The moon is almost full and there are no clouds and there is no sleep to be found, and I walk down to my spot by the sea, a five-minute walk from my house at 3:30 in the night, to the same place I shot this and this. The street lights are off, but moonlight is underrated. While there, I meet my old friend the porpoise. Pfffth, he says, breaking the surface. It’s too dark, really, to capture motion, but I caught him: a black mass, almost like a shark fin jutting out of the water. Just something to prove that he, or she, isn’t just a disembodied sound in the void, that I’m not imagining things. On the way back, I make a self-portrait leaning on the pole of a turned-off street light. Moonlight is overrated. It takes me fifteen tries to nail the focus, I can’t see shit. The yellow light on the wooden streetlight pole is invisible to the naked eye. I lean on the pole and close my eyes for three seconds, four, long enough so that I’m not a ghost. That’s what happens to you if you don’t stay still long enough: you go see-through. Things are more nebulous at night.
In the picture, it looks like there is a flash in my face, accenting my features in white. The moon is my flash.
