Months and months ago, I tried to stop planning. Things were unmoored, and by things I mean everything, and I thought that if I could just stop trying to figure it out with my brain, and just let things happen, I would be all right. But I couldn’t stop planning. And by planning I mean worrying. But yesterday I was walking down Irving Park and remembered the photobooth in the Holiday Club. In the empty, dark bar, when the bouncer asked for ID, I said, “I’m just here for the photo machine” and walked to the back, then pushed aside the polyester curtain and ducked into the cool metal booth. Inside glowed with flourescent light and I sat on the little metal stool and fed my bills in and looked straight ahead at the shiny black square that promised to be the lens. Seven minutes later the damp black and white strip clicked through the machinery and out into its slot. I cradled it in my palm for a moment, embarassed to be so self-watching, but really what I wanted was to freeze a moment so I could say hi to the person who is happy, and by happy I mean awake.