My passion for photography has all but vanished. How to deal? Google and learn to embrace the meh of life.
Christmas is over and New Year’s has passed. Now it’s time to clean up the mess. The life of the snow people, manger inhabitants, reindeer and santas will now be put on hold in storage. They had a good run. Not so much during the daytime though.
I’ve hit a rut. Plain and simple. Not quite sure what happened, but I would imagine just about every “blogger” out there goes through it. Shoot. Any writer, painter, composer, or poet. It happens. Get over it.
In the weeks leading up to the bike race, Richmonders were brainwashed into thinking we would be caught in stroke-inducing gridlock and mired in a sea of interlopers determined to keep us from work, doughnuts and beer. But there I was, heading directly to it. The next three days, although exhausting, would be some of the most exciting I’ve had in a long time in this town.
This tree is a solid example of fractals in nature. And it was in a graveyard – even better. Maybe it signifies the never ending cycle of life on top of the Freemason’s plot it adorns? Maybe it shows us how no matter where you are on the tree, you’re at a brand new trunk/crossroads – no way to change how you got there, but with infinite possibilities ahead of you.
It didn’t happen overnight, but I eventually realized my need and desire to create music had slipped away. I still played the piano some. Maybe banged on the drums occasionally. Would brush up against the guitar and run my fingers across the strings to see if they were still in tune. But there were a number of times I’d walk by the music room, peer in and ask, “Why did I waste so much time on this?”
“This is a statement about being guarded. How guarding yourself can keep you from freedom and beauty,” I thought. Then I saw either Abraham Lincoln or an old lady knitting in the clouds.
The beast can be anything: a promotion, a date, front row seats to Rush, a good night’s sleep, perfectly smoked barbecue, singing Journey flawlessly at karaoke, whatever. In this picture, it’s a scared little calf that surely would’ve squealed with the most plaintive whine were it caught. It wasn’t. Score 1 for the bovines, -1 …