When digital cameras were first introduced, I hated them. There is something about a physical rectangle of paper with a glossy or matte coating. Something about the ghost images of ourselves that can be touched and aren’t so easy to erase. I instantly missed photos.
I spent several years being described as the paparazzi by my friends. Where ever we went, I was there taking photo after photo after photo. I had a Minolta with manual focus. I loved it. There are still rolls of film floating around that I have not developed. I did this because I wanted the photos, because I wanted to give the photos to others, and because I wanted to avoid being in them.
It got to be overload, though. It got to where I felt as though I was spending all my time documenting my experiences and none of my time actually living them. I quit taking photos, relying om memory and my journals. I even drew (and still draw) the things I see in them.
LK and other people in my life have mentioned that I don’t have a lot of photos in my house. That I don’t have any way to show people the things that are distant and important to me. This is an important point with LK, especially. In an effort not to hurt her parents with who she is, she has to erase digital photos of us from her phone and camera occasionally. I have no camera on my phone, I have no digital camera. I have no photos of the two of us. This weekend, we’ve bought a disposable camera.
I’ve been walking on both sides, but the time has come for me to walk the line; I will live life, and I will record it. Wish me luck.