Chrome and steel shine in the sunlight like the bright pages
of a photo album full of tender, maybe bitter memories.
I stand, the heat
passing through me, my camera to my eye, light, confused, defused, transposed,
Through the lens
I see, not what is, but what might be, some future when I am among the elders,
confused with memories that had not transpired yet.
Outside, heat
lines glisten, a baby sprawled on a lawn, I seeing these things in black and
white, all lines, all linear, horizontal, sometimes vertical.
The pattern of
this existence is beyond my ability to convey with words, I paint it all with
my camera, capturing the image of the giggling baby, and the strokes of
sunlight on the passing trains.
Then, I am inside
my camera, the heat scalding as I press myself onto the film, shaping the lines
I see like a sculptor,
Light etches
reality out of darkness, perhaps all an illusion, no baby on the lawn in
Portland, just a image of a man I think is me.
The shutter snaps
like a guillotine, slicing away reality, spreading the pieces on the ground as
if crumbs of bread for pigeons to eat,
While I think of
the elder years, the life I do not yet know I have lived, the illusion that
lets me forget the journey, capturing it all on film I might never see.
The lines that
linger, the flashes of light, we reprint, a future perfect we have yet to live.
No comments:
Post a Comment