I discover Walker Evans ("Simple Secrets"). How could I have not known? He’s written all over me, it was like reading your own diary a life later. I’ve been too long on the margins (that word, too trendy, too redolent of cargo-cult Sydney; make that "too long on the sidelines, too long illiterate"), unable to connect with the past, the present, or (obviously) the future of photography. A knowing faux naif. (That sense of everyday strangeness, of the chaotic complexity of angles, texture, juxtapositions, reflections, recapitulations, ironies, in the everyday…).