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I skipped off the curb this morning, no cars, no people, darkness, dampness, delight. Something falling slowly through a moment of light, a leaf, a moth, the feather falls onto a cut-into-the-ground stone, settling into the dampness, flattening, acquiescing.

I walk on by, an old song lyric strikes a chord, these tracks of sound that trace my life, leave a trace, this sense of consciousness, this landscape. And a  thought taking shape about appearance, how the feather appears, and how the feather is. Nothing 'fixed' in appearance ~ and a photograph. Before photography, images could be made, but faded away. How to fix this image, to make it real, to hold a 'truth' in the palm of your hand, a memory, an appearance. Fixing an appearance, making an appearance real. But this real, reality, realism, was also an appearance. Within all this, verisimilitude and truth get very muddled. Is a photograph real, becomes a redundant question - unless one thinks reality is fixed, set in stone. The stone, the photograph, fade away. Fade from my thoughts, fade into the decay. A thousand years. A million years. The life of an insect, the life of a stone, the life of a star. How things are appears to be what I see. How things feel is different from what I see. And then I think of how the camera lens 'sees' - and time runs away again.

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