time was the photographs were my problem. the taking was fine: seeing the thing, camera eye framed and squeezing the shutter blind a moment, reflected light impacting silver. it was all that came after that i despised: slips of paper, bromides clumped and crumpled in gelatin — evidence floating the gap between what i wanted and the pith i got. taking pictures wasn’t my problem. it was the conduct of the product that left me cold. i preferred it latent.

if failure is inevitable with development, then a calculated cultivation of suspension i’d make my intent. it’s not uncommon for photographers to scrabble notes about exposure settings or light conditions for future reference and i figured to do the same. narrate the act, transcribe the conditions of transaction:

jess, kate and blackberry bushes we found after picking full hat full, forearms thorn scratched, fingers blue black. will bake pie if not sun tired.

etc

at the end of a roll i’d fold up the litany, rubber band it to the canister and toss it in the box with all the others. i’d make photography all a motion: endless and deferred, eternally inferred. like how i remembered. make the pictures. not matter.