Telling Lies To Save My Life

Another day on the strip. Doing my best to capture something meaningful, timeless, and impactful. These moments exist. They are everywhere but it takes a combination of timing, concentration, intuition, luck, courage, skill and knowledge to steal them from time. With street photography, there is not any room for error. The slightest mistake is the difference between a piece of art and a piece of shit. One has to realize that there will be a lot of shit to sort through at the end of the day this also takes a durable ego. In most activities, my ego is fragile. I damage easily but here, with my camera, I am tough; a man of stone. Take me away and a commercial can bring me to tears. A sad movie can ruin my week and an insult from a stranger can weaken my will and force me to contemplate my existence.

When I am taking photographs I feel what it must be like for normal people. Not that I presume normal people go about their days without worry or sadness, I know they experience a wide spectrum of emotions. I also know that most of the time they are even, neither horribly sad or jumping with joy. They do not spend any time thinking that everyone is going to abandon them or that everyone is plotting to destroy them. I spend around an hour every day convincing myself that this is not the case. It is difficult. I would say that I am used to it for it is normal for me. I know that those feelings are without reason, that they are not realistic. Still, they exist every morning, noon, and night. There is also the depression. The sadness that is constant and without a cause. Nothing bad has to happen for dark clouds to follow me around constantly. That is a twenty-four-hour a day battle. Do you know the feeling in your gut when you are about to cry, like when you contemplate death at a funeral of a loved one? That pain creeps in while in line at the grocery store, in the shower, driving on the highway, taking a bite of something delicious, kissing someone I am in love with, and while doing any and everything. Not daily but five to twenty times a day, maybe more. The trifecta would not be complete, though, without anxiety.

Along with the anxiety and depression come a number of physical side effects. These range from mild discomfort in the form of itching, pains in my stomach or back, and slight shaking to others which when they first occurred were mistaken for ER visit realm maladies. The ones I mentioned above (itching, stomach and back pain, slight shaking) are an every day, twice, thrice, a day thing, but there are others, odd ones, that are less frequent but frequent enough to annoy and cause hard to explain situations. For instance, the need to run as fast as possible (kind of like restless leg syndrome but during the day). Also, there are the more dangerous attacks that cause tunnel vision and blacking out. There are the times when those usual pains of the back and stomach become nearly paralyzing. Also, there are times when the uncontrollable shaking exceeds the "slight" and becomes so violent that it appears to be a seizure. There is my usual episodic crying that turns to uncontrollable weeping which then turns into the need to curl up in a ball or to find a small space for which to squeeze myself into. There is the urge to scream and the fear that if I do not I will punch myself in the face or pull out all of my hair. Then there is what I think is the worst which is an odd sickness that resembles the flu and can last days. This is not common and has not happened since the day after my father's funeral but the rest of those happen fairly regularly. I experience all of them at least once a month, the mild ones nearly daily and the severe but not the last one weekly. The most common being stomach and back pains, tunnel vision and uncontrollable weeping. It's normal to me. All of these have been a part of my life since I can remember. When I was young I would make up excuses, but now, if anyone notices, I try to explain. That doesn't work. So, what does work?

Basically, acting like I am fine is the only remedy to my problems. I live in a world of make-believe. I pretend like the "crazy me" is my alter ego, one that I must keep a secret. Like this, writing this blog entry it is not real. Are you confused? You should be.

This is not fiction but to me it is. No one will actually read this but they will. No one will take this seriously or believe what I am putting down but they might. This will change nothing but it could change everything.

This exists because I am all out of ideas. This happens due to the fact that my frustration has to go somewhere. The screaming in a pillow type of exercise that is "journal writing" used to help but now I have to put it out there for real people to read. I have a compulsion. For once in my life, I want people to understand exactly what it is like to live in my body and brain. Maybe then they could understand who I am. Maybe then, I could understand who I am. As I have stated before, I have only known myself for less than two years. Before that, I was drunk for nearly 22 years and before that, I was a child.

I am sure extensive therapy would help. I don't have the money nor the time to do that. I can barely (not really at all) make ends meet now. I need more work and I can't spend money on shit I can't afford. I am trying to stay sane. I am trying to stay alive. I am trying to improve but I am fighting someone or something at every turn. Whether it is others who wish to deceive me, who just don't want to pay me what I am worth, who don't understand why I would charge what I charge, who don't realize they are getting a deal, who don't realize when they should toss me a bonus for going that extra mile or hour or day or week, or who are just plain cheap and mean who pose a tremendous obstacle or if it is something like my camera taking a shit, the car breaking down, my computer malfunctioning, someone dying, my insurance rates going up, my phone bill increasing, any bill increasing and all of this while my rate of pay has not increased much over the past ten years. Maybe it is my love of run-on sentences that make little sense? Who knows?

