These days. Passing. Rhythms. Playing. Something happened. Being - to be to do to know to do to be. Moments of being. A play.
As a child. Something happens. A photograph I make that I like, in 1963. It's not about liking the photograph, or photography, it's about liking, for my self, something I have made. I make photographs to like the photographs I've made. This is about liking something of oneself through liking something of what I've made. This is about a feeling, of being. With writing, it seems the same feeling, a way of being is going on. I write and write, and every now and again I write something I like. In a strange way I like writing, anything. Writing this feels important to me, important isn't the word I felt, the word strikes the wrong note, the wrong emphasis, the tune doesn't sound right to my ears, I think the feeling, that becomes a thought, that becomes thinking, that becomes a word, in a flash - was more like meaningfulness. Some of what I write I like. Like isn't the word that describes the thought and the feeling hidden in the shadows of thought.
Photography, writing, walking, feeling, this sense that comes through forms of movement, these thoughts that come from feeling my way through the day. Playing a tune now and then, playing with letters, words, like playing with those notes on the piano. These notes. And making a photograph, like a note, and sometimes those notes, these elements, these entities, come together, from the compost of notes, this playing, into a composition, one photo when the elements co-exist in a way I like. And this sense of self, unknown, but felt, through doing, making, and every now and then a feeling of composure, presence, being at ease with one self, this world, ourselves. I make a photograph, write some words, play a tune, dance, make a meal, walk. And stop, for a moment, to notice, my breathing, this air, light, some water, presence, in the background, music, conversations, noise of coffee machine. Now, this day.