P-Y



 I can still hear the single trumpeter off in the distance, his monotonous melancholic tune gently serenading us as he meanders closer in measured step. There was something impending about the pace of it, like that tune was a subtle hint of what’s to come. I thought in that moment how my mind largely borders on the abstract, how I struggle to bring it gently back to reality, back to the unexpectedly good corner restaurant, the indulgent splay of marinated pork, fresh avocados, mashed up black beans, and the papas fritas I ordered solely to feel my lips and tongue dance out a language foreign to me. They sat cooling in that bright Mexican sun, the ketchup packets acting as a reminder that for one reason or another, being American was slightly less than elegant. 

Still the lonely trumpeter, still his incessant reminder, coming closer and closer still, begging on his hands and knees to come back, ‘please Paul just return to this present moment’. His notes were like arms frantically stammering out a point, bringing me back to this sitting out on the street, to the stinging of raised wounded skin, a tattoo gotten in remembrance of a trip yet to be over. It was an interesting thought, to get something in remembrance before the memories were yet to be created. 

I found myself furiously digging in my pockets, the loose pesos clanged out a song of their own (maybe in harmony with the single trumpeter) I just wanted to compensate him, I wanted to acknowledge his efforts, his perfectly articulated song. I wanted to commend him for the missed notes, the ones he didn’t play that resonated most profoundly with me. I wondered what the lyrics may have been, and if they went something like this: “It is in your anticipation of aloneness, does aloneness mutate into loneliness. It is in your anticipation of the future, that a remembrance of the past is too measured and meticulous to ever be free.”
Year: 2022
Location: Mexico City, MX
Shot with: 
Canon AE-1, FD 50mm 1.4L
Film Stock: Illford HP5 400