By Barbara Guest
In the past we listened to photographs. They heard our voice speak.
Alive, active. What had been distance was memory. Dusk came,
Pushed us forward, emptying the laboratory each night undisturbed by
Erasure.
In the city of X, they lived together. Always morose, her lips
soothed him. The piano was arranged in the old manner, light entered the
window, street lamps at the single tree.
Emotion evoked by a single light on a subject is not transferable to
photographs of the improved city. The camera, once
commented freely amid rivering and lost gutters of treeless parks or avenue.
The old camera refused to penetrate the unknown. Its heart was soft,
unreliable.
Now distributed is photography of new government building. We are
forbidden to observe despair silent in old photographs.
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Thursday was a chore day, but, except for folding laundry, mostly fun chores. I was buying stuff in craft stores and framing photos and hanging things and in my spare time I was working on a Seattle trip Shutterfly book since they kindly had a freebie coupon ("YIPPEE" if you need it).
We watched the end of Long Strange Trip, which was sad. There were bunnies eating the grass outside and cats fighting over cardboard boxes and purse straps inside and really that's all the news, besides the Orioles losing to Cleveland again and the NBA draft happening but I didn't pay attention.
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