There's a certain reality found only in a Polaroid that can't be recaptured, recreated or revisited. It wants to break, to exhale a noice and release its' mysteries to you. I find myself, more & more, drawn to them, purchasing them, and feeling myself inside the image.
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I love the images of long-gone people, deceased but still somehow alive in the images that I collect. I'm even in some of them; very very bizarre.
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A viewing of my old images shows me to have been thinner that I believed. Now, in my 40's, I feel confident. Well, semi-confident. Never have I been the guy women swarm arounf, or give a second glance to - I'm always "the Friend".
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Maybe things irk me presently: I'm noth more of a hedonist, nor am I really an artist, or fun, or happy inside. Why am I upset? Because I can't glean happiness from the debris that is life currently. My head hurts, and I feel empty inside. Hollowed out, and sad. Shopping & eating are no rememdy but the salve feels good.
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I was many things - now I need to become those things again & stop yowling at the heavens through my tears & confusion.
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For now I'll keep trying.
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Thanks for listening!
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Julian
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