I thumb through photographs and notes, holding them in front of me as though a city I once went to has become mine to keep.
People and places come alive to me in my mind.
People –
Shouting at white men about white women and the minimum wage.
Policeman shouting, beating up a black man because the cop is white; every time it lasts a little longer until it ends, gun at his head, caught on camera, bordered in white.
I live it all again. Places –
My doorstep ringed with prostitutes and bullet casings. That graveyard. The crumbling buildings, the crumbled hope.
Broadway, waterfront, city centre. Its like stepping through film.

Here’s one with all of us, walking down the street together. Some of us see kids in poverty caught out of childhood. In my diary I write: I saw Jesus playing in the street today, through tears and tears I see a world without pain. I think, I feel, I question…I feel ravaged, old, Camden, pity, rage, Camden, trauma, rescued, rapture. I feel remade, undone. Ecstasy and sorrow, and privilege.
Doors swing open (houses are robbed) onto streets with gangfights and (the schools are full, corrupt) low rent (streets are stinking) onto open air drug trade, open air prostitution, families not getting by. Children pray their mothers won’t cry so loud and that another night would pass. One day the kids will be older – Basketballer, footballer, astronaut, white man. One day they think, they’ll be taller and fight for their family, stop the people killing people. Camden, my Camden.

People, places, things: A freeway sign saying ‘God bless America and her military’. He has blessed your country with people strong enough to fight for what is right, and those not so strong. Too many weak ones drive straight through.
Here is a picture of the graveyard, a flag on every stone. Patriotism and politics where justice should be.
There are more than plenty democrats talking about republicans, too many republicans talking about democrats – but not enough human beings, cut to the heart.
I did my best. Next picture.

This one. Ty. I played with him for the first few weeks and someone told me about what happened after. I can imagine him now, walking his way back from school, thinking about the parcel in his bag. He doesn’t know whats in it but thinks of the Playstation he’s been promised for giving it to a stranger. Of course I have no idea what actually happened, but I’m sure that night in prison he wondered what he did wrong, and if this is how his step dad felt, and whether he would ever see a Playstation again.

Over-exposure. Damian gripping his basketball shirt into his chest, smiling himself warm inside with childish thoughts about the games he played today and excited thoughts about the fun he’d have tomorrow. My Camden, my Camden.

End of the photographs end of myself.
A man stands up upon a cross, offers blood for me.
This act means more to me than everywhere I’ve been, this love is sacrosanct, the man my saviour. This hill so high so often climbed
I watch Him there (He’s always there) feel the love, the blood, the rain. This is the reason I have lived.