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"under my thumb" My birth strikes me as odd sometimes. Fantastic. The other day, I was flipping through old photo albums in the basement, the basement that my mom is now painting this yellow color. And so, yeah, flipping through photographs that are either fading to sepia, either that or all of the colors are sort of fading into a blur of late seventiesness, of Fawcett hair and little 'fros and smiles that seem unaware of anything, especially time. It's probably not a high quality fixer. Probably developed at the drug store or some place, and one day, the photos I have gotten developed at drug stores, at grocery stores, and Wal-Marts will probably also have this nostaligic color. And this is the world prior to my existence, a blur of colors, even the details aren't too fine. Is that because of the shutter speed or because of time? And might that not be the same question.
The even older pictures are square shaped, taken by some different camera, some different age. My parents look young, look like people my age. There's a photo of my dad with a beer in his hand, with a background of sun flitered green, and he is wearing a Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band shirt that looks cool, that is a shirt I would like to come across at Goodwill one day. And then there is my mom also looking outrageously happy, looking young at the beach. And music was probably playing as many of these pictures were taken, music I don't think that I would be offended by. And fucking shit, there is something wonderful and so hard to imagine about all of this. It seems so contemporary, but so distinct from the realities that my parents now occupy. And none of it seems that far away. Meaning that my distance from the photos I take of my roommates at PCP or something is not too far away, that all too soon, a gap of time is going to come that will make these photos look blurry, look dated. And that seems alternatly scary and fucking wonderful, like how the else could it be, how else could we live but this way. It is at moments like these, moments where the procession of time seems like an amazing process, so quick paced, and beautiful for that very reason, that I think, hell fucking know, that I need to have more moments in the sun-flitered green, moments like these where I want to make out with the world, with you even. |