Photography Thinks
Not knowing how to feel or what it feels like to feel good poses a problem. The harder it is to know who I am or why the less I care about what everyone else feels about me. The challenge is to make the remainder meaningful, despite having been ravaged in the past.
For the rest of my life, however long that may be. Take a guess. Three pill @ day. $12,000 @ month, partially covered. Sharon has confidence in the process and faults herself for being unable to make it better. Just very sad to have let her down once again. But, I will keep trying.
They can get anyone when they want to.
When you pass 70, sometimes you have to go. Then again, if you are in Russia where the prostitutes rain, they get to go.
I can still look into the mirror at myself. I often wonder if any of you, not the few who stood up for justice, can do the same. You all, especially my brother’s family, scum, left me to die. I did suffer a mortal wound, but have not expired, yet. Closer to dying, than living. Cancer will kill me, before the Per Curium.
Off to another foreign land. Have to know before CLL numbers change and I need treatment. So far, so good. “Keep doing what you are doing,” the Cancer Dr. said. Too old to change, assuming I know what I am doing.
In 2015, I attended a photo workshop in Paris with Peter Turnley. We went to John Morris’s apartment, looked at his images and books, listened to his stories. Then we went to dinner at a cute place on rue St. Louis. Nobody knew who he was.
Through his work, John G. Morris allowed us to see places and get close to people we would not have otherwise known. In doing this, he taught us to see. Think about all the great photographers he knew: Chim, Cappa, Cartier-Bresson, all the giants.
A debt is owed to all photojournalists, especially the ones who gave their lives to help us understand man’s humanity to man, apologies to those who would find this politically incorrect.
George Romero died. He taught me to be scared of the dark. Hell, I am old, which means I don’t carry heavy things and I get tired earlier. But age, the early age of television, let me watch Bela Lugosi while my parents were in the other room doing whatever.
Dracula didn’t scare me, because Zacherly was there to intercept them.
But, no one helped me with George. He made me believe in zombies.
“They’re coming to get you, Barbara.”
Damn, I would have settled for nonsensical, instead of incompetent and unethical. I might have ended up not being reviled and hated, the subject of scorn and recrimination. I might still be living in Brooklyn and be part of a community I loved. I could still be relevant. Ah, too bad.
May it never happen to another Judge, regardless of how right wing and conservative they are.