How long has it been since you felt like you belonged where you are? Always that press of time, like beer in the fridge. You could drink them all if you wanted. Maybe you do want to, maybe you will. Whats the big deal anyway? It’s only beer. It’s just another day.
You go down to the pier for sunrise and it is dead quiet.
Across the water a four-second green light channel-marker jars your memory and you whisper “headpin” and feel sad for a second and remember who you were.
Three stars, three birds, three tiny breezes rise like smoke in strange patterns that make sense. In rippling mirage of water and light the jewels of sunrise this day wink like tiny diamonds that defy being photographed and you relax. No pictures today.
Time. You feel it press and it gets hard to breathe.
Larry walks toward you. You recognize him but have forgotten everything he ever said.
He asks:
“So how are you going to make money from writing? You have to have a plan.
I’ve been retired since 1982. Wall street banker. I set up loans in Central America. I always wanted to get enough to live and then quit and I did.
You have to have a plan.”

A plan, Captain. Show them the plan.

Gulfport, Florida…Sunday, August 9, 2015
Color draws the eye to focus. Its absence creates scene where everything is subject. Context, the ghost of innuendo and pretension of art. To provoke a question from shades of gray of why and who, what and where.
To photograph a moment filled with meaning I could never explain. Submitted for your approval, a man sitting on a bench with one foot on the dock.
A feral tabby lives here by the grace of the restaurant staff at the inn and we know each other well. I hear him purring beneath me as he rubs his face on my ankle. Here in the dark by these streets we both call home, I have to laugh. Cats think I’m the shizz.
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