At my job yesterday, I took a photo of a kid dressed up as a fireman, the thousandth-ish picture I’d semi-mindlessly taken this summer at that gig. My only thought at the time was that I could’ve done the green screen editing slightly better. While we waited for the photo to print, the child’s caretaker told us he’d recently been adopted from a physically abusive household and that this was one of the first carefree days he’d had in recent memory. We handed her the photo of the kid wearing the best tentative smile I was able to coax out of him. The sight of him having even a little fun made her break down and cry. Intense! Just when I thought I was merely going through the motions to collect some cash. A little reminder to me to be open and kind to everyone I meet since most of them have some sort of struggle. I thanked her for being so sweet.
I have given myself a decompression day. A day in a quiet town with just me and a hat and a coffee and a cell phone and the books in my backpack. I don’t feel especially interesting or especially awake, yet I feel the urge to massage some drippy black ink into my black sketchbook/notebook with its off-white pages and dark chocolate stained cover.
I left South Jersey with about a dozen photos and one deer tick. I was taking a shower and found him directly in the center of my stomach. It was like he was trying to tell me, “look, this is just WHAT I DO - I’ll at least make it easy to find me. OK, Champ?” First of all, don’t call me “Champ,” you goddamn walking disease bag.