The In-between

...Because "Tomorrow I Cross Over; Tonight I Drink", is too long a title for a blog.

Turning Chapters [or] A Farewell to Arms

It's a slightly busy evening at Comstock; Tuesday early evenings usually are.  Those that've been let loose from their offices mingle with one another. Office friends getting together over happy-hour drinks,  tech-bros and girls doing their after work mingle thing along with the rest.

I'm sitting in the corner, by the window with my whisky and a rock on the side passively observing it all as I work on what's mine.  The paddle fans above slowly move in their orbits, the bartender moving like a butterfly between the drinkers at the bar and his drink making, smiling and chatting occasionally, I remember meeting him at a Christmas morning cookout in Cole Valley what seems to be ages ago now; another lifetime perhaps. Looking at him, you'd think he'd just stepped out of a Hemingway novel. 

A pretty woman and her friend sitting at almost the center of the bar with her tan Louboutins and her orbital influence--feels like others bounce off this orbit of personality without knowing or feeling it giving her space as if it were deserved.  She seems a bit over dressed, even for Columbus Ave.  Maybe she's meeting someone after a quick drink with her friend, who's to say? A round of laughter from my left takes my mind off of creating a story for her.  Seems that there's a comedian in the group of friends sitting around the table next to me, or that they're collectively remembering something funny that happening; I don't know, I didn't pay attention, so I smile slightly to myself and back to my work I go.

It's been a very fast-paced eighteen months, sometimes even maelstrom-ish [to borrow a term from shakespeare's vocabulary].  I've bounced around corners of Mexico, America, and Syria, seen the same old thing dressed differently, I've seen the same misery in three different languages and cultures, the same emotional complications; the same drama play out over and over--no matter the pretty face, the place, and the conflict.  And it's dawned on me like an 18-wheeler broad-siding me that I'm done.

I've given enough of my sweat and blood to photojournalism.  I've done the same thing over and over on different stages with different faces.  I've been a fortunate son of a bitch at times and mad at others.  I've seen things that no one should.  It's time to move on while I still can.  It's time to do other things, try sitting still for a while; a long while maybe.

So, here's to what was, here's to the friends I made and lost, those I've watched interréd.  May it all be as it always has been.