[Two of seven in B&W] The lightweight camera was light. The press-down lever pressed, destabilising the camera. Images gave objects three or four outlines, a selfie was a miniature Muybridge. Blur occurred, was default, unless the camera was secured through practice. We would call it a design fault. Instamatic was unwrapped on 25th December. Light found its way to the hole where the mind wandered. Beach cricket at Queenscliff was never ever so dazzling. Faces were shiny and even shadows had traces of silver. And it really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong I’m right. We would call it so Sixties.
Monday, 11 December 2017
[One of seven in B&W] It is night inside my Minolta, permanent as a shutter shut. Zoom is doomed, settings sunk. Precision parts, designed to blind with light, are blinded. The room is black. Purchased one white summer at Auckland Airport, Minolta was a way to captivate Samoa, bougainvillea cascading through the aperture like distant galaxies. Or Italy as the Soviet fell, piazzas flowering white at its window. Now Minolta’s retired to a December ledge. It rests in its blue leather case, louche sightseer who’s seen better days. Batteries are tired, its timer’s got entropy. All it knows is midnight.
Tuesday, 5 December 2017
December Tuesday finds me on Jolimont Station 8:15. Settling into reading I hear familiar chord progressions, think nothing of it, a car radio, someone’s phone. It’s slightly slower for Hard Day’s Night but the changes are perfect, vocals curiously close to the original. It hits me, tonight is the only night I have ever heard Paul McCartney’s voice. It’s carrying well from AAMI Park, straight no surprises, down to precision whoops. A little touch of Beatlemania in the night, before the Eltham express takes me away home to where “I find the things that you do make me feel alright.”