With a fairly screwed up sleeping pattern (or lack of one) since I was young(er), I always counted a day not from midnight to midnight, but from when I slept for a considerable time. If a day lasted 36 hours, then it lasted 36 hours. Technical definitions of ‘today’ and ‘tomorrow’ never really came into play.

I was working my one-day-a-week contract at the software company I’ve been at for years today and then the Garage at night, which meant getting up early, coming home and falling asleep for 3 or four hours before heading off to the club. Waking up after a fairly deep sleep in the dark and preparing to go out again totally screws with your head, especially when you only sleep about four hours a night on a regular basis.. It’s as if the whole length and format of days have been shifted about, and it’s pretty unsettling.

Once I got up and into the swing of things it was all better though.. Going to work with drunk and excitable people when you feel like death is really not advisable. Those two hours you’re at a club or gig can feel like ten.. You can’t just slide down in your chair like you might in an office; you need to be on top form all the time.

The Garage are putting on bands in the Attic space at the beginning of the night, with tonight playing host to Nevada Base and Ming Ming and the Ching Chings.

Normally bands that I get paid to shoot don’t really instill me with much enjoyment, so I was pleasantly surprised that both these guys were really actually quite good. I’ve made a mental note to get a hold of their stuff to feature on Artrocker.com, whilst wearing my Review Editor hat.

It’s always nice (if not a little disconcerting) to meet people that check up on your pictures or other ‘artistic’ outlets in real life, even if you can’t quite understand why they’d want to read what is essentially a selfish endeavour of your own meandering thoughts. It’s even nicer when those people turn out to be extremely pretty girls like Carrie. I’m not really good with compliments, so I think I just mumbled something incoherent. My apologies. Maybe next time I’ll be intoxicated enough to lap it up more.

…and in true photographer style, I’m trying to convince her to let me take advantage of her lovely nature and unleash the Hasselblad on her. Watch this space.

In addition, I bumped into a face from the past, which happened by me going to take her picture, and taking a few minutes to realise who it was. It’s always a bit of a jolt when you meet someone like that – an injection of reality into the whole club photographer mode – which is always strange; having this bizarre situation come into contact with your personal one in that way. It’s like when two of your really good friends from different places meet each other for the first time. it’s weird.

The few people who speak to me on a regular basis probably would say they get the impression that I complain a lot about working in clubs, and to an extent it’s probably true – I don’t really focus much on the positive sides when talking about it. It’s never really something that I like doing though; talking about how wonderful your own job or situation is always smacks a bit of self-indulgent arrogance unless you have a totally unassuming nature to pull it off. I don’t have that candor.

Tonight I realised that part of the whole feeling surrounding it is probably a bit of a guilt complex. It’s as if despite knowing and treating it as a job first and foremost and not something for pleasure, part of me still can’t quite believe that I get paid to do what I do – as if you’re some sort of fraudster just waiting to be found out – for people to one day realise.. ‘hang on, we’re paying for this?’.

Total nonsense, but I’m an existentialist – the subconscious does what it may.


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