Friday November 23, 2007
I found some old photos in an album today and spent some time going oooh and aaah as I leafed through them. It’s a mixed pleasure-pain thing to do, remembering, sometimes regretting. I doubt anyone is unfamiliar with the feeling.
This one was taken in 1978, when I was recuperating from a nasty virus infection that’d made almost all the weight fall from my bones. I think I’ve felt tired ever since. Certainly I’ve been piling on the weight ever since.
A very thin poet
There’s something particularly cruel about old, faded polaroids. If you take a huge pile of them and arrange them in a pleasing pattern then they can make a work of art. In isolation, one by one, they speak in tinfoil voices.
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