After dinner, before the dishes were done but not before our tanks needed to be dumped, I headed out the door. To avoid the worst of this tank-dumping chore, I took a lap–a stroll around the trailer park where we live. (Words I never thought I would utter–nor would I have thought to broadcast such realities on a blog dedicated to photography.)
There was a breeze tonight. Such a rarity in the Valley of the Sun when Spring hastily retreats to make way for the push of Summer. Its thrust, though one that we brace against, nearly always makes one’s knees wobble slightly.
The sky. Brilliant star shining in the west, hanging lower than the moon–which started its race earlier today–hiding in the brilliance of the sun’s rays. The colors were not stunning. Not make a postcard, passionate, someone should propose to me now, shocking color. These colors, this dusty pink and grey sitting on top of still pure blue, were the colors one makes haphazardly. When you don’t notice the brown still in your brush as you dip and dab into baby girl pink.
True colors of my day. The battle blood still stuck to my arm as I head into work for the second day of the week. The scum of words spoken forms a crust at the corner of my mouth, while the mind is spinning and the synapse that says, “Don’t say it. Don’t go there.” lies quietly, lazily unfired. Yet there is beauty in the layers. In what you may choose to overlook. In the foundational hours.
(These pages, the posts devoid of celluloid, of color made from light, are still my photography. In my best Rauschenberg impersonation, I would say, that my writing IS photography as much as Robert’s Combines were paintings made by the one claiming to be a painter.)
There is photography in letters and words. They may be lacking celluloid and fiber, yet the image remains.