“Self-Reflection” alt. “Pronouns are Difficult Decisions”
People are motion. When photographed, they are no longer themselves. They are a Pygmalion of the camera. It is the photographer’s job to rebuild them, so that the photo might mirror a fraction of their unsettled selves.
Sometime's I write things and don't know what to do with them
He always double-tied his shoes, like my mother used to do for my brothers. It was precautionary, like seatbelts or bubble wrap. But he was always more like my brothers than a nervous mother. I guess he was like them in as many ways as any man is to the little boy he once was.
He was the first to laugh at his jokes. The beginning of it would gurgle out of him before the line would finish. The dangling punchline drove some people mad, but it never mattered to him. Most of them laughed anyway. Those who didn’t, he’d say, “are more interested in the joke than the man telling it. When the conversation lags, they leave you in search of other entertainment. Who wants to be a showman during a dinner party?”
But he always did turn into the showman, the jester, the witty fool, a conjurer of conversation and crowds. He belonged amidst a group, a quintet, a trio- never a pair. But I had only seen him as the showman. I hadn’t learned that he wasn’t, couldn’t, be mine, or anyone else’s for that matter. But I was too greedy. I was too naïve. I was too lonely.