I’ve noticed, recently, that when I photograph a new (beautiful) place, I feel this insatiable dread. I get a headache as I look through the viewfinder angle by angle, painting the place with my shutter release. Like I won’t remember it and my senses collapse, one dimensional. What’s lost when I flatten out?

I imagined, today, walking the grey blue charcoal coast for a whole ten minutes, framing it and compensating its exposure, that I really knew it. That I walked it daily, my feet fighting the sand giving way, my ears aware of the dark birds circling overhead. I don’t jump away at the tide tumbling in because I know it won’t reach my heels yet. The sky is black and the moisture in the air gives rise to fog void of mystery. Maybe my hand is in yours. 
Maybe you know it, too.

I wondered, also, if long love draws a parallel. If after the distillation of senses (the frenzied grab) one has inadvertently gathered a sense of place. Hundreds of walks on the beach. To finally be able to step back and take a true photograph.

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