I am lucky enough to have a few people in my corner but I am sick of my inability to do anything for them, to always be the one asking and never giving, and wondering when the absurdity of my mental illness will hit them. Borderline personality disorder makes me imagine abandonment. I think that everyone who cares will leave me, basically, any minute now. I know this is not real but I don't sometimes. Sometimes the real and the imaginary get confused. It is only a matter of time and it is nearly guaranteed that at some time in the future I will turn on them and accuse them of plotting against me. If they have read anything I have sent them about my illness, then they should know this. Pills can't stop my fate, therapy is not there, so like a time bomb here I am, waiting to lose those I love.

Keeping up with this blog is impossible. In order for me to include what I do every day to trick myself sane would take nearly the whole day. It would take pages. I have tried and it is overwhelming. It is also ever changing. I have to think up new tricks daily. My stratagems are fundamentally the same. First, remember that your fears are not rooted in reality. Second, remember that depression, anxiety, and fear can not kill you or even hurt you but acting on them can. Third, no one benefits from your death. Fourth, this is not over, you still have time. This is not over, you still have time. Time is not for me but it is all I have. I must work harder, always harder, always more, this will never stop. Everything has to be work. Every movement must have meaning. I am not a victim. I am not hopeless.
I am tired, though.

Before I go...

There are also "the strangers". These are people who hardly know me or do not know me at all, but still, have helped me out one way or another. I don't know why. I will tell all of you strangers that I am not giving up. Your help has not gone to waste. I will always have proof ready for you. These were taken today. There are more, and as long as I have a camera and a computer there will always be more. That is all I need, my camera and my computer. A phone helps, of course, and a home.

Having a seat next to Artaud

There is no more room in this theater.

I should just leave it at that, or write the rest in my own feces, call it art, and retire. Maybe, not even in that order? Why? To create some consistency in this, whatever, that is my life. My life can not be random acts of absurdity with flecks of the usual thrown it. It has to be either one or the other. Completely nonsensical, random, and chaotic or ordered, mundane, and predictable You cannot mix the two. Life isn't salad dressing. You can't just add a bit of Dijon and expect two things that don't mix to exist harmoniously. Life isn't that way no matter how much you shake the shit out of it. Crazy and normal don't come together, um, go together. Shit.

So, I pass the playbill to my old friend. He glances at it, looks at me, and shrugs a "no, this isn't going to work at all" kind of shrug, balls the playbill and tosses it to the sticky theater floor. Then he whips out his dick and begins to jerk it. Two large women quickly escort him off premises. I pretend like I've never seen him before and thank the female security guards for their diligence. They give me two free drink tickets to apologize. I except and order two orange sodas. They don't have orange soda? What kind of theater is this? Cherry coke? No? Mr. Pibb? Okay, Dr. Pepper. Thanks. I forgot how much I like Dr. Pepper. It is so sugary, taste like cavities. Tastes like rotten teeth in a small mountain town. Tastes like an old timey store, a shoppe. A Cracker Barrell gift shop, shoppe, but real, not manufactured.  Olde. Reminds me of hash brown casserole and root beer and rock candy and that occasional breakfast that would come out of nowhere when I was a kid which was not for long, when all us, the whole family, would go out to eat. Like once every six months and that felt like never. So, it felt important. Pancakes and bacon with syrup on it and "what the fuck is fruit?".

Since when is Artist an insult? Fuck you. Really, no, Really FUCK YOU
That happened because you can not call someone a "faggot" anymore. I know that. People used to call me a faggot and now they call me an artist. Actually, no one calls me anything to my face. Why? They must all be artists, fucking artists.

I don't care what people label themselves as. I don't ever think about it, and am only doing so now because someone called me an artist like it was an insult the other day. "Oh yeah, I forgot, you're an artist, blah."

