pixpopuli – blog

We planned to spend today shopping, and visiting one of the family businesses with Priya. She sent her driver to fetch us from Chez S and drive us to there. He took us through a series of narrow winding streets, and we were ultimately admitted through iron gates into a compound that used to be a textile mill, but is now being transformed into a film and TV production facility.

Priya, who is a cinematographer by profession, has been working on this project, managing the renovations as well as the production business. When we arrived, she greeted us with tubes of cream and directed us to apply it to our skin. I thought it was sun block, but she said it was to protect against malaria carrying mosquitoes. This was one of many similar moments we experienced in India: moments which make you think “we’re not in Kansas any more”. Later we learned that she had recently contracted malaria, and was very ill with it, so it makes sense she would be vigilant.

Another such moment came when I learned that her brother Vikram had recently contracted Dengue fever. He shrugged, saying it’s quite common and generally not that serious, and he’s probably right. It just sounds so exotic, which is OK for dancers, but not for diseases.

So we dutifully applied our mosquito repellent, and Priya began to show us around the facility. There are multiple buildings in various stages of transformation. Some are already in use for shooting TV shows. In one building, we encountered these construction workers taking a meal break in one of the partially renovated buildings. Notice that no-one is wearing jeans, or any clothing bearing a logo. We were impressed by this everywhere we went. In another building, we saw a TV show being filmed. We tiptoed in past a bored looking sound guy at a makeshift mixing console, with cables snaking across the floor into another room where they were shooting what appeared to be a soap opera.

Our tour was interrupted from time to time as Priya took phone calls, or men (Priya seemed to be the only woman present, apart from an actress) came up to consult with her about the renovations. It was quite hot outside, though cool in the shade. We were given bottled water to drink, and Priya showed us a vegetable garden that had been put in at the request of Mr S. Business is business, but in India it seems food is never far from one’s thoughts. Saali loves weeding, and eyed the garden wistfully, but managed to restrain herself.

At this point, our tour was almost over, and we were to go to lunch. Priya had some business to attend to first, and Saali and Flo had wandered off somewhere. I stood in the shade of a large tree and waited. Two women approached me, with a little girl in tow. I guessed one was the little girl’s mother, and the other perhaps her grandmother.

They were all dressed beautifully in bright colors, and came right up to me as I stood waiting. The little girl looked at me, and said in perfect English, “How are you today, Uncle?”. It was quite disarming, and more than a little bewildering, and I’m sure I paused for an impolite length of time before I responded that I was well thank you, and asked how she was in return. After a slight prompt from her mother, she said she was well too. Then they took their leave, and walked on. Outside the gate, a man rode by on a bicycle calling “Needle-Wallah Needle-Wallah Needle-Wallah”. Once again, that “not in Kansas” feeling.

Priya took us to lunch at a seafood restaurant, where we ate crab and tandoori pomfret. The waiter bought the crab, still alive, and the pomfret to our table for us to judge their freshness before they were cooked. The food was delicious, especially the pomfret, a Mumbai specilaity. Afterwards we did some more fabric shopping before going to see Priya’s new apartment. Here, Flo amd Saali rest while Priya arranges for them to be tortured by a Thai masseuse.

Their massage was to take about an hour, and we decided that I would use the time to walk around the area to take pictues. The spa was in a very crowded mixed business and residential district. It was late afternoon, and the streets were jammed with people and traffic. I was still far from comfortable taking pictures, and once again overwhelmed by the sheer visual complexity of the surroundings. Normally I find such complexity and chaos a source of creative energy, but as had happened the previous day, I had to walk around and concentrate hard before I began to see it properly. I shot a dozen or so frames, but only a few were keepers. If you click on these larger images, you can see a higher resolution version.


Chaos in Mumbai. Glossy canopy of auto rickshaw, A.K.A Tuk-Tuk, in foreground.


Same location, public transport.

