Self Portrait I

I did not make this up: Every­thing I say is about me. Even if I tell you that you are a genius, I am really just telling you some­thing about me, and not nec­es­sar­ily that I am a genius. What I also real­ized today is that every pic­ture I take is a pic­ture of me. We turn, dri­ving by a garage and the lights of the car swing through paint cans, gas cans, cans of beer, a towel, glint of a side win­dow. That garage needs a pic­ture of itself, I think, and some­thing tunes itself in me. It is the lit­tle human wink of hav­ing seen beauty and being awake for it, allow­ing it to land in me. It feels like my head falling back smooth against a pil­low, but in my soul.
This wheel, the sum­mer rolling slowly in to Bend. I see this photo inside myself before I see it with my eyes and way ahead of the cam­era. I am writ­ing this to remem­ber this feel­ing, so that I always know this is in me. It‘s joy, I think.