Outide, it was a dark and stormy night. Inside, a dark and somber calm pervades the air. All around me visions swirl and I am unable to make out what beings lurk beyond. I hear voices to my right, but the air is thick, and it absorbs sounds better than walls; I do not hear their words. Across the room I can make out the shape of the dens hostess, an attractive young native woman. I do not know her name, but she tends to us as if we're her children, thanklessly guideing us to the door, only tro release us back into a world we have become unaccoustomed to during our stay.  As she approaches me her face comes into focus, and I can finally make out words. I am being asked to leave, I have been in this den for several days, but I am unaware of the pasage of time. My money spent, my welcome worn, I am helped to my feet and shown the door. 

As I hit the pavement I am reminded of how much time and money I squander in these places: My shoes are worn out, the soles nothing more than a sheet of velum, spotted with holes that let in the cold and moisture of the ground. My instincts tell me to find food, and I slowly wander away from the dimmly lit warmth of the womb. I don't get far before the relization of having no money floods to the foreground of my thoughts. My fate sealed, I turn around and walk back towards the business district in search of my studio. As I approach the small mortar buiding which houses the room I call a studio I am stopped by a short, loud man. His rantings and mindless prattling on about the state of the common man in relation to housing would normally go unnoticed, but he is my landlord, and his rantings are directed towards me; my rent is due. Promises made, and then quickly forgoten, seem to satify him for now. I climb the three flights of stairs to my attic studio. The heat of day has curled papers and spoiled my chemicals. I have no time to concern myself with these matters, and instead attempt to focus my thoughts on where I placed....there it is.

I unlock my small fortified steamer trunk and remove from it an object wrapped in fine cloth. I remove the silk cloth from the camera and inspect the lens out of habit. Perhaps the finest piece of glass in this city, my lens is the eye for an entire nation. Trough this lens I have recorded events both major and insignificant, sending my visions home to stimulate both delight and debate. The role of photographer should always be to inform, through art or journalism, and I feel myself to be no exception. 

I take a seat and lay the camera aside on my end table, a small rotted wood construction made by a native tradesman, and bought for a song, quite litterally: I sang Amazing Grace at his wifes funeral. Though I am not a religious man, I know the words and I speak english, both of which have proven invaluble for the purpose of making ends meet. I turn towards a small wooden box against the wall. the front of the box is hung with heavy curtains, behind which my photographic stock sits, protected from what little light makes it through my window and cracks in the walls. Placing indiviusal sheets of carefully prepared glass into film frames of my own design, I can then remove them from the dark safty of their box and prepare them for transport. 

With my equipment readied, I make my way down the flights of stairs and into the stale air of this city. When I came here I was told the name of this city, but I was never able to pronouce it. Like many of the westerners who have come here, I have taken to calling our community The Rice Lands on account of the primary occupation of most of the native citizenry. Rice from this village is transpotred via mule trains to the mercantile exchange in Hong Kong. Once, the rice would have gone only to the Emporer and other dignitaries of the land, but now the rice is purchased, packaged, and shipped to far flung colonies to sustain the workers there, and used as feed for livestock here. What's left is often devided among the poor and infirm. We are near the port city of Hong Kong, only recetly secured by the British royals. This village could be called a shanty town, were it not for the small numberof buildings founded by explorers several years earlier. Already the salt air and rapidly changing climate of the area is taking its toll on these constructions. Perhaps it's for lack of proper building materials, but I suspect the buildings were only meant for temporary housing of the expiditionary teams that seek to exploit these areas, and as such were not meant to last this long, nor be occupied so heavily. 

Making my way down the street I hear men talking about the arrival of some Royal Navy Captain. His ship in for repairs at the dry docks in Hong Kong, he has taken leave and is at the local hostel seeking room and boarding for himself and his crew.  I make no delays, and I arrive in time to hear his demands for free quarter. The clerk does not understand, and his limited grasp of the English language only allows him to continue to insist upon payment. I use this opportunity to disarm the situation and approach the Officer in charge.  

I introduce myself as James Robert Fellows, First Assistant Photographer of the Royal Family, a small lie, but it serves its purpose. Although not familar with my work, he feels duty bound to pose for some portraits and "candid" scenes for me and my camera.  The locals, who know my work, and support my efforts, slowly begin to crowd the walkway in front of the hotel. Positioning themselves on the periphery of the scene, their expressions convey their feelings, and this is what I have charged myself to capture.  I make a gesture as if to shoo away a few straglers, I impress upon the Officer that I am trying to avoid extranious personalities from his "offcial Royal portrait".  My scene composed, I ready the camera, and remove the slide that covers the film. Urgeing the Officer to hold still, I uncover the lens, and time my exsposure. As the seconds go by I sweat, knowing the faintest breeze, or twitch of the brow could ruin my image. Eight seconds, I cover the lens, and prepare the next plate. 

I take a total of four images of this Officer, and his crew. They are a swarthy gang of men, having seen too many years at sea, and participated in far too much plunder for the well being of their souls. One of the men is in a catatonic state after seeing several of his crew mates washed overboard and left behind as they made their way across the South China seas. Others tell tall tales of adventure, mermaids, and the women they have "loved".  I am invited to dine with the Captain of the ship, although I do not wish to be in the company of his men a moment longer, I am reminded that I have not eaten today, and as I am short on funds, it may be difficult to sustain myself if I pass up this offer.  Over dinner we discuss mostly trivial matters: local custom, the weather back home in England, the topic of time travel comes up; What a marvelously preposterious notion...but it does open ones eyes to the wandering thoughts of the insane.  

At the end of the meal I am approached by the Officers secretary whom offers to buy outright the portraits I have taken. Not one to hessitate on a sale, I quickly agree to a price that involves both british currency in the amount of 80p and bartered goods from the ships stores including Wool blankets, tea, and varnish. My suspcious nature says that it in unfortunate that these images I have sold will never be seen by their intended audience, but perhaps in the scope of human history, they will be uncovered and seen by future generations.

With my pockets full of coin, and a note of promise for the goods upon my arrival in Hong Kong, I make my applogies and excuse myself from this band of rufians and oblivious officers. I step into the crisp night air, relived that the heat and bustle of the day have subsided. I return home to deposit my camera and equipment in the garret of the short angry mans boarding house, leaving 10p on the desk to pay rent the following day. I then make my way towards Liu's without delay. As I turn the corner I am welcomed home by the warm glow of lamp light pooring through the ajar door of the local opium den. As I approach the young native girl, that I know only as our hostess, smiles and urges me to step in. Once inside I take my seat among the other guests and order some gin to sip on. The hostess brings me my drink, as well as the customary long wooden and bone pipe, packed to the brim with the pungent, dark mass of rotten souls of the poppy plant.  I lay back and partake of this vice, one more time, to settle my nerves. 

As I drift in and outof conciousness my mind wanders from thought to thought, always comming back to the need for more time, more money, and more opportunity. Perhaps I'll leave The Rice Lands when I meet the captain in Hong Kong to collect my goods, if he'll provide passage on his ship. Not willing to think about where that may take me, I close my eyes, take a sip of gin, draw in some sweetly scented, and acrid tasting smoke, and exhale my mind into a coma like dreamscape.  The voices become colored mists, faces and flickering lamp lights blur together in a cacophony of mental images. The thick, opium tainted air envelopes me, and I drift serenly over the landscapes of tomarrow, today, and the past, all intertwined as one.