At one point, I was leaning against a building, and felt something touch my hand. A small boy was standing close to me, with his fingers touching my wedding ring and feeling the sleeve of my shirt. There was something furtive about him, something creepy and unsettling. Like the little girl had earlier, he addressed me as “Uncle”, but there was nothing respectful about it. He asked the usual questions: Where are you from, first time in India, how long have you been here, etc. He wasn’t begging, didn’t seem to want anything and soon left me alone. Shortly after, I saw him again, by the stall of a street vendor. One man held him down on the ground, while the vendor went through his pockets, pulling out items he had stolen.

All around were stalls selling shoes, clothing, trinkets, and all kinds of unfamiliar eatables. All the food stalls were crowded, doing brisk business. The man below approached me, wanting to shine my shoes for 20 Rupees. I didn’t want them cleaned, and was feeling mistrustful after the pickpocket. He was very insistent, and stayed a while asking me the questions, telling me his story. I liked him.


Shoe shine man, KFC franchise, Mumbai.

I kept saying no, and he eventually he gave up, said he would pray for me, and walked off. I regretted that I had become so defensive after the pickpocket brat, and wanted this encounter to end differently. So I called him back, offering him 50 Rupees to pose for this picture.

A certain online dictionary defines disorientation as the loss of proper bearings, or a state of mental confusion as to time, place, or identity. Salman Rushdie, in his astonishing novel “The Ground beneath Her Feet” describes it as ‘Loss of the East’. While most of India is closer to the equator than most of the US, many places in India are at longitudes 180 degrees away from locations in the US. Roughly speaking, if you’re in the US, then India is literally the far east; it’s as far east as you can go.

Traveling to India is a challenge. If you are in Los Angeles and ask how to get to India, the correct answer would be the wry “you can’t get there from here.” You have first to go somewhere else, and then go to India from there. In our case, somewhere else was New York, where we were to be joined by Flo’s sister Saali, who knows people in India, and who indeed was the driving force that got us to India at all. We owe her a mountain of gratitude.

So in Rushdie’s sense, we began in a state of disorientation, and then mother nature blinked, and the entire east coast of the US was covered in snow, including certain locations important for international travel. For example, airports. Our plans were thrown into disarray, our departure was delayed by a few days, and instead of a 15 hour direct flight from the east coast to Mumbai, we had first to go to Frankfurt. You can’t get there from here.

I’m far from the world’s most seasoned traveller, and by the time we were in this transit lounge in Frankfurt, I was exhausted. Flo seemed tired but nevertheless awake. Saali and I attempted to nap while waiting for the connecting flight. Still more than 8 hours to go.

Our original plan had us arriving at night, so we could go to sleep immediately and wake to a full day. Instead, we arrived in Mumbai just before dawn. My first impressions: heat, immigration & customs very crowded but crowds polite and orderly, and a peculiar smell of burnt dust in the air that Saali said was characteristic of Mumbai and made her happy. We lugged our baggage to the curb, where Saali recognized Mahavir, the driver dispatched to meet us. By the time we reached our accommodations, the eastern sky was full of light.

Our hosts while in India were Mr and Mrs S and their family, and it must be said that if we owe Saali a mountain, then to them we owe all the Himalayas. They have made Saali part of their family, and she is godmother to two of their grandchildren. Throughout our stay, they were the exemplars of hospitality. Originally they had planned to be at their country home in Amritsar around this time, but they changed their plans and stayed on in Mumbai in order to meet us when we arrived. Because our travel plans had been delayed by bad weather in the States, Mr S had to leave for Amritsar before we arrived, and it was Mrs S who was our host and guide for the first few days.

In Mumbai, they have a 3rd floor apartment overlooking the ocean and facing approximately west. There is not enough room to accommodate three adult guests, so Mrs S arranged with her upstairs neighbors, Mr and Mrs N, to provide us with a lovely private room, with our own bathroom and a view of the ocean.

When we arrived, Mrs S was about to take her morning constitutional, which consists of either a walk along the sea front or a walk around the racetrack, followed by tea with a group of old friends at RWITC, the Royal West Indian Turf Club. We were invited to come along, and were treated to what we thought was a delicious breakfast (only to learn that our actual breakfast was still to come) and pleasant conversation in the garden at the turf club.

