As I write I’m crossing the thirty-second hour of wakefulness. I decided not to sleep last night.

Everything went according to plan and I had a fatigue-induced freak-out just as the daytime downtown spilled into the rush-hour street. I hopped up on my aluminum desk, dangled my tipsy-toes over the radiator and started snapping Rear Window pix Hitchcock-stylee:

And an amazing thing happened: Time melted. I got into flow, sorta — flow-lite — flow-ish, right-brain whenever I wasn’t playing with camera settings, perception of time coming only in response to the fading ambient light level. My anxieties bled out through the shutter into the memcard and I actually had quite a bit of fun snapping away until the sun went down.

Our gallery is doing a juried, curated show in November of 5″x5″ pieces for under $50 each. Our curator judges the entires and presents them aesthetically. I was just invited to participate. I obviously have an “in”, but the condition is that my work has to be submitted anonymously so as not to sway the judge(s).

I’m probably going to do black-bordered wooden blocks with a mylar surface to hold ink I’ll plot digitally. Obviously my fotos so far have been totally amateur-hour, but I have until the start of November to submit either two or four pieces (the only lot-sizes allowed: 50sqin or 100sqin).

I’m thinking of reworking SUCCESS is a JOB IN NEW YORK to be both more bleak (no neon pastels) and physically produceable (maybe with Warhol-style print techniques!), and I’ve already been told it could be rejected for being “inappropriate”. As far as I’m concerned that means I’m on the right track — it ain’t art if people ain’t angry.

Right now I need to be photographing everything — like Tamil Tiger Terrorist Transit Tugs — and looking for great ideas to pirate, remix, and ink onto mylar.