Every day I try to post something. A photo, a poem, something. They who are cited in all arguments everywhere said, “To be a successful blogger you must create content daily.” They add, “Your site must be specific so the reader can expect what they will find on your site.” Thus I keep this site specific to art, photography, writing, ya know creative stuffs.
Then I get excited about coding in go and want to dance around the inter webs shouting from the top of my digital lungs pouring excellence from my fingertips. I open my iPad, because rather than do web stuff on an ultra-wide monitor and spacious keyboard I prefer a small screen and cramped membrane-y keyboard, only to type a few words then backspace and cancel the post.
Next I wrap my digital arm and slap the forearm looking for a binary artery or vein. Being a news addict I really don’t care I just need my fix. I flip through the Apple News app. During a day a politician did something stupid. I am inspired to write a well thought out argument about how to overcome the current state of idiocy. I plan it in myself mind, but do not get so far as to switch apps to write a post. I don’t want to have my politics soil the purity of my art.
My precious, precious, digital babies. Each photo is an experience that I had. I was there in every photo even if you cannot see me. I was really there. I see the photo of a stranger and I remember the conversation with them or lack of conversation. I see a city and remember what I ate that morning, or the smell of bum piss as I pressed the shutter. Each photo I made a conscious decision that the stimulus to my optic nerve was so great I needed to share it with all 2 of you who read this. I don’t want to bring out the drunken uncle Politics to sully a fine party.
The moment of truth. The callous father in the back of my mind who lacks all filters and fashion sense says, “Suck it up Nancy. Who cares if you offend your lone visitor. It probably isn’t the same visitor every day. Your crappy photos of shit no one cares about scares off a new crop of one every morning. Congratulations, you suck and no one cares.” Maybe I sniffle and whine a little, “Why do you gotta be so mean. I love the photos.” He would then sit on a crappy couch, in a century old terry cloth robe wearing only a stained t-shirt and fruit-of-the-looms. Place his hand down the front of the lack of trousers to share, “Get over yourself, you cannot do it for ‘Johnny’ or anyone else. No one cares. Do it for you.” I would then bounce away, “Gee Dad you are swell.”