A Whole Lot of Crazy

I had it all planned out, the little 23mm f2 Fujinon lens was going to be my little gift to me. I've been working every day since October 24. Originally, my plan was to save enough to buy a new camera, new lights, the mentioned lens, and to retrieve what is still in pawn, but certain fortunate things did not happen and certain unfortunate things did happen. Sadly, a seven-day work week isn't enough for me to save a dime and in fact, I am still in debt. I thought I had this, though, the $495 to gift myself that itty bitty bundle of metal and glass, the minuscule kick in the ass of motivation I desperately need to hit the streets even harder, camera in hand.

Yeah, I know, suck it up, sometimes you can't get what you want, don't make excuses for your inaction, you've been through worse, a least you can pay rent, you are not starving, and thinking about what could have been won't get you anywhere. I know! But I let myself get excited. I had this thing to look forward to in the abysmal dream sucker that is my life and now I don't. You need that sometimes. A carrot dangling in front of your drooling mouth only works for a bit. Eventually, you stop chasing it unless you're given the occasional nibble. I just wanted a nibble.

I have been lucky, some would say. If you look at all of the second chances I have been granted then you are correct. I managed to raise some money due to the kindness of strangers. That was enough to get my gear out of the pawn shop, but immediately following that gust of good fortune was a tidal wave shit storm of mishaps, fumbles, and bad people doing bad things to me which resulted in a need to once again pawn my gear. Then I landed a decent job. Sure it is seven days a week and at first, it was way more than full time. It was supposed to be enough to put a bit aside and start my life off on a good foot, prepared for any type of photo work (the kind that I could make money doing), ahead on bills, and even a real suit that fits and is not falling apart at the seams. Nope. Nada. Did not happen. My delicately assembled house of cards crumbled and I can say that it was not my fault. Really? Can I? Oh, but everything is my fault. Doing the right thing, being patient, is not enough. Expecting from others what they expect out of me is obviously a huge mistake.

I always say that I will never make this mistake again when I make huge mistakes and when people treat me poorly I swear I will start treating them the same. I don't do either of these. I can't put myself first and I can't fuck people over even though they may deserve it. I know they would not put up with me if I was anything less than I am. I am a push over. That is the label you deserve when you are considerate, understanding, forgiving, and generous. Those are the traits of a loser.

Think about people who win. It can be at sports, business, relationships, and anything else. The people who win are cut throat. They do for themselves at any cost. They don't slow down to pick up the fallen. They don't give the big account to the guy who is struggling to make a dime. They don't tell the truth if it makes the other guy look good and they look bad. They are backstabbers, cheats, liars, and shit talkers. They exude confidence, bravado, heightened masculinity, and lack empathy. My nature is to empathize irrationally, give until I am broke, and then I secretly expect some karmic reward for good behavior. The reward is not what motivates me. I am always punished with a rotting ache in my belly when I walk against my cursed good nature. It's not that I am a good person, really, but if I act any other way I get sick. I have acted poorly. I did so for quite a length of time and it did nearly kill me in a real way. This "do the right thing" shit is manifesting itself in a mountain of resentment towards those who don't return the courtesy. I guess, that is how I know I am not a good person. If I was good I would not mind the suffering. But I mind, I mind like a motherfucker!

My expectations are lingering, haunting, venomous, and ultimately silly. It is left over from the child I was. The idea that if you are good to others they, in turn, will be good to you. The idea that life is fair. This, we all know, is bullshit. In no way do I believe that but the sting is there. When that action, which I know to be entirely of fiction, does not occur I am left in two--saddened and betrayed. I want that psychotic sense of entitlement to die already. I hate that part of me. He's ugly and stupid. I don't do anything for a reward. That is not my motivation, I swear, but it feels like it is because the pain is real. I guess it is not a sense of entitlement. The anger doesn't say, "I deserve my share of good stuff, where is it?" It is more like a whimpering, "please, just a taste, can I have an itty bitty taste, please? I promise I'll do even more. I will never stop sacrificing my happiness for others, but just for a second could I see the beauty, feel the warm air, taste the sugar, know the sensation of a day without fear, sadness, discomfort, and this nagging emptiness pulling me into the darkness?", yeah, it's more like that.

Understand this, though, if you understand nothing else: I realize that what where who and how I am is not that bad hard or unbearable I could easily give up on my dreams and do the living breathing going through the motions this is what life is so enjoy what is on television tonight learn to watch sports at the bar with your new buddies while drinking cheap beer and after awhile you will save up enough money to buy a reasonable car and you'll get your credit in good enough shape to buy a reasonable house someone will love you enough to want to be your wife this could be your life easily and it won't happen overnight but if you stop wanting to take photographs with meaning and feeling that people will see and if you stop trying to help people and if you stop caring about total strangers then you could easily find a spot at the table of mediocrity it is a huge table with plenty of seating so why don't you just sit down and quit the griping for you know that every problem you have is your own your fault your doing therefore all of your pain is your fault your doing therefore you are always in complete control of all and you are the biggest obstacle in the way of your happiness for you know it really is not that bad you are not a suffering soul it really is not that bad it really is not that bad really it is not. 

BUT

WHAT YOU MAY NOT UNDERSTAND IS

THIS PAIN

FEELS

LIKE PAIN

IT CRIPPLES ME JUST THE SAME

HURTS JUST THE SAME

AS IF IT 

WERE LIFE THREATENING.

There is the frustrating part of this. You know what you are feeling is irrational and wrong but it still feels like it could kill you, and it still hinders your ability to do those usual things you shouldn't have trouble doing. There really is not anything wrong. That is what everyone thinks about everyone who is exactly like me. There are millions of us. We all feel pain and on top of the hurting is the humiliation that we are this weak and stupid to be susceptible to What? Depression? Mental illness? 

We all say we believe in these things and that we know their effects. We ignore those who suffer, though, and treat them as if they are well. We tell them to cheer up 

STOP TELLING ME TO CHEER UP. 

knowing that words do not heal illness. We don't walk up to paraplegics and tell them to stand up? We don't treat the mentally ill like sick people. Unless you are balls to the wall, throwing your poop, wearing a tin foil hat crazy, or you have a shotgun in between your teeth, we tell you to get over it. 

Now, I don't know what my diagnosis is anymore. I've been labeled a lot of things. I've been in hospitals and I have seen doctors. I have been on more medications than I can name. I know that most psychiatrists, the ones you get when you are poor, suck. They write you a script after talking to you for two minutes and tell you to come back in a month. Psychologists of the same brand seem to let you say whatever you want and then blame your childhood and offer the solution of finding another psychologist that you can see once a week. They never know of one that takes your insurance, mos def not one that does free work, and the price range for a bargin-basement-associate-degree-carrying-I-mean-fuck-my-guidance-counselor-in-high-school-had-a-masters-and-he-was-a-dufus-"therapist" is still $70 an hour. I can't afford $70 a week, and I don't want that person giving me advice anyway. I want a doctor. I want someone who has really studied mental illness. If I am sick I want a doctor. Why is that so hard to understand? Then there is the whole, "Well if I am sick how come you expect me to work like everyone else, live like everyone else, and be fine without treatment?" 

The truth is that no one believes you. 

"You are lazy. You have been your whole life. You are weak and you have been ever since I have known you. You are pathetic and I am sick of hearing the same shit over and over. You always have the same problems. Do something about it and quit making excuses. Get a normal job. Learn how to be happy like everyone else. It's about time you straighten out your life and start behaving like an adult. I know you. You are just trying to be different. You are trying to get attention and you want people to feel sorry for you. I can't take this anymore. Bye."

