clean house, November 6th

in #photography3 months ago

The first chapter covered a range of new topics. He feasted as if a date with a pale-blue eyed stunner ended with a burger. She wore a brown leather jacket and blue jeans. The designer’s name might’ve been a cardinal direction- something or other out of the blue, but could creativity justify large tears in clothing? She sure did. He realized her beauty, his reading, their art- all had something in common. He could not picture the connection yet.

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Maybe it had a lot to do with identity. Their success had to do with their perspective, he read on. So, he wasn’t on point- late to breakfast because he didn’t know who he was? Like a bitten tongue, the truth hurt to say with his mouth. He coasted through things, largely on autopilot, the winds and birds beside him guiding the course. His peers, they all looked in-charge of their lives. He looked and thought, “I’m faking it in this picture.” I’m not sure I know what I want. To be, at least. Photography, writing? I just don’t want a job, but I need money. I’ve not had a plan this whole time. He understood the importance of a system- some sort of plan, like a bible with a set of rules, for his actions. Otherwise, it’d be more late-to-date meetings with contacts who would eventually cut their connection.

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The smell of biscuits wafted through the air. Pink cubes of ham like building blocks browned in a pan. The crown from the kitchen makes anyone pause- good food inspires hunger. The hunger for more than food lies within. Time for the biscuits to rise gives you an opportunity to impress the chef, play nostalgic games or pen thoughts in your notebook. The taste of a sauce that sounds like days in Holland squeezing between pepper jack cheese might be the proper introduction to sadism. Yummy pain, she said. If only I could eat my anxiety in a healthy way. I think about the times I cried in my life, what for- the pain tastes salty. So was the ham, but it had umami. I couldn’t savor my sadness like so. It wasn’t in- and I didn’t have a system.

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The process would start with his clothes. Only natural- a clear mind within a clear room. Messy boys make messy men- and in the end, you clean up for yourself. Yet, the book, like me, saw a different perspective. I would need to step away from old modes of thinking. The same games people like me play, had to change. I would not be anything unless I became it- affirmed the change in who I am. I was disorganized kid. I got complacent after doing well at the start. In the beginning, good tricks and grades were easy to keep. When you have one game to play, you keep it in the case. When you have multiple, you gotta pick which one to play, put the others away, and the cases needed a space- I just wanted to play. To change, I would have to become a gamer. Gamers take games seriously, and not just the rounds. They eat their vegetables, I guess. Probably, exercise and sleep on time- at least regularly. They must practice. I was a phony of a gamer. At least, my course on being a gamer had modules left to complete. So did my clothes. It was then- my first aim meant leaning into my laundry.