the photographer

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.

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.

She would hover if she could. To not have to be anchored to this ground. Standing on her toes is the insufficient remedy.

Do you remember when you went to bed early before you forgot what you used to do at nights before you started going to bed early?

Before you forgot what used to be before you started going to bed early?

Does it work by the way, going to bed early, did it work, ever? Did I just ruin it?

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.

“Good, thanks. And you?” is her response. These four words. Always.

He doesn’t even like spruces. What’s that? He puts a lot of of effort into not liking spruces instead of concentrating on the ones that do attract him like pine, especially the crooked ones, and cedar, he really loves cedar. Pine smells so good. Red cedar. He never saw a cedar though, not properly. Not the tree, only the wood. It’s beautiful, the wood, he remembers. Remembers. The colour variations were both subtle and abrupt, beautiful colour variations. Remembers. There were others, also, their presence, their presence variations were both subtle and abrupt, beautiful vari,.. no. Yes. Perhaps they don’t grow around him, cedars. Perhaps he didn’t look closely, or didn’t know what to look for. Indifferent. Never bothered to, never risked looking.