Location, location, location.

There are three whole pages in my journal I do not remember filling. Drawings, text, textual drawings, expressive text... I can only assume I was drunk or in an "emotional fugue state," a phrase I latched onto during a conversation last week. Elaboration and reimagining of a single theme, twined and tangled as a Celtic knot... but also, lost time, from which I emerge dazed and shaking.

Attachment to place burns constantly in me, and many of the places where I once spent a good deal of time have recently crumbled and disappeared - clear-cut, sinkhole-swallowed, razed. I drew some of them on those fugue-filled pages, along with three eyes and a loaf of bread.

This is the most media-worthy:

In the video it's a serene event: a puff of wind, a light replacing a shadow. "Places" are built of these things, after all, what fills the empty spaces.

An assignment due later today asked me to find a landscape painting of a location near where I grew up and find qualifying features, surprising or indicative of the region. It surprises me how indicative of my insides my pictures of mountains always, always, always are:

Speaking of loss.. I miss my Olympus more now than before. I think it was stolen two summers ago during a drawn-out month of moving across town... or I put it somewhere... or I left it somewhere... I miss having a camera whose parts all worked, with whom I didn't have to wrestle just to frame and focus my pictures. It tightens my chest when I think of having lost it.