Day: May 27, 2007

A group of peacocks is called a muster or an ostentation.

My Bjork concert pictures have been uploaded.

Hey locals – Sanctuary tonight is your last chance to go dancing with Tyler before he takes off for his globe-trotting whirlwind summer of romance and fame. And if bleakly thrashing goths isn’t up your alley, which I fully understand, you might want to drop by the hospital to visit Steph, who is apparently dying of boredom after breaking her ankle in the last rollerderby. Either way, you’re doing a good deed. (I haven’t been by to see her yet, because I suck, but say “hello” for me, it is on my List of Things To Do.)

Shine, a SF nightclub, has a photobooth hooked up to Flickr.

I wished today for a real studio to play in. Crouching in my livingroom, having only two inches wiggle room, relying on the reflected light of a small hand mirror that I’d precisely taped to my wall, just wasn’t cutting it for me. Someone on MySpace wants to pay me $20/hour to take artistic nudes of him. He’s a hugely muscled man of the sort where I want to pronounce it muskles, thick as several boards with spelling to match. (His punctuation isn’t too hot either). I’m tempted to say yes, but only to connect myself with a shoot that won’t be locked behind a non-disclosure agreement, like the sweetheart shoots I do for women or the kink community boudoir photos. There must be an easier way.

Part of my reluctance to pester my photographer friends is the certain knowledge that I should be hunting more work for myself. Right now the best way to get me out of the house is promise me a meal. I’m wary of rent right now, too, though I already spend as little as possible. Underemployment is making me too nervous to feel I can blithely take a day off to scamper about the woods. I’ve been asked to write articles for a number of magazines, which is great, but it’s all volunteer work, which doesn’t help put food in the fridge. There was a run of film work last month, but it seems to have been a blip on the map, with no real direction.

Dreamy underwater shots by Alberich Mathews.

We live in a silent convocation of decisions.

I sent a letter to my father this morning. Yes, my violent, clinically psychotic, paranoid schizophrenic father who I can only hope is now old enough to be toothless instead of terrifying. (There’s a long shot, wow). There is always a chance the e-mail will bounce back. The address I have for him is very old, from five or six years ago. Here are the results of our last correspondance, from 2004.

Subject: Hi dad, it’s my 25th birthday this week

In truth, I don’t know why I’m sending this, given what or last communication degenerated into, but somehow I feel that 25 is one of those vaguely landmark ages, and I wanted to try to say hello again, and at least let you know I’ve made it this far.

Course, there’s always the possibility this will bounce back. This e-mail address is from a newspaper clipping from many years ago. The paper’s gone yellow and brittle, easy to tear. I’ve kept in one piece, though, not even sure how. It’s just been one of those things where every time I clean my apartment, somehow I manage not to throw it away.

I hope you do get this. It’s been a very long time. I haven’t seen you since before I was ten or spoken to you since I was twelve. I hope you are feeling better since our last letters, and have gotten some medial attention. I don’t usually recommend little coloured flakes of chemical to anyone, but there’s always new pills on the market, you know, maybe some of them will help.

At any rate, good luck in your endeavors, whatever they may be, and happy birthday to me.