Week 34 - Past Future Photo

Past Future Photo

Matthew Ryan Fischer

The old man behind the counter was talking to me. Why do they always talk to me? Don’t they know better? I’m not their friend. I don’t look them in the eye or engage them. I barely ask any questions. And yet they always want to talk to me. It’s because of the past. It’s because I’m looking at their past and so they think I must be interested.

“You a photographer? Not many people using the cameras like that one anymore.”

He was looking at my Polaroid. Old technology. Outdated. More obscure every day. A relic. Just like the man behind the counter. Just like me. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to talk to them. They all look like me.

“I don’t have any film, but I can make some calls to some people that might. If you’re looking, that is. Some people use the new stuff, but I hear it’s not really the same.”

I nod and mumble a response. He’s not sure what I just said. I’m not sure what I said. Maybe it will be enough to make him leave me alone.

“I watched a documentary about that. How they shut the plant down…”

He was at it again. Apparently I wasn’t going to be so lucky.

“…Everybody went digital. It was too easy. There was no cost to it. You can capture everything with digital. No film, no time to develop. Point and click. Everyone thinks they’re a photographer now.”

I nod in agreement. Everybody does. Including myself. I’m not about to tell him that though. He probably thinks I’m some artist, sticking with the old cameras because it adds warmth or authenticity or something like that. Maybe he’ll give me a discount or something.

“You don’t want the film, maybe you want a different camera? I got a lot of other models in the back, in boxes and such. Not enough room out here for them all. What is it you’re after?”

“A moment.”

“A what?”

“The perfect moment... I’m a moment thief.” He looks at me startled. He probably couldn’t hear me right and thinks I’m about to rob him.

“A what?”

“A moment thief. I steal moments. Instantly.”

I point the Polaroid and steal a moment from him. He smiles and tries to strike a pose, a moment too late. The best photos are spontaneous photos. No staging. That’s the only way to get the real person.

“They say that people were afraid of cameras at first. Magic and all that. Thought it would steal a man’s soul. They say that there are islands and tribes in the jungle that still believe that.”

“Yeah, no. That’s just some made up nonsense.”

“I don’t know. I read about that.”

“It’s an urban myth. Everybody heard it from somebody or read about it in some book. The ignorant keep it alive because nobody can prove or disprove it and they’re sure they heard it somewhere. Trust me, nobody ever really thought that.”

“Well, you might be right... Who’s to say?”

Yeah, I know I’m right you inbred idiot. But I keep that thought to myself.

“You got any old photos?”

“Old photos?”

“Yeah like when a person dies or drops off some photo albums? Or maybe left over in a shoebox? Old photos.”

“I know what you mean.” He was annoyed with me. Good. I made him annoyed. He finally realized he had feelings I could hurt and that I was an annoying prick. “I know, I know. I get boxes of junk. Back shelf in the corner near the curtain. None of them are sorted. You can rummage through and take what you like. Not much value to that sort of thing. Sad really. Somebody dies and nobody left to take the pictures. No family. No one to remember...”

I start to walk away. He wants to say more. He wants to tell me about the dead and how there’s honor there. How life is worth living and the dead should be remembered. How it’s not fair that we all rot and turn to dust and get forgotten. He wants to tell me. How do I know? Because they all want to tell me these things. Garage sales, junk shops, second hand stores. Every time I start looking at something old, people want to tell me about how it has meaning. What they mean is that they want their existence to have meaning. I can’t smile and pretend that it does. It’s better to walk away than to listen. It’s better that they see the back of my head than the pity of indifference in my eyes.

“Everybody should be remembered, dontcha think?” I grunt at him. I don’t want to see his eyes. I’m afraid what I might find in them if I look. “Especially the children. Those are the worst. Looking at the young when they’re no longer there.”

I head to the back of the room. On the bottom shelf are a row of photo albums, picture frames and a couple of boxes of loose photographs. Right where he said they’d be. I don’t know why. It’s just junk. He can’t sell this stuff. It should have just been thrown out. But he was too sentimental. I tell myself he’s a fool. But then again I’m the one back here looking at them. So what does that make me? I tell myself that I’m an investigator, but I know the truth.

