Siddity in the City

I’ve always been pretty bad about taking pictures.

I feel ridiculous in them. (This post is so close to my truth that I did that snortle-sob thing you do when a dagger-stab of recognition takes you unawares on the train during rush hour.) I used to own a Pentax K-1000, the beginner’s tool back in the day. Bought it secondhand at a pawnshop, with a 1970’s-era paisley velvet strap that absolutely reeked of chain-smoking and failed dreams. Or maybe amateur porn. Anyway. In high school, I took a class. I was really good at architectural shots.

Travel, friendships, milestones. I’m the one hovering on the edge of the snaps, or better, behind the camera. I used to tell myself that I would just remember all the important things, that I could keep them just as well in my mind’s eye.

Maybe it’s age and the fear of memory loss, or finally feeling like I have something to chronicle, or the hope that setting things down in tangible, visible form will lock them down In Real Life, but I suddenly want to document everything.

I keep trying to come back to blogging, but I just haven’t really felt it. Maybe that urge will come back; maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll turn to photos.

I have a few now, tucked into books, edging mirrors, pressed in frames. I’m surprised by how much they please me. But toting a camera around to steal “moments” feels vain. Somehow, the explosion of self-scrutiny online made me more self conscious of it rather than less. But there are things I wish to keep and share and review.

Hum. And still, no me here.