Flunk Day, yesterday, but as it landed on a Tuesday, what was there to do besides groan about it not landing on a Wednesday? And so I said let's go buy some flowers and pick up film and mail off Trystan's Flat Stanely package. Red flowers, terracotta pots for the aloe, keep it simple this year. But then I got distracted by having to walk by the wall of cameras on the way to picking up film, more so when what I wanted was not in stock, so I told H: I need to see what they have at Staples, and H said: I understand.
Thus I bought a not-film camera. A little Canon Powershot S3 IS about which I know so little it scares me. Oh the things it does. The books in the box that describe the things it does. And how I dread reading directions.
It's not at all the same, is it, the snapsnapsnapsnapsnap of everything from the bellybutton or the hip, the 300 photos memory card, the rechargeable batteries, the infinite, the excess! Like all the money of the world, relax, you'll never have to miss a shot again for lack of--
But where is the tension in the seeing, the delay, the saved-for selection? The I don't know what's taken place inside? The rare instance? The art lies elsewhere. It lies everywhere, a diffusion.
And the light is something else in this too. A diffusion, a bombardment on the eye.
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