Because i did not want to overburden my ancient laptop, i scanned the pages at relatively low resolution.
This has caused some of the text to be a bit faint, so below each page is a transcript of the captions.
It took some figuring out.
It's not something we talk about in our community, you know.
Although i'm sure i can't have been the only one to be thinking about it.
It was smells, at first.
Saffron and incense behind the disused synagogue on Coach str.
Then, the configuration of birds in a pre-dawn courtyard
Graffitti bleeding new and sudden meaning.
However, i soon realized i was snatching glimpses from across the border, and that if i wanted to see
more, i'd have to cross that border.
Now, free as our tribe might appear to be, there's not a lot of travel we can indulge in;
relentlessly chased out of all public areas especially associated with travel, we hide,
scurry, shuffle in the dark.
We minimize our movements for fear of detection.
Brutalized by the state, we still subsist in states of our own.
States of immobility.
States of stasis.
So i decided to challenge Hob, and dispute him his
ridiculous one-lane kingdom.
- and let him beat the last vestiges of citizenship out of me.
I turned to look back, but in the turning, the one who had turned had gone.
What rose in his place navigated homeward with the ease of birds.
