Habit: Define self-reflexive, meditative investment, walk in foreign: Elaborate eternal click/press/make/take/snap/shoot/capture/share: And identity, or feel.

Practice: Contract to environment, limit against circumstance, responsibility: Walk with family, attentive not distracted, fast: Dismiss desire for new object on umpteenth walk round park – tree, pavement, detritus, castoff, forgotten: Low success ratio, advantage via dust, light leak, grain.

Perspective heavier, even with current joy: Techne drives dark over light (music ecstatic in ratio to desperate, like color): Record ineffable, insatiable higher contrast, deepest rendered black.

Compress: Dismiss narrative, documentary (false, wrong, post-), street, portrait, snapshot: No county covered to get car-in-front-of-house, only same route repeated: Why not leave house without camera, ask question first/shoot later, ignore viewfinder.

Some sense of loss or worse, hypocrisy: Why use software, cut artifice sheer.

Why worry: Eco-friendly dev, sustainable cash: Even with waiting and chemicals, must scan, digitize, share: Why more tools, never the better.

Image film and back pat: So many negs postable, so good: Love this community.

Street view, surveil – converse: Algorithm – complain: Film integrity – speak for itself, called out: Film simulation – shirk/smirk: Abstract away – low code: Any automation – disregard: Digital forensic – step backward. 

Screen material, not just sensor: Imagic tech failure is less perfect/suspicious, manual slippage: Degrade with re-photo, printout, projection, photocopy.

Like, tag, comment, message – economy: Submit to zine  – pay for copy: Outside commercial, family, group/class  – deviance, anomaly: Amateur label, no market validation – embrace compromise.



I almost always have a camera at hand, and I make photos on my commute to work, as I’m running errands, when I take my daughter for a walk, or while I cycle out of the city for exercise. I started shooting film (again, I suppose, due to my age) a few years ago, and that marked the beginning of using cameras more consciously to gain perspective on location, migration, memory, and forgetting. I have moved around a lot in my life, and photography has become a meditative realm in which I seek out evidence of clarity, humor, mystery, indeterminacy, and confusion as well as parallels between the places where I’ve lived.

I am drawn to infrastructure and transport (especially railroad tracks), industrial sites, urban outskirts, architectural concerns, desolate spaces, the well-lit mundane, banal patterns, portal structures, rougher textures and stone, found sculptures and detritus, material contradictions, fragmented signage, objects…

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I used to harbor a continuous worry that I’d forget what had happened, that I’d fail to notice what was happening. I worried that something terrible would happen because I’d forgotten what had already happened. Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation – on moments – an inability to accept life as ongoing.

– Sarah Manguso, from Ongoingness: The End of a Diary


The music of video games. They are fitted into tables. You can drink, you can lunch, and go on playing. They open onto the street. By listening to them you can play from memory.

The Pizza Hut in Gaffney had a cocktail-table video game of “1942.” Mom buys me a pair of Solar Shades and passes a quarter to play while we wait on a pepperoni with green pepper and onion. I play from memory: take a barrel roll and blow those Nakajimas out of the sky.

He claims that electronic texture is the only one that can deal with sentiment, memory, and imagination.

I’ve never agreed. Who says no? It’s not so easy forgetting how to play the drums.

He described to me the ceremony held at the zoo in Ueno in memory of animals that had died during the year.

At the Cleveland Zoo, I asked my aunt why she married my uncle.

And beneath each of these faces a memory. And in place of what we were told had been forged into a collective memory, a thousand memories of men who parade their personal laceration in the great wound of history.

Each leaving a loss, each loss a wound: Canton, Gaffney, São Paulo, Tokyo, Wooster, London, Pittsburgh, Prague, Brest, Dębica, Kraków. Even leaving Dubrovnik after a few days is masakra.

That’s how history advances, plugging its memory as one plugs one’s ears.

Memories are knocked out poorly without earplugs.

I’m writing you all this from another world, a world of appearances. In a way the two worlds communicate with each other. Memory is to one what history is to the other: an impossibility.

Memory all too possible: forgetting does the real damage in its impossibility. History is never impossible; only as compared to history is memory sometimes impossible.

I envy Hayao in his “zone,” he plays with the signs of his memory. He pins them down and decorates them like insects that would have flown beyond time, and which he could contemplate from a point outside of time: the only eternity we have left. I look at his machines. I think of a world where each memory could create its own legend.

A world in which each memory creates its own machine, more likely. Cannot—must not—sufficiently investigate that simulation. Too fatigued by outrage and devtool-babble.

Everything works to perfection, all that we allow to slumber, including memory. Logical consequence: total recall is memory anesthetized. After so many stories of men who had lost their memory, here is the story of one who has lost forgetting, and who—through some peculiarity of his nature—instead of drawing pride from the fact and scorning mankind of the past and its shadows, turned to it first with curiosity and then with compassion. In the world he comes from, to call forth a vision, to be moved by a portrait, to tremble at the sound of music, can only be signs of a long and painful prehistory.

To understand that prehistory before forgetting it. To understand very little, to already have forgotten some, most.

But it was then that for the first time he perceived the presence of that thing he didn’t understand which had something to do with unhappiness and memory, and towards which slowly, heavily, he began to walk.

After each happiness of memory, ASMR.

I remember that month of January in Tokyo, or rather I remember the images I filmed of the month of January in Tokyo. They have substituted themselves for my memory. They are my memory. I wonder how people remember things who don’t film, don’t photograph, don’t tape. How has mankind managed to remember? I know: it wrote the Bible. The new Bible will be an eternal magnetic tape of a time that will have to reread itself constantly just to know it existed.

I remember snow in the month of January in Tokyo. Two inches, max. School called off. We met in Harajuku and tried out some longboards. By afternoon the snow had melted, we skated around Shinjuku.

That a short wave announcement from Hong Kong radio picked up on a Cape Verde island projects to Tokyo, and that the memory of a precise color in the street bounces back on another country, another distance, another music, endlessly.

Is it a choice? Precise colors on the streets of Santo Amaro, Ebisu, Ohio City, Farringdon, Ridgewood, College of Wooster, Squirrel Hill, Žižkov, Krowodrza, Hongdae, Újlipótváros, Delfshaven.

All those who remember the war remember him.

His father took photos in Vietnam with a Japanese camera. The tail of a downed American bomber, torn off the fuselage, down the road.

Madeline traced the short distance between two of those concentric lines that measured the age of the tree and said, ‘Here I was born… and here I died.’ He remembered another film in which this passage was quoted. The sequoia was the one in the Jardin des plantes in Paris, and the hand pointed to a place outside the tree, outside of time.

To meet the person you could have become, become that person prepared to meet who you could have become.

He said, “I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember, we rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?

How long will you take to forget the secret?