Turning faded pages, looking hard at the past. Photos turned yellow decades ago. The once glossy, crisp print faded over time. It was never a linear series of events. The corners of photos curling and cracked. Every page reveals the dust of the past. Dusty portfolios overexposures shady fragments of dim occurrences. Regret looks hard in the shadows. Jubilant and smiling in the sunshine. Bits and pieces, a likeness that could be yours. Who are the people in these pictures? Long-dead relatives, a few old friends. Complete strangers?
Names of some odd acquaintances stuck on the tip of the tongue. Spit it out. So many unknowns populate fragile pages, proof sheets, and forgotten scenes in a darkroom developer. Proof of existence. A red bulb casts eerie light. That occurred long ago in someone else’s memory. Remember when to recall exactly where, and what went with who again? Who is that young man? That’s not me. That was you glued and taped into a scrapbook of loneliness. Those people at yesterday's party—some still around, some dead. No apologies for the loss.
The fuzzy mess of people, places, and events that never existed blur out of focus flashbacks and unwanted overexposures in non-events. The time and place remain unclear. Momentous occasions recalled lost years. Life is an old camera flash bulb, taking shots of short subjects. Reading cartoons about the leading role of a live reality television show. This begins with who you think you are and ends with whom you once were. A minor character in this season's episodic farce. Here’s your chance. Real-life dramas that seem so final and tragic acting like discovering comedic gold. Did I really do that as a kid, blowing out the candles on someone else’s birthday cake? Here are the pictures of my life in little bits and pieces of hastily-framed experience.
Oh, to be young again. I can’t watch and wait anymore. It’s so painful to
witness. Going against the waves of imaginary rising tides. I still remember my old rotary phone number. Clifton 4–7458. The same childhood exchange. A clunky black plastic device with an ear speaker at one end and a mouthpiece at the other. It’s one through nine and the alphabet has numbers and letters printed on the round finger-holes dial. Who’s the disembodied voice on the party line of yesteryear’s special occasion of celebrations? Gossip and innuendo are a big part of the discussion group's lack of recollection, showing bygone eras in disconnected discourse. Don’t pretend the past can be relived
again in the present.
Somewhere in Japan, there’s a public phone booth in the middle of a field
where you can talk to the dead about your regrets, missed opportunities,
weather predictions, or whatever. Tell them how much you love them. Beware of long-distance charges. Not worth the price of admission conversing with the dearly departed. It sounds creepy, but the voices are crystal-clear. Just like they are in the same place in that old snapshot with you. Arms entwined, wrapped around shoulders. Intimate conversations whisper to empty spaces, without the old you and the others no longer there. The long-distance calling between the living and the not-so-distant unknown. Somebody must pay the bill. Beyond the politeness of insincere phone etiquette and polite communication. Please deposit another memory in the coin slot. Sitting in a photo booth with a friend making silly faces.
Here in the closet, a shoebox full of lost souls, where moments capture a
glimpse of the best times. Frozen in a grimace of sadness. Remorse is a
burden. Every smile is a forced happy face, the camera never lies. Take a
picture; it’ll last longer. Where did we go after the photo shoot? All the family albums that history shows are created by anonymous people not there. Figments of photos from the archive of lost love and romantic gestures. Fake smiles and forced camaraderie. Viewed upon re-running in stop-motion animated footage from old-time newsreels and home movies. The same film is playing inside your head. The flickering silent movie reel in reverse. No keepers, no money shot, no front-page news photo credit op. Just a few pictures commemorating us in the junk drawer brain. Cover the mirrors. The camera steals souls.
Make love to the camera. Check the background for clues. All those Polaroid moments in the Kodachrome sky. Set up the tripod and set the timer to snap a pic every few seconds. The world’s a carousel of color slides. They remind us that we still have a lot of living to do. Caught in the dark aperture of a cracked lens, zooming in, telescoping out in panoramic absurdity frozen in time. Another snap of the camera. Say cheeseburger, and keep on smiling.