According to Mrs S, this group meets here every morning before work, and consists of doctors, lawyers and people in business. They joked that during these meetings, the doctors would dispense legal advice, and the lawyers medical. Bottom right in the picture is Mrs S, with Saali’s face partly visible at the top left.

It was all very pleasant, with uniformed waiters, endless tea, melba toast, and samosas. Jockeys, owners, trainers milled around. We were quite close to the track, and from time to time a horse would gallop by in a training run. The weather was delightful, and it’s hard to think of a more pleasant way to greet the sun.

Above us, birds of various kinds circled. Some were Kites, and there were many Crows, abundant everywhere in India. They are beautiful black birds, with elegant grey necks, about the size of the ravens in California, with an inquisitive personality like the Magpies in Australia. Whenever I saw them, I smiled. They love to carry objects in their beaks, and can often be seen with bits of wire or other man made materials. Once in Delhi, I saw one carrying a plastic drink cup.

In India the cars are small and the drivers expert. We needed two cars to get the four of us back to the apartment. Saali was keen to catch up with Mrs S, so they took a taxi, while Flo and I were driven by Mr and Mrs A, a couple from the tea group, both doctors.

We arrived back at the apartment to be greeted by a table set with a full breakfast, dal, roti, yogurt, toast, tea, eggs. This was to set the tone for our entire trip, which developed into more or less continual feasting punctuated here and there by the occasional shopping or sightseeing trip just to maintain the illusion that we were tourists on vacation. But the feasting was central.

Saali had tried to warn us of the onslaught of eating we were about to experience, but in retrospect I think nothing could have prepared us. It was clear that Saali was keen for the shopping portion of our journey to get underway, so as soon as breakfast was complete, we set off into the wilds of Mumbai. Mahavir was our long suffering driver, and Mrs S our guide. Flo and Saali were after Kurtees and fabric by the yard. I wanted to take some photographs. So while they shopped, I wandered around outside with my camera, and experienced another kind of disorientation which manifested as an inability to see what was around me in aesthetic terms.

While the ladies examined every single article for sale in two stores at this location, I wandered forth and back attempting to see something that wanted to be photographed.

I noticed my attention was drawn to the red cloth hanging above the sidewalk at the end of the block, and came back to it a few times to photograph from different angles.

It seemed as though I had forgotten how to work my camera, and I had a lot of trouble with clipped highlights in the beginning, and then problems with underexposure. I was feeling tired and awake at the same time. I had had no sleep for more than 24 hours, yet here I was in dazzling sunlight somehow simultaneously awake and asleep, bewildered and disoriented. A continual stream of hawkers approached me wanting to sell trinkets of various kinds; obviously I looked like a tourist, and I imagined that I stuck out like a sore thumb. A young man dressed all in white attempted to give me something, but I refused whatever it was. He kept insisting that it was free, that he was a holy man and it was some kind of religious offering, and that it would bring me good luck. But I felt very mistrustful, and too timid to take his photograph.

I never felt unsafe, but began to feel besieged by these fellows. I took another picture of the red cloth, just to try and get myself into the process. As I was reviewing it, a street vendor right next to me (visible at bottom right in the picture above), leaned over to look at the picture as well, and I was suddenly disarmed. Somehow his innocent assumption that I would want to share what I was doing began to open me up, making me feel less afraid.

In the two weeks we were in India, only one person refused to be photographed, and most were keenly curious to see the picture I had just made. When he saw what I was attempting to photograph, he motioned to the vendor at the end of the block, the owner of thee red cloth, and apparently told him to arrange it properly because I was trying to photograph it. I quickly signaled him to leave it as it was, and finally made the following image, which I guess is good enough.

It’s more the way I see things, anyway, a kind of chaotic balance that I find intriguing. I walked back to the store where the ladies were shopping, and took some photos inside the store, still trying to feel comfortable photographing in these unfamiliar surroundings. Here, Saali in a kurtee buying frenzy.

