Sunday was one of those days when I didn’t get dressed. Of course, I always have on a base compression layer that covers everything from my neck down, but I didn’t put on pants or a shirt. I didn’t go outside. I couldn’t find a suitable excuse. The energy required to put on clothes simply wasn’t there.
Perhaps I spent too much energy too early in the day. I did a load of laundry, took a shower, and made pancakes. That took everything I had. This is what no one talks about, the extreme fatigue that takes over and leaves you without any energy, not even enough to think. Consider when I wrote yesterday’s “sermon,” More Than Salad, it took me three hours not because the topic was difficult but because of the frequency with which I had to stop and look up words. One critical word search took more than 20 minutes because there wasn’t a good synonym. This is how the chemo tears away at the brain, relieving me of information that I’ve known for years, guessing at words as though I’d never written before. From my perspective, it feels that it’s only getting worse.
This is why talking to people in person is important. Writing is sometimes too sedate for my brain. My thoughts will wander down rabbit holes while I’m looking for just the right phrase. Conversation requires being there in the moment and replying in real time without editing or spellchecking. The topic doesn’t matter nearly as much as the act of conversing itself.
The night seemed to go well, we were all in bed by 9:30, until a very direct pain hit my forehead just above my hairline a little after 4:00. This wasn’t the radiating type of pain one gets with the typical headache. This is tight, less than a finger’s width, and maybe a half-inch long, and it was initially severe. Being the middle of the night, my brain immediately leaped to the worst possible conclusion: This is what a brain hemorrhage feels like; I’m dying. I then looked at my watch so that I could mark the exact time of my death, in case anyone asked. Obviously, I didn’t die. There’s still a hint of pain there, but I doubt it’s caused by a hemorrhage.
While we were sleeping, the Academy Awards took place. There were no surprises. Oppenheimer won the bulk, closely followed by Poor Things. Once again, the awards were too white, too conservative, and played it much too safe. Killers of the Flower Moon and Maestro were completely ignored. The only nod to Barbie was Billie Eilish for the song, “What Was I Made For.” BTW, having two Oscars at age 22 should tell us that we’re sleeping on Ms. Eilish’s talent. There was more back-patting for having survived last year’s strikes than meaningful dialogue or stirring speeches. The “In Memoriam” section might have been the most interesting part of the whole show. I’ve pretty much given up on the Academy “getting it right” in my lifetime.
Demonstrating just how over-reactive news agencies have become to photo editing, five agencies “killed” a picture of the UK’s Princess Catherine that was shot by the Prince of Wales and posted on the Kensington Palace website. According to the BBC, concern was raised because of an extremely minor adjustment in the Princess’ hand and a skirt alignment issue. These are the type of edits that I would fucking hope any decent photographer would make rather than just letting the image go out into the world looking bad.
Mind you, the photo was taken by Prince William, who is not a professional photographer. It’s a fucking snapshot of a mom and her kids. The Princess admitted to having edited the image herself and apologized for any confusion. In my experienced opinion, the concern and outrage is absolute balderdash (I like that word) and yet another example of how far up their ass agencies have driven the editing stick. What they’re asking of photographers is perfect photos that come right out of the can ready for publishing, no matter who took it. That’s way too much of an ask for how little photographers are paid.
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