Now that I have a camera, I strap it on when I go for walks. That was the point, to bank some images, but what happens is that every damn thing thrusts itself forward. Just like that, pleasure bleeds into compulsion. I have to draw the line. No pretty flowers, not even in my own garden. What about me, says the parking lot with the word RESERVED marching boldly up the slope. How about me, says the dead gray pigeon in the gray shadow of the unemployment building, face down, wings spread on the gray sidewalk spotted with dark gray splats of trampled gum.
When I finally give find a scene truly worthy, in Avalos little shoe shop on 26th Street where I’ve taken my spotted grey suede shoes to be cleaned, I snap and the screen reads, CHANGE THE BATTERY PACK.