You know, i really like Instagram. It’s a conducive platform for bite-sized writing. That isn’t the point of IG, but the expectations of the platform make sharing offhand, barely cogent text… well, ok.
Most of my writing happens during lulls these days: the hours on public transport, breathing moments in the middle of a work stretch, or the 15 / 20 minute periods waiting in line for something, which happens a lot over here. The space to pick my thoughts apart and try to think critically about them doesn’t really exist in this context.
I don’t read as much as I want to about issues important to me. I’m thrilled about the conversations about race and gender that are (rightly) getting a goodly amount of airtime these days, but can’t keep up with the multitude of voices that are bringing new perspectives to light, nevermind figure out how they relate to my own experience of being dark skinned and female here. It informs my photography and general citizenry in this, my home country, with the first experience exacerbating the fractures of the second.
But that is a constant over the course of my life: the heart has always been at odds with the home. And when even that dialogue stops because home is no longer recognisable, this old adage seems the best course of action:
When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.
– Ansel Adams
Until then though, I will wrestle with my focus on a platform where gravity is mercifully irrelevant.