caught myself madly snapping photos out of a taxi window the other day, as I sped down Market Street. same old dirty trajectory down lower Market, the small routes I always shuttle between, to and from places I go for work and service. but understood something so clearly (as in, this brief season of precise and detailed light) for a second, my finger on the shutter. that the only reason i write is because it somehow connects me to freedom of movment and all the times i cease to write, are, because, i have not yet learned how to make it compare, viscerally, to that dream of movement.
and taking photos is not, for me, about capturing motion, but getting real close to it. so, almost, begin in it the way i wish to be. in that haptic instant. quietly, by myself, and with a stranger (taxi driver). (far better than fleet week grinding down the horizon--a sound which just reminds me of doom.)
the actual sentences and pictures yielded by this ephemeral practice are somewhat incidental, but, if in temp giusto, full of moving.