One thing the old man was right about – it’s hard to look at dead children. I don’t know why that should be worse, but it is. Everyone in the pictures is dead now. Young, old, happy, sad. All dead. Long gone and forgotten. Nobody knows there name. And it wouldn’t matter if they did.

Sometimes I bring an old fountain pen and write names or dates or locations on the back of the photos. Someone else someday will find these and think they mean something that they don’t. And that person will never know. I will have invented history. Not that it will mean much. But it will mean something. Steal a moment from someone, give someone else something new. Maybe some great artist someday will make some great genealogical masterpiece and my nonsense will be included. And maybe I’ll be long dead and will never know. Still, I smile at my work. From this moment on, I will have altered the world.

I take the photo out of my wallet. Like I always do. The photo of the solider.  I stare and him and he stares at me, with his cold dead eyes. He looks hollow inside. A man going off to war, already dead inside. A man without a soul. A man already dead.

I set my photo on the floor, so I can look at it while I flip past the faces. The blank faces. What am I hoping to find? A match? A relative? Someone who might know something or someone like my dear soldier. What are the odds? Where has he been? Who has he seen? The soldier won’t tell me. But maybe the photographs can.

I find myself looking at the pictures more and more. It seems like every day now. I seek them out. I mix and match and paint myself a tapestry. I draw lines of connection and inference. I build a timeline. The more I find, the more I am sure there are others out there. There in the past, locked away. Moments in time. Stolen little moments, waiting to be discovered and filled with meaning.

I visit more stores. I visit the estate sales, the shops and funerals. The more I look for them, the more I find. The faces – there are so many faces. They blur together and all become one. Am I sure I’m not just seeing things? Imagining things? All in one.

I can’t help myself. I have to look. I have to find them. This is my grand genealogical art institute. The museum of life. The museum of history. The lost artifacts that no one knows, that no one is looking for. I am the only one. It gives me purpose. It spurs me on. The more I find the more I know are out there. The more I look, the more they become.

Am I infinite? Am I everyone?

I drive myself mad with the questions.

The solider stares back at me. His eyes are gone. Lost to age and cheap paper and bad film and bad developments. I tell myself I can still see his eyes. What secret does he hide? What does he know? Did he know he was going to die? Did he know where he was going? Did he know where he had been? He looks calm. Morose. Something inside him was dead already. The photograph didn’t steal his soul. He already had none.

I tell myself these things. I tell myself I can see what can’t be seen.

His crooked mouth hides a smile. Of knowledge? Wisdom? Or maybe he just had a crooked smiled.

“That your grandfather? Great-grandfather?”

The old man is behind me. Nobody invited him here. Nobody asked him to come and spy on me and see what I was doing. Why was he here? Nosy old prick.

“No...”

“It looks just like you.”

“Funny. It sort of does, doesn’t it.”

“Just like you.”

I keep finding them. The past. Or maybe the future. Just like me. All in one. Am I infinite or am I crazy? Warriors, killers, the broken, the ugly, the mean… what is it that the future holds for me? What past is this that I am to become?

The soldier smiles and keeps his secrets. He won’t tell anyone. But someday that crooked smile and those empty eyes won’t just be his anymore. Someday, when I am over and he has just begun.

Week 33 - Slip Away

Slip Away

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Everything I want to let go. Can’t I just let go? Couldn’t I begin again? Can’t I just begin?

I take a deep breath and slip away. Slip away into the stream. Cosmic and chaos and all good things considered. I was told there would be so much more. I was told so many things. Lied isn’t the right word. But told. Told and convinced. There would be so much more. I let the energy flow over and around. I feel the world. I let it touch me. I let it sink in. I take a deep breath and then I am gone.

The chaos is the best part. Always. Call it what you like – controlled commotion, ordered disorder – the chaos is always the best part. You are one with everything and nothing. Inside and out. Forever and never. It’s like surfing on a wave of radiant energy, except it’s not surfing and it’s not a wave. A turbulent flow of gravity. There was at least some truth to that.

I reach out and feel the energy flow, the slipstream... I hold space-time in the palm of my hand. Except that my hand is nothing and there is no fabric of reality to be held. That was one of the lies. The idea that it was an item, something to be seen or touched or felt. Something that could be nudged or pulled or taken or controlled. They were all lies. They always are.

