Every little girl dreams of having a pink dress. There’s something magical about a pink dress that, when we collectively turn the age of about six, we decide that we really want one. I don’t know why, but it’s true.
I don’t think that boys dream about blue, but I do suspect that there’s something special about say a Tonka truck, which makes them feel masculine.
I suppose we should learn to enjoy this phase of our lives. I mean, it’s only a few years later, certainly by the time we turn 15 or so, that we start off with the, “…but pink doesn’t look good on me,” or the old standby, “…but all my friends are wearing black.” There’s something magical about a six year old dreaming of that pink dress, showing complete disregard for any other color from the spectrum. It’s like our little brains are programmed to think, “screw green! I want pink” at a certain point in our childhood development and who are we, really, to try to fend that off.
I’ve finished all my compact flash from New Orleans. It’s all loaded and ready to go onto the next big trip (or series of smaller ones.) I believe I’ve accounted for all the compact flash that I shot while I was there, I made contact sheets, burnt gold (archival) CD’s and the like. It kind of feels good to be finished yet, somehow, I wish I had more work to view.
Since I get HBO now, and I have more of a selection, last night I decided that I would watch a movie. It wasn’t the greatest of movies, but it wasn’t too bad. It happened to be set in New Orleans. I recognized quite a few places and even shot at a lot of them myself.
It struck me as really odd that, despite having spent a grand total of about 5 days there, the place feels like mine now. I feel like I’ve captured a certain special something, bottled it up, and took it back with me.
The same could be said, I suppose, for the pink dress.
But that would not have fit in my suitcase.
Until next time…