I spent the night in the mountains on Saturday. It was a night of camping. Frankly, it's more peaceful in my cabin. People talk really loud. Even when they're close to each other. I'm not sure why. I think it's cultural, or in this case, a lack of culture. It was both men and women alike. Other than that, it was nice. Stars, fire, food. I didn't take a single picture. Old school.
I have mixed feelings about digital photography. It used to be when you bought film and photography cost money, you used a certain amount of discretion when it came to taking pictures. We didn't take pictures willy-nilly. Each shot was precious. We had rolls of twenty-four or thirty-six, and we had to think about whether the subject was photo-worthy. We never took pictures of feet, or food, or our workouts, because frankly, we knew those pictures were boring and not worth the investment. They're still boring. Sure, we goofed off at the end of a roll, and from time to time we dedicated a roll to "art," but we didn't take pictures of dinner. Besides, that's food bragging.
I heard a rodent outside my tent in the middle of the night. He was real close. He may have been messing with the tent itself, I can't recall. I was half asleep. I remember feeling scared for a moment before I extended my arm and flicked the tent with my middle finger. I pinned my finger behind my thumb and flicked. It made a thud sound that put the fear of god into the mouse, kangaroo rat, or what ever it was. He ran away as fast as he could and never came back. I thought it was funny. I was satisfied in some way. The flick. It's my weapon of choice.
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