Back in the day I’d roam the streets with my 25-year-old Pentax K-1000, desperate to find something INTERESTING.

I loved those photography courses. Photojournalism, darkroom, abstract. It seems so far away to me now, the prospect of self-betterment just for the fun of it, sitting here typing one-handed, jiggling baby number two.

These assignment shots make me hopelessly nostalgic, sniffing the five-year-old fumes of the fantasy of disposable time. Wandering, subject-hunting, answerable to no one. All snow-capped peaks and Chinatown scenes and whales from my kayak as opposed to today's snotty noses and 'spwinkle'-laden birthday cakes. Sure, I didn't have inspiration like this. Or this. But I sure do miss those creative excursions.

I remember lying on my stomach on a pile of rusty metal garbage in the rain, stalking. Chin to the pavement, facing the gloomy underside of a shipbuilding trailer on the North Vancouver docks, waiting for a pack of feral cats to trust me enough to let me document their scruff and scrappiness.

Not much different with people, come to think of it.

Accosting passerby, trying to explain why I found them interesting, somehow, just as they were.