We spent Sunday in Santa Barbara. We visited an antique shop and looked at old postcards and black and white photographs of dead white folks. We didn’t see Mexicans. We have difficulty leaving the dead.
We visited book stores too and I walked away from Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 and Robert Crumb’s illustrated version of The Book Of Genesis. I wasn’t ready. I need to finish Cormac McCarthy's The Road and end my secret affair with J.M. Coetzee's short stories.
I took my camera to Santa Barbara and I made an attempt to photograph a stranger’s face. My hands shook. I sweated. It scared me to invade a stranger’s privacy. I was terrified when the stranger noticed the camera pointing at her. Most of the photographs came out blurry and shitty. Strangely, when I looked at the result, I felt a perverse pleasure. I felt like I had stolen something valuable. I stole a second from a stranger’s life.
Little demons woke me up early this morning.
(I saw this video on clock without hands and immediately liked it. Thank you Marcine M.)
Soy una taza, ¡un cucharón!
4 days ago