Statute of Variations.

Can you write about your education?
No. That’s far too large a question. It would take weeks.
How about your current profession?
That’s a rough one as well.
Should be easy.

Numerous, broad-reaching forms of nature meet art, to weight synchronicity in silent, gut-wrenching journalism. This is the photographer’s calling, whose established or unknown masters release shutters at exact moments with limited time or resources for error. We are the tenders of theory’s strings, removing the corners or frames to imagine from. We tend not to focus on an individual’s style or strength, but a picture’s emotional content, its end result, and how its geometry add subject matter moves us. Like any art form, photography is a corkscrew of falsity and turns, as few realize what part of it is forged and what is really life, freed of compositional constraints. So few are truly biased to the unpredictable, connoisseurs favor the (illusion of the) unposed in moody, difficult settings, captured on low-latitude films with unforgiving devices.

"Capturing" evanescence, shadows (the illusion of) "truth", but demands collaboration in many artistic realms, primarily through a bewildering array of half-completed, glacially moving works, it plies us towards and away from. Each image attracts and repels the melt of our (brittle) end moraine, in turbulent calving of ice faces, and (peace in) comparison with others.
Those who appreciate the subtly have suffered by the hand of it; nobody knows a slap of love, until the sting of red fingers marks them so. People ask me questions without realizing pain lengthens and shortens answers, insomuch as they languish in the tedious malaise of words. In a visual realm, the artist takes his life in her hands, and full of fear, cuts his heart out, while she screams.

Shouldn’t it?
Perhaps. Depends.
On what?
Exactly.
Ah, that’s uh ... pretty dense.
You asked.

There’s what you do support-wise, and the goad to take the leap into the next level, where support is erroneous behavior. Relationships mirror mirrors we lose our images within, until the in-venerable I shimmers everywhere, normalizing a universe of its making, with the intrinsic flaws each individual brings as flowery gifts into the world. The loss of perspective is life’s blindness; we grope to the ghoulish guideposts looming from an endless array of sandstorms swept up inside us. Reference points recede into a trackless mire of gray, where incidents reflect our beliefs like outdated web pages.

It’s a simple question. (Or I assumed it was?)
What do you do? Right? What is it?
Yes. You know, how do you keep the wolves at bay?
How do I support myself.
What’s your occupation?
As opposed to my passion.
Indeed.
I don’t have one.
Frustration
is amusing
when the recipient understands
him/her self enough
to embrace the chaos of not knowing.
You know what your problem is?
What? ( I hate it when people will that upon me.)
You’re too scattered.
Compared to what? The universe?
[compared to]

Myself, for instance.

How do I great-grandfather-clause our mutual puniness into the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, when you streak lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy for that, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly monetarily to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.