there seems to be a central idea to what rolls along

It would be nice not to work, sometimes flows on and through. But through it goes.
One: I spend money
Two: I love the grill.

Face it.

Just like the discordant melody I love to be pounded out over and over again. Beating into rhythm and whim. Nuance.

Next step is that. Step. Step out of the box. Out of the box and into life.
A dance. In and out, test and taste. Spit it out again, one two three.

You know I've forgotten a lot of my childhood. Haven't we all. I mean though, in a reaction to the pain in my head, it's all gone. I don't remember it. I can't feel it. Vague recollections like a third party observer. A moment at a time. Sunday evenings with a glance at a warm corner as I head into the cold bathroom. So familiar. Did the sickness create part of the box?
One thing I know is a bathroom floor. The cold, the ever soft tufted rug. The antiseptic smell of the toilet bowl. One bathroom to the next. Downstairs, upstairs, school gym. I can't cry over physical pain. I have twice in the last ten years. Both of them had to do with surgery.
It's all just moments. Moments from a small corner of my brain that wasn't being wracked and stretched and twisted and tightened and pounded and everydayed. Migrained.

So you don't remember these things but somehow it wove into something else and then into you. Some of the trailings leaved into good things. Somethings dripped into bad. It doesn't ever end. Or begin. The answer begins and ends in a question. To define? How? It isn't done.

But I enjoy the searching. Searching me, searching history, paths, life, your life, his.

At times I've experimented. With good and bad, boundaries, skies, plains, mountains, berries, accents, tomb stones. To feel what I can. What is it all? Where does it stand? Which side of the line that lies where? But mainly I am compelled by the aged child of ninety and nine sitting in a restaurant booth all by themselves.

I can't leave it alone.


Today I told the film-quoting dishwasher he was creating a traffic jam. He told me he was a door. I asked if we could lock him up.

I'll patiently sit here with my camera unfolded on the world. Sitting, holding the shot.