got a dark corner at the massive beer hall, which is way more crowded than i expected.
i had a dream about this place last night. dreamed i was in a multi–level beer hall/hotel/dormitory. that’s about all i can remember now, which is too bad, because it was an unusual and expansive dreamscape.
today was a long and hungry wander around Queens, mostly areas I already know but with new things found. i feel so fearless compared to times of yore, when taking a picture felt like a crime. holding the camera up to my face (it’s film, after all) was like a scarlet letter, or the mark of the tourist. these days i’m all about that line of sight and composition window. i might even go yard on the top of the line Sony Alpha DSLRs which have no Liveview. i just worry about the noise on those 20-something megapixel models (almost said megapickle).
i thought about K today. my camera i used today used to be hers. her lenses are now mine. what would she think? i think she’d be happy. we had a mutual respect for each other, though she never knew me as a photographer at all. i think she would like some things i’ve done, some of the images thieved from reality. i don’t always understand how she did what she did using the exact same gear i use now, but her style was different, and she had darkroom technique i can only envy.
i thought today of a comment someone once made to me. it was a comment in the form of a question. she wanted to know if my images were adjusted, or manipulated in Photoshop. i don’t remember what I said at the time, but in substance it should have been to say that there is nothing sacred about what comes out of the camera, or what goes into it. her wordless presumption seemed to be that i was a hack or a cheater if i did anything with an image after copying it from the camera.
that is kind of like saying a bowl of lettuce is the perfect salad. it’s like saying a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup is a perfect creation, not to be defiled by anything but what the instructions allow.
the image reported to film or to memory card is a part of the process, seldom born fully formed and perfect. there is too much randomness available into which to dip the image.
i used to tremble a little when i held K’s camera. as time and familiarity have passed i handle the instrument as ruggedly as anything. i was the same way with the cemeteries. for what seemed like years i circled the grounds of Calvary, filled with anxiety such that passing through the gates seemed like entering the abyss. it was the lapsed Catholic in me, among other things, but it was also symptomatic of my character-wide scaredycattedness. new situations and rituals scare me. sex for the first time with a woman scares me, until comfort and even a bit of routine can be reached. conversations with strangers. sex with strangers. everything with strangers makes me scaredycat at first.
i was thinking, too, of the physical world and how the Triborough Bridge in particular evokes such complicated sensations. The sight of it reminds me of my mother, with her square shoulders and straight gait. the walkway is where the conflicts really arise. some days i can march that path like a conqueror, oblivious to the nakedness of the sheer drop into the East River, the drop barricaded only by a low metal railing over which I cast my stern gaze. other days that same space makes me feel like gravity does not exist. i feel i might rise and twirl and blow away, helplessly flailing like a tapeworm into the sky and over the hills and far far away. the perilousness of that walkway sometimes screams at me, demanding attention.
my gut is filled with bitter candy, my senses fume with rancid sweet.
haha’
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