I only have about six images on this computer, and have used four of them already. Perhaps not writing here is the cause of my slow loss of interest in photography. I have some digital images around here somewhere.
I became sidetracked with another pos yesterday and never finished this one. I thought that I had figured out what happened with the "lost" post, but a common state of confusion has left me still wondering. Did I tell you that I have a minor case of long covid? I guess that I wouldn't have. All of the symptoms except menstrual, though barely noticeable.
The boy and mom went to a wrestling camp in Sacramento, so I have been trying to play along with R.E.M. songs from the 80s. And a cover of the same. It's a fun and challenging song to play along with. The riffs and chords are clever, as is Peter Buck's playing.
Raquel and the boy bought me Dylan's book, The Philosophy of Modern Song, for Christmas. I suppose he is trying once again to buck his current fans again, particularly those that might choose to read him as a result of the Nobel prize. It's not so much a philosophy as an ossifying man talking back to the radio and television of the past. I greatly prefer it when I can intuit his opinions from lyrical suggestions within songs.
That's my opinion.
There is some occasional wit and charm, and I haven't read all of the excerpts, or even half of them. But it's not the kind of book in which I necessarily would. There are some curious selections as well. It's difficult not to get the feeling he was working with the publisher or some advisors of some kind on a few of the pages.
It is that tone that I wish to avoid, the knowing whine of the aged.
Okay. Let me publish this post now so I can start working on today's. I relayed to a friend yesterday that if "anybody wants to be a writer" they have to spend a minimum of an hour each day dedicated to writing. These unrelated sections here took me about fifteen minutes.
If anybody ever asks me what type of writer I am, I'll say: fractional.
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