I just finished making a photo album from France, spanning September 2009 to May 2010. It doesn't really capture a lot of what happened there, I realized: most of my pictures are beautiful still lifes (nature morte, in French), often taken during my vacations or from out my window; a couple long-armed shots taken of myself almost get it right, but the lonesome, snowy hikes were only a fraction of my daily life. What's missing from my family-friendly album is the ephemeral and half-assed photo -- the stupid image of some piece of cheese; the digital macro of a pinecone; the zany action shots taken during Skype sessions. During my most memorable moments, however, I was without a camera: during class, during my weekly rock climbing sessions, at a neighbor's house for dinner.
I can't get it all right, I guess; between this blog, my journal, and these photographs, I suppose I can recreate enough, though perhaps that's not the point. Keeping my memories alive and sharp seems as important to me as keeping my planner organized -- an admirable but unattainable goal. I'm afraid if I don't pay enough attention, or go out of my way to revisit the past, I'll lose my memories entirely, a fear that I suspect stems from the anxiety-ridden and all too frequent task of trying to remember my dreams just as I'm waking up, and just as they're slipping away. I guess there's just a lot I need to get used to.
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