The birds and my tripod conspired, today, to spoil the joy of my new camera. The birds took themselves elsewhere; my tripod collapsed. Still, I could hardly pack up my new toy with nothing to show, so here—have some mountains:
Nice, aren’t they? I’ve got these brilliant picture windows, here, bedroom and living room, floor-to-ceiling. I can look down at the street or up at the peaks, and there’s always something to see: birdfights and people fights, drifting trains of clouds, twinkling lights up the ski lifts, the occasional police chase. At night, the city looks like a starfield pouring down the slopes. When I look at my reflection in the window, I see galaxies where my eyes should be. It’s not the sea, of course, but it’s something to look at. Something to get lost in, when I’m distracted from my work.
It’s annoying, though. Cameras don’t focus like the human eye does, so I’ll never be able to show the world my reflection, all hollow-eyed and pricked with lights. I’ve tried with three cameras, to no avail. I could draw it, I suppose, but there’s a glow to the real thing, something I’d never catch.
I hope one day, we’ll be able to implant our eyes with cameras—use our own lenses to show the world what we see. I’ll be first in line for that, and surely, the wait won’t be long. We’ve time for A-bombs and Slankets, brolly drones and gummi Hitlers, everything no-one could want. Eye-cams, though, who wouldn’t want those? They’re coming, I know it, and I’ll open a window on my blurry-ass no-specs world. In the meantime, look—it’s my blurry-ass no-specs garden:
I tried to draw only what I saw, that day, rather than imposing understanding on it. Really, I prefer the world that way. I’m always disappointed when I look through my photos and all the haziness is gone, all the soft edges, and the camera’s added shadows and details where I never saw any.
Tomorrow, I’m getting a picture of a bird if I have to track it all the way to its nest.