Well, I managed to break another camera.
At least this time it's still under warranty, the
extended service protection plan. Error message
E18--does that mean water short circuiting from
jumping in Iris and Greg's pool? Or was it Arne's
feet splashing, kicking? Something else? Either way,
it stopped the next day, one last picture of Sarah
in the kitchen, good morning. Then grinding...kaput.
So I'm left again to gather litter, scan the bits I pick
out of my pocket after smoky days, drinky nights. I
carry so much crap with me, convinced of its significance.
Who designed this tag and what pride do they feel under
the spastic lights of clothing departments? Do they finger
their handiwork, look around, feel satisfied? How narrow
is our focus, the task at hand dwarfing even death. I am
barely here myself, watch each passing car and wonder
about its occupants.
Anything can become everything,
but you and I know there's more to it than that.