I Am Not a Camera

[I originally wrote this in October 2011, but never posted this series on the local geology. The pictures are still worth seeing.]

The sun’s rising later. It’s dark when I wake at six. Instead of getting up, I check the heated mattress pad is still connected and snuggle back in. It’s the best time for unstructured thinking.

Some people have everything organized. Before they go on a trip, they’ve read the guidebooks, have an itinerary, know what to expect. Perhaps they’re anxious they’ll never get another chance, that this is their one opportunity and they can’t afford to blow it.

I haven’t classed them yet as a separate species, but it’s a possibility.

Or maybe I should be thankful my mother was too intimidated by Spock and Freud to do anything serious about toilet training.

I learned long ago there’s no place in this country I can’t return to. That doesn’t mean things won’t change. Some evenings clouds are so special I wish could remember them. But there’s always the possibility for something wonderful some other night, some other summer.

The freedom of retirement is that time constraints are gone. If I didn’t get quite the picture I wanted Saturday I can drive back today.

A camera matters if you’re not blessed with a painter’s imagination and skills. I may not be able to recall those clouds, but it should remind me.

And so, this morning as I lay in bed I returned to the problem of photographing rocks that apparently send no signals digital equipment recognizes. I thought maybe I should simply take a picture of the same section of that rock with each light setting on the new camera to see the differences.

Maybe tonight.

This morning there was more light coming through the kitchen window and camera settings do make a difference. The rock was determined to be brown and out of focus.

I took out the other camera, the close up one, which is turning out to be much more difficult to learn than I expected. It rarely gives me what I want when I first try, but always teases me with possibilities. It makes clear, it’s always my fault it doesn’t do what’s expected.

It folds in half, so it can be set it on its base in a V or triangle to take pictures. However, the lens is at an angle to the flat rock and gets blinded by reflecting light. I tried standing it on its end in a great U so the lens was perpendicular to the rock and things got better.

Then I decided to take a wet paper towel and wash the rock in a few places. As a child I learned it was worth while washing quartz, but useless if not dangerous with sandstone. The idea of washing a sedimentary rock was quite alien.

However, I discovered the wet rock photographed better than the dry one. Perhaps the water plays with the lens so the light reflects differently. It was finally possible to see the bits of mica and the flakes of quartz, though the focus was still fuzzy, the glints bright blurs, and the light glaring.

I have no choice but to master these cameras - a new one won’t be better, just different. But I curse them a lot, because throwing them across the room would, contrary to most rules of punishment, actually hurt them more than me.

Please, I beg them, if you can’t see what I see, can’t you please show me something better?

Tell me, is that pebbly surface of dark carbon and white silica something the land looked like before it hardened into rock? Can you show me the past?