Out

Do I have time to tell a tale?  I have an early appointment with the ortho to get a gel injection into my knee.  I don't know.  I'm liable to rush.  

"Breathe, buddy.  Just state the facts."

I can do that.  I was feeling down again yesterday morning, and knowing I needed to move, I walked back down to the Boulevard Festival.  It was a nice day and I was early-ish, so the crowd had not swollen to what it might be later.  I had breakfast in mind at a little French cafe on a side street.  Of course, there was a line I had to wait through only to be told they were serving only pastries that day.  

O.K.  Walk on.  

I decided to get breakfast at the end of the Boulevard if they had room at the bar.  Just before I got there, though, my buddy who owns the Boulevard Hippie Shop stopped me on the street outside.  He's a wild man.  Travels incessantly.  Just back from a month in India.  Going to Brazil for two weeks today.   We kibitzed for a long while, but I was getting nervous.  We were two doors down from my breakfast and the place was filling up.  

And so. . . 

I did get a seat right away.  It was good to be alone and to eat at the bar on a crowded festival day.  Otherwise, the place was packed with locals.  Townies.  I recognized some, but you could tell by the number of expensive, fancy assed cocktails being ordered.  The woman next to me got something that had what I guessed to be an albumen bubble covering the glass.  When she popped it, smoke filled the air.  Elsewhere, chocolate martinis and other morning cocktails.  

When my breakfast came, the woman next to me said, "That looks good."

Two eggs, potatoes, bacon, sausage, and toast.  

"It's appropriately named, too," I laughed.  "The Old Man Special."

She looked at me and giggled, then went back to her exotic brew.  

I watched the rest of the bar and the tables surrounding me.  Across from me, two separate couples ate, drank, and laughed. the men each looking like rich sports fishermen, the women younger and appreciative.  The crowd, I'd say, was absolutely jubilant.  

As I was finishing up, in walked my comedian nemesis.  And I'm not going to exaggerate or lie--he looked worse than I did.  He looked like shit.  His face was creased, his beard spotty.  His hair was longer than mine and ratted into a faux-rasta look.  He'd died it different colors so that it was difficult to see the old Carrothead anymore.  The fucker is twelve years younger than I, but I am pretty sure you couldn't tell.  The steroid pump had deflated.  Maybe it had made him sick.  I don't know.  But man, he looked like a wilted vegetable. 

I'd finished my meal and had enough of looking at him, so I rose gingerly on my stiff bad knee and shuffle-limped past him to the street.  

The crowd looked good.  The cruise ship had not yet docked, I guessed.  I staggered around for a bit enjoying the day before I limped along the lakeshore home.  

I had a text from another redhead.  

You’ve been in my dreams every night for the past like 5 nights. 

Just 5?!??   😂

Bahahahaha. More than that, but specifically have been recently. 

Things happen when you leave the house sometimes.  Life seems to open up.  There are adventures everywhere.  But it was time to go to my mother's.  I would pick up a big hippie pizza for my mother and cousin.  I'd start my diet on Monday, I said.  

Oh. . . it is time for me to hustle.  The clock be ticking.  

Last night, I didn't turn on the t.v.  I read for awhile, then took a walk in the dark down to the lake's edge and sat a bit before returning home.  It was a nice night, the lights of Country Club College reflecting in the calm waters, stars above, a little breeze caressing my face.  

Back home, I read until bedtime.  I did a little stretching and a little meditating in preparation for what I hoped would become my new routine.  My depression had lifted a bit.  Just a bit, but some.  I was determined to begin to live again. . . somehow.  There was much to do before I'd feel good, but getting started was better than fretting.  

And it all begins now with an injection in my knee.  Then I must call the dentist about my cracked crown.  I need to do my taxes.  

And so much more.  But now. . . I must fly.  

 

I Forgot to Explain the Picture

O.K.  I think I've been suffering from depression.  Duh.  Things have been stressful.  Understatement.  I have been sitting in the house unable to move for far too many wonderful days.  Living in Catatonia.  Paralyzed and Fearing.  

