'photographs'

Epistle to a friend

“photographs”


I hated pictures in my childhood, avoided camera flash, the clash of outer truth, the inner reality it could not reveal. My feelings did not haunt the film, thy hid behind my mother’s skirts. The dirt beneath my nails knew more of me than what a picture told. In bold rejection of these cold intrusions, I protested. Now, what few photos I once had are gone by water, fire or sad neglect.

I wonder what reflections of my younger self are still impressed upon the minds of those who knew me. Scattered, strewn through memories, they must be clearer than my own. I will not own those best-forgotten fears. No tears remain, nor rhyme, nor reason, just the passage of a time we all went through. But the bruises of growing up still linger purple, turning yellow, turning …

But I'm not blue when I look at shots I took last week: of waterfalls, a face in the trunk of an old Sycamore that yawns, the lawn of stickball beyond the trees, cathedral heights of learning framed by redbud. Said memories made for future reference, the past ignored. But where am I, you ask?

Not in the picture. Never. For ever have I been the one to gaze out at the world avoiding real truths I don't believe in … for myself that is. I record the seasons and the places I have been. The lens will only capture the photographs that now I send.

© 2004 Kåre Enga [Oklahoma]

Note: a Tulsa Writer's Cafe piece. Written in about half an hour! References to place are to Sequoyah Park and NSU in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. Edited since and last on 2009-04-17