Monday, January 29, 2007
The Naked Truth
(10/21/06)
I focused the lens on the speckles in his eyes. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he didn't. He cracked jokes, now and then, to ease the tension, and we laughed our asses off. He was always good at that.
I tried not to show it as I stood there, hiding behind my camera on the street, but I was naked. My stupid t-shirt, my long, curly pigtails, my brown pullover, my bangs hanging in my face, my jeans, my socks and my Spider-man shoelaces all disintegrated into his stare.
As the photographer, I thought I would be the one seeing. His eyes reflected my mistake.
I wish I could claim ignorance as to why Chris agreed to pose for my portrait project, more than two months after we last spoke.
I wish I could shrug my shoulders as to why I wanted to photograph him in the first place, telling myself and everyone else I just wanted to.
I can't lie. I've never been good at it; or maybe I have. Maybe it's just the opposite: I'm too good at it. I'm such a good liar I believe my own lies. I guess you could say I'm a "real phoney." A Holly Golightly. An honest liar. A fan of chronosynclastic infundibulum.
I tried to be honest, but I lied. I didn't just lie, I photographed the lie:
The lie that I'm over him.
The lie that things are hurting less.
The lie that I could look at him and foolishly think I wouldn't feel anything.
The lie that his heart wouldn't pound faster as I hugged him goodbye in the same way it did a year-and-a-half ago after coffee, before I ever knew how head over heels I'd be -- in just a little while.
I lied to myself when I told him I wanted to be friends, and that I missed him, but not That Way, but I just Did, and he agreed.
That's what human beings do -- fucking liars!
Cameras tell the truth, and my camera captured a story on film that's gonna break my darkroom heart, one print at a time, and each photo on the wall Wednesday is going to expose a secret, and I'll be there, naked on the street -- powerless -- all over again.
(10/21/06)
I focused the lens on the speckles in his eyes. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he didn't. He cracked jokes, now and then, to ease the tension, and we laughed our asses off. He was always good at that.
I tried not to show it as I stood there, hiding behind my camera on the street, but I was naked. My stupid t-shirt, my long, curly pigtails, my brown pullover, my bangs hanging in my face, my jeans, my socks and my Spider-man shoelaces all disintegrated into his stare.
As the photographer, I thought I would be the one seeing. His eyes reflected my mistake.
I wish I could claim ignorance as to why Chris agreed to pose for my portrait project, more than two months after we last spoke.
I wish I could shrug my shoulders as to why I wanted to photograph him in the first place, telling myself and everyone else I just wanted to.
I can't lie. I've never been good at it; or maybe I have. Maybe it's just the opposite: I'm too good at it. I'm such a good liar I believe my own lies. I guess you could say I'm a "real phoney." A Holly Golightly. An honest liar. A fan of chronosynclastic infundibulum.
I tried to be honest, but I lied. I didn't just lie, I photographed the lie:
The lie that I'm over him.
The lie that things are hurting less.
The lie that I could look at him and foolishly think I wouldn't feel anything.
The lie that his heart wouldn't pound faster as I hugged him goodbye in the same way it did a year-and-a-half ago after coffee, before I ever knew how head over heels I'd be -- in just a little while.
I lied to myself when I told him I wanted to be friends, and that I missed him, but not That Way, but I just Did, and he agreed.
That's what human beings do -- fucking liars!
Cameras tell the truth, and my camera captured a story on film that's gonna break my darkroom heart, one print at a time, and each photo on the wall Wednesday is going to expose a secret, and I'll be there, naked on the street -- powerless -- all over again.
Labels: Breaking Up, Photography
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Hindsight
Man, I have the answers for everything. The problem is, they always come way too late for using. And as for my brain, I think it's slower than the rest of me. That's not to say I'm retarded, although, I'm far from a genius. I used to be book smart, or so I thought, but now I'm not even that.
And if you ask me what is going on in the world, I don't know.
And if you ask me about the endings of Skinny Legs and All, or Fever Pitch, or Wuthering Heights, or On the Road, I wouldn't know that either. All these books have in common is that I never finished them, although I could converse as though I did standing by a keg at some party, if it weren't for the fact I can't remember the last time I went to a party.
My thoughts don't even comfort me right now. Neither does my music. Photography actually was nice this weekend -- spending time in the lab -- rather than frustrating. But it's going to end soon. It's too time-consuming and expensive. I can't keep up. My final portfolio cost $300 in supplies, and who knows how much time ...
And so what if I complain? On a fucking blog? I can't afford therapy, I'm afraid of not having anything to say to my friends other than what's obvious, and the best things that happened to me in so long are gone.
What's love but an ending thing? The only love I know that isn't is love for and from my family. But love ends. Only in my case, not love, but relationships. They all do -- friendships and otherwise.
I could beat myself up for that like I do over everything else, but what's the point? I'm a martyr for no one but myself. Die for myself with thoughts over and over just to be a-fucking-live.
I was just learning to dream again, and now I'm questioning why I ever did. It only complicates things. It only makes the pain stronger upon failure. All the would-bes and could've beens. Enough to swim in.
No more I will or won't or want, no. Now it's more like, why?
A roundabout way of saying what I have been I guess, without saying it at all. Because the few people who read this are too many for that, I suppose.
I'm sorry.
Oh, yeah, and I fucking hate hindsight. Fuck. I told my sister today I wish I could be a fish, at least for a moment, with like a three-second memory. You gotta worry about fishing lines, but at least you don't have to worry about regret. Or wisdom or lack thereof. 'Cause whatever it is, three seconds later, I'd be a new woman.
