Tell Me You Don’t Believe



Tell me you don’t believe in time travel and I will say, get thee to a chemist. Purchase a roll (or two, or three, or four) of 35mm film and wind it tenderly into an old camera, long obsolete in the attic. Take a moment to appreciate the antiquated whirr so absent from today’s technological devices. Tell me time travel does not exist and I will tell you to schlep that clunky camera everywhere, to work and play, parties and coffee dates. Take your time. Pay attention. Tell me time travel is a dream of children, the stuff of stories and I will say to you: forget about the film canister sitting on your bookshelf, drive it from your mind. Leave it for so very many months that you no longer remember the thirty-six scenes you photographed, the moments that drove you to release the shutter, to revel in its gratifying click-click. Months later, tell me you don’t believe in time travel as you sit on the tube with an envelope weighty with the past on your lap. Tell me you don’t believe as you sift through the glossy frames and all of a sudden it is winter again, blue waves crashing against the sherbet shore and you are running along the shingle with the taste of sea salt on your lips.

 {photo} on 400 film with Canon EOS 650