Once used to the environment they find themselves in, children find joy–at least momentary ones–in the dust, among broken machines, in the concrete rubble heaps of war, under the roofless slum houses, though those in oppressive conditions would have to get back to their torturous realities after a brief period of joy.
Adults! Hmmm! What they do in search of joy, in search of happiness! Unhappy about happiness. Tired of searching for rest.
Tamo Doren of Photo Max verbally nudged me (he was busy covering the wedding we attended) and looking back I saw the man. He stood out from the more than hundred people gatheted at the wedding hall and the several many people passing by in that narrow alley. I was immediately interested. He was restless for the whole time he stoood at the gate of the hall and scratching himself a lot–his hands and legs. Finally he sat down in the middle of the narrow alley dedicated to the scratching job. A symptom.
I had been waiting for a chance to photograph the cute girl in the picture. She was conscious of my camera and she shyly hid herself behind her eight-year old brother every time I held up the camera. When I turned away, she teasingly ran around me. I waited for a chance.
In a slow response to the pull of silence
the dusts of sound have settled down
to the abandoned life spread across the floor–
preserved in layers the creases of pains
painted in fragile smiles for the show,
spirals of despair deyed spry for the show.
Slowly the dusts of life have settled
on the photographs of dead people
and people memory has let go of,
those blurry visitors in grainy dreams
you have once or twice in a lifetime
gathered from a long forgotten past,
part of the mistakes you made in learning life.
But a bearded storm keeps coming with a broom
dragging along his cart of dusts and photographs
when the sun is low to the snow free of all dust.
After or before the dark? You never know.