Since I make a point of looking fairly sane and reasonable around other animals and people, the above photo isn’t so much about the scene photographed as about the fact there was another human, plus a dog, not far off from that spot. I would be horribly embarrassed, not to say deeply ashamed, to let the raving internal lunatic loose in their presence. So this shot is about me, packing up the raving internal lunatic, and taking her for a walk in the countryside, cleverly disguised as my every day, reasonably calm and composed persona. The wheat is playing itself, and waving at the camera; idem with the poppies.
I wish to add I am also ashamed and embarrassed to let the raving lunatic loose in a number of other circumstances, outside of the playpen I call story. The fact is: finishing the story felt like receiving an unexpected boomerang on the back of the skull. I’m starting to adjust to the idea I have to live with my own words, even when they get hijacked by entities known as characters who decide they want to tell their story as they see fit. So be it, et ainsi va la vie.
Where it starts getting funny is when, in dreamtime, one of the political figures I had in mind while writing shows up to give me his opinion on the manuscript. It’s funny because a) he doesn’t realize I had him in mind while writing and b) he’s telling me people understand neither subtlety nor caricature but he has no doubt my story is excellent except for those two aspects I may wish to reconsider. In the dream, I told myself: “you’d better wake up now, or you’ll laugh in his face.” So I woke up laughing, and leaving one of Québec’s political figures to receive the respects and kowtows of those he had shafted and used for all they were worth. Ah, life.
Today: clean-up. Timelines, spelling, lay-out. Get used to the idea the story is done. Take it from there, et vogue la galère.