Thursday, March 21, 2013

View From A Tiny Mentalist: March 21, 2013

Time for a treat.

My son has been wandering about the house with the camera over the last week or so. Most of his shots are completely wrong. Not just blurry but not even of the thing he claims to have actually been taking photographs of. Amusingly his sister told him to not waste his time taking photos of things like the television or out the window. Which is precisely what she does - going so far as to turn the TV on or wait for a car to appear so she can take shots of it moving.

Anyway - he's been enjoying himself. The main negative is that he isn't very good at aim. But the more obstructive thing for this here though is that in trying to get him to explain what was going on I was met with quite a bit of resistance. Either because that was eating into his valuable train-shoving time. Or simply because he no longer has any idea why he took a photo. Mostly I was met with the response, "I don't know" when asking why he took it or what was going on. In the end though I got something out of him. Hope you like it.


This is, "the Ghost Hole". Lately he's been aggressively running his trains over it so that it makes that incredibly loud duh-duh-duh noise that can only mean something is being damaged. But incredibly slowly so that you don't notice for six months and then it becomes really apparent that it looks awful.


The weight of the camera means that when my son tries to point it and press the button that it aims toward the ground. Or you know - it's his style of photography. I'm sure if I told him he was doing it wrong he'd call me a square and mutter some such crap about how he's, "blurring the lines, man". But every now and again he'll take a photo and actually see in the image on the view finder that he's taken it too low. Then he'll make mention of the fact that he accidentally pointed too low. At least that's his excuse for constantly taking photos of his mother's chest. I'm not buying into that excuse personally.


My son initially explained that he was red because he was, "a pickle". Which makes no sense. He knows exactly what a pickle looks like considering if I left an unopened jar of either kosher dill or bread-and-butter pickles on the table he'd chug the entire thing like a rugby player or freshman college girl. Then he said (with a serious and mournful expression) that, "I was hurt". Trying to change the weird tone a little I suggested he was looking for another entrance to the Ghost Hole. And that I imagine it's like the portals in Time Bandits or the gateways in The Matrix that the Keymaker kept bursting through. I could tell by the, "you am a twart" look he gave me that this wasn't a good suggestion.


Here my son said that his sister was, "eating a pillow". He doesn't know why though.But again he did know that she shouldn't be doing it judging by the annoyed expression he had whilst relaying this.


And in a similar train of thought (you will not come across a finer pun all day long) my son said that, "this is Thomas eating the screen".I did point out that Thomas only eats coal. Then my son reminded me of a demented Australian Youtube video in which Thomas eats a meat pie, and I was made to look a complete fool. I couldn't find that one right now but this is the same hilarious voice in my sons favorite videos.


This photo disturbed me for a long time. I couldn't figure out what it was for a good few minutes. At first I kept wondering when my son had seemingly taken candid, blurry photos of topless women in the house. And then I made out the weird eye in the top left. My son says it's him. He claims he was trying to see his brain. But then I'm still disturbed by the Rorschach-style problem I've revealed in that when presented with a blurry close-up of a closed eye and nose I instantly thought, "I wonder who's tits those are?" 


Here's evidence of me cleaning. I'm showing this in case the living room still somehow is covered in the ridiculous hairballs that the dog malts every hour all over the place, even though I vacuum the floor all the time. Our floor is delightful - but with a white-haired dog and the plethora of grey hair that my wife sheds all over the place (snort) it is a bugger to keep looking shiny and nice. This is also evidence that while I think that shirt and vest look awesomely cool, I actually look like a fifty year old American man dressed to do DIY. But in that way that I'm not wearing clothes that have seen umpteen successfully completed projects  - but rather convey a man without any solid actual ability to do things without swearing A LOT. 


Here's the thing about this photo. My daughter had him take this photo. That means she posed for it. And - more importantly - you'll recall how he tends to aim lower than he's supposed to. So in what I dearly hope isn't a flash-forward to either of their prospective careers (especially the notion that siblings begin a home-made porn enterprise from both sides of the camera) I'm guessing she just thought it would be funny.Still - I was impressed it was in focus.


Again - considering his habit of accidentally shooting too low I can only presume he saw something really interesting about two feet above his sister's head. Although presciently when I asked what she was doing he replied, "telling me what to do". Too bloody right. Weirder the flash on the camera has made the paint on the walls look like custard. So now I really want cake and custard. I can take comfort at least that yellowing wallpaper hasn't instinctively triggered me to think, "are those someone's tits?" like the above photo did, though.


And lastly there's this. I'm again hoping that this is the last photo I see that my son has taken of a used sock next to a pile of reading material in which he mostly just looks at the pictures. Especially in this case because there's also a stapler in the picture. And it's all in my living room. I'm not an idiot and am terrified of the day my son starts progressing through the teenage stages of arseholery - complete with it's rampant swings in mood from miserable to hateful to awkwardly horny to convinced he's completely unique all the back to cripplingly miserable again. But I at least hope that he never sullies the innocent sanctity of my living room, one of his sister's socks or - heaven forfend - a pile of children's library books. Especially that one on top, which is actually about wasps. Although I am prepared to imagine there is a post-graduate student somewhere across the globe in an agricultural college who has just dallied with the idea that maybe the perfect thing to prevent wasp infestations is man-tapioca.


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