It sticks.  

And that’s the main reason I don’t really use it.  Slow and kludgy. Inept. A poor tool.  

I got a quote to repair it once.  

Like a lot of other things, I never followed through with it.  

There’s always something else you’re focused on, than the thing at hand.  The things directly in front of you.  

Always busy looking into them.  Never really understanding them on the surface.  

But if a camera can have a soul, if a machine can feel something, if it can have a temperament or a character, proclivities and justifications.  

I can’t remember when I even bought that camera.  When it came to me. But I don’t remember when I came to other people, either.  Suddenly, things were just a certain way. And feeling like they’d always been as such. 

One winter, I think back in 2010.  Before Kit and I drove to California.  

In ten years, there are other cameras.  Some of them I gave away – the Holga to my little brother, the Leica/Minolta to my older brother.  My father’s Pentax ME Super and Olympus PEN FT still sit on a shelf above my bed.  

Sometimes, I dust them off and take them out for a few frames.  And the tiny moments of past years are building up inside.  

I still prefer 35 mm.  It’s more practical, more plain, more atmospheric.  Even if it isn’t as deep or detailed.  

Sprockets and metal canisters.  And 4×6 prints from Walmart.  

Like digital, but slightly slower.  And with more soul.  

A window backwards, to minutes and slivers of moments rediscovered.