And who do I have to tell?  Who's telling me, "Oh, baby, baby, baby"?

Whatever.  

So after sitting inside for most of a gorgeous day, gripped by something bad, I forced myself to put on some clothes and walk down to the ostensible Art Fest.  I hadn't bathed for days, but I couldn't even bring myself to splash water on my face.  I just put on some walking shoes and left the house.  

If you know anyone who is depressed, get them to move.  It helps.  

And then I was in the crowd.  I walked slowly, observing the art and the people.  The art was mostly schlock, but they gave away a lot of prizes this year as about half the booths had a ribbon that said "Winner" on them.  The better stuff, of course, seemed to go unnoticed.  

Surprisingly, people think that a crowded art festival is a good place to bring a dog.  I can't imagine.  Some thought it best to bring a baby stroller AND a dog.  No envy.  Neither the kids nor the dogs seemed to be having a good time.  But you know, parents being parents and misery loving company. . .  .

Just fun loving Americans.  

I stopped at a booth of photographs that were hand painted and housed in elaborate frames.  It was the framing that caught my eye, all old wood, battered with peeling paint.  The woman in the booth began talking to me.  I guess she assumed I was a "fellow artist" from the conversation.  I look like a version of an artist, I think, or something opposite of a version of a corporate type.  Maybe "homeless."  It depends upon who's looking, I guess.  

I saw a few people I knew, but I didn't engage.  I stood outside my buddy's new bar for awhile, leaning against the exterior, watching the crowd pass by.  Then I made my way home. 

It was three.  I opened a beer.  It was a cold beer, a good beer, and since I hadn't eaten, it went to my head.  

Just the place for it, I thought.  

And then I went to my mother's.  I told her about my cracked crown but not the rest of it.  The rest was just the usual talk, and when I left, I said, "I want to go have sushi on the Boulevard, but I don't think it will be possible to park anywhere around there."

Still unwashed, looking like a homeless hippie, perhaps, I thought I would just go home.  I was really not wanting to cook, however, and I was craving me some sushi, so I decided to give parking a shot. . . and BAM!  I found a spot first thing.  

Victory!

I limped up the Boulevard to the sushi place and sat at the bar.  Miso, edamame, some sort of spicy fancy tuna roll, and sake.  I looked through the big plate glass window at the passing crowd.  The seated crowd was different than the passing crowd, by and large, as the hoi-polloi headed to their Hyundais and Kias, then back their apartments and houses on the outskirts.  I'm being an elitist asshole, of course, but I looked like I should be getting into a 2005 piece of shit Xterra driving back to the commune or ashram, so don't jump to judgement.  I REALLY need to see my beautician, but she keeps putting me off.  Still, the waitresses came over to say hello and the owner took my order rather than kicking me to the curb, so there was that.  

I was back home before dark and sitting on the deck with a worm killer reading texts that I had not gotten to all afternoon.  I didn't take my phone with me when I left the house.  I try not to live with my phone.  All day, I'd watched people walking the art festival while looking at their phones.  The Country Club College kids are beautiful but man, they never look up.  They always walk phone in hand.  Maybe not having a phone makes me look more homeless, too.  

I hadn't missed much.  Nothing, really, other than a kid sending me pictures of her and her friends at some sort of festival in Miami.  They looked like they were having fun, but they all know how to do that now.  Everything is IG-able and no generation has ever in the history of the world been so perfect and beautiful.  

"Too bad she won't live!" (link)

Yea. . . replicants.  

There was nothing really to respond to, so I didn't.  What I did do was go to the liquor store to get more worm killer and some little cheroots.  Across the street at the Cafe Strange, the evening was getting started.  I don't know what goes on there at night, but it looked about the same as the crowds did when I was playing with the band in small clubs long ago, disaffected people in costume clothing coming together for whatever kind of fun was to be had.  The sun was setting, and just down the street, the Art Party would be starting, a completely different crowd of people with much the same intentions and, to me, much better music.  But I didn't fit in with the young crowd and hadn't been invited to party with the oldsters, so I took my bounty home for a hi ball and a smoke.  

