There is so little time to walk around in the light. So little time to take in the view, to dwell on the detail. Each ship waiting for it’s turn, for it’s tug from Marmara to Aegean. And details mean so much to me now. Fragments of the past that still remain intact. Memory upgrades. Down a back street in a shop filled with ephemera, medals and memorabilia, metal and memories, I find a box of postcards and photographs from other peoples’ lives. And it’s like they are my own. The past is so interesting to me now that my future is not all possibility. Like it is when you are very young and everything is open. Everything is to look forward to, nothing is impossible. There is a photograph, in black and white, of a sunny scene, bleached out, from 1971, when I was here somewhere, when that person took that shot, bleached out, of a sunny scene with no people, just the shadow of a boy, the smudge of a boy, running in or out of frame, forever frozen, forever lost. I could have taken that picture or been just out of shot. I could have even been the boy smudge, running, too fast to be captured on a too bright sunny day. But I wasn’t. But it wouldn’t matter if I was. Because now it is gone.
And Dear Dear, And Dear Dear, |
