Beach 3, August 2009
The crappier my job gets, the more textbook my escapist tendencies. This is a common enough theme in many people’s lives. Still, I never seem to tire of making excuses for taking pretty pictures. I can think of little else under a leaky trailer blowing insulation into it’s belly. Stitched up in a tyvek suit, with a full face respirator that makes your eyes bulge with each breath, you tend to long for the open spaces.
Oddly though I’m growing to like my job- it’s is darkly peaceful in the tight spaces, and you can move tones around in your mind’s eye, because there’s nothing much else to see, and I can think farther into patterns and trace (or even anticipate) a chaotic sky or tide one or two cycles deeper there, and as such the thoughts I get take stronger hold and make a lasting impression, and I know what I want to see when I climb out. This, as aging compounds and indecision and apologia take root, is decent enough maintenance, if not a outright cure.
