Remembering

James is a neighbor in the building where I live. He was leaning on his walker catching his breath in the lobby when I went down to photograph a gathering of crows in the rain, which I thought might do for a blip. He asked what kind of camera I had, and I told him. 

“I was a photographer myself,” he said in an islander’s accent. “A long time ago. I remember the weight of my camera in my hands. The weight of it, the smell, the sound, oh the sound. How excited I was, wondering what I was going to see. I always used a Canon. Mm-hmmm, how fast your mind works when you decide on settings, the sound it makes when you press the shutter, that click when you know you got something good. I loved it. I guess now it’s all digital?”

Yes, I said, this one is. 

“I only knew film. What does a camera like that cost now?” I told him and he let out a long whistle. “And then you have to have a good computer, and some kind of thing that you put on the computer to handle the photographs.”

I nodded sadly.

“Never,” he shook his head, “never have that kind of money again. But I couldn’t do photography now anyway. This eye here can’t see, and I can’t walk far. Your world gets smaller when you grow old, you know.”

Yes, I said. I know. 

I’m in the third day of a migraine today. I take a pill and I recover for a few hours and then it comes back. I had a date to see Margie today but couldn’t. Tomorrow, I hope. 

During a break in the migraine I watched a powerful documentary on Netflix, American Symphony (link to trailer). If you have access to Netflix, I highly recommend it. I’d say two of the main themes are that we have the capacity to hold massive contradictory feelings at the same time, and that our creative activity helps us cope with those feelings. Useful right now.