I found this flickr photostream that I am going to plug here .
She takes pictures entirely in disposable film from what I’ve gathered.
Basically, every once in a while I’ll peruse them. I don’t know the people in the photos (except one guy, that I met in NOLA… but we’re more like acquaintances). Anyways, I make up narratives for them. I always wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re doing when their picture is taken. These pictures are so exotic. dirty. rare. wild. beautiful.
I can’t help but want that in my own life, however I can get it.
Why can’t we be heathens? Let’s rough and tumble across mattresses in sunlight. Let’s drive to cemeteries and smoke cigarettes with the dead. Let’s forget to bathe. Or remember and say no.
Why can’t we be low enough to see the ants. Let’s pay rent late. Let’s never go home. Let’s tell Kerouac that we have more adventure in our middle fingers and then show him. Let’s learn to swim in rip tide. Let’s drive to mexico because we won a gas card playing games on the radio.
All these things… would they make us wiser? Or more like fools? Would our writing be real? Would it be show? People say that writers need experience.
What does that even mean?
AND, here’s a song: