blog.big-woop.com

The wind hits my window in just such a way so as to perpetually whistle and whine. And when the leaking, whistling, whining, frigid air finds its way through blankets and sheets to the surface of my skin, it's as if skeletal fingers were tearing me from beneath the film of sleep. In fact, I woke just now to one of these jets of deathly, chilling cold.

This weekend my girlfriend's parents came to see their daughter perform in the school's Symphony Orchestra. So I was thrust into uncomfortable silences and chairs at too-small tables. Mom's a librarian. Dad's in equipment rental. They're both wonderfully entertaining and interesting people; I actually had a lot of fun, and a pair of decent meals, for a change.

A handful of my pals performed in each of the big student recitals this weekend, both of which were phenomenal. I've found myself humming Miles or Holst or The Average White Band ever since.

Last week I gave my presentation on photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, and have been contemplating his theories and compositions quite a bit. This has led me to realize how much I miss the open expanses of time I once had at my disposal, during which I would meander about, carefree, camera in hand, snapping whatever caught my fancy. Now, the camera sits unarticulated and stagnant, and all I see are decisive moments passing uncaptured.

But I'm not doing anything tomorrow.