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Urgency of now

by Anna Block

I’d better start from the outset. From now. Smell of a cigarette on my fingers — freezing I walked and walked searching — many people would agree I know only let our eyes meet — not this one, not this one, not this one — a kiss that would remind me I exist — a bonfire night — this one yes — I come closer — wet snake pushing, shivering — swallow it — can you give me cigarette — a mouth is a harsh desert — escape. I have never smoked before, I am 32, I take pictures, I left home one year ago, I am searching, I am forgetting myself in walking trying to recall what it is that I am searching for.

I am in love with a man whose eyes are crying deer.

I am in love with a man whose beard is volcano ash.

I am in love with a man whose stomach is silver water.

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Who knows what desire is, what miracle is, what beauty is? The desperate ones, restless souls, stray dogs. Haven’t you died yet? We are not on the same way then. Leave me, but before — wait, stand here, don’t breath, look at me, I take a picture of you. And then I walk, I walk and walk.

I am so much in love that I always forget with whom. In any way beyond photography life is vague as foggy sea landscape. The rain starts. Each drop is piercing hot grey water as a needle. Steam is rising up. Fish — one, two, three jumping up into the air, twist, fall back. They all squeak. Life and dreams are interwoven into a piece of cloth. The God’s dusty blanket.

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I take pictures. Some pictures are good, but most of them aren’t.

A good picture is like entering into a burrow — a threshold between here — real, physical — and there — a rabbit’s hole into the dark nowhere. Never achievable, always seductive, disturbing.

I keep walking. Autumn is passing by. Things are what they are.

Anna

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