Sunday, April 19, 2009

Of Washington, District of Columbia

I will myself to write about Washington. D.C. I will write. I will. I will. I'll write about photographer Robert Frank. Today with Ernie I called him Frank Blank. I get confused when there is black or Frank or Jack Black.

He sequenced photographs with a wink. A wink and a smile. A black smile. "Cynical," said EM. "That," I said. "Coming from you?" "He made a film about the Rolling Stones called Cocksucker Blues." Is it necessary to say more?

Who is cynical now?

I am not cynical today, the air after a rainstorm lovely. And art. Art everywhere, least in the museums. High boots and short skirts. A man laughing or falling asleep. Game Fish. Hope along Pennsylvania Avenue and in throngs, not thongs. I photographed a flower that belongs with Dr. Seuss. Or in gardens. Southern gardens.

Exquisite light and a pint and talk of Gloucester.

I walked. I walked like the pioneers walked once as it goes in song. "Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked."

The city all lit up at night made shadows on the wall and I took photographs. Moving. Along the wall. Deep as bodies and up again for air.

One, a self portrait, but in shadow. Distant, in memory, but moving.

Always moving. That moving. And this moving. Then, not moving at all.

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