My Sweet Jellybean,

I think I’m going to use you on my website. Just your name. And just “My Sweet Jellybean.” You’ll become like this mysterious character. Don’t worry though, I won’t ever identify you.

I’m working some stuff out.

Presumably time is infinite. And presumably space is infinite. And while people are probably not infinite, it’s all the same thing so long as we’re around. This means, it’s always the right time and the right place for somebody.

As far as all empirical evidence shows, I’ve never been in the right place at the right time. Now to be as fair as I can muster, I’ve never been in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time either. I’m still alive. I’m reasonably healthy. I got mugged and stabbed, once. I think it was six stitches. I told people thirty. Sympathy is negotiable and pity is very marketable.

The mathematical solution to my right place at the right time predicament is either to extend my time, and I’m not so interested in immortality - what would I do? - or extend my places. My solution, then, is this forum.

I imagine my life as a character. Like in those Family Circus cartoons with the maps. There’s me. And there’s MyLuckyBreak. I’ve been chasing MyLuckyBreak all of my life. We’ve never crossed paths. Or rather we cross paths all the time like DNA strands but not at the Right Time. I’m going down the elevator and he’s coming up the stairs. I get off the subway and he’s getting on. We’ve been at the same parties. But I talk up all the wrong people. He passes me when I tie my shoelaces.

The biggest reason I’m going to do what I’m about to do is this: If I don’t do it - as so often in my life I come up with an idea and then don’t do it - some git will no doubt do it within months and that person will derive all the glory and success. I know that sounds like a bad reason to do something. But it’s a serious motivator. So many people have done what I could have done what I would have done and what, like most people, I should have done but didn’t. Idea people are a waste. A person with fewer ideas but more action makes out a lot nicer. Here’s where I do instead of conceive for a change. I conceive a lot. You know me, all of my children are stillborn.

Sometimes it takes a crisis. I heard Anthony Burgess wrote Clockwork Orange because he thought he was going to die. Turns out he didn’t die but then he had a great book. This might not be true but I want to believe that it is so please don’t correct me.

I saw a guy in the newspaper tonight that takes pictures just like I take. Except he’s in the paper. Not just pictures like I take, there are three pictures which are virtually identical to pictures I have taken. There was even one of C. which must have been taken on the same day I took C’s portrait as well. Has anything ever just gotten under your skin so bad? Yes, of course it has. That was my crisis.

Now it’s not as bad as thinking I’m going to die. But tonight that insult was the blade on the long end of injury. I said to you recently, torture is measured by nothing so much as longevity. I’m tired of chasing and missing MyLuckyBreak. The effort has been long and as far as I can measure wasted. Like a well-endowed monk.

Now, I’m going to solicit MyLuckyBreak. I’m going to call MyLuckyBreak to come to me. As soon as I can figure out what the hell a blog is, I’m going to make one. I know I’m on the late end of trendy but that’s alright.

I’m not going to leave my house. No. I don’t mean I’m not going to leave my house until I have my blog ready. I’m not going to leave my house until MyLuckyBreak returns my call.

I’m going to take pictures from my balcony. I’m going to take pictures of my dog. I’m going to take pictures of any still life I can find around the house. I’m going to take a picture of my camera. I’m going to paint that photograph. I’m going to photograph that painting. It will be a picture of a painting of a picture of a camera. Maybe that’s shit. I don’t care. It’s shit I haven’t seen. The only excuse for art is that it’s completely useless. The only excuse for shit is that it’s brand new.

No. That’s not right. Brand new counts for shit too. It’s not brand new that counts. It’s marketing. I’m going to be a marketing guerilla.

My Plan: I’m not going to leave my house. I’m going to take pictures. I’m going to take pictures of my dog, my paintings, my bathtub, whatever is under my kitchen sink, my stuffed animals, my bric a brac, silverware, belly button lint, whatever I can get my hands on. I’m going to create a blog. Because, as I understand it, I can, and because a blog will solve my Right Place predicament. I’m going to publish one picture per day. I still haven’t decided on an Archive. I like the idea of my day being fleeting. Maybe I won’t keep an Archive. Just a picture a day. Some other enterprising person can document and keep my images.

Is anybody surprised that support groups for Agoraphobics don’t work?

I’m going to market myself. I’m going to write letters to Fuji and Canon and Kodak and anybody else I can think of. I’m going to publish those letters on my website. I want them to send me stuff.

How will I measure MyLuckyBreak? I will get press. It’s nuts enough for press. People love a nut. I will get free stuff. I will get a Canon camera. I will get special lenses. I will get light stands and those things people carry around to reflect sunlight just the right way. I will get models soliciting me. I will get a gallery exhibit.

I will get advertising. And I won’t apologize for selling crap. This common notion that everybody is a schill is very annoying. Now it’s true, I’m tired of Darth Vader pushing Verizon and I don’t think there’s anything I don’t need that the Sutherlands aren’t hawking, but that’s a matter of personal opinion. I would sell out. Nobody has offered. Michaelangelo, DaVinci, they had sponsors, or patrons anyway. There are no more DeMedici’s. Pepsi has replaced the DeMedici’s. When banks sponsor showings of Robin Hood - that parable of stealing from the rich to give to the poor - it’s clear we’ve all sold out. I will get on Ellen. Gosh, she’s funny. If I had a talk show, I would dance too.

Now, of course, MyLuckyBreak doesn’t have to be all of that. But people tell you it’s good to make your goals explicit. What people? My high school counselor, for one. He said life was my buffet but that I had no direction. He was dull as old toast but he was right, of course. It also turns out that I hate buffets. All those people. All that balancing stuff. Communal food with strangers. Yuck.

As for my self-imposed exile, I will have to extend one caveat. I have to walk Murphy [my dog]. She shouldn’t suffer from my misanthropy. I’m going to have to still take her for a walk. But I won’t talk to people. People suck. But that’s it. Otherwise, from this moment, I’m staying home and documenting my habitat.

Pictures from Exile.

I need a name. What would you call me? You know, besides nuts? That’s not very catchy and it’s been taken.

SS