The mentally ill are the only sick people that it is okay to walk out on after telling them to, basically, get better by sheer will power. They are the only people who get blamed for being sick. I mean, there is a whole billion dollar industry of FDA-approved drugs for the treatment of mental illness, so it is a real thing. As real as cancer. Try calling in to work with depression or borderline personality disorder, I dare you. That is it, though, you are definitely ill, and it's serious, in some cases proven to be life threatening, but you are supposed to walk around, act normal, be normal, go to work, smile, and be fine. You know just fucking be fine you sick fuck. Be not sick anymore now. You are getting on my nerves with your illness, god damn it. All I am doing is being irrational. I need to be practical. I hear that a lot. I think that a lot. But I don't know what I need. How could I? I don't know what I am? Everyone seems to think there is something wrong with me from doctors to my family and friends but nothing is too wrong, because why? Because I am not quite batshit crazy? Because I am not homeless? Because I am not dead? That is the really sad thing about mental illness. No one takes shit seriously until someone fucking dies. Then everyone says the same thing, "she could have come to me for help. Why didn't she tell someone?" Fuck you. What would you do if someone came to you and said, "I think there is something wrong with me. I feel sad all the time and I don't want to go to work or get out of bed. Nothing makes me feel better." or "I can't handle even the slightest bit of stress, I nearly black out at work. I assume everyone hates me and I think they are trying to ruin my life. I even think this about you. I can't trust anyone and I want to lock myself in a closet." What would you do for that person? Nothing. You would brush it off because that is just what "crazy Judy" does or "paranoid Frank", and they will be fine. Until they are not. Oh well. But that is what we tell ourselves, too. It is not just the well misunderstanding the sick. We, the sick, don't understand ourselves. I think that I will be okay until I am not. That is how I deal with whatever this is. I will be fine until I am not. It's not much of a solution. 

Eve of Disappointment

I guess when we get older, for some of us, this time of year is a reminder that the good days are gone forever. The joy we felt as children will gather dust stored away in the file cabinets of our memories. As much as I try to forget that tonight is Christmas Eve, that anticipation, the giddy tickle in my belly, lingers like a phantom limb. As I feel it lightly, quickly it's chased away, my brain realizing that he is here now and that there is nothing to look forward to tomorrow. Only a day like all the others bearing no significance and certainly not that shining new camera the boy in me daydreams of. In this house, there is no tree. Nothing smells of cinnamon. No menorah, either. No hint of the holidays. Something I thought I would never miss and obviously it is not the lack of decorations or aromas, presents or religion, that catch me off guard with a gut punch but the souls, hearts, and faces of those who annoyed the puppy puke out of me for so long with their traditions and sentimentalities that I foolishly long for. It is not simply the passing of the past that hurts me. It is that my presence is not in their present and while I am presently presentless they share each others presence and exchange presents. If only they were gracing my home with their presence for an instance. The distance is a hindrance. My home couldn't handle their attendance. Enough.

I miss my family. This sucks.

My Question: Part 2

What am I doing? Isn't that where I left off? 
What I am doing is:

wasting time

feeling sorry for myself

being scared

of embarrassing myself

and of failure

of trying

giving

all of myself to this

the dumb act of photo making

which no one gives a fuck about

like me

the one who

always fails

is always broke

is always in need of a hand

because nothing works

and when

I bend over backward

for those who are supposed to care

I get pushed down

runover

forgotten

what I do does not matter

how dare I expect something in return

I am not giving up

why am I not giving up?

That is not the answer, though. I do all of those things and those thoughts are ever present; always bouncing around my mind. My days are a battle with negativity, doom, despair, the hopeless, torturous humiliation, and stabbing nagging feeling that not only do I not belong but a "how dare you walk this earth with us?" weight which gives me an ache in my gut to apologize for each sad step I take on their property. 

Who the Fuck are "They"?

You know, the nameless, mugging, masses who, when they think I am not looking, break me down using psychic weaponry. You know, "they"? What?

They are age defying. They have been following me, watching me, my entire life. They are the reason why I don't achieve. They poison every chance I get. They whisper rumors about me. They spread lies and even worse--they tell the truth. Their mission is, of course, to ensure my failure. Well, not just my failure; that wouldn't be good enough. They need me to experience the wrath of hell's most vicious demons here on this plane of existence. Fulfillment will not be felt if they do not witness me burning from the inside out, begging for mercy, finding none, losing my mind, finding it, then quickly losing it again only to spy it smashed between boulders, tossed into acid, devoured by rabid guinea pigs, digested then expressed and stomped by booted thugs who then beat me wildly for getting my mind shit on their shiny boots. There does exist a hero who can save me from "They". This hero is tiny. Some have never seen the hero. Some don't believe this hero exists but the hero does, I promise. So, who can defeat "They"? Only one can, only "HE" can Defeat "They"!

Yep, "HE". 

He is hard to find, kind of a wanderer, doesn't speak much, and stands about two inches tall. He, like They, has always been here with me. I remember He first appeared in dreams, or rather he appeared in nightmares but He made them dreams by acting all heroic and shit. He, some would say, is the opposite of me. He is all I am not, and much shorter. He has confidence, He is always honest, He never backs down and nobody pushes He around, down, or at all. He takes all of my good photos. He is the reason why I get paid sometimes. He is too small to carry me. He can't do everything. It is frustrating to watch me second guess myself, to watch me cower when I am afraid, to witness my voice cracking under the slightest bit of pressure, and the repetition with which this shit happens gets old fast. So, He leaves. He walks away without a warning. He does this a lot and every time it kills me a bit. He cares but its too much. I am too disappointing. Don't get me wrong, He always comes back. He promised my mother that he'd watch out for me. He does not want to disappoint her. He does his best and sadly that just isn't enough. Dolefully, He lowers the brim of his hat, gives a slight wag of his head following the horizon, left to right, turns on the heels of tattered shoes, and walks away. "C'mon, what do you want me to do? I'm two inches tall. 37 years of this bullshit is too much. Yer on your own, kid," and like He came into my life, without notice, He disappears.  
"Where are you...you can't just...dude...but...wait! Please!" I call out, but He only becomes smaller, smaller, smaller until he is gone.

Now, I Am The Only One Who Can Save Me

ME.

I don't consider that good news. This time I don't think He is coming back. I have to defeat They on my own. I don't want to but how much of my life is "me" doing shit I don't want to do? Most of it. So, what's the big deal? There isn't anything to be afraid of. If I fail I am like everyone else. That is what I forget. That is what I always forget--most people don't do a damn thing. Most people are ambitionless, lazy, and soul-satisfied with being mediocre, mundane, boring, vanilla, flat, toast for breakfast, pop music, light beer, couch potato, hum-drum, C student, and common. This life of mine is not about other people. My life is not "how do I compare to everyone else?", and it is not a competition. I don't feel like a failure owing to the fact that others are better than me. I feel like a failure by virtue of me not doing as much as I know I could if I were given a chance, if I were given the opportunity, or if this field of play were level. I know I could do great things, but I don't have the means to get to the right places or I don't have the equipment or by the design of this society, I am merely not allowed.

Excuses? Excuses. Excuses!

No, those are reasons. Yes, some people defy odds, but those are not necessarily people of overwhelming skill or talent. Those are people who, like others, got lucky. Um, you know how some people win the fucking lottery and most people don't? You know how unbelievably against you those odds are, right? Oh, but when someone comes from nothing and "makes it" it is by virtue of their skill and talent, and if you do not do the same, well, I guess you are not as skilled. You are not trying hard enough. He did it. He made it. What the fuck is wrong with you? Now, take that same tone with somebody who plays the lottery and does not win. 