A new one to me.
 I never cared when people called me a faggot. I knew that I was not a homosexual. I did not care if people thought I was a homosexual. I wished I was a homosexual. I still do. I don't enjoy being attracted to women. I don't enjoy being lumped in with straight dudes, they are fucking assholes.  There is nothing good about being straight. Not when you are straight the way I am straight. As in "kinda a fag" but not really gay. I am just a sissy. A pussy. Never considered a "real man".

Fuck all of this. I hate it here.

And There It Goes

Some things just are not meant to be. Sometimes you have to be vague. Some days it's better to just stay in bed, turn off your phone, and wait until tomorrow.

I could have done without today but it had to happen. That's just the way days are.

My throat is sore from screaming. So, pretend this is a whisper a whisper. pretend.

now. can you still hear me? okay. Today I lost a friend. No one died, that is not what I mean, but my actions caused someone to vacate from my life most likely forever. It's too bad. He is a good guy. A great one to have in your corner. You know what? I would not do anything differently. I am tired of explaining every step I take. This unfortunate incident which went down today had been in the works for years. No one listened to a word I said. No one thought I was correct. They still don't. Well, the ones who know they are wrong know I am correct but they are going to stick to their guns. They have nothing to lose, really. You see, in the end, I am the only one who really loses anything. But that is okay because these other people won't take from me anymore. It is a tiny victory that means nothing. Still, it sucks that I had to lose a friend. He'll understand someday. Or he won't. It is important that I don't worry about those things that are beyond my control. That is the stuff that makes me nuts. Nobody likes to feel like they are hated and that is how I feel but all I did was stick up for myself. I have to do that more often. No one expects me to. That is what made these other people mad. They got used to pushing me around. Then, one day, today, I wouldn't budge. They called me names. But I am okay. I won't get what I deserve but I did not expect to. It is not a win. Life is not about winning because it is not a game. Do you understand? 

More of The Same: Deja Vu for The Mentally Ill

Truly, it is awful that the best news I have had in decades in regards to my mental illness is that all of my feelings of being useless, experiencing horrid and abnormal levels of depression, and my haunting fear that everyone is either plotting to destroy me or leave me are normal in the abnormal world I inhabit. I am only a freak among nearly everyone but somewhere there is a place where I am just like everyone.

Of course, that is not true. The mentally ill are scattered amongst the populations. There exists no utopia where we all live together in harmony. No, we are to live with those who can never understand us and why? Why when all of the data is there, the scholarly journals, the research, the years of case studies are all there. Some would call this PROOF. The proof that mental illness is, um, you know, AN ILLNESS. Just like the common cold, cancer, shingles, or Alzheimer's my chronic depression, my borderline personality disorder means I am sick. So, why am I treated like I am fine? Do you know when the mentally ill are taken seriously? Do you? You do because all of you have said these words either to yourself or out loud, "if only I knew maybe I could have done something to help". Do you remember saying those word? Remember where you were? When you found out you had lost someone close, and to what? Suicide, a drug overdose, or maybe liver failure? Suicide being the number one killer of the mentally ill by far and drug overdose and alcohol induced liver failure trailing behind but always there, ever present. You see the junkie or the drunk and you think to yourself, "there is a fool who lacks self control, why doesn't he put down the bottle and get his shit together?". Behind that bottle is illness. Now, I am sick of people calling alcoholism a disease because it is not. Addiction is a symptom. Behind addition is an illness but addiction  itself is not an illness. No one has an in born predisposition to brandy or barbituits, Chardonnay or coccaine, Hennessy or heroine. It is the darkness of depression, the evil attack of anxiety, the chasing fear of paranoia mixed with the discovery that some of us stumble upon that enough booze can shut down our depression, or that the simple prick of a needle eases all the anxiousness witch usually freezes us. So the story goes and unless you can afford a drug or alcohol addiction those two remedies are out of the question.

So, what is left? The pharmaceutical industry with their promises of rainbows and moonbeams? While there are some useful drugs out there, they usually are not cures and in my experience are bandaids at best. I only take them because they are inexpensive and it shows those around me that, at least, I am trying something. Doesn't that sound odd, "it shows those around me that, at least, I am trying something". For they, and most, assume that a trip to the psychiatrist and a script for some pills will end any suffering. Maybe it does. Maybe some people are just that curable. Or maybe some people confuse sadness with depression. Maybe some people confuse the psychological effects of traumatic events with mental illness. Maybe people do not understand that people who suffer from something like depression don't need a reason to be depressed or that people who suffer anxiety don't need a reason to be anxious. We feel what you feel when a loved one passes for no reason, everyday and we feel the crowded airport, "I can't miss my flight" pounding in the chest just because today is another day and you say, "you'll be fine everyone has a bad day".