During our outings, Mrs S was frequently on the phone. This I later learned usually meant she was giving instructions to the cook for the next meal, or maybe the one after that. Here, Flo is in the mirror, selecting fabric to make pyjamas, and Mrs S at right, on the phone almost certainly talking about food. Flo is wearing her blue kurtee, which, alternating with her similar red one, was what she wore for the entire trip. Both of us packed all the wrong clothes, and ended up not wearing most of them.

I walked outside again, and noticed for the first time the front window of the store that was currently being emptied of all its kurtees. A very simple window design, with tessellated pavement reflected. Right up my alley.

After this shopping expedition, it was time for lunch. Mrs S took us to Gajalee, a South Indian restaurant. I was convinced that we stopped at the cricket club, but everyone assures me that I’m wrong about that. In any case, the service was somewhat overwhelming, and barely had I popped some morsel into my mouth when a waiter appeared and replaced it with two more. Every time they would bring a new dish, they would offer namaste, usually while I had a mouth full of food and hands covered in curry. I’m a rather messy eater when I use a knife and fork, and it’s perhaps best not to imagine how I cope when eating with my fingers. It’s not a pretty sight, that’s for sure. The food was unlimited in quantity and variety, and, to borrow the favorite superlative of Mrs S, was superb. At lunch we also met Priya, the younger daughter of Mrs S.

I can’t remember what happened during the rest of this first afternoon. I know we made arrangements to spend the next day with Priya, and that at some point we ended up at Chez S. Presumably we had tea, and I seem to remember some discussions about dinner we would have. I also remember going upstairs to our little apartment to “freshen up”. I’m pretty sure the sun was still up at this point. The next 15 or so hours are now stuck in my memory like scenes from a David Lynch movie, in which it’s difficult to discriminate between dream and reality.

The apartment building is architected as a rectangle, as far as I can discern. The narrow side faces the street, and the long side goes back into the property. Running down the length on each floor is a straight corridor, with apartments opening off it. The apartments are large, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms, and large kitchens. The apartment of Mr and Mrs N seems to occupy the full width at the back of the building, as well as a good proportion of one side. Consequently, this apartment has two entrances. One, the main entrance, is at the end of the corridor, and leads into an entry hall from which you can access the other rooms. The other is located about half way down the corridor, and opens into a large open utility room, which has one wall completely of floor to ceiling windows, and a sliding glass door that opens further onto a large balcony. In this room there is a shrine, a large TV, and some space for ironing. Let’s call it the laundry room. The spare room in which we stayed also opens off this room, with its own locked door. So to get into our room, we had two keys. One opened the door from the corridor into the laundry room, and the other opened the door from the laundry room into the spare room. We were asked to keep both doors locked, which I diligently attempted to honor. Perhaps you are by now wondering why all this detail about rooms and keys. Fear not.

So on this first evening, I took both the keys from Flo, and went up to prepare myself for dinner and more socializing. I had now not slept for perhaps 36 hours, and felt my reserves of energy were very low. I spent some time figuring out how to plug my camera charger into the diabolically designed electrical outlet, and then lay on the bed, just for a minute I swear, and immediately fell into a profound sleep. I think at some point, Flo came in to tell me it was almost time for dinner. I was feeling extremely disoriented, hardly knowing where I was or what time it was, or even what day it was, but felt obliged to go down and make an appearance, and I believe I said I would do so in a few minutes. Flo left me to go back downstairs.