Most of the artist who "make it" are from wealth and privilege. Do you want to argue with me? Are you going to throw out the names of some dead dudes? Posthumously doesn't count, okay. I don't want that. I also don't want fame or riches. 

All I want is to exist and do what makes me fulfilled for it would help others feel the same and could save lives but instead I have to do drudgery which brings elation to none and matters not. 

And there are simple ways to make this so

And the world around me will loudly say "NO"

"but with your abundance, I can show

hidden beauty of the status quo,

turn chaos, malaise, to flawless snow"

WE don't want that here now GO!

They yell as they watch their money grow.

People can do what they want with their money. Who am I to say that instead of driving a fancy car or going on a cruise or buying a huge house or any of those things I seem to think are unnecessary and meaningless, that instead of that, people should give to me so that I can make art that I think (key to it all is this I THINK) matters. Well, apparently no one else thinks that it matters. Oh, well, some think it matters enough to remain hobby, and to my face may encourage my quest. Behind it is a story which goes differently. There has never been a conversation about a joint effort to invest in me. There is positivity given in the form of polite action. Not wanting to hurt my feelings, or break my sobriety, maybe, but not a system of support where there could have been one. It's like giving a homeless man a buck every day for ten years when if the first fucking day you met him you would have given him $3,650 he may not have been homeless for ten years. That is the past. Who cares about "but if" and "if only"? I really don't. I only think about how I could blame others due to the fact that a lot of others have urged me to seek the counsel of mental health professionals and whenever I do all those professionals tell me is that (after hearing me tell of my past) it's not my fault and that this person is to blame for this and that person for that and on and on. I leave thinking,"fuck, I never looked at it that way. Maybe, they're right? It kind of makes sense, I mean if I think about it? They did fuck me up!" No way. Sure, people may have made some mistakes with me. I am a weird one. It's not their fault. Fuck that. It's not their fault. It's not. I've made my choices. I know where I am and I know how this works but I choose to fight instead of falling in line. 

That fact doesn't make me special, or better, or smarter, or more interesting. All it does is make me hurt. It disrupts my sleep, ruins my appetite, pushes people away, and leaves me generally alone and unhappy. 

Okay, do you understand what I am saying now? Now, do you get why I constantly ask myself

what am I doing?

My Question: Part 1

What am I doing? Every day that question stampedes through my brain. Knocking shit over, breaking mementos from the past, leaving hoof prints on the rug, and doing more damage than I can afford. As many times as I have asked myself this, still, there is no answer. I, at 37 (closer to 38), haven't even come close, I don't think? There, the last  bit of the former sentence, "I don't think?", may be a clue. Now, of course, I do not mean "at all". What I mean is that I ask "what am I doing?" so often, machine-gun rapidity, that it has become meaningless. Its omnipresence has rendered it unanswerable. Therefore, I don't think about actually answering the question anymore and then it morphs into frustration to anger to sadness to guilt to depression to madness to me pulling my hair out and screaming while tears pour down my face, "What the fuck am I doing?".

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

what am I doing

?

Not having the answer has been torture. For a mind like mine that is already confused (every minute takes delicate attention and I must dissect details to ensure they are being processed the correct way and not misinterpreted) adding a universe of cloudy confusion makes matters significantly worse, as one could imagine. It is a balancing act for me to simply function and appear "okay", "normal", whatever it is that most people are. I thought this was hard when I was an alcoholic but this, being sober and only mentally ill, is Hell. I could guess that this is what it feels like to be in a war zone. You have to be on your toes every moment for bullets are whizzing by and one wrong move could be your end. I am not facing death every day but as anyone who suffers this can tell you, fear is fear. 

Real or imaginary, doesn't matter, and people will always remind me that anxiety can not kill me or that my delusions are exactly like hallucinations and all I have to do is tell myself, "this is in my head", but it doesn't fucking matter. Every night ends the same. I am exhausted, tense, horrified that all of my tomorrows will be just like today. All I am doing is "doing" for the sake of. I am going through the necessary motions to live to go through the motions to go through the motions again until I can't do this anymore. That is my life. I am only doing until I can not. 

This feels like a life wasted. All I want to do with my life is to help people by taking photos that change them, remind them of beauty, inspire them to create, move them, and/or improve their understanding of the world and its people. I know that seems like a lot, or maybe it doesn't? Maybe, what I want is impractical? Remember what I am having a problem with, "what am I doing?", and the "wasted life" feeling comes from the fact that I can barely help myself. If that is a fact then how can I help others? It is hard to do the work that I believe can help because I waste most of my time doing the necessary toil that allows me to subsist. I  think it is fair to blame this on society or, at least, the one I live in. 

This country places no importance on art. When I speak to people in other countries they are astonished, amazed, confused, and baffled by the fact that I receive no support from the government or the community for producing my work. Sure, we have NEA grants and the like, but what are they? What will $1000 a year get me? And they don't give them to everyone. My odds are not great that I will receive a grant, but let's say I receive every grant that is available to me this year. Do you know how much that would be? Not even $10,000. There is no chance in hell that I could win every grant that I apply to every year and even if I did there is no way to live off of that imaginary money. Even the jackpot $1000 grants are shit. That is not enough to create and live for two weeks. 5k wouldn't be enough, 6k, 7k, 8k 9k, 10k, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 18, 20k, fuck now we are talking if we are talking every six months and if we are talking for every artist who is producing. Cut the fucking shit, the shit, the phony fifth grade god damn essay contest style selection process we use to decide who is eligible for, which artist is in need of, meager money to do nothing worth while with because you know what? Do You Know What? FUCK YOU AND YOUR SOCCER MOM CULT COLLECTIVE OF COUNTRY BUMPKIN CRAFT MAKERS. FUCK YOUR ESSAY CONTESTS. WHAT IS THIS AND WHO ARE YOU? CALL IT WHAT IT IS. BECAUSE IF A GRAND IS WHAT YOU NEED TO MAKE SOMETHING GREAT THEN YOUR IDEA OF GREAT IS MUCH DIFFERENT THAN MINE. It has to be twenty grand every six months. To me, that is a reasonable amount of money to create, live, and exhibit ones work. That means from concept to culmination. Trust me, if you are reading this and thinking to yourself, "Why that is forty grand a year for an artist? That is too much. I ain't forking over my tax dollar for some artist to sit on his as and draw bullshit." Dude, that is nothing. That is low low low low low, but if you give that small amount you will see some artists busting their asses. They will show, not just their people, everyone in this country what they can do with the minimal, and they will gain the attention of the world. There would not be a human who would not be awaken. Who wants to be awake though and why doesn't our country give a fuck about art? Why, is this country alone, is the title Artist synonymous with doing nothing; with being unemployed? How come, when I tell someone I am an artist the next question is, always, without a doubt, in every situation, not 9 times out of 10 but 10 times out of 10,"but, what do you do for a living? You know, how do you make money?" and my reply is normally something like, "I suck your mom's dick",which goes over like free cupcakes. My point being that it gets old. Like being skinny and everyone telling you that you need to eat something, or as I imagine, being tall and everyone asking you if you play basketball. What fucking hits you in the cunt is that they are right. What do I do for money? It can't be this:

Why would photographs of our day and age taken by an artist of proven talent be of any value to a society? Why should I be paid to document this world, the way I see it? What does it add to our culture? Art defines our culture. The three questions I put forth should not be questions that any adult human should have trouble answering. Those questions shouldn't be asked for the answers are, to most, evident in our existence, too obvious for contemplation, or the type that fall into that category of questions of which there is apparently no category--stupid questions (blah "there are no such thing as stupid questions"). Oh shit, you are struggling aren't you? You, being an American, are having trouble with them, seriously though, those questions for anyone in any other civilized country on the blue green round world we live upon would be for a kindergartner, maybe younger, and not a particularly intelligent one at that.
And, you think I joke!
If that doesn't depress you then you are part of the problem. We Americans (not me of course) think nothing of culture. We place no value on it. We will notice when it is gone. As it is disappearing, being tossed away, booted or to use a phrase you all might understand we are saying "You're Fired" to our culture. Art matters more than weapons. Art matters more than sport. Art matters more than titties. Art matters more than distraction. Art matters more than you know. Art matters more than you care. Art in America is in danger of extinction. In order to stop this from happening America has to pay attention to its artists. She has to start taking care of them, nurturing them, pushing them, and supporting them. The Artist needs a place in America. France, Germany, The UK, Spain, Italy, on and on, they all make a place for artists who work hard at their discipline. We are too busy building better bombs. If that doesn't depress you then you are part of the problem. 

I am going to stop there. I am not done. Really, I have not even started. fa

Because You Still Owe Me

I did not pay attention to the date. I am sure it was about this time last year that you disappeared.You left without warning to most but to me, you gave them by the millions. I did not pay attention because I did not want to. You would, in my mind, live up to your promise. You owed me. You would pay me back. Like all the days I gave you with smiles, you gave me with frowns. You were supposed to be all that you were not but still I trusted you. Although, in every sense, in every way you were the personification of betrayal, I still believed in you. You let me down. You broke every rule. The six and I, you would leave behind-unapologetic. Always unapologetic. While the world saw you as giving and selfless, I knew that you were neither. I can not forgive you. I hate that I miss you. You don't deserve that. I did not want you to be something that you could not be. I wanted you to be happy without me. You could have done that easily. I am not that special. I am not that hard to get over. You were a strong woman when I met you and that did not have to change. It was you who gave up. In the simplest way, you quit doing those basic things which were necessary for your survival. You died lazy, stupid, and weak. You died an uncaring, evil, cunt who abandoned those little ones that you swore were your life. No one should think kindly of you. No one should feel sad. I should not miss you. You owe me. I gave you your life when you should have died. I sacrificed my happiness so you could become what you once were, once again. You still owe me, and you can never pay me back. You owe me and what did you leave me? In the end, you left me for your loved ones (the ones who were where when you were so sick?) to blame. You gave them the gift of a clear mind. To them, it was my fault you died. You could have left them the truth that I gave you what only a god could have. I gave you years that you did not deserve. You probably thought this would be about how much I still love you, that I made a mistake when I left, that I wish I could still be in your arms, but that would not be the truth. I left because I realized that you were not capable of loving anything. Your whole identity was a lie, and those who surrounded you did exactly what you would have done--they left when it got hard and uncomfortable. I did not do that. I stayed through the discomfort and the difficult. I gave you a million chances and you fucked up all of them. Now, you are dead. Yes, I wish you were not. Only, though, because you owe me.

Where I am is in the middle of a great depression. A going of age, or a pre-midlife crisis in an alternate reality.

I have come to realize that the world I inhabit is nothing like the one I imagined as a child, is unrecognizable from the one I hope for as a young man, and now as I am in my late thirties it is one I look at as if experiencing a hallucination. 

"This can not be right?" I say to myself as I examine my surroundings. Homeless men and women in this country of vast wealth. Still? 25% of the worlds incarcerated are jailed in this, the land of the free? Unarmed men, women, and children are gunned down at a rate that must be a mistake, and by the men who are paid by us to protect us. Why? I can not be hearing this correctly, the color of their skin? This is still an issue? That it was is astonishing, but still? Now? With all that we know about who and what we are, how we are all so similar, so alike, almost family, and we still kill our sweet brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters under the bright sunlight for being a slightly different color? Everything I have just said is so fucking worn out, cliche, old news, but if these facts don't bring you to tears every day then we have a problem. And we have a problem. 

And we have a problem.

Maybe, it is just me. I know I have a problem because I don't know if I can stand to look at this world any longer. There are the reasons like my life being a mess and all of that personal stuff, but there is a bigger problem for me. I hate that people tell me all the time to "fuck people! people are assholes and you are just going to get fucked over if you give people the benefit of the doubt. don't worry about helping them, trust me they would not help you." I hate that. What is worse is that 99% of the time they are correct. I get fucked over all of the time. I trust people, believe in them, and always assume that a person is good. I am so wrong, though, and it kills me. I have fucked up my life because I basically believed in Santa Claus. Everything up to this point has been a dream. I thought I could help but now that my world view is destroyed I don't know where to go from here?

To Those Who Think I Am Not A "Man"

I am 37. I do not own a car, a house, a dog, or a suit. I do not have any children and I have never been married. I am hardly employed at a job that pays $10 an hour and sometimes I get freelance photography gigs when my camera gear (not the type of gear a real professional photographer would use) is not in the pawn shop. I call myself a professional photographer and I have been published a lot, had my work in galleries and a couple of people actually think I am talented. I know I am talented but there is always something holding me back; standing in my way. Most people would not consider me a professional photographer. I don't come close to making a living off of my photography. The longest I have held down one job was three years and that was at a coffee shop when I was 21-24. Since then most of my jobs last no longer than a year. I have never earned more than $20,000 in one year. Not even close. Right now I have $15 in my bank account which is not a bank account really but a prepaid debit card. I still have student loans to pay. I still have a lot of debt and my credit score is 400 and dropping. Over the last twenty-two years, this year has been the only one I have experienced sober. I will repeat that.

Over the last twenty-two years, this is the only one I have experienced sober.

Over the last twenty-two years, this is the only one I have experienced sober.

Over the last twenty-two years, this is the only one I have experienced sober.

I am also mentally ill. Over the last twenty years, or so, I have been diagnosed as bipolar, manic depressive, chronically depressed, and now borderline personality disorder. Although everyone says that they know that a mental illness is just as serious as any other type of illness I will have to say that I have never, ever met a single fucking person who believes this. If you are mentally ill no one fucking gives a shit. Because you are not. You are just lazy. You are making it up. You are off your meds. That is my favorite one, being that it makes no sense, but it is actually the most common. Do you understand? People tell me that my mental illness is not that bad, that I am simply overreacting because I am off of my medication. You see, according to these people, my medication works wonders and solves all of my problems by making me a productive member of society. My medication, whatever it is at any given time, does nothing at all. Like I said in the first sentence--I am 37. I am not new to being me. So, all of that aside, it is important for you to understand that this year is the first one in twenty-two years that I have been sober, on my medication and still not doing what most people my age are doing. I am still light years behind, and most mornings start out with me repeating to myself "suicide is out of the question this morning just like it was yesterday, so get in the shower." Maybe that is funny but it certainly is not a joke.

This was a bad year to be sober. Other than having a horrible time finding employment, staying off the booze, dealing with a "roommate" who liked to beat the shit out of me, a rocky relationship (the first four months of my sobriety), and basically coming to the realization that I have zero friends in Las Vegas, just being sober was like learning how to walk all over again. I had (maybe have) no idea who I was. I could say it is like waking up from a 22-year coma. Really, that is the only way to explain it. That stuff alone would be hard, but then my dad gets cancer, my ex-girlfriend (the longest relationship of my life 4 years) dies (everyone blames this on me which feels awesome), and then the cancer kills my dad. Is that a shitty year? Am I exaggerating? Would anyone fall off the wagon? I didn't. I mean, I am not doing well. I may as well be drinking myself blind every night, right? 

