Friday, September 11

Yesterday and today I listened to The Pretty Things as I walked, having exhausted my podcast possibilities for the moment.

When I got back I started writing. More accurately, I started to try to write. Not a lot of actual writing happened. In the fog of distance working and quarantine, I feel I have lost my rhythm. Sitting here, day after day, things start to feel unreal.

Yesterday, at Arcada, I had full energy. Things got done efficiently and imaginatively. Today, prowling around an empty house, not so much.

I recognise that this will pass, like all moods and phases do. I decide to wait it out, and not stress about it.

Feeling hungry, I pause to make some tea and sandwiches. While I do I photograph a door, and then, as the kettle boils, play with the resulting image in Pixelmator. We might call the result photo-unrealism.

We will, no doubt, see a lot more of this sort of thing as the pandemic continues.