The photo booth
There is a photograph of me and the girls taken in a photo booth. It’s from one of our countless in-the-spur-of-the-moment things. Looking at the photograph, I would say that they were around the ages of 3, 5 and 7. We were wasting time at a shopping centre. We never had money to spend back then, but we went there anyway just for the fun of it. When we had had our fun and we were on our way back to the car underground, I happened to spot a photo booth. I had enough money on me for us to use the booth, so I asked the girls if they wanted to go along with the idea. Caroline shouted, “yes!” Emily said, “what do you mean?” and Sarah, in her usual manner, had not heard a word of what I said, since she was still by the escalator wanting to ride it again. We all gathered in front of the booth and looked at the different examples of photographs on the side of the booth. I told them how it worked and what was going to happen once we were inside.
Me, Emily, Sarah and Caroline
I don’t know if you have ever been inside a photo booth, but it is a very small compartment made for one person – and barely so. I went in, lowered the seat as far down as it would go and told the girls to come in. I had Emily, the oldest, sit on my right knee; I had Caroline sit on my left knee, and finally Sarah scrambled in and placed herself in front of us. In those days you didn’t just get one picture reprinted four times on the same sheet, but four actual photographs printed on one sheet. Not one, but four really bright flashes.
The picture that I kept for myself shows an unshaved me in the back smiling, half a face of a girl on my right knee putting candy in her mouth, half a face of another girl doing her best to be seen by the camera by pushing her little sister’s head to the side, and then another little girl in the front wondering why there is a hand on the side of her face, only moments before she says, “Caro, stop pushing me!”
Each one of us has one unique photograph from that event that took place between four flashes on that day so many years ago.
The Thing-Finder
This piece is about a young woman who tells a story from her childhood. I am not sure about the grammar or the use of some of the words, and I have not bothered to revise it, but since I like it, I am posting it anyway. For now, only the story is important.
"I used to find things for my father. You know, like a treasure hunter, but without a mission. He called me The Thing-Finder. I found many things for him over my childhood years and he was proud of me and always let me know how thankful he was for it. Often it was things that he’d lost somewhere, or that he'd forgotten about. Other times it was new things; things that roused his curiosity. Those times we would sit and wonder what it was for, or used to be and how we could use it for something.
Once, when we were out walking and chatting our way through the city streets on an early Sunday morning - having sneaked out before the others had awakened - he said that it would have been nice if we had some money for a cup of tea somewhere. In the middle of his sentence I had spotted something on the pavement a few feet away from us. I dived off in the direction of it, grabbed it, and came back to him, holding my hand up to him showing a £5 note. He laughed with joy, but told me that I could do anything I wanted with it; it did not have to be used for tea. We had tea. And it was a particularly excellent Sunday morning."
Ghost town misadventures
It was back in '75 or '76. The whole neighbourhood seemed like one of those ghost towns from the western films on TV and our normally creative minds had run as dry as the air around us. Breathing that day was exhausting business to anyone. Only the birds were lucky enough to breathe air that didn't feel like sawdust on fire. The four of us wandered around in the void, aimlessly kicking stones and empty soda cans in front of us until we came to the road by the school. We sat down in the ditch and spied on the few cars that passed by. One of us, I forget who, started rolling marbles in front of the approaching cars, when suddenly one marble bounced up and crashed into the window shield of one of the cars. The air filled with cracking glass, screeching terror, and four deer-like children vanishing through the bushes.
Before I was out of the bushes, the twins and Toby were gone. Heart pounding. Adrenalin, but no air and no legs. A growling ogre in the bushes behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks in front of a small house with a garden by the road. No longer a deer, but a fox, I shed my T-shirt behind the low stone wall, sat down pretending to be as bored as before. Out of the bushes, the ogre charged towards me, stopped and asked if I had seen some boys running this way. I looked him straight in the eyes and told him that I hadn't. He continued his hunt. Life and all the air returned like the first day of spring. I collected my T-shirt, rolled it up like a ball, put it in my pocket, and slowly walked towards home. I felt like a Sherlock Holmes version of quick-drawing Kid Curry from Alias Smith & Jones.
Adagio
I live in the City of Winds. This morning it's the City of Cold Winds. No snow yet, though.
After all the work last night (went on to midnight) and after having had my morning bath to the gentle tunes of Albinoni, I feel quite pleased with myself.
Now, off to work.
The traveller
The Traveller
Woke up in a strange mood. I can't shake the feeling that something life-changing is about to happen. Or if it's because I'm going to Paris for a few days. Dad is going to stay here while I'm gone. Hopefully he'll tend to my flowers, but I just watered them, so they should be fine.
I didn't bother to buy something for breakfast, which means that I am quite hungry. I'll pick something up on my way to my friend and the massage that I'm getting before I leave. I'm looking forward to some wine tonight. I better send my friend a message about that.
Colbie Caillat always makes me think about what never came to pass. I shouldn't be listening to her while I'm in this mood. It just fortifies it and that's no good. Anyway, I need to do the dishes before I go. All packed and ready otherwise. Off I go.
Losing it and getting lost
Unfortunately I’m not all that well at the moment. I sleep badly, I eat poorly, my sugar levels are almost through the roof, and I’m not going to the gym as often as I want and need to. Of course, I know that it is all connected and that all I have to do is to straighten up, but… There’s always this “but”. It’s really annoying. I am changing all that starting today. I need to be well.
I was going to start a new job today, but all the red tape is not done with yet, I’m afraid, so I stayed in bed later than usual. My memory seems to get worse as well (a side effect of high sugar levels, no doubt), because I cannot remember if I had any breakfast. Since I am not particularly hungry, I must deduce that I did have breakfast.
Paris by night in the 20's and 30's - Photo from Bruce Silverstein Gallery
I’ll be on my way soon, to pick up my new passport. I’m going to Paris next week and I get quite childishly joyful at the thought of it. I love Paris. I’m going to stay with my dear friend Bojan, who has invited me over for Christmas. It’s going to be great to see my friends again. Also, I’ll bring my camera and my notebook and try to get some photography and writing done while I’m there. I do not know how people celebrate Christmas in France, but it will be fantastic however they do it. Besides, it’s practically a done deal with all that marvellous Bordeaux and good food.
I’m looking forward to get lost on the streets of Paris and not know where I am at all. Something I hope will happen almost every day. To be completely lost is always the best way to get to know a city and its people. I love that.
Dipped in tar and rolled in feathers
It's a hard task being a humorous man with important things to say about life. When I am trying to be funny, people take me too seriously, and when I am trying to do good things for other people, I get criticized as a person (not my deeds, strangely enough). I'd hate to be in Santa Claus's shoes in this town. He'll probably be dipped in tar and rolled in feathers before Christmas.