It's still here, this moody bastard called ambition. its voice is a low murmur these days much to my chagrin. A low murmur that I rarely heed except in bursts. The cameras are still here, with me, sitting quiet and patient while I try to decide what to do. All but the digital camera. It is a bread and butter machine right now. A true workhorse that enables me to keep the debt hounds at bay, my filial obligations met, and some food in my belly. This is a good thing, to pay bills and eat.
For my film cameras it is a different, somewhat melancholy story. The soul feeds on things other than the corporeal materials of life. This I know after so long a period of fallowness for my interior life. I feel like winter never left it, after my last sojourn here over a year ago. Oh, pictures have been taken, don't get me wrong. Film purchased and labor expended to expose them to what I see through that which lies between me and the world. What is odd is that I have felt little urge to share any of them. The desire for engagement has receded, retreated before what...I don't know.
Photographer's block seems just as real to me as writer's block. The results are doubled here, on a blog writing about the intersection of me and my cameras. I have had much to say, and little energy to say when faced by the twin logjams of excess input and excess analysis. The story is on old one: so much to say, no idea where to start. Consequently, nothing gets said. I believe it is my perceived sense of self-weakness in the face of external events so much larger than myself that I lose the will to express what I feel, what I see, what I think. I have believed for a long time that my spirit animal is a jaguar, but for a year or more now it seems more like an undernourished kitten. I swat feebly at the hands reaching for me, I mewl into the wind, power swallowed by fatigue.
Still, there are sparks and embers. My fire may be banked but it has not gone out. I see them and feel them in the flotsam and jetsam that blankets my work area. Notes, scraps of paper with cryptic scribbles, invoices, reminders, and even photos. Photos of which I am not even the begetter, but nonetheless provide some kindling. Fading shards of memory that bind me to this place in history while reminding me that the fire shall not die, even if it can't be spied from afar. I bask in their warmth.
"Airman Shea" - My father (far left) in his Air Force days, c. 1960.