I was just watching “Rashomon” again. Our separate realities is a theme I keep returning to in my meanderings. It lives side by side with my view of human relations as an existential exercise: we create our realities.

In “Rashomon,” whose story was true? The thief, the wife, the husband? Was the woodsman, in the end, telling the true story, even though we find out that he’s a thief? Or, did they each create their own reality because that was what each of them could live with? In statistical analysis, triangulation gives a semblance of the reality behind the numbers. In “Rashomon,” there is no triangulation. It’s true that the thief and woodsman both say the thief killed the husband. But, is that just what conforms to what they each need to be the truth?

“Rashomon” is a nearly perfect film for me. The only thing that bothers me is the discovery of the baby in the temple ruins. I always think, “didn’t the person(s) who left the baby overhear the stories? Wouldn’t that make them not want to leave the baby there? Or were they just that desperate? I keep thinking that a dog would have been better to find. How is that woodsman going to feeding that child with 6 others at home already?

Looking at the idyllic scene in my photo, I can remember what was outside of the viewfinder and it wasn’t idyllic. Our memories contain all that stuff that’s outside the viewfinder. Here’s the problem: our memories, like our realities, are contingent on our perceptions.

Remember the old saw that the ref says? “I call ‘em like I see ‘em!” It’s not, “I call ‘em like they are!” No, it’s as the ref sees the play. It’s his reality. Of course the NFL has instant replay now. If, MLB had instant replay, we mightn’t be tearing our hair our during the playoff season. So, you might say that our national ‘game’ is existential. I would (especially when teams trade for a player who’s way over the hill thinking that he’ll bring them a pennant).

I find that when I look at old photos, that I’m always thinking about what was right outside that line of sight. Then, when I remember that, I question whether my memory is accurate. Filled with self-doubt, I slog on. I suppose that’s why I can’t abide people who’re cock-sure. Give me an angst-filled neurotic any day over some absolutist.

What I need to do is to stop looking around the ‘corners’ of old memories, unless they inform. I can’t ‘Photoshop’ my brain, but I can choose not to allow that stuff outside the viewfinder to permeate my reality today. So, the snow-covered landscape was beautiful. It was a beautiful Christmas day. End of story.

Remind me sometime to tell you about the time I ‘met’ Toshiro Mifune