They call it the first day of winter, but when you live in the cold mountains and have no way to commute in the snow, it is really the first day of winter dying. Days get longer from here on out. The days will gradually get brighter, to shed light on a brighter year; to illuminate a brighter future. That philosophy applies more to my life than ever before. This day is not only the shortest day of the year, but the farthest point in the cycle from my 40th birthday, so this particular brightening should be even more significant that all the rest.
Eroica was noted as a turning point in Beethoven’s life, welcoming in the middle stage of his work. That was part of the reason why I chose that name. This whole year has been a bit of a flail, though; a great big question mark that has given way to more question marks. I have accomplished so much with this girl and my new family, but am still suspended in a creative grey area. There is still a lot of conflict to be resolved, but still plenty of willingness to keep going.
Just keep swimming.
This year has given me far more cancellations than accomplishments, but I am so very grateful for what I have access to on the rare occasion that I do. I just keep going. Suddenly, we are at the precipice of the year turning back to bright, and I feel it. I write a lot that is misinterpreted as negative, but I try to at least make it funny. I had a conversation with one of my bosses after my last big post about my being emotionally extraverted, which may sound absurd if you know me, but is really true in my writing. Maybe I need that to balance out my social introvertedness? That’s a word now.
Do not forget that I created this character so that I could write about my life “for the sake of fiction.” I have purposely omitted details and whole truths to tell a story. In the same regard, I have created my own details and basic truths to tell a story. The easiest story to tell is one’s own. While I do appreciate that I have people in my life who care enough about me to worry about my well being, or worry about their potential shortcomings, I never mean to single anyone out, I’m just telling a story, mostly as a bystander myself.
I write about the chaos of relationships and the absurdity of people; I am not attacking my girl or complaining about my relationship. I write about all of my equipment and technological problems; I’m not complaining about the luxuries that I am lucky to have. I write about the atrocities of people trying desperately to be beautiful in a world that they were beautiful having been born into; I am not complaining about the opportunities that I am genuinely grateful for having. I write about how much or little I work; I’m not attacking my bosses or complaining about my job(s). Everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be. I am simply writing down observations I make on the reality that I choose to see.
Any time someone takes what I have to say to heart, which I’m sure is difficult not to do sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if Kerouac or Thompson or Hemingway or fucking Bukowski or whoever were confronted by who they wrote about or straight up attacked? because they were simply writing what they knew best: their own charmed lives. Was their work, in their time, accepted as fiction? Did the unnamed individuals take that public attack as a duel to their graves, or was it written off as eye-rolling passive story? Obviously I don’t compare myself to the mentioned writers, but I often compare my life to theirs.
Maybe my life being less charmed and celebrated makes my work more offensive and accusatory? I don’t know. What I do know, without a doubt in my mind, is that the story I have written, regarding the life that I have been given, is right there, whether I become someone that anyone wants to read about or not. I went on a bit of a tangent there, but that is something I’ve been meaning to talk about on here for a while now. In the old blog I pushed the boundaries a lot just to see what kind of effect I could have, still trying to make waves in an ocean that I hated.
Now, I’m just trying to float with the uncontrollable tide of this beautiful, all consuming ocean of life. I am not interested in making waves anymore, but I write plenty about the waves that are already there, and will continue to be there, whether we allow them to affect us negatively, or joke about them and move on. This my life. There will be highs and lows. There will be droughts and storms. There will be calm and chaos. There will be life. I simply choose to write about it on a raw, more realistic level. I am sorry if that offends you.
I have treated very few of these photos in relation to the big picture. Just getting them uploaded was an issue, as I mentioned, and little things like half the pool being taped off was an issue. I don't "photoshop" a lot, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not very good at it. A lot of photographers would better be considered artists because of their photoshop prowess. I do very basic treatments. In cases like this, however, the tape was too much of a distraction. I was stuck on that side of the pool and they could only do it once, which they were doing with or without me. Seeing the original, you can zoom in to the first photo in this post and cringe along with me.
Things are getting brighter regardless.
Everything is beautiful.
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