Subject line: Your scans are ready.
I repaired an Olympus Trip 35 on my bedroom floor with a screwdriver set that cost less than my coffee, loaded it with expired Kodak Gold, and drove to Raglan. What came back changed how I think about photography entirely.
A Sensory Inventory
I've been paying attention to the wrong things — not badly, just at the wrong scale. I kept waiting to feel ready. What I didn't notice was that myself was already here, in the small and the tactile and the close.
On expired film and the attention it demands
The shots where I hesitated came out worse — not because the light was different, but because something in the holding-back made it into the image.
Unfinished sentences — three pieces of pottery on my living room floor
Fully dried, going nowhere. I've stopped trying to decide what they mean.
On Smallness
Not resignation — precision. An insistence on the close and the tactile. The things you'd miss if you were trying to be seen.
Month four at the piano
The notes aren't hard. The spaces between them are. On learning Satie, and what it means to practice the wrong thing until it sets.
Neriko — kneaded incense from Shōyeidō
I don't have a point to make about this. I just wanted to write it down before I stopped noticing it.