I Don't Want to Be a Photographer Anymore

I don't want to be a photographer anymore.  It sucks.  It used to be easy.  It used to be fun.  Now. . . I don't know.  It's probably just me.  

I left my mother and drove to my house to get my lighting equipment ready and packed in the car for the trip to the coast.  I broke down the lights and tripods and cables and packed them up, but I couldn't find the trigger for the one I would use to trigger the others.  I searched, looked in boxes, went from room to room.  Think.  I knew which camera it had been on and knew when I took it off.  I got on my hands and knees and looked under furniture.  It wasn't to be found.  I texted my new friend and asked her to see if she might not have accidentally packed it with her things when she left.  It is small.  It would be easy.  

It was almost time to leave for the coast.  I would have to rely on another flash trigger that was taped up and suspect.  It was all I could do.  

When I got on the interstate, I pondered why there was so much traffic on a cloudy, rainy, windy Sunday afternoon.  Oh, shit.  It occurred to me.  Today was the Trump 500.  I hadn't been paying attention.  Why hadn't I paid attention?  

Still, the traffic flowed fairly well, and I got to the beach town on time.  I had eaten only a yogurt in the morning, and it was now one.  Maybe I needed a little food in my stomach before the shoot?  I came to a McDonalds just a mile from the studio.  Why not?  

On the second bite, there was a crunch.  It was a crown.  WTF?  Fortunately, I didn't swallow it.  

My tongue spent the rest of the day bothering that stump of a tooth.  

When I got to the studio, the fire-eater was putting on makeup.  She had just given a private pole dancing lesson.  She showed me around her studio.  It was huge.  One room was lined with mirrors on three walls.  There were eight poles.  The room was dimly lit in purple light--just as you might suspect.  In the second room, aerial silks hung from the ceiling, those and some circus hoops.  It was quite a thing.  This could be fun.  

While she got ready, I began unpacking the car.  I brought in lights and cables and stands and bags full of cameras.  The silks studio had a nice wall, I thought, so I sat up in there first.  But there would be no fire-eating.  Then I found out there would be no silk or pole performance.  The fire took too much prep and the poles took too much warm up.  So what the fuck was I to do?

It didn't matter.  When I set up the lights, the trigger I brought wouldn't work.  I was sweating bullets.  I jacked around with it and got it to work about one out of eight times.  I had to think.  What to do?  She was a nice person and waited patiently.  She had a couch in the waiting room, and there were windows.  Maybe we could shoot there.  But it was stupid.  The whole thing was a disaster, and after not so very long, she said she had to get ready to go--get this--do a fire-eating shoot.  

Sick in stomach and heart, humiliated, I packed up the equipment and said goodbye.  

The fun wasn't over yet, though. When I hit the interstate, it was moving at a snail's pace, stop and go.  And then the skies opened up and the torrential rain began.  Brake, gas, brake. . . brake. . . stop, sit. . . . 

When I got back to my house, I unpacked the gear thinking absolutely I would never do this again.  I went to the liquor cabinet and poured a drink.  I'd have to call the dentist first thing, but it was probably not going to be as simple as just cementing the crown back on.  Surely not.  

I called my mother to see if she had eaten.  Of course not.  She told me to stop and get something to bring home.  I told her about my crown and suggested scrambled eggs and chicken soup.  

I wasn't going to drink anymore and had no liquor.  I stopped at the liquor store and got a bottle of scotch.  

All I wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch tv.  

What the fuck was I thinking?  

DAYTONA INTERNATIONAL SPEEDWAY — The crowd cheered, the cars roared, and President Donald Trump again basked in the pomp and pageantry of one of America’s premier sporting events.

NASCAR is Trump country, White House officials have said, and Daytona’s famous race is at the heart of it. Volusia County, where the speedway is, voted for Trump over Kamala Harris by a 22-point margin in November. 

A Washington Post-University of Maryland poll in 2023 found that 42 percent of Republicans said they were fans of auto racing, compared with 25 percent of Democrats — the most significant margin among the nine sports included in the poll. 

 My night was full of bad dreams.  Thoughts more than dreams.  What do you do at night to slow a speeding brain?  

I am tired this morning.  I'll be spending most of my day packing up the stupid home studio I set up and putting everything back in place.  It will take hours.  I'll call the dentist first.  I have to stop and make appointments for my mother at the physical therapy place.  But all I want to do is lie on my couch and try not to think.  

I'm overtaxed.  I'm out of steam.  

I don't want to be a photographer anymore.