I have been wishing I were elsewhere this week; caught myself doing it more than a few times. My July holiday is now removed enough to feel like it was years ago – why does the brain have the knack of doing that? Erasing or at least blurring from memory all the fun times, so much so that we have to take photographs to remember them by, but searing into our consciousness the unpleasant memories – we never want to take photographs of those, do we? And yet, we can’t escape those visuals. How many times have you had a flashback of something unpleasant: your broken metatarsal turning your foot violently purpleblueblack; a crushed pigeon, its bloodied innards bursting out onto the side of the road; the last person you knew who died – the way they looked, stiff and statue-like, in their coffin? (I won’t continue.)
I was in New York in May, and was reminded of that fact today by a colleague who had seen the shot I took standing on the top deck of a tour bus – which was strictly prohibited (but I only noticed the sign pronouncing this after I’d committed the crime) – and said he liked it so much he wanted a copy of it, blown up for somewhere in his home.
I look at these photos, taken a mere four or so months ago, and I think I’ve moved on since then. Today, I would’ve taken them differently. Especially the Grand Central Terminus one. Maybe not so much the one of the city’s glass-and-steel (bricks-and-mortar – so ‘last century’?), because I felt at the time that I was surrounded by it, and I think it still feels that way when I look at it now.
I want to be surrounded by it now. As much as I love Sydney, I think I love NYC more.