Friday, September 08, 2006


It's truly amazing what a picture can do to you. It's called a still life because as long as you look at that photo, that part of your life will stay still. Sometimes, you wish it would have stayed still, sometimes you wish you could have still stayed and sometimes life stands still just looking at it. Those two words should realistically never be used in tandem considering how oxymoronic they are (life never stands still) but when it comes to a photograph there are no other words that could best accurately describe it.

I've been stuck in a certain mindset lately that makes me wonder if my current mood is an insidious depression, need for change, need for inspiration or just my inability to get to the point. It's basically a lethargic hunt for a slow leak in my being's tire. I spend most of my time on this blogpage reminiscing about the "good old days" and "the not really good old days" and the " what in the fuck's sake was that? days" that when something surprisingly pops up that really brings me back there I actually find myself having to sit down and feel the weight of my own ancient history weighing on me.

There's a line in Raiders Of The Lost Ark that I can fully relate to; where Indiana Jones in his Kasdan-esque wisdom declares that "It's not the years, it's the mileage." Right now, I have to chuckle wondering what my mental odometer is reading at this moment. My mind's eye has been a camera that has taken movies and snapshots of its own with and without my knowledge. Those memories come back through deja vu or dreams; in a scent or in a quiet sudden tear welling sentimentally.

The past distracts from the now, but they also reflect each other.

I'm desperately trying not to make this a piece on aging and nostalgic reflection, It's mainly a letter to myself to remind me that none of us have the superhuman forsight to know what our future(s) will be. Is a divorce something that was predestined before the wedding even started ( sometimes I have to think...yeah)? Or is there a cancer eating at you before you smoked that first cigarette? Are the bad (and worse) decisions I've made over these years the result of some sort of fucked up subconcious, deliberate, self-imposed undermining or from something bigger that wants to mix shit up? Or... am I a moron that's been in training for 30 odd years? The persistence of time is legendary, the weight of it is in direct proportion to the way you spent it.

I post my musings on this page to tell stories. Today I was surprised by an old photo I took that told me a story in itself. I was brought back to a moment in time where I saw my life right in front of me as clear as glass and as brilliant as a diamond. Where just remembering the possibilities of where my life was heading to is powerful enough to almost bring out that fucking tear.

That moment is a poem in itself and knowing that the hope that looked out through my camera's lens to the wonder in front of me was later diffused and shut down crushes me breathless. There was no hindsight then to the thought that I would be a corner shy of 33 writing these words. I don't want to know the future, the past is scary enough.

In short, the picture is beautiful. Surprising, amazing, sad, sentimental and wonderful. Exactly as that moment in time unearthed from the pages of God's photo book.