I just took some cool self-portraits on the outside of the shed.

silhouettes, very low light.

this isn't one of those, it's just a cameraphone picture from some other day in the shed, can't remember which exactly.

the pictures tonight are on my digital camera, the poor beat-up thing. I still haven't printed them. I keep deleting some, taking more, deleting again. I don't want to put the files on the computer, I'll never do anything with them. I want to go in somewhere and just print off all the files, even just regular photo size. though I do think some would be nice blown up (if grainy) and even big on paper I could add details to with pen, that would be fun, doesn't have to be serious glossy photo paper. (plus it's probably cheaper. I hate spending money. at least not until I sell something. I realize people will say well, you have to spend money to make money. I don't care for that argument. I'd like to make money and then spend money, thanks very much. I'm aware this is probably somewhat unrealistic. again, oh dear. I'm stubborn, it's true. sometimes persistent to the point of near-ridiculousness. but I figure at some point in our continuing discussion, the universe and I will come to some sort of understanding as far as art and money are concerned, and I'm hopeful that the universe will see reason at some point and realize that, when I'm a determined woman, I generally get my way, either through charm or through sheer -

oh shut up already, the universe will say at that point. fine, whatever, you win.

just stop talking, okay?

(ha. just like a woman. always wanting the last word.)

yes, I know, it's just isolated bits of nonsense. I comfort myself with the knowledge (the belief? the hope, maybe, yes, the hope, definitely.) that I'm only seemingly incoherent because I'm speaking not only in tongues but in several of them at once.

I still have that novel to write, about the middle-aged woman who leaves everything to live over a bar and sing blues at night and sleep until noon, and the big ruckus between the pentecostal church and the strippers. or not. whatever. ah, the bliss, just the release of the ideas, as they come, as they go, and not a care at all for the sense of them. or the sensibilities that might be so delicately, so pruriently offended.

I did sit down to write something sensible. but this was more fun. I'm too lazy to spellcheck and since I switched to safari and this mac (which I'm growing more fond of, by the day) I don't get the same spellchecking window come up, and I don't like that, so I'm just not using it. so it won't be until later, if at all, that I notice the errors and inconsistencies.