Imaginarium

Don’t fear me.
I am just a thought;
Common as the wind, the sun, the stars.
Take me in and fly with me.
Through air, through water, through time

Don’t be afraid.
At best, I’ll vanish as if by some sleight of hand
At worst, I’ll consume you
I’ll cover you up in my tight embrace
And leave you; famished, insane, refreshed.
Right on the doorstep
Of new possibilities

Imprints

I like the notion of photographs on film. The days when one would buy a roll of 24 or 36 photographs, depending upon the size of your ambition and the generosity of your pocket. There was none of the cowboy attitude to photography, none of the profligacy in taking pictures, none of the devil-may-care attitude to clicking incessantly. You had to wait for the moment; prime yourself for that exact location and the exact expression that would summarize your visit to the sunset point. You couldn’t afford to blink to the flash, couldn’t afford to let the hair fly in front of your face, couldn’t afford to let passers-by intrude the sanctity of the frame. Each photograph was a precious occasion and it had to be treated honorably. There was then the charm of how many photographs would turn out good. Maybe 21, maybe 23. The day long wait would seem interminable and the suspense would be heightened when picking up the photographs from your neighborhood studio. There was poetic justice, if you had such a bent of heart. What does it mean to have an over-exposed photo? Or a blank? Should I seek metaphors in the results of clumsy technology? There is something to holding an actual print in the hand, and poring over the minutiae on it. Something to lie down on your bed and look at the face of the one you love; which for narcissists could be themselves. There is something to insert the pictures into a big album, and sit with the tome on your lap as your friends and family gather together to reminisce the old times. Yes, the old times. Unlike Dorian Gray, you get old, and the old faithful print gets old with you, torn at the edges with the colors fading away.

Notes From A Graveyard

One wonders if he chose to live his life that way. Selecting brevity over loquaciousness, precision over vagueness, certainty over ambiguity. I wonder if he knew that your life in all its glory will be summarized in a few words written over your dead body. I wonder if he had envisioned his epitaph written over his tombstone. I wonder if he thought that the elegance of the carving on that piece of rock should be matched with the elegance of a few words that would capture his essence. I wonder if he knew that long after he was gone, he would be introduced and summarized to anyone visiting him as a man of few words. I wonder if he had chosen those words: “He lived”.

Marked

She bends the edges of the day to leave it dog-eared. The act of marking a memory. She has no option but to continue the story. Written more quickly than can be read. There is no time to pause and ponder, to make the tock after the tick wait a little longer.

All she has is this book, bent in places, torn in others; that she closes tightly, lest it fall apart. On days when the story inches through the hours, with nary a tragedy or success, she revisits those pages. Bent at the edges. Left dog-eared.