Waxing.

It’s 4.30 on a Sunday in mid-March and right now, I can’t think of a better time to be breathing in the crisp, mud-scented air than this moment. I listen to six cylinders and gravel crunch under the wheels and my brain is rapid-firing at me with thoughts about what the fuck I am doing and who the fuck I am. I downshift for the stop sign and brake. Here, now my head and heart is full of wanting of direction and an idea of what I will be in 5 10 15 years and the only thing I can see is brown, tilled fields and leafless tree lines.

Picking up a camera to attempt to make an image that is interesting and smart and subtle has seemed like too much of an effort lately and I find myself going “but what’s the point of photographing here? What important thing are you trying to said that already hasn’t been said about the loss of rural life in the United States? You are beating a dead horse. Put the camera down” when my eye is pressed to the view finder. It doesn’t seem like such a great thing to plot a future around but neither do any of the other ideas that I’ve come up within the past year or so (welder, librarian, intellect, part of the NPR braintrust, farmer, photographer, etc.). I want to know as much as I can, see as much as I can see. I want to shove as much stuff into my brain and figure out what to do from there.

I want to be everything. I want to be everywhere.