Photoshop Thoughts

There it was. Melting into spring. The half-frozen world from the tiny window in my parent's basement. Truly the ugliest time of the year, or what I call it, hybrid spring. Or hybrid winter. Depending on how you look at it. Either way, I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be back in Australia.

Every moment stuck in that basement sort of felt like a game, and I became more creative about finding ways to escape it.

Escape plan one; that window. If I sucked in my tummy and bent my limbs just right, I might have been able to sneak out. My limbs had always been strange. Born with abnormally double-jointed arms, I remember so vividly the day a boy asked, "What even kind of girl are you?" I remember sticking out my tongue, positioning my middle finger so it was the only finger sticking up, and the boy's jaw falling. The teacher saw it; I spent the rest of recess in timeout. Worth it.

Standing on my tiptoes now. I observed the outside world: dirty snow, soggy leaves from last fall, ice patches in the shaded area, and a rabbit shedding its white fur, preparing for the summer. I saw micro rivers flowing past earthworms in my mom's garden; outside looking in saw bulgy green eyes and the roots of my hair growing out. I saw my hair in the reflection of the window. God, I desperately needed highlights. My calves gave in.

On the third day, I came up with escape plan two. This one was the winner. I went to grab my camera and popped the memory card out. I knew exactly what I was looking for. I scrolled through months of memories: gallivanting across Vietnam, trekking through the Himalayas in Nepal, and finally, my time living in Australia.

Scrolling a little bit slower, so I wouldn't miss it, I passed my time in Sydney when the Opera House was covered in a layer of smoke. There were a couple of pictures of my layover in Perth, and then, there was a continuous scroll of red and orange digital squares. This was up by Broome. I would have sworn that every time I went outside into that red-earthed region, I'd come home with more red sand grains in my shoes than there are stars in the night sky. It was always everywhere.

I carefully exported the photo I wanted and I smiled as soon as I saw it. The little boy is Bill, the one in the middle is Kaitlyn, and their older sister; Lily. These were the kids that I had looked after while living in Western Australia. Our days were filled with running off to cool down in the pool when the ocean just wouldn't cut it. It was that hot - about 37 degrees Celcius every day. As a Canadian who was used to the opposite weather, I was dying almost all of those days. But one day, it wasn't so hot. So I said, "Let's take a picture!"

I had always loved photography. I loved the sound of the shutter; the hum of the lens focusing. I remember using my father's camcorder while pretending to be a reporter for National Geographic when I was 10. From there, my camera went everywhere I went.

I dragged the photo in Photoshop and started burning, dodging, cloning, and feathering. I crafted three things together that would have not been possible without the magic of this program. I used the scissor tool, the magic wand, and the lasso to position things where I wanted. I was in charge. I made day time into the night. I blew up a moon. I dusted stars in their rightful places, and I added a meteor. I erased things, and I added things.

I remember reading Breakfast at Tiffany's to Kaitlyn and Lily on the porch of their little house by the sea one night. How two girls aged 6 and 10 would have liked Holly Golightly's adventures and banter throughout New York City is beyond me, but nonetheless, we continued. There were stars that night too.

I am, by no means, an expert crafter. When I do craft, the hot glue drips onto my skin, I curse. I will cut myself while forcefully cutting cardboard, I curse. But with Photoshop, the scissor tool was still a scissor tool; digital or not. I still cut through material, I'd still make mistakes if I had gone too far. The "undo" button and I were close friends.

Tongue on the side of my face; I was focused. Clair de Lune was echoing in the background. I was curled up in a blanket. Mom had left a bowl of hot soup at the top of the stairs for me. It was the workspace of an artist, I thought - and it kept me sane.

The photo was nearly finished. These children, they were going on an adventure, I thought. One that I wish I could go on. I began to ask myself questions. Where were they? Where were they going? What was happening? Did the youngest run away from home? Was the full moon omitting that much of a gravitational pull that the three would whisk away? If so, where would they be whisked away to? Is it too late to believe in Neverland?

As I thought about what these people were doing - never, had I felt more like a child at twenty-five. But I liked it. You see, I was sort of stuck. Twenty-five had come along with a cheesy phrase from my father, "Happy quarter of a century!" My eyes rolled. I was forced to come back home after aimlessly gallivanting through the Southern Hemisphere: Australia, New Zealand, a couple of countries in South East Asia, and Nepal. I wasn't ready to come home. I wasn't ready to face the real world. And above all, I just was not ready to turn twenty-six.