Here’s a non-spoiler quote about passion from the movie Adaptation well after about half-way in:

“There are too many ideas and things and people. Too many directions to go… the reason it matters to care passionately about something is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size.”

I imagine the quote is probably lifted from the original book, The Orchid Thief, but I’m too lazy to verify that much. If you need to know, find out for yourself and let me know.

For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, it’s brilliant because it identifies itself so transparently. Remember that much when you watch it and you’ll find it brilliant too, I’m sure. This is not an assumption, it is a command. Trust me.

For those of you who have seen the movie, and understood it, you might find it funny that I paused the flick, copied the above quote, then wrote in my journal for about thirty minutes about both my own struggles to find passion and my general lack of focus when I do have it. After that, every turning point in the plot put me into hysterics.

Well beyond the days of young and old, Pepper #3 now finds a companion close in both age and aesthetic appeal. The two experienced beauties cling to one another, as each folds into the others’ natural bend they support one another and reveal their most elegant forms. As intimates they are more beautiful together then the sum of both apart. As rivals they are near perfect compliments.

I like my recent work with garden delights. Or, at least, I like my new approach to photography. The results of these exercises seem far more compelling then my old work, if still no more relevant.

I’m far more patient now then I’ve ever been, and I think the work benefits. Where I once would be so fiercely passionate I’d destroy a piece before I’d finished it, destroy an entire collection before I’d even attempted to develop it, now my work seems to develop, to evolve, through me rather then because of me. I’m drawn to what’s necessary for the piece, not an abstract principle I’m unable to pin down in my own head, let alone attempt to illustrate for others to perceive and understand.

Maybe I’m more whole now, not pulled every which way by shards of desire, obligation and pain. The only way I can describe it is to say I can close my eyes and see. My thoughts, screams are now soft whispers, more articulate, more sensible. An organic flow of smooth and consistent energy, made only more rapid because of an absence of awkward jumps and sharp stumbles.

I confused a lack of explosive energy with depression because I only knew the two. And though I sometimes miss the excitement and sensation of either, I do like what can do when I’m balanced between. I refuse to admit I’m saner, but maybe I’m more productive, and surely more romantic.

Funny - I think a romantic is merely an idealist who has lost reason to seek struggle and strife.

I still have room for idealism. I can still burn with the same heat. But rather then an irrepressible explode I want an immortal smolder.