"Everyone is a little crazy". Maybe? I don't know. I can not disprove that but I do know that everyone is not a little mentally ill. A little crazy is not consistent with the pain the suffering the constant gut punch of being sick. A cold ain't cancer. A paper cut is not like a severed limb. Spinal trauma is not a bump on your head. Why is my borderline personality disorder a bad day to you when it's an awful life to me? When it is not a life, it doesn't feel like living by any definition. It is constant, relentless fear and pain. It does not stop. There is no cure. So, you are left with a couple of choices: deal with it or give up.

The first struggle is trying to make sense of it. You learn, very early, that you are not like the people who surround you but you have to blend in. You must learn to pretend, to act, to lie, to deceive in order to survive. Hide those tears or you won't go far. Let go of mommies skirt or the other kids are going to kick your ass. Find the feeling of safety somewhere. For me, it was a secret world. From the moment I left the car and headed, alone or with my brother, to school I became a different boy in a different world. I had rules and I developed tricks to create the illusion of safety. If I could avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk I would be okay. If I could count to ten three times before I reached the flag pole I would be okay. A red car might grant me temporary invincibility or tails up penny could make me ivisable (I know heads up is supposed to be good luck but my rule book was not consistent with this universe). As a boy, I had to concentrate, work hard, before and after school to convince myself that I was not me. I had to be Silver Surfer gliding through the galaxy, untouchable and invoulnerable. Or, I would fake a stomach ache. Stay home from school, safe on my island couch, the master of my universe of tiny toys and television. Those things I could control and the things that could not hurt me. Every year I missed more school days than most kids and as I got older and my partents had their own problems missing school became easier. No one really noticed, and school was easy enough so my grades didn't suffer. They didn't really want to fail an A student because he missed too many days. They never did. I never failed a class.. One class, I remember, I attended only three times. Five grade points were deducted from my final grade and I received a 92 which is a high B+. My senior year I had to meet with the principal. Due to the amounts of days missed, unexcused absences, I was not supposed to graduate. They were not going too give me my diploma. This is what I don't understand about my illness. Everyday, and with no cause, I am anxious, sad, hurt, fragile but then, sometimes, and almost always when I need it like a super power, reality is pushed aside and that fictional figure I have created for survival takes over and I shine. With the confidence of James Bond, I explain, simply and concisely that the rules others have to follow just are not the rule I follow. I explained, with the evidence of my grades, standardized test scores, and behavior reports how irresponsible it would be of the school district to hold me back, to deny me what I earned due to the their trivial attendance policy. I remember also stressing that the not only did my lack of attendance do no damage, it actually saved them money, freed up much needed desk space, and allowed teachers to concentrate on those students who needed extra attention.
I graduated on time.

I walked across that stage with fists clenched white, a stomach about to explode, and tears of fear--utter confusion--and the weight of sadness like a million oceans crushing me. And as I sat down in my cap and gown, I knew that this was the end. I knew that what I had thought of, for so long as an unsurvivable as hell, was nothing compared to the world which stretched itself out in front of me. No longer would I have my mother to come home to. That one person who no matter what was a constant. The simple, always and forever, never again.

I was crushed but by the time I was eighteen I was a physically dependent alchoholic with three years of hiding this fact under my belt. So, I would be fine. Fuck psychologists. Fuck psychiatrist. Fuck suggestions. Fuck being a big baby. I had my solution to my stunning sadness and my emotional immaturity, my crippling anxiety, and the creeping fear that everyone was either going to destroy me or leave me.  I had my first and most destructive addiction down at eighteen. I had what would shadow the next seventeen years of my life in a fog of muted feelings, a trail of poor desicions, a reputation for the unpredictable, and what would earn me the title of "that drunk", "asshole", "not him" and other disparaging remarks.

Everything was done.

 intoxicated until I decided to stop at 35.

Others did but I did not forget what I was before the booze. With them, I was optimistic that this one simple kill shot would end my mile long streak of mistakes. Destroy the drunk and with it his problems, but the drinking was not the problem. It was a symptom. I drank to mute my illness. Now my illesss was all there was, unmuted, and untarnished by its twenty two years spent shackled and gaged. With the booze gone where would I find an excuse for my fear, my look of lethargy, my seeming slack, the boy in man's skin? How would I explain me?

