reclaiming the notion of the simulcast, or the dangers of doing this

i just realized that i could never do any sort of real-time video correspondence because i am too haunted by the last time i ever did something like that, which was in october of 2007--where if you look at the screen you see the other person but the other person sees your eyes lowered and not looking at them; and if you look into the camera, the other person distinctly feels as though you are looking into their eyes, but you cannot see the other person at all, and though it feels like the more intimate choice because of the simulated eye contact you are connecting even less; and since each person can look either of these two ways and it is changing all the time (for emphasis), it's unpredictably harrowing/you are trying to reach someone who isn't there/i don't think i could ever reclaim the notion of the simulcast for myself because when i last did something like this was when i video-visited my dad at the marion county jail in florida; thirty minutes of each day for five consecutive days in a portable building, off a ways from the actual jail; he was wearing a pink-and-white striped suit because he was in the jail's infirmary; i saw other men pass by in classic cartoon black-and-white striped suits; also red-and-whites which meant convicted; orange-and-white for those awaiting trial; green-and-white for the well-behaved to mind the hedge rows and wander about the grounds "freely".

i still have "jail" dialed into my cell phone, after "jacob myles" and before "jan ross". in case you need the number, it's (352) 438-5961. the way it works is that you need to call to make your telephone visitation appointment the day before. i found you can get around this on your first day, if you have flown a great distance at the last minute and you want to visit with your jailed person right away. i got to know the voice on the other end of that reservation line pretty well that week. at first, he doubted the validity of my age based on the timbre of my voice and, maybe, its buoyancy. at the time i was 25. he said i sounded fifteen.

there was a landscape to each of the days' visits. the first one was a gulping. i swept in emergently, presenting myself to the camera as a force of sympathy and comforting, as evidence of beauty and thus hope. countering the contrary: yes, you are in jail and everything is fucked, but your daughter is strong and healthy as a green shoot. see, look how long my hair has grown, look at my muscles now that i've been dancing and doing pilates in new york. i showed him the fresh tattoo on my inner upper arm, scrawled in french in outward homage to my parents--pour ma mere et mon pere pour la vie avec amour--what was to me an inner missive of emancipation--i boundary my love upon my arm to keep my hands free.
i watched him curl over and sob and break apart like wet bread; dutifully looked into the camera so he would feel less alone; smiled so he would be warm; i was like one of those mothers who lifts cars off of their babies.
i put myself in the road.

the next day, the second day, was reddened by the dangers of doing this. my dad was still crazy at this point, and was asking me to go a "club" in daytona beach to find Mr. Florida (as in muscle-contest-winner) and a brazilian bouncer named Choo Choo; who could pull strings politically, and who owed him a favor, respectively. i refused. he spat venom, that i wouldn't help him in that way, and i nearly vomited in the parking lot after the half-hour was up, my tears were so violent.

i scrawled notes in my journal during every half-hour increment. i drank a large coke in a red plastic cup in a diner, and stayed on the phone with my mom for the whole meal. i went to K-Mart. i put cash in an envelope.