It's a sunny Saturday after a week's worth of bothersome weather. A mixture of rain, hail, and gusty wind hung around for way too long like an unwelcome house guest. Bright blue skies, lots of sun, and brisk air calls for a spicy treat. I opted to drink a short-glass Bloody Mary and listen to Devendra Banhart's "Rejoicing in the Hands." The mix just seemed to work.
It had to be one-hit-wonder Spacehog's song In the Meantime last Friday night. I needed it, just like I need that first sip of coffee in the morning—and I refuse to let anyone or any cat stand between me and my salvation. Sorry, no time to clean up kitty vomit, my mind is on one track and I only know one speed. Please clear all crossings, I'm coming through.
The urgency to hear that song erupted from a romp through my teenage past. It was an off-white Volvo with brown leather seats, my two guy friends crooning "Whoooaooo ooo oo ooo" in the front as we bobbled down Wisteria Drive. I swear the tires of that Volvo never made contact with the road but instead were suspended by an air-particle conveyor belt. It always felt like it would be so easy to slip to one side and careen out of control. The last sounds I would hear would be lyrics I couldn't even understand. At least I'd be rockin'.
In "A Man Without a Country" Kurt Vonnegut describes a day of physical transactions: buying a manila envelope from a general store, going to the post office to purchase stamps, dropping off an item in the mailbox, and so on. He chit chats with the people at the counter and listens to conversations spoken in a different language while he stands in line. He then returns home pleased because he's "had one hell of a good time." It's the human interactions and experiencing the world through all five senses that is invigorating to him, that enables him to feel part of a community. When I have a day of simple errand running, as in I am actually out and about interacting with human beings, I can't help but think of this narrative and how similar it is to how I feel upon my arrival home.
Today was no exception. I had fun. I felt connected to everyone, even the douchebag behind the meat counter at the grocery store. I traveled from one part of town to the next, in no particular hurry and in no particular order. Cup of coffee, button-down shirt, cheese and capers, kitchenware, herbs. It was through this network of physical transactions for products that I formed my day's narrative, one which included vibrant smells, tastes, touches, sights, and sounds that were all my own as well as those who were near me. I could have kissed every single person I saw today, even the jerk-hole who gave me smug advice on hamburger meat.
Tonight I'm eating ice cream against my will and it's all Apple's fault. Because today I discovered that Apple doesn't really love me. I had thought we had a good thing going. I had thought Apple was looking out for me and my best interests. I had thought Apple cared about me. Sadly, I'm just another number, one tiny notch among millions on the ol' iHeadboard. And the worst of it all? I'm still in love. I'm actually hoping Apple takes me back once I get my shit pulled together. Does my hair look okay?
In high school, one of the first photo assignments my teacher issued was to photograph "tilted horizons." Naturally, all the students came back with landscapes demonstrating (ahem) a tilted horizon. There was nothing to it. Find a straight horizon line and just tilt the camera and presto, gimme an A! I think I did get an A. Reflecting back on this, I believe the lesson was meant to inspire us teenagers to think differently about how we look at the world and to be creative in how we capture it. However, there should have been a memo given to us in tandem with our graded portfolio: tilted horizons don't equal a good photograph. Okay, maybe I was the only one who needed that, because after the initial assignment, I essentially tilted every horizon I encountered, no matter what was in it.
