are pretty damn good but I know which ones I'm picking out for deeper editing.

Processing the photos is fun, a blend of VSCO presets in Lightroom with judicious tweaking and Photoshop touch-up to make them clean. I want to do more shoots in the same vein. I wish every shoot ran so well. I wish every client was that chill.

I wish it didn't take this shoot to remind me that balloons are just generally fun to bounce about mindlessly. There's a childhood gem hidden in such idle play it's easy to forget about.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13

Work happens. My boyfriend wants to go out for a bite, and Rob picks us up at the apartment. I eat an enormous burrito bowl via tortilla chip and feel like a fat ass the rest of the day. We try to play pool, but it's League Night (it's always League Night) and after a couple games we're asked to move/leave so they can open every single table to the league players. I'm playing like crap as it is so I'm not too bothered by the ousting, but relieved as the league guys on our former table complain of the table's curves throwing off their shots. Maybe it wasn't a bad night in the early stages after all.

The sky is on some sort of glorious fire when we step outside, and we decide to find a spot to shoot the scene. But westward-facing vantage points are slim, and the sky won't last long. We try cruising to City Garage for a view by the Hanover Street Bridge but the lane signals close off our turn into the park. We end up by the Schuster Concrete building instead, but the light is gone, and I'm not particularly enthusiastic about hunting for interest in tired places. Rob is persistent though, and I let him co-opt my borderline sour head space for a bit.

I go to my default impulses and start hunting for symmetry. Color everywhere sucks, so black and white it is.

We get to the edge of the park by the water. The sun is not with us and we're shooting into the twilight so it sucks. Field lights behind us obscure the more interesting clouds of the scene, but it's dark and I'm using slow lenses without a tripod. Even 5-axis stabilization doesn't help my shaky hands. Every frame not shot into the setting light over the horizon is a blurry mess so I deal with handheld panoramas for later stitching.

A herring is fishing in the toxic waste water, and we watch it for a bit. I shoot some video of it out of curiosity. Still frames at 150mm and f/5.6 are all garbage, and the light sucks anyway. A lot sucks, but I'm not as sore about it as I sound now. Some nights just don't work out, and that's okay. There are other days.

A Woman and Her Dog

I want to write about these two characters I ran into today during a short walk about Federal Hill this afternoon. Unfortunately, I'm a bit fatigued after the more socially challenging (but fun) excursions of the day, but before I lose sight of their stories I will force the prose from the tired wrinkles of my brain space.

On the hunt for lunch, Rob and I meandered through the older neighborhoods of Federal Hill, bypassing the less walk-able highways to peruse the small time local diners. As I'm often apt to do, a gaggle of pigeons, some of the most bizarre bright red hues as opposed to the traditional turquoise and green sheen, commandeered my focus (alas, no long telephoto with which to capture them). Across the block, diagonally from us, a woman called out to us, "They come closer if you feed them". I smiled, responded something along the lines of "Dang, wish I had something for them", and after some slow walking (so as not to disturb the wandering flock), made my way to the opposite corner.

Two women were there, looking to be older, one possibly in her 50's or 60's, the other, comfortably perched in a classic folding lawn chair, appearing quite older. Oddly, the first lines of conversation dealt with age, with the younger of the two women asking me to guess the age of the other. Attempting to bow out of answering with "Eighteen with umpteen years experience", so came forth with the answer, "Ninety two! And you'd never know it with how active she is!".

Some idle banter ensued, topics of why we were carrying cameras and then about real estate and renovation work happening to the older homes in Federal Hill, but I was largely distracted by the pooch I somehow failed to initially notice, nearly blending in against the concrete and brick wall of the building on the corner. A very old dog, grey hair and very slow to move. Blue, I was told, was the pups name, and I spent some time doing as one does with such a calm and affectionate animal, showering her head with pets and scratches. The "Guard Dog of the block". Apparently now alone in that role - Not long ago, Blue had a partner in the "business" who, being of similar aged, passed away. So, now, Blue and the older woman sit and watch the block together. No leash or collar, certainly no energy to wander much beyond the stoop of the corner house. Just this old woman and her dog.

The younger of the two eventually left, other business to attend to, and as she did the pigeons made their way over to our side of the street. Hanging out, more or less. One of these pigeons quite complacently sat beside this woman in her chair, not alarmed in the least by the introduction of my proximity or Rob's. Certainly not alarmed by Blue. The old woman said, "I feel so bad when I see the birds out here all by themselves, so I like to come out and keep them company". I told her briefly about my habits of "greeting" my "Morning Bird Friends", the litany of pigeons who've taken up residence in my apartment complex, taking my time to say "Hello" (silly as that may be) and photograph them if I can. This triggered another musing about her own "Bird Friends", specifically one she sees every Sunday morning. "I'm not really a religious person at all, but I go to mass, and every time I do there's a pigeon I see perched in the rafters of the church, and he doesn't move all mass, but leaves as soon as it's over, and I don't see him again until the next Sunday".

Alas, our appetites getting the better of us, we bid her and Blue adieu and made our way to good, glorious food.

I found the idle interaction impact-full. The calmness of all parties, the woman, Blue, and the pigeons. And the narratives behind her interaction and observation of her Bird Friends especially. It may be selfishly motivated appreciation, I don't often encounter others who ascribe such depth of personality to animals with whom they can only ever, at best, communicate through body language (if even mutually understood). A cynic or realist would likely contest any sort of interaction as light High-Fantasy. However, I fail to see the harm in the indulgence of crafted narratives only ever acted upon in the form of continued observation. It's no different than traditional people-watching, and such anthropomorphism of our most vulnerable of animal friends, I think, does well to exercise engines of empathy we may collectively lack in the saturation of our social culture.

Might I implore everyone to, please, be sure to greet your Bird Friends. Every morning.