No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.
Even at my best I feel slow, dull, guileless. At least in writing I can still still express an idea, still communicate. Occasionally, anyway. Speaking, though, is a lost cause. The desperate, involuntary flailing of a drowning man trying to keep his head above water, just with words instead of limbs. Inarticulate, ineloquent. Artless.
I don’t like feeling this way.
When I was 10 or 11 my doctor discovered an inguinal hernia. I had discovered it a few weeks or months earlier, of course, seeing as how I suddenly seemed to have an extra testicle sprouting from my abdomen. I was lucky in that it stayed fairly high and it didn’t cause any pain at all. It was just odd. It obviously wasn’t supposed to be there, but I could push the lump of intestine back into my pelvis easily. I assumed it was cancer. I assumed I was going to die. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to worry anyone. I still remembered how panicked everyone was when, as a four-year-old, I sliced my wrist open by shoving my way through a window. I didn’t like all the attention.
But the yearly physical couldn’t be avoided, and so my secret was revealed. I could tell the doctor thought it was important, but that it could be dealt with. “Fixed,” as he put it. “We’ll have to fix it.” Naturally, I assume he meant they had to fix me, as you would a pet. My mind reeled at the news of my impending castration as the doctor spouted off a few brief details to my nodding mother before he disappeared from the room. It was decided, just like that. I had no say in the matter. I would never have kids, never raise a family. Maybe I’d be a priest or something.
I never thought about it after that day, but I’ve since been pretty okay with the idea of never having kids.
is a shitty letter. I do not care for the letter G.I wouldn’t call it the worst letter—U is obviously the worst letter, followed by B and K—but it’s just got a way about it that doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t trust it.
Photography is the only major art in which professional training and years of experience do not confer an insuperable advantage over the untrained and inexperienced — this for many reasons, among them the large role that chance (or luck) plays in the taking of pictures, and the bias toward the spontaneous, the rough, the imperfect.