My Artificial Tears

So, I do have glaucoma in my left eye? Ear? No, eye! EYE!  Kept in control by a laser. Shoot, shoot, shoot, a dozen, two dozen times into the socket, on the second floor of a clinic surrounded by the crime ridden Richmond ghetto,  and glaucoma is kept in check. For a while.  If only my father had heard it. He was the one who first let me know about the power of lasers. A half a century ago, man!  What did daddy know?

I went to see the ophtalmologist Oriental doctor ('Oriental' solely to provoke your kneejerk 'racist' reaction against my political incorrectness, but aren't the Israelis, among others,  'Asian', as residents of that continent?!  You should of learned your geography, teacher!)  following that painless laser surgery a month earlier.  The nurse, who, as is the custom, prepared me for the doctor's visit, checked my vision,  asked the required questions, including if I took any prescription eye drops,  or over the counter eye drops like 'artificial tears'.  No and no. Artificial tears?  Before I could ask, she was gone, and I was sitting there waiting and wondering what artificial tears were. Something women apply to their faces to pretend they are crying?  A long wait, and I should have brought with me from the waiting room the issue of the New Yorker with a story by Alexander Hemon about borscht.

My 'Asian' doctor, she not from Israel, and not from East of the Ural mountains, finally arrived, measured the pressure in my eyes,  told me that the pressure, still a bit high,  did indeed decrease by 30%, as they expected, hoped for.  Come back to see her in a month.

What are artificial tears the naive me asked?  "Oh, it's a huge industry", she answered.  Some people, predominantly women, suffer from dry eyes, and you are lucky in that respect.  Then I was wrong and  half right - women suffering from dry eyes, as well as those pretending to suffer,  do have to use artificial tears when wishing to pretend they're crying.

Walking

On some days I feel like putting on my blue jeans, my parka and walking out, walking and walking until I die of hunger and exhaustion miles and miles from here, from this cursed place,  miles and miles away  from human hatred, perfidy, self-satisfaction and evil.  One man did just that recently in this geographical area - he walked in the western direction, that is toward the Far East, if that could ever make sense, and he drowned in the waters of the Bay while firefighters and police stood there on the beach and looked on, because it wasn't in their union contracts to try to save him and wet their shiny uniforms while doing it.

The struggle

Writers struggle with words.  Photographers struggle with images. I know,  I have been one and the other.  Let me tell you a word about photography.  I struggle with images, not in the darkroom or as is the practice today in front of a computer screen with the Photoshop program running, but much earlier than that, before and while the photographs are taken.  I drive around, the dog in the back seat, the camera in the front passenger seat, see interesting sights, stop, park, get out, try to capture the image I've just spotted, and fail, sometimes succeed, struggling to repeat the initial impression.

There is a sight, a short walk from my house that has fascinated me for months that I have tried to capture in all its beauty as I have seen it.   I have failed.   See it above.  A shack, perhaps a garage, with patterns of peeling paint, that I have found interesting, but how do you show it, how do you communicate it?  It is a flat space, after all, and photography is about three dimensional space, isn't it?

This photograph was taken at 1pm today, not a good  hour for the light, but then, with such flat space would a  different position of the sun have made a difference?  It is, by the way, the best photograph of this shack that I have managed to take.

What would have made it better?  Perhaps a pedestrian on the left or right dressed in a pattern complimenting or contrasting with the patterns of peeling paint.