This morning has been an odyssey through my digital past and property. The TL;DR is that I needed to install an update on my laptop but I didn't have enough free space because of about 63 billion photos, but several hours later we're back in business.
The overly long explanation is that I spent the entire morning handling the situation. I don't feel totally confident that my photos are secure in Google Photos (and they aren't saved at the highest quality there), so I didn't want to just delete them from my laptop without a backup. I couldn't put them on my external hard drive because it was formatted for PC and apparently I haven't used the drive since just before I switched to my current laptop, a MacBook. So I had to offload the files that were already on the hard drive onto Andy's computer before re-partitioning the hard drive. Then I was able to dump all my various files back onto it, delete them from my laptop, and install the update. All of which took forever, and all of which required crossing my fingers and burning sage and praying to Xenu that none of the three devices involved would burst into flames.
I would like to think I learned some kind of lesson about digital hoarding but I'll probably get right back up on my bullshit.
Anyway, today's journal. The prompt comes from writer Ashley Van Buren.
Prompt: Find a picture of a stranger (it could be one you took, found on Instagram, in a magazine, or even an extra in the background of a movie) and write their story. Start at the beginning of their day: What do they see when they first wake up? What do they smell? What do they have on their schedule? Then begin to answer the bigger questions that come up as they go about their day: Are they restless? Lonely? Afraid? Excited? Joyful? Start to tell the story of a life.
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This is a photo of a stranger that is etched in my mind. It's a photo I wish I had taken. It's a photo John Waters could have art-directed, and yet it was organic, out in the wild, as it were.
About a year ago, I saw a person waiting at the bus stop by the gas station that is so sketchy that it has been charging $1.59 for gas since before the price of oil dipped below zero, and until recently did not even have card readers at the pumps.
This person was tall and elegant, rail thin with broad shoulders accentuated by the Barbie-pink-satin-off-the-shoulder-puff-sleeve 1980s prom gown they were wearing. It was a lot of look, even for East Nashville. A platinum blonde, Dolly Parton beehive wig completed the ensemble, and you have to respect the commitment to the aesthetic.
Who knows how far they had walked to get to this bus stop, how far they would walk to reach their destination. It must have been too far already for their matching pink stilettos. "Honey, my feet hurt and I don't give a good goddamn," they might have said. "I have earned this," they may have thought, surveying the #30 bus stop on the side of McFerrin, marked only by a sign and a wire trash can. "Too fabulous to be on these feet," they declared as they turned the trashcan on its side.
"Much better," they sighed, daintily lowering onto their new throne. Posing in self-conscious, regal elegance. Legs crossed at the knee, one arm akimbo, the other clutching a cell phone. Texting, "on my way..."
Darling, you sure are.
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