The last Lightroom Duty post was 2300 days, which does feel like a sign. And in an unexpected but deserved twist of fate, I no longer run from everything. It’s back. I’ve started to trust the process again.

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There’s been no photos here for years now. The reason has been twofold.

One is that my Konica Hexar broke. I still had a second one, but no other camera would do. Then the other Hexar broke, and I broke too. No other camera would do.

The Hexar is fixed now. I figured it out. It was one hell of an electronics engineering project.

The other reason only became apparent once I dug through all the negatives and pictures I had queued for editing: at some point, my story stopped being mine. There are pictures of people – but the story is theirs, I’d barely be taking any part. All art is autobiographical, and without that part it becomes “just” pretty pictures, vacation photos, random snapshots not worth remembering. Retaking the magic is more than just figuring out where carry my camera. It takes a conscious choice to bring that camera to people and places that I hold dear, that I find emotionally close to my heart, that fill me with a sense of adventure.

Perhaps I should also re-fill my heart with a sense of adventure…

The prerequisite for writing one of those posts is just starting Lightroom. I started it, and it said: My house is the backstage. Fitting, considering I just moved back to my hometown.

* * *

I’ve come a long way since I took that photo back in 2013. On the first glance the problems are still the same: I still run away. I still escape. I’m still very, very afraid. I still don’t believe people are not gonna just leave me. Back then I was bent on figuring it all out; turns out it just took way, way longer than expected. Back in 2013 I was hurting – and I’m hurting now.

The difference, as usual, is that today I understand what’s going on.

* * *

Back in 2013 I had no idea. I knew I’m hurting – but I couldn’t pinpoint the pain. I felt alone – but helpless to change it. I’d jump from one addiction to another, never quite knowing what I’m running from. I’d devour emotions in a desperate attempt to feel less empty. I didn’t know why back then. The only tangible difference that matters is that now I know. I might not yet be very good at acting on that knowledge – but I’m working on it.

Today’s me understands why everything seems wrong – and has some ideas how to fix it. The remaining obstacle is the old me that’s very good at running away. I need to teach that person that they don’t have to run anymore.

It’s gonna be one hell of a ride.

My state of mind is weird, but adequate.

This part of the story is about trying to express emotions but ending just looking silly. This part is about trying to act careless when you’re shaking inside. This part is a delusion. I keep trying not to express anything even remotely sad – which is a supremely stupid thing to do in autumn.

Part of my identity is being low-key sad. Not depressed, not melancholic – just a little bit slow – just enough to let myself process everything that’s happening. It’s not a state of malaise; just adapting the pace of life to how my head works. The faster I get, the crazier things get around me. As much as I enjoy this craziness – there inevitably comes a time when I need to slow down & clean up the mess.

The first symptom of the mess piling up is me being unable to enjoy the simple things, like a walk in the forest.

* * *

Continue reading “slow motion breakdown” →

(Uraz/Wrocław, February 2017.)

Lądek Zdrój, March 2017.

* * *

“trgal sem rože noči
trgal na njivi prekletih
trgal vse dolge noči
strup je bil v žalostnih cvetih

pil sem pijačo strasti
pil sem pijačo strupeno
pil sem jo v uri slasti
dušo prodal sem v zameno”

I used to live on the edge between the real and the poetic.

I still find myself surprised as to how did I manage to go from this – the one man adventure – into fear. I know who did this, yet I don’t know how. The artifacts – photos, mostly – serve as a way to pull myself out of a living hell. They serve as proof that I contain multitudes – and I can reach out to them as I need. That no matter how hard someone tries to cut me off from the very essence of life – I do have some sort of grasp that lets me get it back.

I have been hurt, badly. There’s a whole cautionary tale to be told about abuse – but that’s for another time and place. I’d rather this story be about the good things that happened.

Niebowo means heavenly; it’s both a state of mind and a real place.

The previous post was right. The previous post was wrong. I neglected what I needed most.

The first step is my car, and it’s not that puzzling after all. My car is my dojo, one of many; it’s for getting places and people. Should a djinni appear out of the blue and grant a wish, I’d ask for infinite gasoline. That’s the first step. The second step is my camera…

The third step is you.

* * *