Mallory's Camera

So, I missed whatever the magic date was for making reservations in the actual path of the eclipse.

Had to scramble last night to nab an Airbnb in Ithaca.

Two hours south of the eclipse path. A doable drive, yes? Plus, I can pick a watchpoint in the high country, somewhere bucolic, where I can hear the chittering of the insects and the birds gradually ebb and watch the shadow bands begin their dance as the Celestial Dragon takes that first tasty bite of Sun. Much better than watching the eclipse from the sidewalk outside a motel in Rochester, Buffalo, or Syracuse.

I nabbed an Airbnb much bigger than I needed.

That way, I can extend an invitation to friends and relatives who forgot to plan and realize too late, But-but-but I won’t be alive in 2044 for the next eclipse!

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What else?

I saw Maestro in a movie theater.

I tried to write something pithy & intelligent about it.

I failed.

Maestro isn’t a bad movie exactly; it’s just an utterly pointless movie. It focuses on Leonard Bernstein’s marriage, which in the quaint argot of the early Jurassic was a lavender marriage: As portrayed by Bradley-Cooper-the-actor, Leonard Bernstein was as gay as those 12 lords a-leaping through that Christmas carol. Bernstein’s marriage to a vagina-person would be confusing, except (the movie beats us over the head to make clear) it’s not——because Leonard Bernstein & his wife were soulmates—

It’s the fault of the script. The script sprawls over a 30-year period; the better to let Bradley-Cooper-the-director do all sorts of chromatic and temporal shifts plus other fancy somersaults that add exactly zero to the narrative.

There actually is an interlude in Bernstein’s life that would make a good movie: In 1976, Bernstein bailed on his wife and ran off with a man called Tommy Cothran; the following year, Bernstein’s wife was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, and Bernstein returned to his wife to care for her till she died.

Now, that would make a good movie.

This was not a good movie. Still, I had fun!

Maestro was playing at an art theater in Rhinebeck; Rhinebeck is home to the Best Chocolatier on the Planet. So, I could stuff myself with smuggled-in hazelnut truffles at each of the film’s many goofy moments. Plus, Rhinebeck is home to many kinda/sorta famous people and two of those sat right in back of me—what were their names again? Tip of my tongue!—so I got to eavesdrop on them as they debated in heated whispers just whose apartment in the Dakota had been used to shoot the Thanksgiving Day Parade scene with the Snoopy Balloon.

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I continue to be in a dreadful mood, though I’m doing my damndest to keep the dreadful mood from doing any actual damage.

Keep exercising and keep Remunerating, I order myself, Hazelnut truffles? Sure. But in moderation. This, too, shall pass.

I forget what we were talking about. I forget why we were talking about it. I forget why we were standing by the side of a road.

It’s odd what you decide to forget.

I remember I was 18. I remember the boy and the girl both had long stringy hair parted in the middle. You could tell them apart because the boy had one of those ugly pubic hair beards.

It’s odd what you decide to remember.

“Does she know how to get there?” the boy asked. “Will she know she’s there when she’s there?”

“Does she even know that the name of this flower is chicory?” the girl asked.

And that’s how a common roadside flower became inextricably linked in my mind with that intense, restless, wordless longing the Portuguese term saudade.

There’s a lot of chicory by the side of the road in late August.

Growing up the way I did, it’s not surprising I have major abandonment issues.

###

So, the eclipse.

We only got to 70% totality here, but I was very curious to see what effect that might have on wildlife.

I couldn’t score eclipse glasses. Samir had given me some workarounds – they don’t have eclipse glasses in Algeria, but they do have eclipses: “If you have old computer diskettes – they have the film inside them, yes? The filter. It is the proper strength. Also film for cameras that you develop if you put it together back to back.”

Alas! The disadvantages of living in an economy based on built-in obsolescence: I had neither diskettes nor camera film. So, I made a pinhole projector out of an old cereal box.

The National Park Service was hosting some kind of big event on the grounds of the Vanderbilt mansion, so I took off to points north – the eerie (even without an eclipse) little town of Staatsburg, the vast greensward that swoops from the stately Beaux Arts Mills Mansion down to the glittery blue river. At the last minute, Linda and Ed decided they wanted to come, too.

What I noticed was that the temperature dropped. It was very hot, and then suddenly, it was comfortable.

And the shadows lengthened, but it seemed that my eyes were playing tricks on me because the day did not get noticeably darker. I think that’s one of those brain compensation thingies.

Crickets and cicadas started chirping.

I followed the progression of the eclipse in my pinhole viewer. I was thinking bunnies might start to pop out on the lawn since they’re crepuscular creatures. But they didn’t.

“I have glasses,” called a nice woman who, with her husband, had set up lawn chairs about 50 feet away from where I was sitting. She let me look through them. OhmyGAWD! Spectacular!

At the moment when the eclipse was as full as it was gonna get in Hyde Park, NY, the dozen or so few people who were scattered about on that vast lawn all rose and came together spontaneously to form a big circle. We held hands and then, one by one, we thanked the Universe for allowing us to witness this awesome event. Some of us called the Universe “God.” Many of us made wishes – for world peace; for harmony between all men, between all living creatures; for kindness and goodness to prevail.

It was a very sweet moment.

We didn’t sacrifice any virgins, though, so likely our wishes fell on deaf ears.