Oranges

It is the duty of every generation of writers and artists to find fresh ways of expressing the habitual circumstances of the human condition.

Everyone who tells a story tells it differently, just to remind us that everybody sees it different.

So the past, becuase it is past, is only malleable where once it was flexible. Once it could change its mind, now it can only undergo change. The lens can be tinted, tilted, smashed. What matters is that order is seen to prevail... we have to know what we are doing, pretending an order that doesn't exist, to make a security that cannot exist.

There is an order and a balance to be found in stories.

-Jeanette Winterson

I saw some oranges today. And it reminded me of these words, from the past, kept in the realm between two states of consciousness and memory.

I also heard a saxophone quartet, playing Henry Mancini's works, the harmony of music a wall of calm and comfort.

I watched the little baby girl beside me watch them. Her eyes met mine momentarily and in those big dark brown eyes, I snatched a glimpse - only an instant - of pure wide-eyed- amazement, surveying the world... where behind lurks a growing, struggling perception. She smiles and looks radiantly happy, oblivious to life in the innocence of childhood.

I photographed that moment in my mind.

I felt envious. But only slightly. Reluctantly.