today, the chatter of city around me, buses and car horns, tourist and locals, blurred together, like chaos and clutter, reminding me of why young me lived mostly in my head. turning the tops of lotion bottles and hair spray cans into little people, and the entire downstairs bathroom into their nation, i was fascinated by things. worn and used things touched by human hands. created stories and identities from the energy left behind by those hands.
walking under a wooden tarp from one of the city's infinite building projects, my mother and daughter casually ahead of me, i blocked out all of the clutter and stared up at the light hanging down from the ceiling. rusty and creaking, almost speaking, swinging awkwardly from stray wind. i imagined the life attached, of the man in tattered hat, and gray dickies, straddling steel ladder to string it. the laid-back loner, who brought his lunch, and never joined in on cat calls, but enjoyed the banter of his co-contractors just the same.
midday, and the sun shining everywhere but under this tarp and i turned off my flash, removed the lens hood, just to get the darkest, brightest shot of my loner's memory. and no sooner then i take my picture, his image fades, and the volume of life turns way back up.
my stills are like creative earplugs. sometimes i need to shut things all the way out just to be able to hear anything at all...