Forgotten, but not lost.

More pictures.

This time, these are shots that were developed months and months ago, but dragged my feet on scanning them, because I had hoped that by now, I would have my own scanner.

I still don't, and so, these pictures represent a backlog of work.

Disappointment and film photography seem to go hand in hand, as with EVERYTHING else in life. But I love my worst film shots as much as my best digital. They've cost me something. I had to sacrifice to have them, and so, unlike digital, they have intrinsic value.

Things suck right now for a lot of people that I know. I know they will survive, and I know that survival changes us in ways can only know in retrospect.

Those changes scare me though.

Relationships rely upon common experiences, otherwise, all you have is nostalgia, and nostalgia is a cheap substitute for relevance.

That’s the business I operate in though, and probably explains my obsession with documenting my own passage. I [can] never stop moving. The moment I stay put I think I shall die. And when I die, I want the shit I have seen and done to not dissipate with the decay of my neurons, at least not immediately.

Perhaps that’s just the vanity of another insignificant mortal organism. I do not pretend to be so memorable, which is why I appear in so few of my own photos. But stealing history for the sake of my own pack rat mentality is an end I am completely comfortable with.

Here's some recent [stolen] nostalgia:

Was listening to the new Cribs LP, Ignore the Ignorant, while writing this disaterpiece.
Hang tough.