Twitcheye: The Back End Of Eyetwitch

My adoptive mother, as I have detailed in other little essays, is slowly flaking apart with senile dementia. Every day I talk to her and another few pieces of her memory and cognitive abilities gently disappear, honing her down to a person who remembers everything up to age 10 vividly and very little after that. What she’s losing in long-term memories is being replaced with weird little confabulations that stick, once they appear.

For instance, she just had gallbladder surgery. We went through months of her walking around with a drain sticking out of her side and a bag collecting bile that had to be pinned to her shirt. We met with surgeons, I researched alternative therapies for treatment, it was a whole production. We set the surgery date in advance a couple months ago, and I took her in last week to get it. She packed four bags for her overnight stay (I winnowed it down to a change of clothes). And yet if you ask her today about the surgery, she will say “They took my gallbladder out and didn’t even tell me they were going to do it!” I said, “Why do you think you were in the hospital, Mom?” “For my gallbladder.” “And do you remember meeting with the surgeon the morning they took it out?” “Yes but she didn’t even SAY she was going to do that! They could at least TELL you before they do something like that.” (The surgeon did tell her, multiple times. I was there.)

Anyway last night her old friend Carol called me to say that my mom seemed to have written her phone number down wrong and was calling all her other mutual friends to get it, over and over. I have programmed Carol’s number into my mom’s iPad and her phone, but she still pulls out a tattered address book and types in Carol’s number, incorrectly, every single time. I dutifully wrote down the number and called my mom to have her cross out every wrong number in the address book and put the new one in instead.

“I HAVE that number,” my mom said. I asked her to read it to me, and she did have it. “Well, please call that number instead, then,” I said. “I do but that’s the dog’s phone,” my mom said.

“..What” I said.

“It’s PICKLE’s phone number. It’s Carol’s DOG’s phone number,” she said. “He’s a POMERANIAN. Named PICKLES,” she added, helpfully filling in all the gaps in my knowledge.

“Mom, why do you think the dog has a phone,” I said. “Well I sure don’t know, it’s CAROL’S dog, ask her,” she said. “No, I mean, do you really think that the dog has a cell phone,” I said. “Yes, that’s PICKLE’S phone number and Carol never calls me back from it,” she said. “No but. But. Mom, why would a dog need a phone,” I said.

“Well, she takes him EVERYWHERE so he has a phone,” she said, with exasperation. “I…do you…has Pickles ever called you,” I said. “No he’s a DOG.” “But he has a phone, you said.” “Yes, IT’S. PICKLE’S. PHONE,” she said, fed up.

hello my hand is gonna fall off

@petermorwood’s attention was drawn to “the little bird” that follows the boar’s piglet out of shot. The moment I saw it, I… wasn’t so certain about its bird-ness.

The branding (in Cyrillic) is no indicator of where the original video came from. I think it might be South American. Because I’ve seen small ground-hopping creatures going after cattle that way. But they weren’t birds. They were vampire bats.

I said, "That's just not true. Sometimes what doesn't kill you leaves you brittle and injured or traumatized."

He stopped and thought about that for a while. He came back later, and said, "It's like wood glue."

He pointed to my bookshelf, which he helped me salvage a while ago. He said, "Do you remember how I explained that, once we used the wood glue on them, the shelves would actually be stronger than they were before they broke?"

I did.

"But before we used the wood glue, those shelves were broken. They couldn't hold up shit. If you had put books on them, they would have collapsed. And that wood glue had to set awhile. If we put anything on them too early, they would have collapsed just the same as if we'd never fixed them at all. You've got to give these things time to set."

It sounded like a pretty good metaphor to me, but one thing I did pick up on was that whatever broke those shelves, that's not the thing that made them stronger. That just broke them. It was being fixed that made them stronger. It was the glue.

Lea Ignatius (1913-1990)

...that your audience won't hate.

This is a method I started using when NFTs were on the rise - thieves would have to put actual work into getting rid of the mark - and one that I am now grateful for with the arrival of AI. Why? Because anyone who tries to train an AI on my work will end up with random, disruptive color blobs.

I can't say for sure it'll stop theft entirely, but it WILL make your images annoying for databases to incorporate, and add an extra layer of inconvenience for thieves. So as far as I'm concerned, that's a win/win.

I'll be showing the steps in CSP, but it should all be pretty easy to replicate in Photoshop.

Now: let's use the above image as our new signature file. I set mine to be 2500 x 1000 pixels when I'm just starting out.