The next thing I remember is someone knocking on the door. I struggled to wake myself, and opened the door to see a man completely unfamiliar to me, who spoke no English. In retrospect, I realize it was a servant of Mr and Mrs N, but at the time I had no clue, other than that he was some member of that household. He never attempted to speak. Instead, he pointed to the outer door, the one that opens onto the corridor, and made a highly articulate mime of unlocking it with a key. This was very confusing to me, because as a member of that household, he could just use their spare key if he wanted to open the door. Did this mean they had no spare key, and yet needed to open the outer door from time to time? What would they do if we were out, and they needed to open it? Did Mrs get it wrong, when she said we should keep both doors locked? Very unlikely, knowing what I know of Mrs S. With these thoughts adding to my state of confusion, and still groggy from sleep, I stumbled over to the outer door, and attempted to open it with the wrong key. Fumbling some more, the servant observing me with that look of pity one reserves for the mentally incompetent, I managed to open it with the other key. I thought what he wanted was just to have the door open, so I showed him it was open, but didn’t open it wide, or look out. I began to stumble back to bed, thinking something had gone wrong with the arrangements regarding the doors and keys. The servant however, opened the door wide, and looked out into the corridor. There was nobody there. He looked at me confusedly, and closed the door again. Since it seemed they wanted it unlocked, I kept the key, and went back to our room, falling asleep again immediately, but filled with anxiety that someone needed to understand there was a serious problem with the arrangements. In my disoriented state, this problem took on epic proportions, but I could not understand how to fix it.

I believe what happened next, was that again I heard a knock at the door. Struggling to my feet, I opened it to see Saali standing there telling me that dinner was being served, or perhaps asking whether I was alright. To me it seemed many hours since I first came upstairs to freshen up. It was quite dark, and I had no idea what time it was. I knew however that I couldn’t pull myself together enough to make conversation, and certainly could not eat anything, so asked her to convey my apologies, and that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. I also tried to make her understand that there was something wrong concerning the key, and that it was very important. It seemed to me that civilizations might fall if it were not sorted out, but I was unable to convey the urgency to her. She left, and I’m sure she gave me the same look I had got from the servant earlier, as though I had taken leave of my senses and would soon be in a mental institution.

Time, apparently, passed. Yet another knock at the door, and there was Flo, with some kind of metal contraption in her hand. Mrs S had become concerned about me not eating, and had sent up some food. There was soup, some fried okra, and chicken sandwiches, all stacked in cleverly nesting metal containers held together by a wire clamp. Apparently, dinner had finished and Flo was coming to bed. I had missed a highly convivial evening with much laughter and happy conversation that she would tell me about in the morning. I made one last, desperate attempt to make known the serious problem regarding the keys and doors, telling Flo that it was really, very important that she understand me, and alert the authorities. But I failed, and she told me, all the while stifling giggles, that it was alright and she would explain in the morning.

Here is an example of the kind of crap my fevered brain comes up with. Or perhaps I should say, “up with which my fevered brain comes.” Recently, Flo and I attended a concert at the Disney Concert Hall. The L.A. Phil, conducted by Zubin Mehta. Beethoven’s 3rd, and some other stuff. It was pretty good, they seem to be getting the hang of the whole music thing. Well done guys and gals.

But you have to wait, while they assemble on stage, tune their instruments, and the audience get themselves sorted into their appropriate seats. Fortunately, there’s some system at work that makes sure there are at least enough seats for all the audience members, which I’m sure avoids some difficult confrontations with angry patrons. But I digress. Having arrived early, we waited, Flo and I, for the music to start, and I got to thinking about some alternative arrangements for a performance with an orchestra and an audience. At the time I shared these with Flo, and her vigorous lack of enthusiasm for them convinced me I was on the right track. What I present here are instructions for two such performances.



Performance piece with Orchestra and Audience #1, by Neil Baylis.

Copyright 2009, Neil Baylis

Raw materials:

1st Movement: Larghissimo.

The concert hall is empty, and both the house lights and orchestra lights are on. The orchestra is admitted and take their seats, but the audience is kept outside. Once the orchestra is seated, the audience is admitted. Important: They will ask about the purpose of the cheesy instruments. Under no circumstances may they be told what the purpose is. The movement continues for however long it takes the audience to assemble.

2nd Movement: Grave, Misterioso.

The conductor arrives on stage, and faces the orchestra. House lights go down, and orchestra lights intensify. The conductor begins, marking time with the baton, and occasionally looking towards particular members of the orchestra as the movement progresses. They make no sound, except for spasmodic, random coughing, but not so much as to seem deliberate. For the duration of the movement, they sit with their hands folded in their laps. About 7 minutes total.

3rd Movement: Allegro appassionato.