I have tried. I have made the large bottle of vodka purchase more than once this year. Still, I can't do it. I can't sit down and get drunk. I can barely finish one drink. I hate alcohol. I don't know what happened to my brain, but I can not drink. I will never be a drunk again. That is the only thing I have going for me and by no means is this an accomplishment. Wow, in 37 years I have learned that drinking until you black out every night is bad for you, and that is all. What is an accomplishment, though, is this! This. This Right Here. The fact that I am not dead by my own hands is miraculous. I beat the odds on that one. I can tell you now that being a drunk is easier that being mentally ill and sober. This life of mine right now is like living in a horror movie where you are being stalked by a raving lunatic but everyone thinks you are crying wolf. Even more frustrating is that when I was a drunk I could find work, and I had friends. Now all of my friends have gone, and I can't find work. It is like a bad dream, or worse, a cliche bad dream. Everyone is so sick of putting up with my shit from my years of drunken debauchery that they are not about to hear my mentally ill shit too. I mean, nobody drinks to self-medicate, right? That is a myth. 

It sucks, people think I am a dick, a loser, a failure, and worst of all, a bad person. That is what my family thinks and I can only guess those people whom I considered my closest friends who no longer speak to me. They have all moved on and grown up, but I have not. At 37, I have only been an adult for one year. That is the way I look at. I, though, unlike others, know the extent of my alcoholism. When I say that for twenty-two years I was a drunk, I don't simply mean that I drank too much. What I mean is that the only time I was not intoxicated in those twenty-two years was by mistake. Also, that for those twenty-two years I was addicted physically and mentally to alcohol. If I did not drink I would experience withdrawals, and I will tell you that to get to that point is hard, it takes work and that is no joke. I am not saying that I started drinking twenty-two years ago, oh no. That would be twenty-five years. A little aside here: My mother, brother, all family and few friends know that I started drinking almost every day at twelve, or that I was trying to become an alcoholic. I wanted a reason. I wanted something concrete for people to address when I would act odd, feel sad, not want to move an inch, constantly wish for death, and on on on on. Yes, it was my mentally illness, and my embarrassment, my feeling of helplessness, of not being taken seriously, that drove me to become an alcoholic. That is the truth. Now back to whatever this is. So, for twenty-two years, if I did not drink I would become ill. In the begining, I could get by with a pint of hard liquor a day, or a few glasses of wine, or four beers, but as time went on that obviously became a monster. The last few months of my drinking I was up to around two liters of hard alcohol in order to simply feel okay. To get out of bed, and I mean in order to physically be able to move from the bed, I would have to drink probably two pints of vodka straight. I remember vodka seriously tasting no different than water to me. None. No difference what so ever. Can you imagine that? Now, if I take a sip of vodka I am baffled. I have no clue how I could do that, and that it was only a year ago. I'll throw this in here too: If you can believe this, if you can image what this would do to you, or if you could even do it if someone offered you a million dollars; if you think you could do this without dying, honestly. I would say that for the last year of my drinking, maybe more, I would eat about the equivalent of a half of a sandwich a month. I promise that I am not exaggerating. That is all I would eat. I would guess that I would average a teaspoon of solid food a week, and I did not drink protein shakes or smoothies, nothing like that at all. My lowest weight was 82 pounds. I am 5' 8". People would constantly, and I mean constantly, ask me, bug me, harass me, "why are you so skinny? Is there something wrong with you? You need to eat something." Over and over, until I lost it. I started to tell people I had cancer. That was the only way I could explain looking like I just walked out of Auschwitz (I got a lot of those comments also). I was weak. So weak that I could barely step up a curb, and I remember that the three stairs which lead to my front door where nearly impossible to navigate. I had to stop and sit on the second stair before continuing. I was 100% sure that soon my life would end and was always afraid to go to sleep. That was hard, being exhausted almost all of the time but being terrified of sleep because I was sure I would never wake up. Can you imagine that? Can you?

Yes, I am broke. I don't own anything really, and for the most part, unless I work incredibly hard (which I plan on) my life will most likely amount to nothing at all. The odds are stack against me. I am a 37-year old ex-drunk with a history of relapsing and mental illness. Most people like me do commit suicide, and I do think about it but I just won't do it. For some reason, I think that I will overcome all of this and eventually amount to something. Honestly, the reality of my situation does not seem real. I guess I have always been a step or two outside of myself if that makes any sense. I am a closet optimist, a habitual daydreamer, and a secretly believe that any day now my superpowers will manifest; that I will be great. I also don't want much. My goals are not too lofty. All I want is a real chance at an adult life. If I could make $35,000 a year I would feel like a billionaire. That seems impossible now but I won't stop trying. Why? All I want to do is to be able to help others. I could give up on myself because I don't exactly care for me, but to give up on those whom I could potentially help, well, I can not imagine that. 

I have to stop this here. I am tired. I have interviews tomorrow, photos to edit, "to do" lists to compose, promises to myself to live up to or break, dreams to turn into reality, and myself to help, to heal, to transition into something better than this. 

What's the verdict? Am I a "man"? Am I decent? Or am I just another lazy motherfucker who makes excuses for his shit existence? 

Really, Ansel Adams? Whatever

When you think of your favorite painters, what do they paint? Beautiful women? Photo-realistic landscapes? Cute babies dressed up in costumes? Sunsets? Do they strictly use say water color or oil? If they are still alive, do they sell their work in calendar form? Posters that you can purchase at Target? Would you consider them normal and well adjusted?
I am guessing that if you are an intelligent person with decent taste in art, then you answered no to most of these questions(the yes or no questions). Why is that? It is because when you think of painters you actually are thinking of artists. You don't do that with photographers, though. You don't pay enough attention to artists who use photography as their medium. You also tend to confuse photographers who make art and photographers who take photographs. Now, that delves into the realm of "my fucking opinion", but this is MY blog.
Ansel Adams, I am sorry, is not an artist. If he is your favorite photographer and you are a photographer then let me hurt your tender bits, you are not an artist. Landscapes are for postcards, calendars and your Grandma's living room (the one you are not allowed to sit in). Of course, there are plenty of exceptions but most, as in 99%, landscapes are not art. To clarify further, for this essay when I refer to "art" I am referring to "fine art" for why call something art if you are not speaking of fine art. I hate the term fine art. To me it "is" or "is not" art. Art is saying something deeper. It uses the same devices one would use in literature. It has an emotional impact. Art builds tension. Art does not have to be pretty. Much like a poem does not have to rhyme. Art also tells you something about the man/woman who made it. It should tell a lot. Commercial work can be art, or rather one can use art commercially. The opposite would be that just because it is hanging in a gallery does not mean it is art. Street work should be art, and documentary work should be too, but photojournalism is not. That is why I never refer to myself as a photojournalist, because what I do is deeper than what some dude pumping out weak compositions for a daily paper is doing. Oh, and yes, there are exceptions, but pick up a paper, any paper, and you will see the same mundane, photo 101, rule of thirds, "photojournalistic", style of shooting over and over. It really is odd that so many photographers have the same exact look. Same goes for commercial photographers, wedding photographers, on on onononononononononon. Unless you are really an artist then chances are you have pigeon-holed yourself into some lovely genre of photography and you have adopted the "look" of whatever unoriginal bunch of craftsmen you bump heals with. Hey, that's fine. That is what most clients expect. If your website states that you shoot weddings and a client asks, "what style do you shoot weddings?", and you reply "photojournalistic" then you better give her that "look" because everyone else does. You will be more successful this way, and chances are you are A-okay with that. In fact, you probably have no fucking idea why I view this as a negative. You say, "but Danny, your job is to please the client, right?", Wrong! That is your job because you are a photographer who takes photographs. I am an artist. I am a photographer who makes photographs. I don't take. I make.
Now, will I do the mundane work of the "take" photographer? Of course, I will. I want to, and I need to in order to survive. Is it my goal to be a badass millionaire wedding guy? Fuck no. I must add also that I don't shoot weddings and any other work that is not my own differently than I shoot my work. I am giving the people who hire me my way of viewing their particular event or whatever. I don't pull punches, but I do aim to please in the same way I do with my work. I want the work to be great, to fulfill its purpose, but to also stand out as an original piece of work. When people hire me(a rare happening), they know what they are getting, and most likely they are hiring me because they want MY work. That is fucking awesome, and you don't get that when you are a businessman, money machine, pick your style and package, cookie cutter TAKER.
Well, what was the point of all that? Do I think I am better than the Takers? No, but I am sick of being confused as one, and I am sick of those photographers trying to compare themselves to me, sympathize with me, or throw themselves into the same hiearchy as me. The Takers do not work as hard as I do, take the hits that I do, suffer like I do, and for fucks sake, they are not talented like I am. Being a successful Taker does mean that you studied hard, you put in the hours, you have skills/brains, you are great at your craft. That is something to be proud of and that is wonderful. Most likely, you don't care about me, think about me, and you don't know who I am, but when I hear you all use the word artist you are putting yourself in my category. You don't belong. You are using a term you don't understand.

