time was the pho­tographs were my prob­lem. the tak­ing fine: see­ing the thing, cam­era eye framed and squeez­ing the shut­ter blind a moment and past reflected light impact­ing sil­ver. it was all that came after — slips of paper, bro­mides clumped and crum­pled in gelatin — evi­dence float­ing the gap between what i wanted and the pith i got. tak­ing pic­tures wasn’t my prob­lem, it was the con­duct of the prod­uct that tipped my hand; i pre­ferred it latent.

if fail­ure is inevitable with devel­op­ment, then a cal­cu­lated cul­ti­va­tion of sus­pen­sion i’d make my intent. it’s not uncom­mon to scrab­ble notes about expo­sure set­tings or light con­di­tions for future ref­er­ence and i thought to do the same; nar­rate the act, describe the con­di­tions of the transaction:

jess, kate and black­berry bushes we found after pick­ing full hat full, fore­arms thorn scratched, fin­gers blue black. will bake pie if not sun tired.

last shot of grandma before leav­ing the hos­pi­tal. doesn’t have much nice to say.

trail along the outer rim. cool air, mon­soon clouds form­ing north.

kitty bird and her boyfriend [?] in the back of dale’s truck.

those plas­tic smok­ing chairs out around behind work.

etc., etc.

at the end of a roll i’d fold up the litany, rub­ber band it to the can­is­ter, and toss it in a box with all the oth­ers. i’d make pho­tog­ra­phy all a motion: end­less and deferred, eter­nally inferred. just like how i remem­bered. make the pic­tures, not matter.