I should be writing an essay on Medieval Morality Plays, but instead I've spent the last half an hour writing about a photograph I’ll upload tomorrow. It's not that I'm being lazy, and it's not that I'm putting it off. It seems physically impossible to concentrate on some things now, because I’ve had so many thoughts about photography pouring out of my head these past few weeks that I’ve run out of buckets to catch them in.
I need to reply to a formspring that sprung ideas about photography and reality (and I need to re-read what Susan Sontag said about it too.) I need to write about the way the earth and me talk to each other through my camera, and how it’s made me remember the way I used to feel when we first moved here from the city. There’s a different magic now, but it’s more real and so more exciting. I need to talk about the way I still never notice things as they’re disappearing, but only realise when they’re already wilted. I need to sort out what I think of self-portraiture and vanity, because my thoughts are scattered over scraps of paper in all three of my college folders and there are vultures circling above my head.
I need to do all this in order to do everything else, because photography is consuming me. I wish I could just let it.