I know there is not a single person who fits into the category of Taker who will read this. So, it's pointless, right? No. You need to hear this, too. If you are not an artist, or even if you are but are not a photographer, you think of me the same way. It is just what people think. I say, photographer, you assume a certain set of traits. You don't think of Bruce Davidson, Robert Frank, HCB, Klien, blah on and on because you don't know who they are. You might think, "oh, like a National Geographic photographer?", and I would reply, "NOOOOO. Okay, sometimes NG uses work that would fall into my category, but most of the time NO. "
Are the images pretty? Yes. Pretty does not mean ART. Are the images technically amazing? Yes, but neat gadgets and technology do not make ART. It can, but normally it does not. Anything can make art but most of the time those things do other things.
So what is the problem, do I think I am better than? No, I am different. There is no better because there is no comparing the two. That is the problem. Throwing me in with people who, while they work hard, do not sacrifice, suffer, sweat, hurt, live and breath for their art (they do not have art). They follow the rules and do what they are supposed to for the goal is to make money and  be successful, and most likely so they can enjoy some other thing they enjoy doing. For me, this is it. Photography is all I am. Okay, I write fiction and poetry and shit like this and would like to eventually move the writing forward, but the photography is ME. The writing is like cooking. It is something I have always done, I am not horrible at it but I know I will never be great for I don't want to be a great writer. Photography is how I get out the stuff I can't get out even with my bad poems or time travel fiction. It is my redemption. That is why I chose to shoot what I do, it is difficult to take not just the mundane but the ugly normal and find that micro-nano-second when it makes sense and is beautiful. I can do that. I can make people see that everything, one, moment, has in it great, astonishing, beauty. Hopefully, they will think, "hey, if that can be beautiful, maybe I need to think about (insert that which he/she prejudged or blah), maybe I need to be more open-minded?", and wouldn't that be wonderful? Would that not make the world a better place? Do you see how what I do is not the same as what your common photographer does? Just nod "yes".
Maybe you are wondering if that is what I mean when I make reference to saving the world? The changing of minds? Kind of, but to the saving of the world there is much more. Basically, I state that if I am able to make a living as a photographer then I will save the world, or at least make an honest effort. The reason for that is that right now I am not making a living as a photographer or anything else. I am not making a living. Every day is a struggle, I am deep in debt, I have negative money, negative stuff, the credit score of a savage zapped out of another demention, my health is horrid, my mental illness goes basically untreated (danger Will Robinson), and yeah, I am a galaxy far away from okay. If I could be OKay, if I could "make it", I could do amazing shit. I am so used to suffering that when I am not(normally a week out of the year) I achieve incredible shit. When I am given a chance at anything I achieve. So, if my goal is to save the world, and I am given the opportunity and the tools-- which for me would be free time, an outlet for my message, and the means to give my message in whatever form I please--then I will. Trust me, yesterday, with pen and paper only, I solve our nation's debt while taking a shit(it was not even a long shit). Saving the world, making photographs, writing, those are the things I do! That is all I need. I always daydream about "what if" scenarios, and the other day I determined that if I could make $35,000 I could do anything I want, and have anything I want. Do you know how that is possible? It is because I don't want much, I don't need much, and that is the truth. Not much is my "AnyThing". What is yours? What would you do with a million dollars, a billion? Here is where you shouldn't feel bad, but you will think that you should so you probably will, but don't. You are normal. You are fine. You would probably buy a bunch of stuff that you really want and that would make you happy. You would live in a house that is way too  big on a beach somewhere with a golf course and a butler. Most people would and those who say they would not are lying. The shit is that I am not lying. Do you know how much that sucks? Trust me, you don't. Being a person who really would use the vast majority(if it was 1 million a year then I would use at least 96.5% to help others and I have done a shit ton of research on the ways I would help others and it would save the world) of any riches to help others makes everyone assume that you are full of shit. Nobody believes a word you say, and that is why I now write down all of the ways I will, if given the chance, save this planet (notice I did not say country). There are hundreds of pages, but the more recent ones actually have figures, citations, links, references, and bibliographies. Saving the world, I believe, would be easier than bringing art into the mainstream. Especially now with the itsy-bitsy attention spans and inability to empathize that the current generation possesses. I know every generation says this about the next but really, these kids are going to bring about the end of the world. One word, Trump, and you can not argue with that shit.
So, what did we learn today? Go ahead, answer in the "comments".

Help Danny Save The World

How it feels to be BPD for a few seconds

Disclaimer.

Yes, Another Disclaimer

How to read what I write: what is it anyway?

I will make this short. I hope you are tired of reading my work because you really have other activities you need to take care of but every time I post something you simply have to take it in, right? Shh!

Basically, if you follow this simple rule you will get the most out of my writing. Hopefully, you already get something, but this should help you soak up even more. 

Sometimes, most times, occasionally, and always without any exceptions except for Fridays, the second and sixth Thursday of every other month if you start your year with June like I do, or the first and fourths Monday that comes right before Thanksgiving, but not if it is an odd numbered leap year. Also, depending on the stage of the moon and if the summer solstice falls on a Wednessday then ignore this, and don't if it doesn't after you flip two coins nine times and the outcome is heads-tails, tails-tails, tails-heads, heads-tails, heads- heads, tails- heads, heads- heads, heads- heads, tails-heads, of course. Rarely, on some business days before 9am and after 5pm during daylight savings time (Arizona please ignore and go fuck yourself) there can, and will be the opposite of what I am about to state according to the Farmer's Almanac but only if you translate it into Italian as spoken by a Scottish girl with Italian parents (haggis marinara anyone?).

That being said, read everything as if it is fiction. Everything here is fiction.

