Grimace

A few weeks ago while bumbling through the detritus of my bedroom in an imitation of cleaning I found a couple of rolls of undeveloped 35mm film. I had probably tucked them into the pocket of my camera case in a time of unemployment with the intent of developing them when I gained a paycheck. Jobs and student loans have come and gone and the film has lain curled in its fetal torpor for the last five years. With curiosity, I paid the nine dollars and twenty four cents and had it processed. After the magic, a white envelope delivered to me the apparitions of a former life; an ex-boyfriend, a half-waned interest in botany, and behind the lens a phantasm of a young girl forever captive.

It is hard to speak of photos without speaking of the past. The second the light etches itself upon the celluloid the moment ceases to be. It only exists in the plasticine substance of memory and that very narrow scope captured through the lens. And, although the image in the absolute physical sense never changes it is always viewed with that ever-growing tumor of retrospect and experience. What are these things but a plaque build up of the past? I mean not to give these images the tint of regret or disease, but merely to express that in no way do we ever regard these people, places and events with open indifference. These brief testaments to our time in space will never be regarded by us with anything but subjectivity.

Yet, we hold onto them regardless of what emotions they may bring. Personally, the act of destroying or tossing a physical photo, a glossy 3x5, feels like sacrilege. I wouldn't throw out a photo anymore than I would grind the crepe blossom of a wildflower into the dirt with my boot. And yet, with digital photography it is so easy to erase the humanity behind things. I don't know how many photos I have deleted when an intended smile became a grimace, a single chin magically doubled, or the image didn't seem worth taking up space.

More and more we attempt to control our image in the eyes of our peers through technology; erasing unflattering photos, creating social-networking profiles that more precisely reflect who we would like to be than who we are, turning to internet dating sites which can only depict so much our personality and quirks --both endearing and irritating, and the world of second life, which I don't even pretend to understand. We are refusing our imperfections and entering a sort of Neverland where we never have to document how fat we've become (just turn to the side, stretch out your neck, and crop accordingly), how boring our lives have become (just add "Status Shuffle"), or admit that we lack social graces.

And yet, here I am writing a blog. And worse yet, a blog with no greater purpose than to document my thoughts. So, I suppose this is a sort of textual snapshot. Although it can't boast all the candid humanity of a 35 mm or Polaroid, what it does do is force me to present something to the world that is much more raw and unpolished than I would ideally like it to be. And yes, I'm aware of the irony.

I have chosen to call it, "A Narcissist's Folklore," as this is nothing but an exploration of the self. It is the stories I tell myself to try to understand my place in the world. It is my own selfish obsession with my own happiness, my own purpose, my own aspirations. Perhaps you will find part of yourself here, but really that is none of my concern. I don't want my writing to become one of Lenny's mice; coddled to death, loved lifeless. I don't want to stare like Narcissus into a pool at my own perfection; to be pulled under and drowned due to my own obsession. Thus, this blog is the photo of me with the double chin and the spinach between my teeth. It is the captive girl on the other side of the lens. It is an eyes-clenched grimace of a blog.