Nostalgia builds relics build Past.

For almost nine years I've lived on the top floor of a house built in the early 1900's.
Less than a week ago I moved from one place in the city to another, from the north side of downtown to the south.
Aside from this home, the longest I've lived anywhere else -- in my entire life -- is two and a half years.

Perhaps in less than another week the house in which I lived will be torn down and unrecognizable.
In the dirt there will be an impression of what, for me, is somewhere between my constant and my past,
a sign of my hefty stability and proof that signs often shouldn't be relied upon.

CHW pointed out that any photo I've taken in that house is now a relic:

what I've made contains within it preserved memories fossilized in two-dimensions.

I'm not a sentimental person, ever really, but this idea has been present with me since he said it, particularly as I attempt to organize literally fifty boxes of negatives, prints, slides, polaroids, books and documentaries I've made or been a part of.

If regret seems like a sloppy way to not make healthy decisions in the present.
then let's say that I find myself making a lot of physical and mental to-do lists.

However. I've taken one photo in this house thus far. And 'take more' has yet to appear on any list.
But I'll keep my film ready.

*

the last photo taken in my last bathtub

coco