Everything here is fiction.

psst. This is not real. This never happened. I am making this up and I am not even me. Just a happy black woman in her seventies. My favorite food is Goulash. My foot size is 41/2 unless there is a storm coming, or if I am in elevation higher than 7,000ft. I was raised in Lebanon, wait for it, Tennessee. Every year on my birthday,  April 7 from 6am to 10:37pm, I play AC/DC's Hells Bells on my Oboe for my 498 grandchildren. I was married 56 times, and my vagina has the capacity of an industrial washing machine and has been used as such twice this year.

But sometimes...

Yep. I am a 900-year-old time traveler who is trying to figure out what the hell is so special about her--girlfriendish thing.

He is an idiot, but he is my idiot. You can think of me as the Obi Wan, of this blog, but I don't die. Well, okay. Yeah. I know, but you know what, You fucking know what I mean too. Stop it. Because I am not the Yoda of this blog. I don't know because I am not green? Good enough for you?

get it yet?

RECAP:

In order to fully get the meaning of the contents of this blog one should read all entries as if they are purely fictional. That way the reader will not forget about literary techniques. There is a whole lotta metaphor up in here, bitches. And allusion up the ass, yep my NWord!! 

Wait!What did you say, young man?   

Momma, I'm sorry, I just--hey no stop not the um a ah no quit I did not mean it I take it back--bitch stop hitting me! I am gonna drop kick that plastic hip across the gym!

A shot rings out. Echoing through the empty high school. Then two more in rapid succession, followed my the words "and what? You said what? to who?", and the gun fell to the ground in the style of a mike drop, "who's  a bitch now? dumb little nigger calling his grandma a bitch. Come here kitty, where is your buddy at? Off with that trouble making ho he be wasting his time with? Nice young man but ain't he a fool? He ain't gonna make it to forty. Right Kitty?"
"Meow meow he is 900 meow"

For Real, Honestly

I do know, even though it never seems like I do, that all of this, my life/world, is mine. All of my problems are mine. No one owes me anything. The world does not owe me anything. (well two people owe me quite a lot but still) Every aspect of my being which is negative is my doing, my fault, and it is only my actions that can resolve the issues I constantly complain about. I have to solve my problems, live with them, or give up. I don't have to stop mentioning them, and I think I do that because I know how unattractive it is and I really don't want anyone in my life right now. I am not equipped to be a good friend to anyone. I would like to be, but it is going to take some time and a truckload of hard work.

I think of myself as a child, and I remember being this little boy who was so sad, lonely, depressed, awkward, ugly, out of place, and just not right. What got me through those time was day dreaming. I would image what my life would be like in twenty years. I would have my independence. I could do anything I wanted to, and I would be happy. All I had to do was wait. Time was going to take care of me. I was wrong and it is hard. I never thought when I was a boy, that I would  be worse. I let down that boy.

The same feeling happened when I quit drinking. I was convinced that my drinking was my only problem. My boyhood naivety took hold of me and I said to myself, "once I get sober everything will fall into place and I will be happy,". I was wrong, again. Nothing fell into place, my problems did not go away, and I am certainly not happy. Instead, I discovered all of these emotions, feelings, that I did not even know I had. I was so drunk for such a long period of time (twenty years)that I never really got to know myself sober. I had no idea what to do with my new sober feelings. The slightest thing sets me off. I get angry very easily. As a drunk nothing bothered me unless I was blacked out, but then I , of course, don't remember feeling anything. Odd stuff would make me weep. Like if someone said the name 'Barry Gordy' I would immediately burst into tears. Sitting in a movie theater alone, right after the trailers end and right before the movie starts fills me with a fear I can only describe as being attacked by a shark with my hands cuffed behind the back. That moment is the scariest moment I can imagine. Why? I have no idea. Thinking about it does not scare me, but if I am there I have to run out of the theater before I start screaming. Crossing the street was hard for me for a while. Right after I got sober when I would cross the street I would be overcome with the urge to jump on the hoods of cars at red lights. It was incredibly difficult for me to restrain myself. Driving was bad too. Like Christopher Walken's character in Annie Hall, I had to fight with everything in me to not swerve head-on into oncoming traffic. I made myself sit on my hands and steer with my knees to avoid this. This one is still an issue, but if I make eye contact while talking to a stranger, or someone I just met, my arms tingle, my stomach clenches, and I repeat to myself "don't don't don't don't" with such force that my tongue usually gets cut on my clenched teeth "don't don't punch him in the face if you make eye contact you have to punch him in the face so don't don't don't don't". I avoid, all together, conversations with strangers, and if I get caught in one I immediately look for a place to sit so I can sit on my hands.

I am not joking

I have also, never mentioned any of this stuff before (except to my shrink who I no longer visit). It does not strike me as odd because once it starting happening I created a mantra which I would chant silently and constantly(and I mean constantly like first thing in the morning last thing at night).

mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imagine everyone does this mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imagine everyone does this mr. mollohan it is no big deal absolutely and with more frequency than you can imaging everyone does this mr. mollohan

or

hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey you, I promise this is normal, hey, you, I promise this is normal, hey, you , I promise this is normal and there is nothing wrong with you because you are normal 

I also became afraid to look into mirrors. I was afraid that what I would see would be a little boy around 6 or 7. But then I would have to find a mirror to look at in order to convince myself that I was a full grown man and not a 6-year-old boy.


Oh yeah, none of these things happen when I have my camera in my hands. I am absolute, perfectly calm, in control, confident, resolute, and I am strong. With my camera, I am the best me I can be and no matter the day I have had, the trouble I am in, the storm that is inevitably going to crash upon my shore, I am ready with a clear mind to take "it" on, head on.

• without my camera, I gasp for air, jump, frightened by my shadow. I am the 7-year-old bedwetter. the boy with velcro shoes because he has heard that laces are too dangerous.Ii hide around the corner when a microwave is in use. without my camera i need a Dorothy i don't have, the yellow brick road is nowhere in sight, the wizard is nine million feet tall, that witch is going to get me and all monkeys can fly, and i, oh boy, and i do not have my courage •

more garbage for you, my non-reader who doesn't exist, to not read or if you do by some miracle, well you won't get it anyway

Blah, blah, blah, I have started journal entries just like this for over twenty years,

"you are not going to understand what I am talking about"

Well, you are not. You don't understand much of what I say, feel, dream, want, need, this, that and fart, shit, balls...

"Oh, he's whining, again."

No, I am stating facts in a way that is negative and annoying. Whining is different. Whining is done with weakness and it is normally about something that is of light importance. Well, what I am about to get to is important. In my world it is. Maybe, that is what bothers me, and maybe this will help you understand a bit. You see, I get worked up because no one understands why these things are so important to me. I know I sound like a child when I talk about the importance of me being a photographer. It sounds like a boy going on and on about how he must make it to the NBA, NFL or  onto SNL. I am this thing I want, though. I am more than good enough. For the past sixteen years, I have never been put in the position to do the kind of work that a person with my talent should be doing. No work has been handed to me and most of the subjects are not that interesting, but I fucking make them. Do you know how easy it would be for me to get uncanny images from Afganistan, the Ukraine, Thailand, India, Native tribes anywhere, or hell, anywhere where I could say "I am Danny, I am with blah do da magazine, and I am a photographer, I will be here for, well, as long as I need to be in order to get great images, okay?", that would be like something that is very easy for even a person of low intelligence and limited motor functions to achievre. Fuck you, I do street work in Las Vegas when I am not too tired and pissed off from working a menial 10 buck an hour shit show. When I have my camera (when it is not in a pawn shop like it is now) my nights are normally like this, "I could walk around and take photos, I can't afford bus fair so I will have to stay around a three-mile radius, or I could kill myself. Tonight could be the big night. I could end it all now, or I could hope with my camera in hand."
I take the walk, and sometimes I get great shots. I make them. I find them. I catch them. I find beauty here. I don't live in NYC, or Paris, or anywhere that is "beautiful". There as no Las Vegas Street photographers because it is fucking hard.
Think about what I could do if I could afford to travel? Think about what I could do If I HAD MY GEAR OR,

