"Just back from the word-processing course I say to my old typewriter . . ." (words from a long-ago favorite poem, and from—I think—my very first blog post)
Or, today, just back from transferring the memory card from my new camera, I say to the old . . .
Thank you, dear camera no longer in your prime, for Hadrian's Wall and Durham, for York, for Lindisfarne and Bamburgh, for Hexham, Helmsley, Barnard, Scarborough, Stratford, Kenilworth, Warwick. And then for Verona, Busseto, Treviso, Venice. For Mallorca, the third time around. For London in between. For our patio, over and over, as I transformed it and it, me. For quail, melon, and sage. For kilims and Peruvian lilies. For Santa Fe, Abiquiu, Yellowstone. For Lucca, Torre del Lago, Pisa and its wonderful tower. For Christmas, carnations, and Easter eggs. For skies and birds and bread; for fallen pale green English apples on a multi-grain pavement. For Lewes (with pheasants, books), Glyndebourne (with bowties), Cheddar Gorge, and Bath. For picnics, tortoises, notebooks. For light. Writing with light, which I am of course all about, always.
And now I'm off on new adventures with a new camera. All but identical to the old, my first digital, a Pentax X70, but showing—ominously—much more dust on the beautiful surfaces. Like when I used to get new contact lenses, and say I saw things too clearly. Warts and all. Nothing will get past it, I fear. Even me.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Bear Fetish with Dust