Practice thyself

Every 6 months to a year, I sit down, open my journal, and make a list of 1. Who I want to be, and 2. What I want from life, and 3. The practices and steps that would bring me closer to either #1 or #2. Then I try to see what complementary intersections there are (in other words, where the least amount of time and effort invested would advance multiple goals toward completion,) and develop an action plan from that. Then I close my journal and effectively do nothing. (Or something like it.)

Two items that have become constants on the list are: Become a better photographer, and Become a better writer. It seems to me that everyone except the most dull should have within them the ability to produce something of artistic worth, ie something of an esthetic value (I left the "a" off intentionally, in case you were wondering,) something that can please their fellow man, and if not actually elevate him in some way, to a limited degree remove his thoughts from himself, and focus them on something else for a moment. I would argue that the more the product is in concordance with the principles of esthetics, the more arresting, (ie, absorbing, or "self-removing") it will be. The more one is moved to ponder on those things which do not directly affect the growlings of one's stomach and greasiness of one's navel, the more one, by contemplation and thus conciousness, at least, is connected to the greater world we inhabit.

There is something about both of these fields, writing and photography, which draw me strongly. I do not partake of them because I think I have much skill in them. I partake of them because I believe what small skill I have is centered in these areas, and because I am so attracted to them that the mere idea of them fascinates me, and I feel good as I do it, completely independent of the feelings regarding the quality of the product produced.

My wife has left me and gone to Krakow. She will be away for a month, staying in a beautiful old flat in Krakow, while doing a course. Which leaves me sitting here, alone in the flat with the computer, wondering how in the hell I am going to cope, to keep my life from further degenerating into mad mess.

So I am taking photos. It may not be much, but I hope it will help me to focus my time and energy a wee bit and keep me busy. I recently saw some photos that a lad took while visiting this town, and was amazed at his talent, and infuriated that I can't produce something of similar quality. (Though if I may point out, his camera is so far superior to mine, that it does provides me with a small excuse, which is small comfort.)

I also have also renewed my determination to contribute to this blog in a more regular manner. I hope my friends use it to follow a bit of what goes on in our lives and heads, but in the end, that is not really the point. The point is to give me somewhere to write, in the vain hope that practice will improve. And, hopefully, it will give me something constructive to do until she gets back.

If practice can improve one's skill, (a premise we all-too-readily accept, if you ask me,) I would think a month would be sufficient time after which one could reasonably expect to see improvements. The question is, though, how much would one need to practice during a month, in order to see results? 20 fotos a day? 40? One hour of writing? 30 minutes? We shall see.