Draft:Story of a Photograph
This first draft is written long. There is a reason for this: its subject is not, and cannot be, its subject. It is, nevertheless, a candidate for a taker-outer branch.
Sentence in paragraph "There would be an article here and there...". For most there wouldn't. This is unclear. Paragraph from "At the Hackers Conference". Complete rewrite.
Towards an ending
I "parked up" the novel (then the introduction as I called it), working in the student cafe on borrowed money.
I took out my camera that New Year's Eve. We talked about where the east meets the west and how lithium mining was still owned by Pinochet's grandson. I still felt I could finish this in one go.
Aside from a couple of days I took off ill from work, at that cafe just before I signed up for a co-working space around a year ago now, I didn't believe I could monetize this. It's not because I do not believe that it has value. All of this takes time. I know what I want from it. I know what I am prepared to put into it. But bitcoin wasn't what any of us hoped it could be, and even if it had been it couldn't have fixed any of this.
This reads like an elegy for The Czech Republic. It reads like the last time it felt like it could be moving in the right direction.
You'll see the books about Andrej Babiš go up and down the todo list I put in my user page.
It is a feeling that informs History is on the Make.
I feel like we didn't any of us believe enough.
The make it all meaningful and sum it up tidily paragraph would note that the periodicity of film photography is important to me because it is one of those things that brings back the recent past, causing me to step outside of the now now now of it all. There's something in that. Something. But I'm not sure there's any more than the Montessori put your hands to your eyes and breathe it in school. You know you could come back here in six months time and find an abandoned or broken page. Most restaurants don't work out. You maybe do or do not know that you could come back here in a few years and the internet won't be here. I don't know that's it's more worth saving than many an institution - though institution it is - no more nor less flawed than many another. What I suppose such a peroration would be trying to hide, from me as much as you, and one - though only one - of the reasons I hadn't written it until now, is that there is a sadness to this photograph not quite outweighed by the very real pleasure of having taken it and being able to speak about it. That's not a bad thing. Sadness in itself is not a bad thing. It belongs to art as it belongs to life. Indeed the sadness is not in the photograph itself but my reaction to it, and it needn't be in yours, as indeed it needn't mean anything to you at all but some random guy's random shitty photograph if I am a random guy to you, or some friend's shitty photograph if that is what I am or have been to you.
History is moving so fast that in that so fast month and a half since this was my world, there have been a whole heap more reason to feel sad about the world than I had even then. I will keep on doing what I think is the moral thing. I don't know if I could do different even if my world now fell down around me. I feel a handful of others doing the same. I feel surprised regularly by how people understand where I'm coming from. My girlfriend is next door struggling through the first draft of the first section of my novel. Things can go up as well as down. But if I am to be honest, if this photograph had a soundtrack it would be Leonard Cohen, who died just shy of Donald Trump's inauguration:
Everybody knows the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows