I don't know about you but there are times when I'm never quite sure, beginning to journal, just how it will turn out. So often it depends on the picture ...
My photos seem to develop personalities of their own. Sometimes, as I I scroll through, one jumps out shouting "Look at me!" in a very histrionic and posey way: "Choose me! I'm the one! Do something with me!" Others are quieter, more muted: they murmur quietly, wait in line, happy to take turns with no pushing and shoving. There are some which don't speak at all - you might hardly notice they're there. Not especially colourful, not particularly well-composed, not very noteworthy at all. These are the ones I've learnt to sit with a while ...
For when I do, what stirs faintly and delicately is not usually the photo. It's something in me - a touching, an awakening, a coming together of the faintly felt, the barely articulated. And if I begin to type, however falteringly, it gathers itself together and begins to flow through my fingers. What spills onto the page is often a surprise. As this was: just a simple Sunday photo ...
