Saturday, September 02, 2006

from New Haven: shattered glass

I asked a friend to look something up about replacement cameras on the Net tonight. It did not happen, but rather than finding out that it did not happen, I was told something else and before you know it, I was tangled in an untruth of ridiculous proportions.

People lie all the time, I know that. Mostly they lie to avoid the consequences of truthtelling. I do not intend to decipher the whys and whereofs of it all. I just want to note that, in terms of finding out information about replacement cameras, truth fares better than lies, not because with truth comes a better camera, but because we are, when speaking of cameras, wedged within the realm of the insignificant and if we cease speaking truthfully about the insignificant, then what hope is there ever for honest discourse?

I broke my camera yesterday. I was literally walking on the street, reaching into my purse for keys and I dislodged the camera strap. The precious little thing fell to the sidewalk with a loud crack.

Coincidentally, this afternoon I drove out with my daughter to get a new little TV. She had carried the old one everywhere with her and finally, when she brought it home after the toil of travel with it precariously balanced in her lap it quit working. It is cheaper to buy a replacement TV, I said to her, than to fix an old inexpensive one.

It is probably cheaper to replace a dropped camera than to fix it.

It is probably better not to say just anything for the sake of the pleasant ring behind good words because there are only so many fake good words that act to sooth the soul. After the initial sugar rush, fake good words just sound hollow.

As for the camera – if you hold it at a particular setting, you can still eek out a picture. I suppose you can post it and say – it’s the rain, that heavy awful rain that created the blurry lines. But after about a dozen photos, the reader may wonder if maybe it’s not the rain. Maybe it’s you, refusing to let go of a broken camera.

summer 06 937
familiar colors of a parking lot, through a broken lens and a rain-splattered window