Tiny Plastic Houses

When I take a photo, my artistic eye won’t let me just take a picture. I don’t want my snapshots to be like everyone else’s snapshots. I want real photos… things that make people stop and look… Things that are not like everyone else’s shit. I want them to look, uniquely, like what I see in my head. I want them to capture the nostalgia that I will feel about this very moment one day, far in the future. I want them to grasp what made this moment so special in the first place. I want them to be more than just a family snapshot…

Which is why, I’d wager, my family hates doing cool stuff with me. (Well, my youngest, the cam-whore extraordinaire, loves it, on the whole, as she sees herself as an international model or rock star in everything she does and wants her visage to look good on film, screen and print, but the rest of the group HATES it.) Especially my eldest daughter.Her activity level is high, her attention span low and her interest level wavers between none and vague… And my meticulousness makes her aggravated with me. She doesn’t want to listen to some old mom telling her anything and she certainly doesn’t want to slow down for some old, sick mom person, whom she loves, but doesn’t have time for just now… or ever, really…I love her, I kinda understand her, but I wish, sometimes, I could be different for her Sometimes I wish I could just take the damned picture… And, in all honestly, for her, sometimes I do. But those are never the ones I post up anywhere. Which makes me feel guilty… As if I’m slighting her for her sister somehow. That one day she will angrily call me out on it and I’ll have to explain that I didn’t love one more than the other, but that one was more willing to be photographed.

Yeah, that’ll fly just about as well as a brick