oh yeah, what this was supposed to be about

Why I must have a Leica
Yes, back to what you can't understand.
I do, though. I need a leica digital M. I have to get one as soon as possible. Like so many other aspects of my life, I have to do this which is impossible. I most likely will not get a Leica, just like I won't take photos for a living. I won't travel. I won't be thought of a great, or even a photographer by anyone ever. I will be a guy who is poor, unhappy, and alone. I will probably kill myself. Not anytime soon, but if my life is like this in twenty years, yes, I will most likely off myself. That is not be being sad. Me writing about how I am going to buy a 7k camera not just at some point but soon, Is fucking SAD. It is delusional and that is not even one of the symptoms of my particular mental illness. Oh, the suicide is but not the delusion that I am going to achieve the impossible.
Still, for my work to be the best it can, for me to work the way I need to, for me to get back to the feeling I used to have when shooting film. For me to feel alive, I do need a Leica M. I wish you could understand what that camera would do to me. I would change me. I would give me a reason.
Is it strange that I need a reason to live? I also wish you could step into my skin for a moment. I wish you could feel what it is like to be me, just for a day. You would not say I am whining. You would not say I am feeling sorry for myself. You would grab me and say "I am sorry, I had no idea". I know this because I have felt normal. I have been happy. What I am now, well, it's hard to say. Suicide is not something I would ever do but if I was that kind of person, the way I feel right now is like dying. Not sometimes, but all the time. Right now, in an hour, in five minutes, and when I wake up tomorrow. Most of the time I have a feeling that the darkness will stop. It usually comes it waves, but it has never felt like this. I am not blaming anything, but it started when Jenn died and then got worse when my Dad died, and now worse that I don't have my camera anymore. I don't see any light. I have to take photos. I need to get a Leica. If I don't, the 'me' I know is going to go away. I won't come back. Again, I am not saying that I am going to kill  myself because I am not going to do that, but I won't be the same ever again unless I make things happen. That is the important phrase

unless I make things happen

for I need people to know that I am not making excuses and I am not feeling sorry for myself. I know that my life is my responsibility and that I am the only one who can initiate the proper change. It is also extremely fair for me to bitch about this. I need a Leica. I would use one if I had one. I would use it to death. There are rich fucking hobbyist retards who have no idea how to compose an image, who take photos of nothing worth a dick fart, who think of Leica as a fashion accessory, and they have the newest latest greatest neatest with every lens on the planet and don't they all look nice in this huge glass case I had made just to hold my collection of Leica's. Yeah, those people should die. Any of those people could afford to buy me a Leica outfit and pay me a wage to work as their personal photographer and in a week I would make more great images than they or their entire lineage would/could ever take in a million years. Those walking dream stealers could change my life for the better forever with what would be to them only change. As in pocket change.
And damn it I know, I know, that if I was a wealthy person I would make this world better by helping people on an individual basis.but I am poor. I have nothing. There are people whom I know who could easily help me. They could write a check, not blink an eye, never miss a meal because of what they just gave me but no. They have more on their finger right now than I would need to make it through 2020 comfortably (with a Leica). What use does that ring, fuck, what does it do? With a Leica, I could help nonprofits raise money. I could save lives! But your diamond, on your finger, is more important than the lives of people who you walk past every day. Yes, if someone shot you in the face to take that off of your hand I would be sad, but I get it.

I have thought about crime. I can't hurt people, but I could justify stealing. I have thought about robbing a bank. I would get caught. I am shit at getting away with stuff. I can't even, I can't, I can't do anything but this. I work, yes, and I work as much as possible, but it doesn't do anything. Neither does this. It makes me feel better for a bit. It adds some light to my darkness, but it doesn't help. Especially being that once I finish the last word of this I will fall to the ground in a puddle and weep like a baby.

bye.

A New Poem

A Poem Defined and Redefined

(sort of)

poem |ˈpōəmpōm| noun                              what I write

a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of                                           a piece of writing that is speech but does not conform

both speech and song that is nearly always                                                to any predetermined structure. Using literary devices

rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often                                             and free association to convey feelings, emotion and to

exhibits such formal elements as meter,                                                      better tell a story as experienced by a nut job.

rhyme, and stanzaic structure.

So, do I write poetry? Not if you are a college professor, but if you are a 16-year-old girl who shops at Hot Topic, then yes, I write poetry. I have been a poet for over 30 years and I have hundreds of notebooks full of poems in a range of styles. This, though, is an introduction to my new style of poetry. 

The Danny Mollohan Modern Poem

an example:

The Story of Apple's and Bee's

 I'm never happy. You can check my notes from '92 to now. And on, I am sure. 

Those days were dark ones, but now my eyes have adjusted; dimness feels like home. A candle for my sunshine and anything less than death can almost cheer me up. I laugh when all is just "fucked". That seems simple and quaint as a concept. 

You'll have to try harder for a punch in the face won't cut it. You could stab me in the neck, toss me a grenade, or hit me with a semi truck (18 wheels). So, I'm so sorry, sorry you can not really hurt me, I guess? Not that I am tough, it's just that my skin is rough. Over time I have taken too much. Google "callous". My eyes have been blackened, nose flattened, arms snapped in half, twenty-eight daggers in my back, briars in my face, thorns in this side and that, bricks have made pancakes out of toes (this little piggy went splat), shins bashed by batons, and still not a sting. Bring, bring, bring, bring on more pain, pain, pain or pain. I am curious. You are furious that those powerful hands can't break the smile on my face.

But the smiles are not real, and they never were. Emotions are background noise; wind chimes on the front porch. 

I wait for a letter. 

One that reads, "It is time to say 'goodbye'," and who would I say those words to? No one comes to mind.

Maybe if my toys were of mankind?

I spend most of my days 

stuck in dreams 

and playing this charade 

is meaningless. 

Call it life or call it dice --live, don't, or snake-eyes. 

Worry ages my face. I have yet to age a day since 1995 while I waited to say 'good-bye' to a familiar name/face. The last time those words really hurt like a bee sting. My heartache was premature but she started the rock rolling. She offered me an apple and I took the first bite. For twenty years I have been pushing. I still have not moved on and have barely moved the boulder. It is twenty-four hours here,  in my only valley. Where this myth earned his name. One I can't say without giving away the whole story. I have, to anyone with a high school diploma, hopefully. I remember the apple, bee too.

Blaming you is all I do.

Dreaming of that pain

which never went away, 

 just aged, matured

and grew stronger 

more  potent.

Made my entire life go wrong. The track was set but broken like all my bones and grew back jagged, rundown, raw and ragged. With this smile on my face, every time misplaced, disgraced, and forever cursed for being a silly boy with feelings open to the world for the prettiest girl I thought I never met. I thought I imagined her. That she was a thought in a cloud (a cloud not "The Cloud"), and turning to my candle for warmth and a handle on thirty-seven years wasted for two lips I barely tasted. 

thirty-seven years wasted 

for two lips I barely tasted

She lived and died in a dream, faded away before I could touch her face, smell her hair, follow her around while we touched our fingertips together. Those are made up memories as my life would be 37 years later. A nightmare, the story has to see an end in tragedy while I hope for comedy as no one laughs.