Hobo Wisdom Nugget #437

You know you've made a good girlfriend choice when you sing one of Dick Van Dyke's bits from the Supercalifragilisticexpialadocious song (complete with horrible Cockney accent), and she demands that you sing it to her EVERY DAY, UNTIL YOU DIE.

Internet, meet The Snuggler:





Also, here's a shot of me doing my thing:

So Much To Say...

...And yet somehow the words don't seem to come like they used to. There is so much that is positive in my life right now, so many good things have happened and will continue to happen, but I feel a bit sad at the moment. When I quit my job and moved to Santa Cruz, I fully expected to spend a lot of time writing. After all, that was the main reason for everything. I've known I was a writer since I was 9. It's simply what I AM, at my core. And yet the words aren't coming.

I found another path, a different way to express myself, and I found that I was good at it. I made investments, I put in the time to learn the craft, I taught myself how to be a photographer, and now I'm doing it. That's what I am now. I'd always expected that I would continue writing, that I could do both at the same time. But it hasn't happened. The words aren't coming.

I can feel them, just under the surface. I can feel the itching in my bones, but I can't scratch them out. I can't force them to come. I seem to be wired in such a way that I can do one, or the other, but not both.

Don't get me wrong. I love what I'm doing. I love how it makes me feel, and I love the pleasure that my work brings. It's just...unexpected. I was supposed to tell stories with my words, not with my eyes.

A new friend told me something interesting recently. He was looking through my portfolio, page by page, slowly, taking his time. Towards the end, he looked at me and told me that I have a "tender eye". He said that I have a way of capturing the emotion of a moment. I've thought about that a lot lately, and I wonder if the reason for that is that I'm sad that I can no longer tell stories in the old familiar way.

The realization that I can't do both at the same time has made me withdraw from many things that were old and familiar. I've touched on this a bit previously, but the reason for it is that I've been trying very hard to ignore what's been happening. I've been ignoring the writing itself, and almost everything associated with it.

I feel as though I've been hiding, because I was afraid to admit to myself that I couldn't tell the stories that I had inside. I realize now that's not entirely true. I've just found a different way to tell different stories.

I believe that the stories will come back, that the itching will become a warmth and the stories will just shine out of me. Someday. For now, I will happily give myself to the lens, and wait for the day when the words come home.