Or something.
Man, I have the answers for everything. The problem is, they always come way too late for using. And as for my brain, I think it's slower than the rest of me. That's not to say I'm retarded, although, I'm far from a genius. I used to be book smart, or so I thought, but now I'm not even that.
And if you ask me what is going on in the world, I don't know.
And if you ask me about the endings of Skinny Legs and All, or Fever Pitch, or Wuthering Heights, or On the Road, I wouldn't know that either. All these books have in common is that I never finished them, although I could converse as though I did standing by a keg at some party, if it weren't for the fact I can't remember the last time I went to a party.
My thoughts don't even comfort me right now. Neither does my music. Photography actually was nice this weekend -- spending time in the lab -- rather than frustrating. But it's going to end soon. It's too time-consuming and expensive. I can't keep up. My final portfolio cost $300 in supplies, and who knows how much time ...
And so what if I complain? On a fucking blog? I can't afford therapy, I'm afraid of not having anything to say to my friends other than what's obvious, and the best things that happened to me in so long are gone.
What's love but an ending thing? The only love I know that isn't is love for and from my family. But love ends. Only in my case, not love, but relationships. They all do -- friendships and otherwise.
I could beat myself up for that like I do over everything else, but what's the point? I'm a martyr for no one but myself. Die for myself with thoughts over and over just to be a-fucking-live.
I was just learning to dream again, and now I'm questioning why I ever did. It only complicates things. It only makes the pain stronger upon failure. All the would-bes and could've beens. Enough to swim in.
No more I will or won't or want, no. Now it's more like, why?
A roundabout way of saying what I have been I guess, without saying it at all. Because the few people who read this are too many for that, I suppose.
I'm sorry.
Oh, yeah, and I fucking hate hindsight. Fuck. I told my sister today I wish I could be a fish, at least for a moment, with like a three-second memory. You gotta worry about fishing lines, but at least you don't have to worry about regret. Or wisdom or lack thereof. 'Cause whatever it is, three seconds later, I'd be a new woman.
Or something.
Labels: Books, Depression, Friendship, Love, Photography
Monday, September 25, 2006
Eight MILLION ways to fuck your film sideways
1. When loading the reels, Fuck up a lot. You can do this by not being able to tell which way the grooves move in a circle. It's pitch black, so it's not hard. Especially if you can't feel anything with your fingertips through your guitar callouses.
2. Load your film on the reel the wrong way. Have to unroll and start over 2,000 times.
3. Cut the fuck out of your thumb either with scissors while breaking open the film in the dark, or oddly somehow cut it with the actual negative like a paper cut times one million.
4. Feel your bloody thumb hurt as you still struggle with your negatives, in the dark.
5. Practically give up. Start over again. Then manhandle your negatives. "That's right, bitch!"
6. Go to process. When you dump the developer out, expose your film to the light because your fuckwit ass forgot to load the funnel on and screw it tightly until it clicked to signify, you know, being locked.
7. Fix film. Hopefully not underfixing it. Worry about the light exposure. Nurse your sore thumb in between agitating the developer container every thirty seconds.
8. Go to the wash. Start water for wash not realizing the hose isn't connected. Soak your shirt.
9. Smoke cigarette and bitch to yourself -- or your roommate via text messaging -- while film washes.
10. Put film in photo flo. Watch as the negatives go apeshit in the container since they are not completely on the reel.
11. Unload film from reels and hang to dry, noticing the many pictures you remember taking that are not there, including the one of the burnt down row house you really couldn't wait to see in black and white ....
ARRRRRRRRRR!
K. I'm calming down. Geology test in three hours. I can do this. Then crappy opinion writing class ... then off to art building to pick up dry negatives and get back to the car just in time for rush hour ...
I fucking hate Mondays.
1. When loading the reels, Fuck up a lot. You can do this by not being able to tell which way the grooves move in a circle. It's pitch black, so it's not hard. Especially if you can't feel anything with your fingertips through your guitar callouses.
2. Load your film on the reel the wrong way. Have to unroll and start over 2,000 times.
3. Cut the fuck out of your thumb either with scissors while breaking open the film in the dark, or oddly somehow cut it with the actual negative like a paper cut times one million.
4. Feel your bloody thumb hurt as you still struggle with your negatives, in the dark.
5. Practically give up. Start over again. Then manhandle your negatives. "That's right, bitch!"
6. Go to process. When you dump the developer out, expose your film to the light because your fuckwit ass forgot to load the funnel on and screw it tightly until it clicked to signify, you know, being locked.
7. Fix film. Hopefully not underfixing it. Worry about the light exposure. Nurse your sore thumb in between agitating the developer container every thirty seconds.
8. Go to the wash. Start water for wash not realizing the hose isn't connected. Soak your shirt.
9. Smoke cigarette and bitch to yourself -- or your roommate via text messaging -- while film washes.
10. Put film in photo flo. Watch as the negatives go apeshit in the container since they are not completely on the reel.
11. Unload film from reels and hang to dry, noticing the many pictures you remember taking that are not there, including the one of the burnt down row house you really couldn't wait to see in black and white ....
ARRRRRRRRRR!
K. I'm calming down. Geology test in three hours. I can do this. Then crappy opinion writing class ... then off to art building to pick up dry negatives and get back to the car just in time for rush hour ...
I fucking hate Mondays.
Labels: Photography
