Perpetual struggle, continued: the cessation of attempts to make The Work (at hand) be what I want it to be and instead act as its guide, its shepherd, to help it towards the realization of what it wants to be.

Meanwhile, in injuries: only took slicing the top joint of my right index finger on the door (thanks, Kirby + screen door) to recognize how much I use it: can't loop finger through coffee mug handle; can’t pull hair back; can’t floss; can't practice drumming while writing easily - fucking flamacues; can't type as quickly; can't (easily) latch my wife's necklace... How fortunate, then, that my middle finger has gotten so much of exercise over the last several decades.

Random nostalgia trip: as I grew up around darkrooms and photographic development, I've been missing the miasmatic delight of those chemicals. Telling, I think, that most of my childhood memories involve noxious fumes.

The day awaits.