Photographer
Then I am sitting on a stool in front of a white screen. Across from me the photographer adjusts a camera.
He asks where I am going and I tell him.
A white silence settles over everything.
Periodic invitations arrive to visit commodities where they live.
I say: Every passport photograph has made me look a sociopath.
He stops adjusting and peers at me through his bifocals.
He says: What does anyone really look like?
He turns his attention back to the camera.
He says: A face is a soft landscape. It is continuously in motion. A photograph is a reference point. You resemble it because it is a reference point. But being fixed is against the nature of a face.
His resumes making adjustments.
Perhaps he opposes taking photographs on principle.
A white silence settles on everything.
When I close my eyes fragments of a face in general fly away one from the other, their trajectories expanding a blank space through sticky cool air hung with tinsel and birdsong.
Periodic invitations arrive to visit commodities where they live.
