Neil Marcus and Stephen Lichty at ODC

Zooming past the flower beds at the hospital the other day, I reminded myself that the colors in flowers can keep rushing at me if I let them. 

I am ashamed when I just take photos and do not write. Because I chose an identity and think I need to stick with it. Because I did not study photography, but paid money to call myself a writer.  These are weird reasons about how I think I have to commit to time spent, as if it were currency. And also, false notions about what earns us what.

(I imagine people who read this blog and do not know me think that i have very poor writing skills, that I do not know how to use grammar. I think about whether this is a way of performing idiosyncrasy and disability. This is probably a problem as future emploers for places where I might be just a regular receptionist may find this blog to be a dela breaker. Perhaps I should delete the link from my signature line.)

Photos are so close to moving and singing, it’s the sensate trace, a confluence of felt/heard. To be on the ground like Neil and Stephen in these pictures. And lifting. And holding.  Language is my second language, get out of syntax and into the body. Julio, the midwife, told me his mother lost the vision in her left eye when she was a girl in Chile, but did not realize it until she was an adult. Carrying absence on the left side of my head is a good reminder, but I want no further, I want every reminder of how to be in contact with others. I take photos because I might not always be able to see things, words can come later.