Written fragments

I was walking down Queen Street, around 3-4am, shooting. I was shooting piles of dirt after having too many animals and people in the previous shots. A guy shouts at me why am I shooting dirt. Hey, you have to strike many of the wrong chords before you come up with a new song, I reply. You know, I don't know why I shoot it, I don't know what it will look like, but I want to find out... it's just... different. We walked about a quarter of an hour chatting. Cardiff, born and bred. He told me that eighty years ago pubs were full of prostitutes, they had to. Like saloons in westerns. Kept me thinking.

On a bank holiday Sunday, everybody on Albany Road speaks Polish.

210 Weegee pictures have been found by two women that confused them with family snapshots. In a letter Weegee said that his shooting in Berlin was delayed because it was really hard to find two midgets there. On Friday we were talking about what is the average penis size of a midget. Somebody found the answer. In the film In Bruges, the character played by Colin Farrell loves midgets, maybe until he learns that they are people like everybody else. On Saturday a girl was telling me about some cute boy that was like a midget. She accused me of not loving midgets... I don't love them like you do, I like them, though.

I took a portrait of a girl biting my darkslide.

I bought a Boris Mikhailov book the other day. Pretty is not part of his photographic vocabulary. I read the whole thing and I enjoyed it. Maciej told me that it's interesting but could I look at the pictures? A day after reading it many of them crept into my mind. Mikhailov in the book -Look at me, I look at water- reminds me of a mad uncle with a strange sense of humour that forgets that his balls are hanging out of his underwear while he eats pasta and watches the news in the telly. Strange guy.