And no, masturbation does not count as a hobby.
I know what the hobby will be. It is my dream. This blog is like salted pistachios in the shell. I crack the shells open to get to the flavorful kernel, just as I put these words on paper. These words are like those kernels. They satisfy briefly, but aren’t a meal, just as these blog posts aren’t a story.
I remember when I was working for the big insurance company, calling on businesses out in the farm country of Virginia. Tobacco was the big crop, or was, at one time. As I drove down the two lane country roads, I would see derelict curing sheds where green tobacco leaves were “flue cured” in log curing sheds, the space between the logs chinked with dried mud. A slow wood fire provided the heat. And tending the fire was necessary to keep the temperature constant and prevent the fire from going out of control and burning down the shed, along with the crop. The farmers were switching over to metal sheds and propane fires, safer, but not as beautiful. I would photograph the sheds and store buildings of merchants gone bust, the store buildings left to decay and collapse over time. The Coca-Cola signs lived on, giant red versions of the old bottle caps, with “Coca Cola” in script emblazoned in white.
Cigarettes are dying. Coca Cola lives on. My insurance days are over. Coca Cola lives on. My dreams live on, to photograph and write about the world around me and the people who live within it.