The orchestra lights dim, and the house lights intensify, so that the audience is more brightly lit than the orchestra. Without warning, the conductor turns to face the audience. He lifts his baton, and looks at various parts of the audience. He continues this until the entire audience is riveted on him, and beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. He begins, with an emphatic downbeat, furiously waving the baton about for a bar or two, then stops and glares at the audience. He gestures to them to pick up their cheesy instruments. If they do not comply, he may pull a kazoo from his pocket and give it a toot. The movement ends when some critical mass of audience members are cowed into picking up the cheesy instruments.

4th Movement: Agitato, con bravura.

The conductor begins with a melodramatic downbeat. From time to time, he gestures towards some random section of the audience, in the forlorn hope that they will play the cheesy instruments. As soon as any audience member in the house makes any sound with their instrument, the orchestra members break into fits of uncontrollable coughing. The conductor stops, turns to the orchestra and glares at them until at length they fall silent. Repeat this sequence until about 15 minutes have elapsed.

5th Movement: Agitato A piacere.

The conductor faces the orchestra. The orchestra members pull their own cheesy instruments from their pockets. They lift them into playing position, and wait for the conductor’s signal. The conductor begins, but the orchestra makes no sound. However, as soon as any audience member coughs, one or more of the orchestra members answers the cough with a sound from a cheesy instrument.

Throughout the movement, the conductor alternately faces the orchestra or the audience, encouraging them to play. When anyone in the audience plays their instrument, the orchestra responds with coughing. When the audience coughs, the orchestra plays the instruments. Continue long enough that the audience gets the hang of it.

Then suddenly, using a prearranged signal, the conductor faces the audience, and the orchestra members leap to their feet. The conductor and orchestra proceed to engage in wild, ecstatic applause and yells and whistling directed at the audience. The applause grows in intensity. Orchestra members begin speaking in tongues, flailing their arms about, writhing on the floor. Some pass out and have to be carried off stage by paramedics, but the movement continues. They continue in this manner until it seems they are all possessed by demons.

The movement ends, as does the entire concert, when the female stage hand comes on stage with the jug of water and towel. She throws the water in the conductor’s face, at which he comes to his senses, and the orchestra falls quiet. The conductor reaches for the towel, and she hands it to him. He wipes his face, and everyone leaves the stage in an orderly manner.

Important: the audience may not have their money back.



Performance piece with Orchestra and Audience #2, by Neil Baylis.

Copyright 2009, Neil Baylis

Raw materials:

The performance begins like any other. As the audience files in, the orchestra comes on stage in dribs and drabs, wearing their cow costumes and carrying their instruments. They tune up in the usual manner. Then the soloist comes on stage and bows to the audience & the orchestra. He carries a lariat, but no instrument. He squats expectantly, and adjusts his hat, gets ready to use the larriat.

The conductor rides on stage on his horse, and faces the orchestra. They begin, playing some pastoral music, with the conductor standing in the stirrups to conduct. Everything seems normal.

At an appropriate moment, the soloist lassos one of the musicians, and attempts to drag her off stage. The conductor notices. They switch to some chase music, like the William Tell Overture, and the conductor adopts a posture more like a jockey in a race. He has a riding crop, and pretends to whip the horse, but the horse must remain standing still. Be sure that the horse is not orchestra-shy.

The orchestra members grow restless, and move around as a group. The soloist attempts to lasso more of them, and they start to mill around chaotically as they play. The conductor takes out a gun, and attempts to shoot the soloist with one hand while conducting with the other. Eventually, the piece ends when the orchestra members trample the soloist underfoot, and they finish the music in relative calm.

When they are done, the conductor turns towards the audience, and rears the horse up on its hind legs, firing shots in the air with his gun, and waving his cowboy hat in the accustomed manner.

Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

I’m not an audiophile, but I do like tinkering, and that’s why I began a project to build my own turntable for playing vinyl records. That project is ongoing, and I’ll report on it in more detail at a later date. But this penchant for tinkering has also spilled over into the realm of photography, and since the early days, I’ve indulged in attempts to make various bits of photographic equipment.