We sail into the sea, we three, and when our ride is done, what shall we be? Three young and dumb. Naïve. Blissfully ignorant. That’s what we were. That’s what we became. That’s what we still are, if any of us is left. If any of that makes sense. We thought. We had thoughts. We tried. We certainly tried. I have seen them forever ago. Or forever from now. Or fornever again. It blends and wraps and intermixes. I can’t tell anymore. They were just here. Or maybe never were.

Everything I want to let go. Can’t I just let go? Can’t I just slip away? Why do I have to exist? Is that a riddle? Somewhere inside is the answer. I never existed and have always been here. Space-time doesn’t know. It doesn’t care. It can’t perceive. It just is. Something that is, can’t be not. It can’t be made or broken or altered or changed. It is, despite what we do to it. Did to it. Tried to do to it. It is and all we are are pale shadows underneath.

The tides take me over. The tides take me away. She smiles at me. Somewhere, deep in the mists, she smiles. I know she does. I know she is there. Even if she isn’t anymore and possibly never was. She is there and she remembers. She has to be. Still. Despite all that I have done.

Consume my soul. They want to tear it apart and consume my soul. What good is my soul when I am no one and nowhere? They look for my body, but they don’t realize I am gone. How can they find my soul when they can’t find myself?

Slipped away. I slipped away. Into the slipstream and the great beyond. The boundaries of space and time. The other great dimensions and all their lovely lights. Pink. The universe always looks pink to me. Slippery little strands of pink spaghetti. I think I’m the only one who sees it that way. I think I’m the only one who can. Maybe I’m right or maybe I’m crazy. None of the others ever explained it this way. Maybe they lied, or maybe they just couldn’t see. They told themselves what they could and saw what they should. But not me. Oh no, not me. I saw mine and they saw theirs. Take the strands and give them a tug and see what happens. What sort of system is that? The continuum didn’t care. The slipstream didn’t care. I could pull all I wanted and it would slip and slide free and tangle itself all up again however it saw fit.

I can touch anyone or anything and yet all I feel is empty and alone. My hand goes somewhere, but perhaps I am but a ghost. I go right through what I should feel and get stuck when there is nothing there. I wish I knew what they felt. Them or her. What any of them felt. We couldn’t tell each other. We couldn’t see what the others could see. Where are they now and why did they forget me?

Everything I am is gone. Everything I was is gone. Everything I want to let go. Can’t I let go? Can’t I let it slide and let the flow carry me away? Where to? Where would I go? What would I be next? Only the stream would know and I am too afraid to slide and find out.

Lost. Once there was a path. Now stolen by the stream. My eyes fail me, or perhaps it was the flood.

Is this it? Do the tides take me away? Does chaos reign supreme? Have I ended or have I finally begun? Both seem wrong. Both seem gone. The path that was once there, no more. The rules and guides and lies and I am left empty. No one to control, nothing to change. The stream is never ending and I am done. Nearly done. Or close to it.

The chaos takes me away. What, my lord, I ask, is left? What can I become when all I am reminded of is all that has gone wrong? I try to hold on, like I did when I was young. The tides swell and wash around me. Set me free. The freedom to be me. I am free. I breathe deep and slip away. Everything I had is gone. Everything I was is done. Everything I want is let go and I am gone, lost to the stream, lost to the undone, lost fornever more.

Related Reading:

The Daily Fischer Day #72 – String Story

Week 32 - Substitute

Substitute

Matthew Ryan Fischer

“Tell your Uncle thanks.”

“Thanks…” mumbled the boy. “Thank you,” answered the girl. They didn’t look happy, but they had to pretend to be. Their mother had raised them to do at least that. They were dutiful if nothing else. It made Andre smile. He could see the disappointment on their faces. Kids were always transparent, even when they thought they were fooling you or getting away with it. The girl had at least tried to feign interest and excitement. It was cute. It was endearing. The boy was always sullen and shy. It was harder with him. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t his fault, but it was always easier to love his niece. Andre tried to remember that as best he could.

“Why don’t you go play with your new toys,” suggested Camilla. “Let me talk to Uncle Andre.”

Emily and Daniel nodded. They took their “new” toys and went outside to play. They left the wrapping paper where it was, some on the kitchen table, some on the floor.

