Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Expressionist basketball

Nice harvest today! I had a training session at Building 34, which is surrounded by all sorts of heritage buildings, and the nearest bus stop is on Carling on top of the hill, next to some of the greenhouses. Later I got off the 85 at Bay Station on an impulse and had some fun in the vacant lot next to the Transitway. I'd been saving the graffiti at Bay Station for a sunny day, but I'm glad I did the basketball hoop today. Hard shadows would have spoiled this particular shot, I think. I'm calling it "Edvard Munch Was Here" as a little tribute to "The Scream", though it's mostly the anonymous spray paint artist's tribute.

This one is from the greenhouses, a detail of a larger one I'm calling "Hot Science". I really, really like the play of light on this one.

Still haven't made any noticeable progress on Chapter 2, and I'm starting to freak out. And the more I freak out, well, anyone who's ever lost a boner in bed knows exactly what I'm talking about. So I'm keeping my writing muscle warm by making up dialogue between the little angel perched on my right shoulder and the little forked-tailed demon perched on my left:

You're wasting time. You're 38. Some people your age have won the Pulitzer three times.

Tune him out. He needs to get laid.

Don't even think about getting off that bus. You need to get home and get some writing done.

Look at the light. Come on. Get off the damned bus, you know you want that shot.

And as if the camera wasn't enough, I just received a shipment from Amazon, which includes both the latest Armistead Maupin and the Eytan Fox movie about the two soldiers in the IDF. Aaaaaaaargh... I need to move to a desert island where there's absolutely nothing interesting to read, photograph, or listen to.

No, I need to move to Jupiter where the days are longer.

Mind you, if I really want to be rational about this, the truth is that I wouldn't be making an inch of progress on the chapter with or without the camera. I'm stuck on Chapter 2, and if I wasn't waving the Nikon all over Ottawa, I'd be sitting prostrate in front of my laptop, staring at the first paragraph and waiting for synapses to fire up. So I got no business freaking out, really, and one of the advantages of being 38 (as opposed to, say, 18) is that you don't spin out into black despair every time the words don't come quite as fast and furious as you'd like. It's not the end of the world; there's no need to get drunk over this; there's probably a bundle of neurons somewhere in the back of my brain coming up with a nifty plan to get out of this rut even as I'm lying on my back in the snow under a basketball hoop.