the lost man chronicles
Enzo en Bleu
These are the first photos I’ve taken after four whole days of not taking any. I feel much-much better now.
For the fact was that I was rather perturbed yesterday for no good reason really.
And yet, my irk was wholly justified for all the right reasons as well.
I had left my camera at home, so that I could concentrate on catching up. Currently, I have about 1,000 photos which I would like to edit before publishing them.
Alas, being that I regularly take 50-75 “good” photos (that is, those I feel might be worth keeping) on my trek to work in the morning and on my traversal back at the end of the day, I can’t keep up with myself. For the quantity I keep on the back burner continues to grow almost exponentially, as I can only edit about fifty a day.
Hence, I had to quit. If only for a week, I forced myself not to take any photos. And it was killing me.
My frustration reached its apex yesterday afternoon when I witnessed a dozen or so great, and I sincerely mean wonderful, photos manifest before me.
These included the disheveled, dazed and confused transient who stood in a stupor as tourists poured out around her as they disembarked from a tour bus which was adjacent to the spew of garbage emanating from the trunk of one of the many tattered suitcases she was towing about; the three young and jumpy black children dressed in black t-shirts that were huddled together, hanging out of the passenger side window of a black mini van; the long-legged and pretty girl who sat quietly upon a concrete step with a stream of pale light leading up to her along the long strip of pedestrian empty dull-grey pavement; the exquisitely framed tall young lady dressed in blood red orange, standing at the corner slightly underneath a rare red scaffolding (most steel frames in NYC are green, gray or blue); the young turk dressed in well-worn blue jeans, bright flip-flops and an apparently old favorite shirt of his which advertised some dive bar in jersey.
He was porting about his Minolta as if he were on a mission. And so I followed him for a few blocks hoping to catch a glimpse of what he saw, hoping to allay my anxiety as I lived for a moment vicariously through him. Alas, he took a mere two photos on a path where I would have taken twenty, thirty, forty! pictures; The pair of sprite and giggling jeune et jolie filles who I almost ran into as we both turned about a corner from opposite ends; The table of exquisite and exotic beaded Indian slippers, each colored as differently as the arcoiris of hijabs one might find huddled in the centerfold of an old issue of national geographic. These, and far too many other beautiful images, eluded my grasp during my brief but resplendent walk home.
Hence, I am here and now compelled to write about what once was, what is now gone and forever but a fading memory, if only in reverence, if only to smooth out a ruffled demeanor, and sooth this rough and rankled disposition.
I feel much better now. Now, that my finger is back on the trigger.
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