So, it was back to the doctors and the pills. Being at the bottom of the socio economic barrel you get the doctors who are either new to the game or poor at it. Sure, somewhere in the world there is that one great doctor who does the hard unrewarding work because, Damit, that is why he got into pyschology/psychiatry in the first place, to help people who really need help. Take your PG feel good movie of the week, brought to you by hallmark, and place it where dreams and sunshine never touch. I don't know about you, but I don't like hacks messing with my brain. People are picky about mechanics but when I mention that I don't like shit psychologists I am some sort of snob. I've seen enough of them to know, after one session, that they are not going to do any good. I am too much of a patient for any of them to take on. I know that. I have been told that more than once. I take my pills though. It's a kin to placing a torn piece of toilet paper on a chainsaw wound but I do it.

I also have my bag of tricks. Those actions I have learned over the years that I use to trick my brain. Some of them are simple, some extremely drastic and require anything from sleep deprivation and starvation to repeating phrases like "today is a day and tomorrow will be the same" under my breath from the moment I wake to the moment I lay my head to sleep.

No matter what, though, I have come to the conclusion that over the last, I'll say 20 although its not quite there, years of my life the way people view mental illness has not really changed. It is still widely understood as a recognized illness. A "real thing". At the same time, though, it is swept under the rug. If you are mentally ill no one really gives a damn. They have a "well, you are not that bad, I mean, you're not 'crazy'", attitude. Until you blow your fucking head off, end up a drunk or a junkie, or homeless.
If you are homeless, it's because of the booze and not the mental illness. It's your fault. If you choose to end your life, though, well every one is your best friend but you'll have missed the benefits of having so many loving friends by just a hair. Or, you'll continue to suffer alone or amongst friends. Maybe you'll get lucky and you'll find someone who will listen. I don't think that is the case for most.

I look at my life, the people who surround me, and they are all intelligent, educated people. Still though, even after knowing our family history, knowing what they have gone through, and they still don't exactally have a reality based view of mental illness then who the fuck does? 


 Of course I am not saying that my family has not been there for me but what I am writing about here is not about devotion to loved ones so don't get a sour grin when you read this, Family Members.

People have to understand that it has to go beyond the blind love of family. Mental illness has to be treated as illness. That means evaluating addiction as a symptom of mental illness and treating addicts as a society would treat its ill. Not with some 5 day detox then you are out on your ass bullshit. You have to treat the sick until the illness is either gone or in remission. An addict needs no less than 90 days.

I know this. I was in a hospital for five days for my alcoholism. A symptom of my mental illness that destroyed 3/4 of my life. FIVE DAYS. After that, it was all, "hey buddy now that you are all better you best be looking for a job. Times a wasting!" Now, we say that people who suffer alcoholism are sick, right? Then tell me another person who after 19 years of being ill, spends five days in a hospital and is then told to BOOM get back to normal life? You can't because there is not another situation where that would be acceptable. Not one. I am only using myself as an expample because its easier. I am not trying to gain sympathy. I am stating facts about how mental illness is viewed in our society. I know that the people in my life are caring people but there is such a stigma attached to it, or maybe it is not a stigma? Maybe mental illness has become so common place that it is not taken seriously? Maybe someone who has been prescribed a Zoloft once or twice thinks that they know what it is like to be me? I don't know what it is. All I know is that it's a problem for a whole bunch of people and it did not start on April 2, 1979.

I have written this over and over. The same shit basically. Why? I am frustrated. I am disappointed. I am astonished by the lack of support. I am sick of this being something I am supposed to be ashamed of. I am sick of being told to be quiet. If I had any other type of illness would I be told to keep it a secret, to watch what I say, to be careful, because people judge? "Because people judge", is exactly why I will keep writing this. There is a chance that no one gives a damn, but I know that my life would be drastically different if I knew, when I was 18,  what I know now.

I am poor. I am actually a fucking idiot because all I do is think of ways that I can help other. Meanwhile, I can't even take care of myself. Which makes me question my motives. Is this a distraction? Are my feelings of caring real?

I am a 37-year-old man who has only known himself for two years. So, who knows what I am, who I am. I don't.

