Journal of a Sabbatical

May 21, 2001

uh oh!

Today's Reading: Fresh Air Fiend by Paul Theroux

Today's Starting Pitcher: was supposed to be Bryce Florie in an exhibition game against the Sox double-A team in Trenton but it got rained out. Too bad. I'd really like to see Bryce Florie make a comeback.

Some new medical study just came out showing that jet lag causes memory problems and visual acuity problems -- and --- drum roll here --- it causes shrinkage of the brain. The brain physically gets smaller. Aiiiiiiiiieeeeyyyyy! Uh oh! Now what do I do? Will bad-writing help? Will the brain shrinkage from jet lag just add-on to the doom already assured by my having mastered good technical writing? I still remember to use possessive case before a gerund. Maybe I'm not doomed. Who knows? Does jet lag affect rubber pork chops in the same way or are they more flexible? Inquiring minds want to know.

So is this jet lag induced brain shrinkage responsible for my sudden inability to photograph my way out of a paper bag? Or causing me to mix metaphors? One report mentioned visual recognition and one mentioned visual acuity. Which is it? I can still tell the difference between a kingbird and a fence post, not to mention a hawk and a hand saw. But can I compose a cat portrait without background clutter? Could I do that before? Ever?

I can't even think of things to take pictures of, never mind compose them well. But I don't think it's the brain shrinkage. You see, I just today, this very day, bought a Nikon N80. I shoved a roll of film in it and went out into the world to take pictures. I took a picture of Tom carrying a bag of groceries in the parking lot behind the Old Town Hall. After that it was hours before I made another shot. It's like trying to journal in a fancy bound book with creamy acid-free paper. The paper is too nice to mess up with anything other than my best thoughts. The camera is too good to use for bad shots. I must only use it to take perfect pictures. Worthy pictures. Pictures for the ages.

Can't do windows of Budapest because I'm not in Budapest. Windows of North Andover would get me arrested. I tried doors and window boxes of Newburyport but they all looked boring to me. I finally succumbed to the siren song of the refuge, but felt like the weeds weren't worthy of the new camera either. I took a few shots of the bank of bluets, fields of sorrel and mustard, and just random stuff but couldn't even finish the roll there. Finally came home and finished the roll on Wilbur. Wilbur on sofa. Wilbur on sofa close-up. Wilbur on floor. Where are Mondrian's pipe and glasses when you need them?

Speaking of Mondrian's pipe and glasses, Phaidon has come out with a new series of photography books called 55. Each 128 page book features 55 key photos by an important photographer. I bought two of them yesterday, Andre Kertesz (that was the Mondrian's pipe and glasses reference) and Eadweard Muybridge. I leafed through them repeatedly last night. They are fabulous.

Again speaking of Mondrian's pipe and glasses, when I showed the book to Nancy she loved the cover photo (which was of course the aforementioned pipe and glasses). I told her it was a very famous photo, one of the defining images of modernism. She'd never heard of it. She did however know that Kertesz was Hungarian. Shows you we haven't completely merged. However, she did know about Muybridge's Animal Locomotion series. She thinks both books will inspire me. I hope so.

Now if I can just keep my brain from shrinking faster than you can eat a rubber pork chop...

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