Once again I was alone on a Saturday night when people are out having fun.  It is going to need to come to an end.  

One way or another.  

I'll try one way first and see how that goes.  

In certain communities, there were two types of music.  There was Saturday night and then there was Sunday morning.  The nightclub and the church.  

Here, Saturday night runs into Sunday morning without notice.  It is all a big hum.  

I think I'll walk up to the Boulevard now and try to get breakfast.  Maybe I'll get lucky.  

I could use a little luck.  

"But then again. . . who does?"

Sprung

Spring erupts like a three-petered goat here in the Sunshine State.  I found these things protruding from my mulched driveway yesterday.  I didn't dare dig to see what was lying underneath.  Rather, I grabbed my big old medium format Fuji and an adapted lens I didn't even remember I had and made a few remarkable photos.  I think they are remarkable, anyway, as the lens and camera combo emulates the sort of image I get with the giant Black Cat AeroEktar Liberator camera and lens.  And my god. . . the Fuji is a million times easier to use.  I am head over heels in love with it.  

But spring has not been easy on me mentally or physically.  It is jerking me around like a chihuahua on a leash.  I wake mornings with a nose full of snot and sneeze my way through the early morning.  But that is the least of it.  Want to hear me whine?  If not, you will have to turn a page or two.  I mean. . . you can simply wait until tomorrow to see if things have gone right.  

I called the dentist.  I got a message.  It said send a text, so I did.  

" I had a crown come off last night and need to get in to see if Dr. Painman can reattach it.  

A bit later, I got a text back.  

"can you txt me a picture of the crown that came out please, thanks. is this the crown that was just done?"

After a few more text, I was asked if I could come in at noon.  Sure.  

It went great.  The dentist was able to cement the crown back on.  I was happy.  

For awhile.  

Last night, and I don't know what happened, my tongue was running around the tooth and part of it was gone.  It beats me, but I think the enamel must have cracked.  I don't know where it went.  It's just not there.  

God knows what horrors fixing this problem will be demanded.  I will have to call Dr. Painman on Monday.  Right after I get the gel injection in my knee.  

I woke early this morning with the horrors again.  I have problems I don't want to tell.  Every day, I am more done with it all.  

"What would make you happy?"

Last night, going to bed, I took another fall.  Tripped over a light stand in the bedroom in the dark.  I forgot I had pulled it out.  Went down to the ground and laid there awhile taking inventory.  Everything seems fine, but I feel as if I am emulating my mother.  

However. . . spring is here, a time of fertility and rebirth, etc.  The sap is flowing and the creeks are rising, so grab your partner and do-si-do.  

I'll be watching from the sideline swelling the crowd.  

Bare Bulb

Status report.  

My mother texted me yesterday morning to let me know my cousin had left to stay with the other cousin on the coast.  It is all on me again.  I called and asked if she wanted me to make dinner, but she said no,  "Tomorrow," she said.  When I went to see her, I asked if she would be o.k. in the house alone that night . She said yes.  It will be a test.  Today I will strip her bedsheets and put them in the washer, take her to physical therapy, go to the grocers, put the sheets in the dryer, make dinner, clean the kitchen, and put her bed back together.  That's my Friday night.  I'll see if she was o.k. overnight.  If not, I'll have to pack up my things again and stay with her.  

When I went to bed last night, I was chewing a CBD gummy and another crown came off.  I will have to call the dentist today.  Cha-ching.  

It is time for my annual physical to find out what else has gone wrong with me.  

On Monday at 8:30, I get another injection in my knee.  

I woke at three last night.  Terrible things going on in my head.  I have so many house repairs to be done.  The fence is falling down.  I have things I can't even explain.  As I lay in half-sleep, I felt my soul leave my body, just start to leave it, tired of the physical world.  "What is there to look forward to," it asked?  It just wanted out.  

Soul?  WTF?  

That is just the beginning of the shit.  

I think I need to quit drinking again.  I was reading every night rather than nodding off on the couch.  I'd lost much of my chunky belly.  I had fewer nightmares.  

