Micro pit stop between freelance shooting and journalistic shooting. And yippieyahooaroonies there was a message on la machine that an editor from a respected pub(lication) would like to have me do some writing for him - I'm filled with silly giddy elation, always a pleasant feeling before hitting the streets in search of perfect moments, smiles, and notes hanging in the air.
Is it me or does the fall air have the faint scent of fourteen year old single malt scotch.
A parting thought for this perfect Friday: a pal just about fell off her barstool with oddness when I self-mentioned this blog. You know that thing people do when they are not along for the ride with whatever you're espousing? She threw herself into implosion. Gasoline on epinw bonfire of fun, I say.