Stories for Commuting

January 7, 2012

It’s a peculiar sensation for me to look through my photostream—the ebbs and flows, the changing seasons and moods. The people that come in and out of it. When I’m unable to think, when I’m feeling blank, it is the best narrative of that I could ever write.

While scanning film negatives tonight, I realized that there are exactly 1,808 photos here. By the numbers, it’s not a lot. By the numbers, it’s not a little either. There are 102 pages worth of photos. How many years does it take to accumulate? Unlike writing, I can answer this with scientific certainty. Seven years.

November 28th, 2005 is the date of the first photo I posted on this Flickr. Out of all the photos, the ones I come back to the most are the ones I’ve deleted. She said my photos are simple. I think that’s that point. I like it simple here. So I tend to delete the ones that complicate this method.

It’s not you in particular that I keep coming back to. Like the photos, the feelings have come and gone. We are well past our prime. No one likes to post the same photos twice. What I come back to is my own sense of innocence. It’s a terrible thing to live in constant self-reflection? But that’s what we do. That sense of youth and purity before we ruined it, you told me in plain words once, “This is once in a lifetime.” And I only believed you halfheartedly. And then you only believed me halfheartedly. My fault.

I’ve got a freak memory. A photographic memory. On this day, we invited Sam over. You know Sam, the kid from next door, the son of the married school teachers. I don’t know if he’s still living there or not. He came over to play with the poodle from your uncle. Sam kept saying “我不怕…I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid” as that dog nipped at his heels. Don’t you know? When you run, it only encourages a dog to chase you more. Sam didn’t know that. He ran through the living room. Jumped up on your sofa. Put his hand on his knees and laughed in the way that only kids could do. In that way that is only afforded to kids; that we in this world are now incapable of doing.

Can I say this now? I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I don’t care what it is but I’m not.

Nostalgia is one of the tags I use in almost all my photos. Also memories. I then tag the cameras, lens, and film I’ve used because they serve as bookmarks in case my memory fails.

What I come back to is nostalgia. It’s simple as that. We all want that sweet sweet feeling. That sweet sweet kind of memory. At the airport, you said, “I hope I’ve left you with some good memories.”

Everyone does. What I come to realize, that’s kind of funny now, is just that: everyone does.

For this photo, I use a Minolta Hi-Matic G. Not an uncommon camera, but my camera. We came back from lunch in Prince Edward. Some place like that. In that area. It was raining but sunny (I remember this part). Or was it after we came back from Lantau. Something like that. My memory fails me. Sorry.

Say “Hi” to Sam for me when you get the chance. How old is he now? Nine, ten, eleven? Something like that.

I had a funny thought last night. She and I are meandering along a lake in the middle of nowhere. It is a large lake. A ferry comes by and empties the pier. One by one, they get on and I watch them go. I’ve watched you go. I’ve watched them all go. But me, I’m standing here. I’m not going anywhere. Let me be and I will still be here. Let me be and I will hold her. I will hold her even though I know it’s not enough. Let me stay here and I will keep collecting all the things we’ve forgotten.