My first enlarger, cobbled together in my bedroom when I was a teenager, used items salvaged from a model railway and a telescope. A section of track served as the column (the enlarger was laid out horizontally instead of vertically). I can’t remember what I used as a light source, but I remember the lens was the objective lens from a telescope, and was mounted on an open box car from the model railway. I would move it forth and back along the track until the image was in focus, and then put some photographic paper at the appropriate location for exposure. It actually produced recognizable images, though none of them survive. This would have been some time in the 1960s.

More recently, I must have received a blow to the head, or perhaps someone laced my tea with LSD, because it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good idea to learn to repair cameras “in my spare time”. At the time I had been grimly resisting what I perceived to be a lemming like rush toward the cliffs of digital photography, holding on for dear life to the old equipment and the old ways of doing things.

To this end, I did some research and found a suitable candidate camera, the Pentax ME. In short order I had a collection of these, all non-working, which would serve as sacrificial lambs. I bought some essential tools and set to work.

To begin with, I tackled a couple of lenses. At a swap meet, I found a Pentax 24mm lens that was completely clouded by internal fungus on multiple elements. Otherwise, it was in excellent condition. I disassembled it until I had access to all the affected elements, and was able to clean them almost completely. The fungus had left no permanent damage, except that it had removed some the coating on one internal surface. I put it back together, and found that it would no longer focus to infinity. Disassemble and reassemble. Again. Now it would focus to infinity, but there was a fingerprint on one of the elements. Disassemble, clean, and reassemble. Third time was the charm, and I sold it for a good price. That was encouraging.

Another lens was a 28mm Kiron that someone gave me. There was something wrong with the focusing mechanism, making the barrel impossible to turn. Other than that, it seemed very clean. I pulled it apart and found that the lubricant was all gummed up inside. I cleaned out the old gunk and re-lubricated it, and it was right as rain. Another success.

But that’s about as far as it went. I put my dead cameras aside while I worked on other projects, and gradually forgot about them. I bought a working ME  from a pawn shop, and had it cleaned and calibrated. I wanted to use it for a while to see if it would serve as the basis for a complete SLR system. I collected a few lenses, and it seemed to be working out fine, until I took it to NYC one long weekend.

On my return I discovered that the meter was on the fritz, and had ruined most of my shots. I had also begun to resent the time spent at the color lab, dropping film off, waiting for processing and picking it up again. And I was growing frustrated with hours spent numbering and filing negatives, laboriously scanning them, removing dust specs in photoshop. I was painfully aware that I wouldn’t have to do any of it if I would just switch to digital.

So began the process of getting rid of all my film cameras. I’m not done yet, but getting there gradually. This week I finally sold my collection of dead Pentax ME bodies, and now only a few bits and pieces remain. Goodbye ME, and goodbye waiting in line at the color lab. Goodbye cutting negatives into fives and numbering them. Goodbye scanning, and goodbye spotting. Goodbye loupe and lightbox. Goodbye film.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of this new Leica.

Did I pick it up here, at this fast food joint, as I sat waiting for my order, experimenting with shakeitphoto to pass the time? They have a bench where you wait for take-out orders, and it was occupied by a man and his young child. I took their place when they got up to leave, and I remember wondering whether that kid was carrying swine flu.

As I waited, I made a few photographs, including this one of a woman who came to the counter to complain. I remember trying not to touch anything in the restaurant. On the way out I waited until someone entered, so I could exit without touching the handle.

I don’t know why I’ve been so anxious about catching something this year. We first heard of the H1N1 while we were in Australia, but didn’t think much of it at the time. A couple of weeks ago, I tried to get a flu shot from my doctor, but none was available.

And now, I am infected, but not, apparently, with swine flu. It seems to be a run of the mill gut infection, which in Australia might be called gastroenteritis, or ‘gastro’ for short. In the US they call it stomach flu. Whatever you call it, it’s rather unpleasant. It’s been years since I had such an illness, and I’m glad of that.

I kept looking for ways to interpret my symptoms as swine flu, but in the end it just didn’t add up. So, in order to maintain at least a semblance of melodrama, I’ll just call it the Miasma, and picture myself fading away as if I had been written by Thomas Mann.

