The day after jail I had the second panic attack in 24 hours.
We were riding in my boyfriend’s car smoking toking talking. Walking at the lake in January the air and the sun is sharp off the water. He’s laying on the hill with his knees up, so I just sit on top of him to finish the big ol’ bowl.
So I walk towards the lake cause it’s beautiful like his hair. But my coat’s in the car. I get a little weird. Talking to bf gets difficult. Looking at the camera is difficult. Breathing is difficult.
“How about we walk over there silently?”
.. I said out loud oddly interrupting his sentence. Boyfriend was confused and crying at this point. Walking is confused. Stopping is confused. What’s happening is confused. Didn’t stop. Walking is how I deal. Tapped rhythmic patterns with my toes while waiting to think.
“Narration” as a teaching strategy means a teacher announces out loud what students are doing correctly.
So that’s what I did mid-panick. I annouced things out-loud, “I need to walk over there” “I need silence” “I’m cold” and communication happened somehow.
frontal lobe. arcuate fascilicus. respiratory system. mouth. soundwaves. ear drum. brain stem. auditory cortex.
To relax I was sitting in my car in a fancy grocery store parking lot. Texting people for xanax. My chest is pounding. My head is throbbing. I think of “Narration”. I can’t really drive my car or get up or leave. I slowly scribble crazy scratch on paper to tell my brain what I need to do.
D̵̗̙̗̆̈͝r̷̭̈́î̵͈̠̫̔̑͝v̶͈͚͗ě̴͓̜͍͇̚ ̸̹̞̙̾t̶̻̑̐ò̴̰͎̞̿ ̴͖̮̳͛͌̔h̷̡̬̎̾͒o̷̝͈͂͂m̵̹̞͈͔͋̀͊͘e̸̦̖̰͚͒̍̄?̵̛̗͎̆́
Ṷ̵̩͓̫̼̂b̴͔̳̐̏́͗ȅ̸̳̠̝̦̟̈́̔̀̐ṟ̶̱̹̣̓̔ ̸̳̲̱̬͆̈̐ẗ̸̙͈́́̐o̶̧͈͔̫͂̇̉́̇ ̶̟͌ṱ̷̹̲͋̋̓́̇̚h̸͕̠̩͛̌̒ḛ̴̿ ̸̧̹̙͚̀h̵̲̣͙͔̣͒o̸̜̻̻̝͕̕s̸̝͛̊̀̈̍̈p̴̖͎̼̠̘̌̈́͂̾̌̀i̸͆̈́̑͌͛͝ͅt̶̟́͊̅̿a̷͍̦͍̻͋l̴͓̿͌̀̓̿͠?̵͙͓̫̄̃̓͛̀
Ş̸̟͕̰̠̰̘̟͈̮̺͚̈̓͒͝͠i̴̡̡̡̟̬̘̤͓̗̫͔̳̮̥̘͔̖͑ͅt̸̰͓̣̼̜̥̰̤̼̦̗̙̹̠̔̏̇̌̾̌ͅ ̶̡͎̞͓̪͇̟̠͊́̋̂̾̌̀̊̀̀̾͌̓͝͝á̷̹̗͉̲͙̱̹̰̖̞̰̪̯͉͔͐̈̂̍͋́̓̉̎͌͆͐̽̿̇͒n̵̖͕̬̦̩̼̪͍͛̑͐͑̐̇̕ḑ̴̢͉̰̥̳̱͉̊̑̄͂̑͋͊͒̌̈́͒́̌̍͌̈́̚͘͘ ̶̘̞͉̫̮͐̎̀̔̔̊̎̓̎̀̑́͗͑͠d̷̡̨̹̭̬͈̪͉͉̩̣̈́̓̆́͘͠͝o̴̫̦̣̯͎̞͇͂̀͐̍͂̉͒̋͋͝͝ͅ ̴̡̡̹̯̼̖͇͚̳̠̯̙͉̭̠̻͔̟̱̐̌̅͐̈́̆͘͜͝n̷̛̛̗͇̭͙̩͌̀͌̌̆͠ǒ̵͇͖̠͍̱͐̅͗͋̈̌̕͘̚t̷̛͙̞̝̻͇͔̱̑͌̀͒̃̓͋̋̑̽̍͊̀̒͊̌͑͝͝h̷̨̻̘͚̻̖͖̫͇̱͍̯̣̣̬̾̍͑͌̍̃̃̉̆́̾̍́͜ͅͅį̷̤̠̣̼͎͇̠̻̺̰͐̈́̉͛͒̈́̆̏̈́̾͆̇́̚͘n̵̞͖͙̝̰̟̔́̃̌͐͛͐̈́̀̏̓͜͜ͅģ̸̪͖̣̹̙̣͆̀̋̆͠
Frankybobs picked me up.
I’d been out of jail 19 hours long, and already 4 different friends had taken turns (taking care) with me. I felt like they were on a shift schedule, then when the time was about up someone else would text me.
So the point is I might’nt’ve reacted (successfully?) to this first-world-emergency hadn’t I learned about photographers and artists using the concept “Workflow”.
It’s a methodical way to go step-by-step consistently when editing each image. Somehow that kind of process was in my mind during my time at the lake, which is the point of this post.
Hope it wasn’t a lame story.