Look closely enough at something
It disappears
In its place, formless
A void of what was
What might have been
Look closely enough at something
Stay blind
To the beautiful forms
All around
Step back and look
Listen and see
Be surprised by all that is
Present
Amazing accidents in Life to be found
The fragrance of you
In my mind inescapable.
The wind carries you to me,
Lavenders in the breeze.
In an instant transported
Back against your chest
Arms wrapped around
The last time I truly felt
Contentment in who I am.
Left alone, no more lavender,
The dark doubts creep in
Whispering their words once more
You should not be.
But I am.
And I will continue to be
Because one day, once again,
The wind will bring you
Back to me.
There are some people, when passed on the street, for whom a single glance seems to be an insult; the photograph then becomes a superinsult, the ultimate insult.
This would define the stature, the physique (and the myth) of the street photographer, the reporter: a bruiser, a brute, someone who can stand up to the insult hurled back at him, heavy and awkward, blind, desensitized.
– Hervé Guibert, Ghost Image
It is said that the purpose of a family photograph is to preserve memory, but it creates images that take the place of memory, conceal it, and are a kind of respectable history, unnuanced and interchangeable, passed from one family to the next with the vague hope of leaving a trace for future generations. Not a literary history, but a superficial history.
– Hervé Guibert
I came across this quote in a book I was reading recently.
As some psychiatrist once put it, we all build castles in the air. The problems come when we try to live in them.
Neil Postman
While I don’t agree with many of his sentiments in Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, I can still appreciate the quote.
When I was a child, I never thought I’d reach twenty-five,
I’d just never felt all that alive.
When I reached the age I’d never thought so,
I will admit for a while – it was touch and go.
Now that age I’ve moved beyond,
To life I’ve grown attached, grown fond.
But sometimes in the deep dark of night,
It can be hard to see the light.
The child once more takes hold,
And I feel like I’ll never know what it’s like to be old.
To be sure, I must admit I don’t want to die,
But, my old self, I’ve never seen in my mind’s eye.
akervand 