I heard that in a song, I think, but I don't remember which one. I just remember that when I heard it, I thought about my life and my inability to go and do. I thought about photography. I thought about writing.
And then it occurred to me that it could be a crime family thing, a warning about informing. So I did what I do. I Googled it.
"Inattentional blindness--This is a psychological phenomenon where your attention is focused elsewhere, causing you to miss a stimulus that is in your line of sight. Another related concept is aphantasia, which is the inability to visualize mental images in your mind's eye."
Hmm. People see things differently, and they see different things. Eye witness accounts are incredibly suspicious. Some people have an eye for detail while other see broad brushstrokes and outlines. Painters famously render such differences.
Then I came to this.
"The phrase you're looking for is' Omertà,' the Mafia's code of silence, which prohibits members from speaking about their criminal activities. This code is so strict that it forbids members from speaking to authorities, even when it might protect them, because the silence is considered more important than individual freedom. If a member were to break Omertà, they could face a death sentence."
There you go. The sentence cuts both ways. Who doesn't love The Google?
It brought to recollection my first trip to Mexico with Brando who was an architect. We travelled with a stained glass artist and a developer. As we drove through the countryside, I noticed that each person described what they saw in radically different ways-Brando describing shapes, the stained glass artist relating color, and the developer spying the best places to build.
The writer is taught to pay attention to all the senses, but language is largely based on sight. "See you later," we say. "We saw (fill in the blank) in concert last night." Studies show that eighty percent of what we learn is visual, but deaf people have a much more difficult time learning than do the blind.
Ironies abound.
Time and circumstance, of course, deaden the senses, all of them except the ability to feel pain, I think. As the others fade, that one seems to sharpen.
But enough of that. Let me report. My mother and I are going through what I have heard called "a rough patch." Living together twenty hours a day. . . you know. Coming off a bit of an adventure on Saturday, I was looking forward to doing something on Sunday, but after giving my mother her morning meds, after fixing breakfast and cleaning up, after preparing her afternoon meds, just as I was about to leave, my mother said in a challenging manner, "Take me to the grocery store." I thought she was being mean and sarcastic at first, but she meant it. I found this incredible since she won't walk three houses down the sidewalk to see her friend, but what could I do. I loaded her walker into the car and away we went.
I'll spare you the narrative of grocery shopping with a 93 year old who hasn't gone farther than from the bedroom to the kitchen for most of the year. She grabbed hold of a shopping cart and blocked up every aisle she could flying along at a snail's pace. I walked behind her putting the things she wanted into the cart. She did the entire store. Where this was coming from, I hadn't a clue. I was shocked by how small she looked, but that hillbilly determination was at her service.
Back home an hour later, I unloaded the car and put away the groceries. The morning was gone. We were flying through the afternoon.
"O.K. I guess I'd better get going. I have to be back to fix dinner soon."
I hadn't showered. I was wearing last night's clothes. I had been thinking about going downtown to make more pictures, but I wasn't sure which way to turn just yet. I decided to drive across town to pick up the negatives I had dropped off the day before. It needed to be done and I hadn't any other ideas.
The route took me past the Cafe Strange, and across the street in the little hippie strip mall there were tents and booths and food trucks set up for a pop up market. O.K. Maybe I'd stop. I pulled into the parking lot at the liquor store where I knew they would let me park, but I lost my gumption and turned back into the street. I'd pick up my film first. Maybe I'd stop on my way home.
At the photo shop, I saw the big fellow I'd met at the Cafe Strange many months ago when I had my Leica with me. We talked cameras and photography for awhile. This fellow is huge, NFL linebacker size, all tatted up, hipster hair and beard.
"Hey, I met you at the cafe," he said.
"Yea,"
He was looking at a roll of negatives he'd just gotten back.
"What are you shooting?" I asked.
"Dogshit."
I nodded.
"I say dogshit when people ask because, you know, you're lucky if you get one or two good pictures on a roll."
"Or one picture on two rolls."
"You and I understand that," he said, "but I hear people all the time saying, 'Everything I take is good."
"I shoot from the hip a lot, so it is really hit or miss, but sometimes the best frame on the entire roll is something random that frames up people's feet and knees and there is something on the ground I hadn't seen, and the composition will just floor me."
We chatted a bit more and said our so longs. I decided I needed to stop at the market.
I parked back at the liquor store and walked across the street. I had decided to take my film camera so that I wouldn't be tempted to look at the rear screen. Discreet. The shutter just whispers.
The crowd was what one would expect at a pop up market selling used items--freaks both wild and bland. People either wore old t-shirts or they looked ready for Halloween. I walked slowly through the crowd, through the parking lot, up and back, then again. I wanted to finish the roll of film and decided I would develop it when I got back to the house.
Home. It was mid-afternoon. I had film to scan, film to develop, and images on the computer that needed tweaking. I set the scanner in motion, got the chemicals, mixed up a batch, put the film and scissors and reels and tank and canister opener in the changing tent on the dining room table. I had trouble getting the film on the reel. Once. Twice. Three times. I tried the other reel. The film went on smoothly.
The film scanner had finished the previews, so I went in to set the frames for scanning.
Back to the kitchen. Pre-wash, developer, wash, fixer, twirl twirl twirl. Half an hour later, I pulled the negatives from the rinse water and hung them to dry. There were images. Yay.
The scanner was still whirring. Scanning takes forever. I went to the computer to work on some of the images I'd taken the day before. It was getting late. The phone rang. Then it rang again. It was the tenant. If you have any renters, you understand how much you don't want to answer their calls. But this time, it was just reportorial. She wanted me to help her turn her son's wedding pictures into a video.
"You've got a fucking Ph.D. in Text and Technology, Doc--why are you asking me?"
"I'm a theory person. You know how to do this stuff."
I had her on speaker, and while we talked, I kept editing.
"I've got to go. I need to shower and get back to fix dinner for my mother. It's frustrating. If I lived here, I'd be working on my stuff all night, but I have to go watch Gunsmoke."
Earlier, at the grocery store with my mother, I got the makings of a cabbage stew. Ham, carrots, potatoes, garbanzo beans, onions, stewed tomatoes. I threw in any leftovers in the refrigerator--brown jasmine rice, lentils, spinach. And in the end, I had done it again. I'd filled the Dutch oven to the brim. We'd never eat all the soup. I can't seem to make just enough.
I poured a drink and went outside to sit with my mother as the stew cooked. It would be a late dinner. I thought about all the images waiting on me back home.
Dinner was late, but it sure was good. Soup. It is hard to go wrong with soup. Seemingly, you can put anything in it. Whatever is at hand.
After dinner, I put on a documentary about the Russian Revolution. After awhile, though, my mother was on her high horse.
"Are you going to keep watching this?"
My blood was boiling when I gave her back the controller and left the room.
There was nothing for me to do but sit with my small laptop. I checked texts and emails. I put on music to drown out the blaring of "The Outlaw Josie Wales." When I got up to refresh my drink, my mother was looking at her phone. She wasn't watching the t.v.
Smolder.
I went outside with my scotch. I walked to the sidewalk, looked around. The sky had clouded. There had been a touch of rain.
Today is my only day this week without appointments. My days will not be my own.
"If you don't see something, you can't say anything."
Yea.
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