Above, some pictures taken in my room with some snatched time this weekend. I think, sometimes, blurry shots hold more depth than those completely in focus; there's a definite sense of the unknown, a lingering intimacy and nostalgia. A secret warmth.
I think, sometimes, it's so easy to feel as if life is futile. Unimportant. Especially in high school, there's hardly any variation; it seems as if I am constantly driving the same roads, heading for the same destinations. And I know, of course, eventually that will change. I know, in an even profounder way, that life is made of patterns, and these patterns are inherent. Change comes from the individual. Change comes from singular actions.
I'm working on it. I'm trying (very hard) to give my life a sense of meaning. But also, more importantly, a sense of spontaneity. I'm at a point in my life where, honestly, some spontaneity would be good. Healthy. Eye opening.
Tomorrow, life begins again. The pause button is released, and the world comes rushing in, sometimes at a dizzying speed.
And that's why I listen to awesome music. And drink lots of coffee. And am in a general state of constant motion.
In doing some research for an upcoming art project today I stumbled across Grant Hamilton, a polaroid photographer working with SX-70 cameras. His photos are quite simple, and many of them are essentially experiments with color blocking and the like. He finds bold hues and patterns in buses and street signs, and turns them into lovely polaroids.
"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim, too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops. No matter what color, what size you are, how you are built. I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think you've not got any sense at all. But I decided a long time ago that I'd starve to death before I'd sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your song books are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow."
A return to school is inevitable (as I know), but the amount of work I have left to do is, to say the least, a bit depressing. At this point, I'm simply trying to concentrate and stay positive about the whole thing. And while it's possible that searching for beautiful things on etsy that could possibly (ahem) make it easier to focus on my work is not the most constructive use of my time, it can certainly provide a much needed break.
I like lists. The very concept of list making is calming to me; lists don't judge. I think, deeply rooted in my core, there lives the idea that, if I can just organize my thoughts in some fashion on a solid piece of paper (preferably of the yellow and green graphing kind), everything will be okay. "At least," lists seem to say, "you have some semblance of structure. At least you can think."
At least you can think.
The future is something wildly unknown, and, at this point in life, I honestly have no idea what it will bring. Thinking is key. But living, I believe, is essential as well. What good are lists if they lead to nothing; what power do they possess if they don't motivate action and change? This year, I'm going to create. This polaroid, the first of 365 (and maybe many, many more), can serve as a testament to that. As can my lists. And the outfits Clair and I plan for our music festival extravaganza this summer. And oil painting classes, and playing the ukulele, and even reading a pretty incredible book.
Tonight, I'm making lists. Lists for the year, lists for a trip. Lists for photographic opportunities. Lists of books, and music, and foods, and even dorky ideas for future cd mixes (although I can't quite take all of the credit on that one). Lists to be acted upon, and lists to be shoved in dusty corners, fading from age.
Lists that will, inevitably, provide some form of change.
