Autumn Is Out

I went out with a camera. This might not strike you as much. Even better, this might not strike you at all. Worry not though, I’m here to tell you that it’s a badass achievement.

You must consider that I go out rarely and that I go out with the camera about as often as the leap year occurs. If not less frequently.

What I found out outside is that it is autumn. Whatever. I shot to kill and here is what I brought home. Which is, again, not much. It’s my recurrent theme.

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Dug Up from the Archives

I had an acute episode of feeling weird yesterday. I know, that’s not a very specific description of the condition. I don’t know what my bloody problem was, apart from lacking a will to do anything, including breathing.

I fixed it though when it occurred to me to pleasure my OCD (aka CDO) and dig around in my computer archives with the apparent purpose to organise them. It was really an emotional displacement because everything about me, including my archives, are well organised already. Except it’s not perfect, so here you go.

What I dug up was shocking. That is, boring to anyone but me, who was genuinely surprised and sometimes severely shocked at my own paraphernalia. I couldn’t even remember that I ever created some of the content I found, but unless my cat has a covert hobby, it must’ve been me.

Among other long-forgotten and hence basically non-existent stuff, I found: unexpectedly good poems in Czech (in a folder labelled creative writing, so I must’ve authored them); love letters (what the actual fuck?); something written in German (I do recall I studied German but no longer speak the language); and photos, a lot of photos.

The ones in the gallery were originally posted on Flickr, before I deleted my account after not using it for years. (You get the sequence of events here, right?) They were taken with my beloved red compact camera, which I no longer own and wonder whom I gave it to. Because I want it back.

Stuff I Shot in the Park

My first awkward attempts at shooting in other mode than auto.

Weekly Photo Challenge: (No) Favourites

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: All-Time Favourites.

Favourites I have none. Wait. Regrets I have none is how the phrase goes. Except it’s not true. Of course I have regrets that the Daily Post rolled over and quit. Except— it’s more of grudge than regrets. So the opening line of this post should have been Regrets I have none, grudge I have some. Grudge I have all, y’all.

Let’s try this again. WordPress’s last Photo Challenge is on the prompt of All-Time Favourites. For a fact. I’m quite relieved, also for a fact, because I was half-convinced that the last prompt would be either dull and obvious (such as The End) and/or dumb and sentimental (such as Farewell). The Favourites prompt isn’t thrilling but is half-decent.

Except I don’t have even half-decent all-time favourites. I refuse to dig in the archives. What for? What would I find there besides old dry bones? I don’t need to go back to produce crappy photos as per my trademark.

Incidentally, for a few months at the start of this year, I was running (while refusing the fact that I was running) a self-imposed self-challenge of posting a photo a day on Instagram and then reposting them here in weekly batches. What’s interesting about it? Nothing, I didn’t say it was interesting.

I quit this thing sometime in April. I found that the idea was nice but the execution was— how to say it nicely? Shitty? That will do. While it was an excellent plan to practise mindfulness and presence and whatnot and take a photo a day, it proved increasingly difficult because I hardly ever go out. So I literally ran out of things to shoot.

Hello, are you still there? If so, good, because I just got down to the point. If not— well, good on you. You know what my point is? Nothing! I’m notorious for making the point that I have no point. In lieu of a point, here’s a mess of my Instagram pictures from April, as yet unposted on the blog.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Twisted

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Twisted.

I have a twisted sense of humour. As it doesn’t lend itself quite easily to photography, here’s the twist in the twisted form of twisted twigs.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Liquid

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Liquid.

Liquid? Indeed. That I can do well.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Place

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Place.

This could be anywhere. Or could it? It’s not anywhere anyway. It’s Eastern Europe. Not eastern Europe with a lower-case e as a geographical region, but Eastern Europe capitalised as a former political unit (aka Eastern Bloc), which still retains its sociocultural characteristics today. Why should you care? Oh, you shouldn’t! Unless you’re into places in the middle of nowhere. That’s where my place is. Nowhere. I’m saying, not complaining.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Unlikely

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Unlikely.

Most unlikely things happen in airport hotel diners. Such as me finding myself in one.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Lines

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Lines.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Prolific

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Prolific.

The prompt prolific can be interpreted as pro-life. It’s in there: pro-lific and pro-life. Looks like these two might have something in common, right?

I’m not speaking of pro-life in the sense of anti-abortion—let’s not even look in that direction. It’s pro-life more in the sense of obsessively bringing things to life. Regardless of whether said things wish to be alive in the first place or would rather choose not to.

Spring is a quintessentially prolific season, hence my tulip photo. I never post tulips while omitting to quote my pet poet Sylvia Plath. I think I get her, or she gets me, whichever way you put it. She wasn’t particularly pro-life, which we have in common, as manifested by her choice to quit and put her head in the oven. And since we live in an age when you can’t say anything without offending someone, please let it be recorded that I’m not pro-suicide. Which is quite a feat, for a suicidal person.

But now, rest your eyes on the tulips and consider how they feel. That’s how tulips feel to Plath:

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
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