Prodigal Son Is Dead

In time.

Things either right themselves.

Or fall completely off the spool.

Like this frame.

Funny.

How much I enjoy the imperfection.

Of photography.

—————

This daily crucible.

Is becoming less forgiving.

For.

So many.

—————

This must be a function of my age.

Or.

Our Age.

Because my (shortening) memory.

Tells me.

The wind was once.

Perfect.

Steady.

And.

At our backs.

—————

This legacy we’ve been left.

Feels dead.

And today.

I concede.

My only choice.

Live.

Off the spool.

And struggle for.

Imperfection.
————-

Kill the weekend my friends.

Everyone has one thing.

They do better than most.

And that realization

In a fleeing moment.

Can bring more joy.

Than.

All others.

Before.

Or.

After.
————–

I am in the continuous process.

Of prodding my own.

Abilities.

Constantly asking.

Am I good enough.

Am I better.

Than I remember.
—————–

And I have my moments.

Although they seem.

To arise.

With greater infrequency.

When I see.

My own.

Good.
————-

And I think to myself.

(Free from the prison of my own ego)

That.

I may just be better.

Than I was.
—————–

I am sure.

I have only improved.

(in any measurable meaning of that word)

When.

I am not alone.

Surrounded.

By those.

Who are truly better than most.

Many of whom.

Find themselves in my photos.

(Future and Past)

—————
Kill the weekend.

Always waiting.

Fixated and dazed.

Staring at the clock.

But it won’t look back.

And.

(I fear.)

It never will.

————-

Patience is a drug.

I’ve been taking.

Since I was a child.

The adult me.

Wants nothing more.

Than to break this addiction.

————–

Will I be.

Dope.

Sick.

My frustration only amplifies the symptoms.

So I look.

Out There.

Because.

Maybe.

There.

Time doesn’t drag.

And ‘patience’.

Is a word that has no meaning.

————–

It is my dream.

To find such a place.

But a dream.

I’m afraid.

Is all it will be.

————

In weakness.

I cannot shake the effects.

Of this opiate.

It.

Is all I have ever known.

So I stay.

Frozen.

Looking.

And.

Patient.

———–

Kill the weekend. All of you.

My dear friends.

G

I am confronted.

By loss.

It feels so permanent.

Today.

If someone could tell me.

Why that is so.

That.

Loss comes with permanence.

And.

Gain.

Well, that always comes.

(seemingly)

With a price.

That few of us.

Ever.

Really want.

(Or can)

Pay.

—————
And.

Even worse.

Is.

The frustration.

I feel.

When i can no longer.

Rely.

On my intellect.

To reason.

Myself.

Beyond.

The hurt.
————–

Its like my grandfather told me.

And only recently.

Feels more true.

Than ever before.

Time doesn’t heal.

But it gives distance.

And with distance.

Perspective.

And like life.

Photography continues to remind me.

That moments are fleeting.

And meaning.

Comes almost entirely.

From.

Perspective.

————–

Kill the weekend.

All of you.

G

Keep moving.

Never slow down.

Try to keep pace.

Heaven help you.

If you can’t.

If we can’t.

————–

What if everyone decided to stop.

To no longer.

Keep pace.

To race?

Would everyone.

Keep their word.

And for one day.

Act as if.

It has been enough.

————-

That would require.

Faith.

A personality trait.

Desperately deficient.

(I fear)

Hopelessly gone

From inside.

Me.

And i would suspect.

You.

————-

So together.

I’ll take comfort.

As we continue to race.

And with every step.

Shed the last remaining chains.

Of faith.

In each other.

And believe.

We are free.

————

Kill the weekend all of you.

My friends.

I get asked once in a while:

Why photography?

Honestly.

My answer.

I don’t know.

(Working on it.)

—————–

I do think about it a lot.

The construction of a moment.

Seems to.

Always transcend.

The destructive march of time.

Or.

To slice something thin.

Can reveal more about its nature.

Than.

Taking it as whole.

—————

I take a lot away.

(More than I ever admit)

From.

Each of these moments.

Even though.

They have an uncanny way.

Of leaving.

More quickly.

Than they came.

————–

So another year is upon me.

(Us)

I’ll be honest.

I’m glad its here.

More chances to.

Construct.

Slice it thin.

Think.

And.

Most importantly.

Kill the weekend.

Wow.

Almost another year.

I made it.

We made it.

In many ways. It has forced me to realize.

How small we are.

Individually.

Collectively.

————–

This journey.

(This risk.)

I continue to take.

Forces me to.

Expose the weakness’ of my own Self.

To forget the victories.

And (forgive) the losses.

————-

Lately.

It feels closer.

This battle for relevance.

Or.

Remembrance.

————

Next year.

I dream.

The light will fall easier.

The frames will demand.

I recognize them.

And the shutter will trip itself.

Automatic.

And I will be along for the ride.

It sounds so nice.

(Doesn’t it?)

————-

Yet.

My own personal fight against obscurity.

Is just that.

A fight.

And next year.

(And years after)

A fight it will be.

And when I pause.

I will realize.

I’d have it no other way.

—————

Kill the weekend.

All of you.

I always come back to Kafka.

Reading his diaries.

This must be the 5th time.

‘The terrible uncertainty of our inner existence.’

Yes.

He was right.

Always right.

————-

But this time.

It isn’t the uncertainty.

I find terrible.

More. So.

Its the certainty.

The predictable nature.

Of my personality.

Oh. So. Boring.

Nothing is more terrifying.

—————-

Yet.

It is my tendency.

Our tendency.

To fight against uncertainty.

To practice.

The Predictable.

To struggle.

And struggle.

Life.

Always.

On Repeat.

—————

It is now time.

Long overdue.

For me to embrace the uncertainty.

‘Of my inner existence.’

And.

(With camera in hand.)

See where it leads.

Kill the weekend.

Every time.

G

There is something oddly satisfying.

With the process.

Of finding beauty.

Where others don’t.

Or.

Can’t.

———–

I’ve always been singularly interested.

In this endeavor.

This search.

I know there are others.

Out there.

With me.

Searching.

————-

I used to think.

If we could just find one another.

We could help each other.

Now.

I’m not so convinced.

————

Unlike so many things in life.

This journey.

This search.

Feels like.

It’s.

Best taken.

Alone.

————-

Kill the weekend. All of you. Friends on this journey.

G

Its different for all of us.

What breaks it up.

Causes us to pause.

More often than not.

It comes.

From.

Memory.

————–

To recall that one thing.

To disrupt my open-eyed slumber.

On command.

Is something I wish i did better.

At least with greater efficiency.

—————

But when I do.

It is so humbling.

Because it reminds me.

To be human.

And sometimes.

Lately.

I feel a little less human.

And more.

Metal. Glass. And Light.

—————

So in this long awkward silence.

We call life.

I engage in an ongoing conversation.

That once in a while.

Is punctuated with accents.

Of joy.

Of beauty.

Of terror.

And then I’m reminded.

Kill the weekend. Everyone.

G