I can’t explain why a photo isn’t a plot.
Because it is true and untrue.
Except that it is also a wheel.
It is the wheel of plots. Platelets spinning.
How is an image inside (us) different?
It cannot lie as effectively.
It must cast (mere) starry nets of words.
Here, crumble this clod of dirt:
Inside earth is more earth.
Inside a fist are many more fists, tinier ones.
The children of fists are fists.
The earth can’t be bothered being a fist.
Except that it is also a wheel.
I have deliberately misplaced my syllogism (my soilogism, my solilogism)
the way a man deliberately misplaces his lover
to lose him or her.
I can’t explain why a photo isn’t a plot.
Because it is.
The cast of a photo is illimitable.
You will never list all the players, dramatis personae.
That stark chair is a person.
That pleading window.
That river, surgeless, carrying away a flowering branch.
It is hopelessness I seek in photography.
The hopelessness of understanding.
And the conviction of being.
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