If he believed in reincarnation he would attempt to convince himself that he had been a dancer in a previous life.
If he believed in reincarnation he would be scared to death.
Old country. Went on what turned out to be a ghost hunt, effectively a voluntary attempt to lose my mind. Should have known better, knew better, probably, only didn’t have access. Mind, a bit tatty, somehow managed to follow.
Old country, there isn’t going to be much you and I from now on, is there?
She goes to bed at about seven, to not have to be awake.
It only takes one sun to make day. In her town there are two. Half of the year they go hand in hand. The other half they take turns; one appears as the other goes away.
By then she finds it difficult to go to bed at about seven, to not have to be awake. She fears summer this time of year. Bites her tongue, till it’s sore.
I have prejudice against people. Small people, large, people who drive their car to work, those who take the bus. People who, like me, ride their bicycles. The young and beautiful, the old and less beautiful. People who are obsessed with how others look, and themselves. People who play sport, those who go for a run with their mates, the ones having a beer at the local pub. The rich, the poor, politicians, actors, truck drivers, art directors, cleaners, doctors. Photographers, people who do certain things not unlike myself, people who are not at all like me. People with plans. The ones spending their time commenting whatever caught their attention on social media, those who don’t have an opinion about anything.
I am not all those people, the ones I am not I have at some point wished I was.
Prejudice, another word for fear?
Wrote the draft for this two and a half years ago, then forgot about it. It probably had a slightly different meaning then, but only slightly. Rather fond of people, in fact.
The Kona—the bike for those who don’t keep track of bike brands—has followed me through thick and thin for more than a decade. I don’t know which is thick and which is thin but there has been plenty of both. Late last year I was afraid that its time was up when I couldn’t screw in a new bottom bracket. Panic is a better word for it. To my surprise and delight a local bike shop was able to fix, my heart flew.
I should make better use of it as a transport unit for photography related matters, I hadn’t meant to say anything about that, no less true because, in spite of that. Oh well.
Now, two months later, and I am still being childishly happy that it still rolls. That’s all.
Oh. Kona in my language means woman, or wife. I never refer to the bike as she though. Rarely does the terribly joke about my wife slip past my lips. Just as well. Embarrassingly it has. Don’t have one, no plans, and—as much as I love it—not married to the bicycle. Now that’s all. Promise.
“I photograph to validate my existence, sad story”, he says, fully accepting as if it were a fact that this is what pictures do and that it is the pictures that validate and that it is within their power, implied if not stated.
Then goes on to think about the camera and its function, asking if it approves more than allows. Provides approval to be in a given place, at a given time. To take up space. Take? Space, that is someone’s? He digresses. It excuses, the camera: “Sorry about this”, it says, half-hearted, hardly audible.
Then what is it, he wonders, the wish to show to others the validation, approval, excuse. “Hello, see me, here is my right—sorry—excuse to exist, validated.” As if it were a passport.
Homes* are now further away than images from a summer** were when they were ages away. As in more than ten versus less than eight. Years.
Just pondering some about time and the sense of it and the lack of it.
*an actual project title, a working one at least.
**also a title but more of a collection that kind of happened, not by coincidence but almost, shortened from images from a summer some years ago.
Both awaiting, something.
Many years ago I wrote that “water, in this form, falling in slow motion, is truly fascinating“. Which is odd, when in reality I find it terrifying. Perhaps it was a momentary lapse of,.. lapse of whatever. Perhaps I hadn’t connected the dots by then. Either way, can’t water just be itself?
It’s not about water, this, it just makes it easier to think about, visualize, and not panic.
Can’t fingers be just fingers? Body be just body, the room be the space within the walls and the floor and the ceiling in which you can move and expect it to feel like movement, or does all of this sometimes have to be stuck in time like water in the form of a glacier?
Slow motion should exist only as a motion picture effect.
Many years later I wrote that “pushing you down as one foot still moves in front of the other“. I don’t know how that’s connected, how it connects, only that it does. Dots.