The clicks and the sounds of the moments,
Immaterial, irrepeatible,
Unrecordable, unmistakable.
Then the touch, the rough touch
Of the grain of the grip of the plastic,
The paper-cut shutter and the grease-rubber casing,
The circles and the squares of the light
The Bright and the dark.

And then the crackle and shot.

Balanced curves and graceful tones that only level
When captured.

I'm in control but out of it,
I hold the machine but it grinds
it flicks
and clicks, and grinds and clips.

Now I love it because I'm part of it,
It shares its love of the moment with me.
I am an artist and it is my subject,
Not the photos it takes,
Not the tree-stumps and bus-stops and children it fakes
These are not real,
This is.
I've learnt to be part of it,
I've grown to be part of it,
I smile that I'm part of it,
I smile that it is there.

This is where we are loosed from gravity's moorings
The jolt movement
The moment of ultimate potential perhaps...
Of build up, of anticipation
When we're carried away
Head in the clouds with a mouthful of atmosphere
Combing clouds over the ozones bald spot.
As the great bridge of a jump arcs, slows
Where vectors seem to drag , apparently insubordinate to causality
A playful exuberance exuberance thats throws itself into fancy
An imaginative zenith
Pinnacle seconds wavering almost imperceptible
Our world in freeform
Floating like constellations
Star events in a sky of us-ness
Which is always changing but still clearly recognisably sky
Suspended like an audience's disbelief
A singularity of experiencing
The air rush that whistles past like .you're doing it!.
Here, at our furthest grasp, at the extent of our reach
Unearthed like loose electrical charge
The midair point between neurons
And that spark that flits between dendrites and synapses
Us, the eternal present, backs to the past
Arms flailing for balance into what will be
It is the leap of faith's 11th hour
The point where to return would equal exactly the effort to press on
To whatever destination we imagined the journey was for.
The decision to jump has been made
Here at the height of our convictions' strength
We are taken with it, swept up in it
The moment between up and down
That dangling precarious abandon in jumping.


You are frozen for a second: free.

Collections of dusty photo-albums.
My collections, My archives.
6 Storey photo albums collecting dust.
Towerblocks, Hi-rise, Eyesores.
Or a mirrormaze. Yes, a mirrormaze. Reflections of myself. Me. A multiplicity of me Too many me's, that's the problem. A Hall of mirrors, oblong smiles, upside-down smiles . three frowns to every face, none of them me.
So here's a photo of me 5 or 6... 5 years ago.
Me, smiling, and a cat.
Bullshit, I hate cats! ..Why am I smiling?
Nope, Not me.