Preface, Part III

So, I'm standing there taking a piss and thinking about writing. Specifically this blog. Or rather, in that it's been a pretty action-packed last few days, not. "Just live. No overflow," meaning to keep my own counsel, stay present, and whatever else in advise of that ilk.  The successes and failures, revelations and doubts, assurances and fears, the vibrant and brown, the choppy and run-on.

IMHO

I clicked my shutter a lot the day before yesterday. I aimed at people, just to see, for I saw two men walking boxers together and two more with dobermans, and two people with maps of our fair state tattooed on their right calves. Seeing is not getting good photos. I asked a young bag pipe player if I could take his picture, to which he agreed. So what and so-so. A dead baby sparrow lay on the sidewalk. Seen it. Two hundred photos, all told. And only one spoke to me. I think I'm onto something.

And along those same lines, maybe just one other, but a distant second.

It's telling, this watching, almost pornographic, which, should I decide to go forth with this thing, will become clear. 

The Spot and the Mark, the light and dark.