Portraits of Mother and Home

 It\’s raining. 

A lot has happened, more than I can really write about: I visited El Paso with Caitlin; I have been doing well with photography; and, starting the day after tomorrow, I will be working with a union electrical contractor as an installer, which I don’t really know what that means. 

I don’t know if I can drink anymore. It puts me in a depressive mood the next day, or I just get moody. (And a ghost of an old man meticulously berates me telling me that my soul is getting soggy when I drink.)

When I was in El Paso, I took portraits of my mother and my father. They portraits are okay, compositionally. I wish I could have spent at least a few more minutes getting everything set up, but there was traffic, it was terribly windy, and my mother was getting cold. When I looked through the lens at my mother, I felt my heart sink in my chest. I saw her aging, and I saw the pain that I had caused her by being so far away for so long—physically and emotionally distant. The picture is shockingly clear. I intend to get it re-scanned and printed in the near future.

That moment, along with a few other pictures felt more like magic, synchronicity, or psychological-transformation than mere-photography. 

Maybe that’s what I should be chasing—that feeling that feels all-too-real or too-real-to-be-real or too-meaningful-to-be-ordinary-reality. Those moments are rare. But through care and cultivation, I think I can find more of those moments (and improve their composition). 

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