January 30, 2017

Day four on The Strip. Doing my best to become a better photographer. The past few weeks of going out everyday no matter what, makes me feel like I have wasted seventeen years. Actually, there is a ton of shit that makes me feel like I have wasted my life. Is this normal? I am not sure. I think I might just be getting into a manic phase. This happens. I will be 150% working my ass off, super productive, waking up early, and then BOOM! I crumble into a heap of tears. I can't even get out of bed, brush my teeth, make myself a bowl of cereal, or let anyone know what is happening. I disappear into my depression. I hope that is not what this is, but I have been here. It seems like too much of a coincedence.
I guess, the trick would be to keep the momentum going. If I slow down my manic energy a little but keep it going maybe it won't burn out so fast. Maybe, it will not lead to a long period of depression If I can learn to trick it, and get it to do my bidding? This is how I deal with my mental illness. I can not afford to see a doctor on a regular basis or to go to therapy so I developed my own ways. None of them have been permanent fixes and some have not worked at all but few have made me worse. That is better than most doctors have done.

Back to the photos.

Over the past 30 days I had around 340 unedited images that "made the cut". That is a lot. That is too many photos. That tells me that I am not looking at my images correctly and that I am keeping too many safe photos. For someone who comes from a film back ground, its hard to throw images away. Film wasn't cheap, and who knows what you might use another out of focus incorrectly exposed poorly composed image of a something in front of a something, right? Wrong. I have to toss images. So what if I trash a photo or two that are "usable". I am not looking for usable, I am looking for great.
Out of those 340 photos, I, well, let me explain the process:
   First, I go through the images straight from the SD card. I don't save all of the Raw files. I keep the images on the card. I move the ones I like (I am not being super picky yet) to a file on my hard drive. Since I do not have an end to this project I can not really say how often I do this, or how many photos I load to a file until I move on to the next step. In this case it was over a span of 30 days (probably eight spent shooting) which ended up being 340 decent photos.
   Second, I go through the good photo file (the bad photos are left on the card and the card is formatted) and apply a rating of 1 star to all of the photos that are better than the rest, then I go through the 1 star images (in this case 145) and a 2 star rating to those that are good, and deserve to be edited for stock sites, at least. After that, I go through the 2 star images (86) and apply a 3 star rating to my favorites. Usually, the number is smaller, but this time I ended up with 18 three star images. Those will go on my website/portfolio, and I try to edit all of those before I go out to shoot again. That has never happened. I am always unorganized, alway procrastinating, and always too eager to go out shooting when I just got finished looking at a bunch of photos. Like now, it is 6am. I only edited 5 out of the 18 and I am definitely going to shoot tomorrow around 10 (I won't leave the house until noon do to an unusually extra needy other).

Okay, that is basically my process. That is for now, only. I am not really a creature of habit when it comes to post production. The problem being that I enjoy taking photos and I enjoy holding a finished print in my hand. Hanging an 30"x40" print on a gallery wall, stepping down from the ladder, backing up just enough, and there you have it--your work for all, yes, I like that also. The monotony of post production, though? The tedium, the blurred vision staring, and the second guessing, well, I find that torturous. Still, I would not put my work in another's hands.

My hatred of post production will lead me to another topic which I will cover later, much later. It's a simple concept, and one that, I feel, a lot of folks have forgotten. Getting it right in camera seems to be lost on many, but for me, I have started to trash photos which require anything I would consider photoshop work. To me, that means anything I would not do, with ease, in a traditional darkroom.

The extent of my post production work is simple. I adjust the exposure slightly, contrast slightly, highlights and shadows are tweaked somewhat, and I lightly toy with the color balance usually in the saturation of reds, yellows and blues. I do not crop, ever, never not once and to me if that is necessary to save an image then that image is unsalvagable, trash, muck, shit, no longer of interest to me, gone. I don't sharpen, reduce noise, and I certainly don't remove or add objects. In my imperfect world, this one, I am given the opportunity to create perfection. That being said, if there exists an object, like a tree or power line, in one of my photographs then I made the choice to take that photo and it has a place in the composition. If the photo would be better with out it then I should have taken a different photo. "Fixing it in post" should not be part of the photographers vocabulary. It is not part of mine. I would equate that with saying, "I have no idea how to frame a shot". Of course, this is different for commercial work. Sometimes you can not have certain things in your photo for legal reasons. Don't get the wrong idea, I am not trashing commercial photographers, so save your nasty comments for another time. There will be another time, don't worry.

That is all for now. I know this was a boring post, but really, no one but my mother reads this shit anyway.