Progressions of a Theme

Three Perfect Shots

During my more lucid hours I spend my time building these crazy Economic models to describe just about anything.  One day I’m putting number together to get to factor in the group mortality of residents in a certain geographic area, other days it’s a little more amusing tracking spending per capita on pet supplies.  Seems like a wide spread, but there are plenty of things that you can build models for that you wonder why someone is building the models to begin with.

In the first sequence from today, the picture would be captured as such.  A skinny, white male sitting in a recliner that is obviously of some industrial design.  His head covered in in some silly looking striped cap, something picked up years ago at a flee market in Fort Lauderdale.  Wooden edges holding together this placid blue vinyl that squeaks every time the occupant moves.  The window fortunately shows a small gathering of trees and not the section of the city where students he once moved along with now shuffle off to class.  The table is covered with a laptop, iPad, and a phone.

Our second photo shows more detail of the collection of paperwork.  There are equations showing someone how to build a regressive model to make a forecast of the future.  [Looking into the past to see the future may sound odd, but that’s how you build yearly projections!]  An ornate box rests on a side table, beige envelops with various names written on them collected over time.  Some will be delivered under the worst of circumstances, others written to help deal with what I thought was the worst I could experience.  Almost as many letter to a daughter who will never read them as to friends who I wanted to know how much I have appreciated them, how much I care about them.

The last in our tour shows a hand.  There are scars and cuts on the fingers from years of aimlessly hitting knuckles on a table when trying to think through things.  A few puncture wounds, some fresh, others healing; a series of needles being taken in and out over time.  A blue Cross pen rests at an odd angle between the index and middle fingers, point exposed much like the man in his hospital issued attire.  The handwriting on the page small and sloppy, the only legible words being “I love you” scrawled towards the bottom.  My typical, confusing squiggle of a name trailing off to the right.

[Consider these in black and white.  My brother used to take great pictures that way!  Wish he would put down the cellphone and pick back up good old film!]


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