And so, the Miasma seems to have been creeping about the house like an invisible intruder. Suddenly, I have a designated drinking glass, and I’m noticing more hand washing than usual. And then, Florence (as in Nightingale) decides it would be best if she were to sleep in the spare room, for the time being. The time being being until the Miasma has passed. I haven’t checked, but I think she also put a biohazard sign on the front door. I’m still allowed contact with the dogs, probably because they are of such vigorous constitution that they would give smallpox the plague before succumbing to anything themselves.

The treatment, to begin with, was rest, fluids, and alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen. These didn’t seem to have any effect on the progress of the sickness. Rather, they exchanged one kind of discomfort for another. Apparently, medicated discomfort is somehow preferable to god given discomfort, but the precise way in which it is better eludes me at the moment. After a day of no measurable improvement, Florence visited the apothecary and obtained some medicinal herbs, assuring me that they would stem the flow, or calm the waters, or hold back the tides, or some metaphor that unites the concepts of stopping and liquid.

Now I’m not one to pooh pooh the wonders of modern medicinal herbs, but I’ve seen these herbs before. Only then they were in the form of a disgusting pink potion, instead of these innocent looking tablets. And every time I drank that potion, it seemed to have no effect at all.

Nevertheless, I had (more or less involuntarily) adopted the role of patient, and it only made sense to do Flo’s bidding. And she insisted that I take the herbs. Being in the end a biddable man, I agreed to be bidden. I am forever in debt to Flo. Thanks, Flo!

While she was out fetching and carrying, Flo also went to Canter’s to get some Jewish Penicillin. This remedy is one in which I have developed inestimable faith, and I was in no way reluctant to partake, despite the protestations of my inner tubes.

In addition, as evidenced by this photo, which shows my entire nutritional input for a 24 hour period, I prescribed myself what I shall hereby name Australian Penicillin.

Certainly when I was ill as a child, which was often, my mother would dispense this treatment with alacrity. The only more common remedy was tea, which was used for all purposes, medicinal and otherwise:

Australia won the fifth test.
Alright, I’ll put the kettle on.

The Americans have put a man on the moon.
Oh wonderful, I’ll just put the kettle on.

India just won the fifth test.
Hmm, let’s have a cuppa.

It’s raining.
That’s nice dear, I’ll just put the kettle on.

It’s stopped raining.
Another cup?

Mum, my girlfriend dumped me.
Ah well. Cup of tea?

Dad, Ryan and Walker have been recaptured.
Good son, tell your mother to put the kettle on.

At least one of these remedies seems to have done the trick. The gurglings and rumblings and explosions seem to have abated. The temperature is hovering around normal, and the brain seems once more functional. As much as I’d like to give credit to the medicinal herbs, I feel I must attribute this improvement to the double dose of ethnic penicillin.

But although I feel better, the Miasma is still evident. Flo has insisted that I strip the bed and incinerate the sheets and blankets. You can never be too sure, she said, and of course you can’t. She still refuses to kiss me, except on the top of the head. I guess she thinks the Miasma particles are not attracted to the top of the head. The dogs seem glad to regain access to both their sofas, as I had been occupying one of them on and off. I thought I would be able to go to work this morning, but received a “Not so fast” reminder from my body, and thought it best to keep my coding pants (a.k.a pyjamas) on and work from home instead.

I’m sure that come tomorrow, the Miasma will have passed, and I’ll be back at work carving monuments of code from granite boulders. Probably. In the meantime, I think I’ll just put the kettle on.

Orly Taitz is the gift that just keeps on giving.

A couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.

The lights are on, but nobody’s home.

A few roos loose in the top paddock.

A few beers short of a six-pack

One brick short of a load

A few fish short of a hatstand

Not playing with a full deck

As crazy as a sack full of ferrets

Out to lunch

Nutty as a fruit cake

Mad as a hatter

The elevator doesn’t go to the top floor

Not the sharpest knife in the drawer

Not firing on all six cylinders