They were unhappy with the toys that Andre had brought. He knew it, they knew it, and their mother knew it. The toys were cheap. They were knockoffs. Being poor sucked. People could always tell when you were poor, but it always felt worse when you had to give poor-people presents. Poor-people presents were hardly presents at all. They were an obvious reminder that the gift giver was poor and couldn’t afford a real present. They were a shameful admittance of guilt. Everyone could see it and everyone had to pretend they didn’t. There were always sad and disappointed looks from the kids. And pity from the parents. That part was the worst. The kids made you feel shitty for a minute, but the parents wouldn’t let you forget it. You got mumbled thanks and insincere smiles or hugs. A lot of the time they would ask “what is it?” or simply say “oh... thanks…” and then you’d get blank faces as they tried to hide their real thoughts. The toys would end up sort of being like something they’d heard of, but not the real things. Toy cars that could turn into other things, but they definitely weren’t the right ones from that summer movie they just saw. There were blond dolls, but the name wasn’t right.  There were generic play sets and generic action figures. The building blocks weren’t from that theme park they wanted to visit. All the boxes had smiling kids on them, but only disappointed faces in real life when the wrapping paper was torn off.

The kids were poor. Andre was poor. Their toys were going to end up being poor-person toys. Too bad for them. Nothing Andre could do about it except feel bad with wishes and regrets which wouldn’t change a thing.

Andre crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to grab a beer. He didn’t even think about asking. He had been in this house so many times and performed the same action. It was just so common. He hadn’t realized how much this house felt like his home.

There were crayon drawings hung up on the refrigerator door – budding artists the kids were not, but it didn’t matter. Andre loved it. It made it feel like a family lived there.

He took a pull on his beer and closed the refrigerator door. Camilla didn’t look happy. She seldom did anymore.

“So you make up your mind yet? You’re selling the house?”

“I have to,” she replied.

“Kids love it here. They got their own room. The back yard.”

It wasn’t much of a back yard. Just enough space for a tree and a barbeque grill and a few toys to spread out on the ground.

“Yeah well, what are you gonna do? They’ll get used to it.”

“You know where you’re going yet?”

“Some apartment somewhere.”

Andre took another drink of the beer. He didn’t have any real solutions to offer. He knew he didn’t. She knew it too. Still, it he wished he did. It made him sad that he didn’t.

“You okay for money? Other than the house, I mean. I could help you out a little, you know.”

“Yeah, right. What could you do?”

“I don’t know. I could do something.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to...”

“I got money. I’m working shifts back at that diner again. I got money.”

“I didn’t mean anything—”

“Andre!”

He shut up. He knew he should have shut up a minute earlier. It was stupid of him. He couldn’t make her problems go away. He knew that. He certainly didn’t have the money to fix what needed fixing. But he wanted to help. They were his family. He couldn’t do much, but he wanted to do something. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Andre walked over to the patio door and looked out at his niece and nephew.

“What are you doing?”

“Daydreaming, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, stop it. It doesn’t do me any good.”

“I know... Look at them out there. They’re just kids. They have no idea.”

“They know plenty. Too much already.”

“They shouldn’t have to. I feel... I feel...” He trailed off for a moment, lost in his loss. He took another drink of the beer.

“What if she was mine?”

“She’s not yours.”

“I know... but—”

“I’m telling you –”

 “What if she was?”

“Goddamn it. Don’t give me that shit. Those are your brother’s kids. Kids. As in one, two. Two. Not yours. Not yours.”

“Michael’s gone.”

“Fuck you, I know that.”

“He’s gone... And—”

“That doesn’t mean I suddenly get wet for you.”

“Don’t be a bitch. That’s my niece and nephew. I still care about them.”

“Why don’t you get a real goddamn toy next time?”

Andre stood there, silent, letting the bite wash away for a moment. He bit his lip and swallowed what he had to say. After a breath he drank the last of his beer and set the bottle on the countertop.

Andre leaned in and kissed Camilla on the cheek.

“I’m gonna go say goodbye to them.”

He turned to the door.

“Andre...”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t really know what to say.

“I got a shift. I got to go.”

“Maybe you could come by sometime soon. Without Michael here... They miss him, but they miss you too. They do.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by.”

“How about this weekend?”

“Maybe this weekend.”