I have hit a brick wall. My brain is fried. My neurons are shot. My well has run dry. I am fighting a losing battle. I am uninspired.
As far as I can tell my muse is a spiteful bastard. He is also a schizoid and suffers from a severe seasonal affect disorder. I don't care, he's on the clock and asleep at the wheel. Until my muse realizes that there is more to life than slacking off and smoking weed I will have to go this alone. I just wish there was some guru, on top of a car accessible mountain, that I could visit in between episodes of House. I imagine he would unlock the secrets of creativity with a toothy smile then force me to buy a bumper sticker stating simply "This Car Ascended to Inspirational Nirvana".
Years from now when I'm shooting for GQ, Esquire, and Redbook I'll hear a knock on the door of my London flat. On the other side will be my bullshit muse tattered, torn, hungry, and begging for forgiveness.
This picture was part of a shoot I did at Union Station. It has some of the qualities that I was trying to express: loneliness, expectation, and pensiveness. I am not happy with how my last few shoots have gone, especially this one. At some point I hope to have a breakthrough, whether its before or after I fail this class remains to be seen.
