Photographs
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 another unseasonably warm day, but it was a Shutterfly Day for me -- meaning that projects I thought would take a couple of hours took the entire day and well into the evening because the interface got slow and my arm got cramped from trying to make the files do what I wanted. But my holiday cards, calendar, and Seattle travel book are all finished and mostly ordered, with the calendars waiting till I get another coupon.
I did not get much other work done and the only cleaning I got done was reclaiming books Paul thought I had approved giving away when I had not. But we saw three deer and three bunnies on a walk, and when I turned off the TV sound for my Thursday evening Zoom call, the Dodgers came alive and beat the Astros, so that was an enjoyable baseball evening for a change. Water from the spring at Emmitsburg's Grotto of Lourdes:
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