like it was something more.


I woke up at four in the morning to a dream about tornadoes, a dream about buses to Warsaw, a dream about love and a dream about heartbreak, a dream about leaving my camera on the side of my road, retracing my steps to get it and picking up pieces of my life scattered on the sidewalk like breadcrumbs. A blue hairbrush, a sunglass case, a tube of red lipstick. I couldn’t fall back asleep and finally moved to the couch around seven, watching TV with a resigned wakefulness.

Yesterday we ate lunch on the east side and stopped in a bar supply store to buy a shaker shaped like a rocket. A trip to Ikea that morning resulted in a new set of furniture for S’s living room, a wide open white space with one big, blue couch and a vase of daffodils I bought, already wilting in the heat.

The other day I saw a man come out of the grocery store with a bagful of produce. He had greens sticking out of the top, spilling over. I watched him wrestle it into his bike basket, tying everything in place with a bit of string. He started to mount the bike but stopped, his leg half in the air. He paused. He turned around to look at someone. He took a carrot out of his bag and walked it ten feet over to where a young guy sat under the shade of a short, thick tree. The bicyclist handed the guy the carrot and—laughing—the young guy took it. And then he laughed as the bicyclist walked away, and he laughed to himself when the bicyclist was gone and, still laughing, still overjoyed at this little stick of food, he took a bite. And laughing, he chewed. Like it wasn’t just a carrot, you know? Like it was something so much more.


photographs taken in Santa Monica with my poor, sick Minolta X-700.


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