The phrase a picture is worth a thousand words is a dated exaggeration. Perhaps it held truth when one burrowed into the camera’s aperture, under curtain, balancing a plate of its flash, and then held to long hours exposing it under the midnight of a rock, or wherever it came to pass. Now there are megapixels attached to phones as afterthoughts. Surely in the age of the selfie the 140-character limit of its most common expression is a more accurate exchange rate between images and words.
My point is not to harken back to an apocryphal golden age of respect, hard work, the railroad, and polio. Even then I feel the thousand-word picture was few and far, between the umpteen hundreds of ghostly moustachioed men over-attired for the climate, a pair of some sort of muck waders shooting thigh high and trailing off cattywampus, who all stood staring dead into the sun holding a shovel, a spade, a pickaxe, what have you, to do some work that either thank god they did or was as pointless as stirring the earth itself. What I mean is the phrase has always been an average, with those like the aforementioned portraitures of Hanks and whiskered Carls bringing our Bressons into the catch phrase’s equilibrium. And the rarity of those up to snuff, appraised at a thousand, likely deserve a thousand more, or a thousand thousand. So let this preamble say not only that I’ve found the fourth leaf, come out the haystack downright pricked in the core of my heart, but above all, though I fill the very ledger of the sky with a scrambling alphabet to match the infinitesimally small and dedicated march of ants, I couldn’t exhaust its subject.