The National Geographic Photo Contest is one of the most surefire ways to get your work noticed.
The deadline for submissions this year is Saturday, November 30!
Here I sit in downtown Annapolis, reading the same book that I have read before. Thinking. Reading. Thinking. Reading. I never stop thinking. This little cafe I found, is reminiscent of the one that I made into a home back in South Carolina. Instead of a South African owner and a hippie barista, there is just, normal people working behind the bar. I hate that word. Normal. What is most interesting in the people around me. A couple, studying the bible, a couple of Italian friends, speaking quicker then lightening, laughing and happy. A man sits by himself in a corner of the shop, using sign language over his computer to talk to someone doing the same on another screen. Groups of the well to do come in and out from this little place. Disgruntled with the non existent lines, as if waiting in one of their rituals on Sunday afternoons. And I sit, as if waiting for something to exciting to happen. Wasting away a Sunday, ripped with the opportunities to be productive. Instead. I write. I think. I write. I think. I do not even know what I am thinking about.
What is the point. I sit and write and think and write and nothing of any merit ever comes from it. Nothing is profound about what I write. What I write has the amount of significance of the red door to this cafe. I’m not a literary critic, I’m not a writer by any stretch of the word, yet I feel compelled to write, and I have no idea why.
The couple studying their religious manuscript leave. A line has now taken place as all the well to do seem to have gotten together and decided to make their own line to wait in. There is a beautifully sad girl sitting to my left, with a beautifully sad face, and beautifully sad, monochromatic clothing. She is studying something to do with complexities of a college education. I look around and realize that I am the oddity. I stick out in this little shop, yet I blend in. The town is a military town, used to the hordes of midshipman walking around like they own the town. In a lot of ways, we do.
The Italian friends left now, a shame really, their constant rambling in familiar romance language, was comforting and happy. They are replaced by a couple, seemingly on a date with family or a celebration of some type. coincidentally, they are talking about their trip to Italy.
It is strange to identify myself as a midshipman. I enlisted in the Navy, thinking that it would provide the ultimate escape from an otherwise rather miserable existence, one headed no where fast. Why is this girl so sad?
I realize how disjointed this all is. I just needed to write, I do not really know why. how can I expect myself to know why I am writing if I don’t even know what I am thinking about to begin with?
The line is gone now. Now it is just a couple of people left in this rather dimply lit, little cafe in a well to do neighborhood. Even the people sitting here seem to be well to do. Why do I even care?
The idea of beating against the current, being brought back to the past, is a demise we bring upon ourselves. This idea of needing closure for everything, that there is a problem with everything that was then and now. That we need someone to tell us it is okay and that we need to move on and on and on and on like the beat of George Harrison’s drums in a Beatles song. Always moving on, always trying to avoid change, always trying to keep things constant and predictable. Why?
Why is this girl so sad?