I’ve spent the week thinking about the photo archive at the Beacon News. Also, I shouldn’t say “the week” when I simply mean the last seven days. Actual moments of time have blurred for me. Weeks, months, etc. what are they? Days are clear because I can maintain the delineation of the periods of light/dark & awake/sleep. Those units are simple. But when is Monday? Or, is this Thursday night? Those are the hard questions.

Regardless, back to the photo archive. For 10 years I maintained it and since 2007 I have no idea what has become of it. With the changes that have occurred it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s completely lost or, at best, mostly intact but also mostly lost.

So much time that’s gone.

But that’s the obvious course of life and I wonder how many places and times where I’ve wandered have disappeared from view leaving only bizarre imprints on the memory, spirit and body.

I wonder then about the body and the memory and what an event does to them. A gain in knowledge, a loss of innocence, a tragic accident or exciting event?

In my withdrawal the only consistent subjects are now myself and the memories I have of those I used to know and we’re all frozen. Nice, marble statues locked in a brain.

I wander amongst those statues and ask them questions that I know they can’t answer. I imagine elaborate theories and explanations. I revision history and turn it into a nostalgic farce.

And none of it makes sense.

Perfectly Useless

The torment of having a use and yet being useless is bizarre.

I find nothing interesting in what the careerists preach and yet you can’t avoid being sucked into the lifestyle. References this, appearance that, get your CV in order, make sure your resume stands out, etc.


One can see the pain on a careerist’s face when confronted with the realization that their lifestyle is nothing but a void–a sad acceptance of a system that has expired but the practitioners persist in not dying.

I have no use and am proud of that fact.

I spend my time rummaging through trash cans and muttering to myself. Happy that my thoughts are my own and what of it if someone doesn’t like the stink? I may die alone but at least I’ll die in good company!