Contemplating a self portrait.

There seems to be a low wall between me and that which I hope to accomplish. Only a few bricks high--I can see over it easily--nevertheless, I trip over it every morning and fall into the abyss of the internet. Like quicksand, the infinite allure of more knowledge--of exotic lands and well-told stories--forms the mortar that holds the wall in place.

Will I paint today? Probably not. The rain forms a sheathing that holds my imagination captive indoors. The studio may as well be in Siberia.

If my words were paint, would they form a thick impasto? Would a form take shape before me? Would a tulpa stare out at me with a deft reflective glint in its eye? Would it look out at the world inquisitively, wondering what future viewers would project from their minds onto my face? Would the story they tell about me be accurate?

Only if I tell my own story as genuinely as I am able.

Photo taken with self-timer on Canon AE-1 in approximately 1982.