A little flash can reveal the horror of the world.  Nothing looks good under a bright, naked bulb.  But that's the way the world looks to me right now.  Hence the photo.  That's just how things appear once the romance is gone.  

That's all I have.  

The Last Day of Winter

It's spring. . . and you know what that means.  The world will be mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful and that goat-footed old balloonman will be whistling far and wee.  

[in-Just-]

The sap begins to flow and the creek begins to rise.  That's how it used to work, anyway.  Who knows now?  All we can do is pretend and try either to a) avoid the news or b) do something about it.  For people living on what some refer to as "Earth One," though, I'm afraid we are still far outnumbered.  

That's how democracy works.  You get the votes, you get the office.  

"Fucking Trump is a lunatic."

"They all are."

"No. . . no. . . you can't just say 'they all are' and eschew responsibility.  That's just a bullshit copout.  Your boy is a danger to the world.  Thanks."

But hey--what about Biden, huh?  

Oscar Wilde said, "Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination."  I've never lived within my means, of course, but now, I think, even people suffering from the disease will be doing so in order to eat and pay rent . 

But it is the first day of spring.  I don't want to bring everybody down.  Let's have a laugh at my expense.  

Yesterday I was sitting in the cafe on a bright and beautiful and wondrous afternoon failing to write anything meaningful (as has been my habit of late) when I heard a voice say, "What are you doing you dirty little hippie, writing your novel?"  It my writer/artist/traveller buddy who succeeds at an alarming rate standing over my table looking a bit like Bukowski.  

"No. . . just writing."

"I'm meeting a friend of mine who owns the only English language bookshop in Mexico City," he said.  He looked around and stepped into the other room, then came back with his friend.  He introduced us.  

"Grant just got accepted into an MFA writing program."

"Congratulations," I said.  

I was introduced as the guy who used to teach English at the factory.  

"What courses did you teach?"

I named them off including the Art of the Personal Essay course I instructed at Country Club College.  That shook the obvious arrogance pride a bit.  That and my apparent nonchalance about it all.  I mean, who cares?  Those who can't, teach. . . .  You know the old saying.  I've never felt any confidence about anything except sometimes my ability to entertain.  But there are a million people who teach literature and writing and a thousand times as many people who go to school to study it.  But I'll admit that often when I tell people what I did for a living they most often say, "Oh. . . English was my favorite subject in school.  I had the best teacher. . ." to which I say, "If you can't be good teaching the greatest stories in the world. . . ."  

I mean really. . . who doesn't like a good story.  We love them as children.  We love them as adults.  I've always asked lovers to "tell me a good story."  And boy, don't they.  I've lived through them, too, but so far, they've all had the same ending

Selavy.  

I'd like another story. . . if you please.  

We chatted about writing and movies and the fact that they both loved Denis Johnson's books and that I didn't care for them, much to their dismay.  

"What can I say?  I tried.  I just couldn't connect.  Don't judge me!"

Then my buddy said, "Remember the people I was sitting with last time I saw you here?"

"Sure.  They were really nice."

"The four of us have an art show here next month.  I'll text you to remind you."

Well. . . fuck.  

"What medium?"

"Paintings and drawings, pen and ink, and some 3D stuff."

He pulled up a picture on his phone to show me.  

"Yea, let me know."

Why in the fuck don't I do such things I wondered?  Because I'm a lazy simpleton.  No, that's not it.  It is a lack of confidence and the fear of rejection.  It has always been.  Maybe a shrink could help me.  Maybe if I went in for some therapy.  But it's too late now, I think.  I remembered a scene from a Woody Allen movie (link).  It is a wonderful scene about the joyful despair of a nihilistic nature.  And it reminded me of the difference between my buddy's attitudes and mine.  

"What are you doing Saturday?"

"Committing suicide."

"What about Friday?"

I could never do it.  

"What are you doing Wednesday.  I have tickets to the ballet if you are free."

"No, I can't go.  I'm going to dinner with my friends."

"Well, here's my number if you change your mind."

They'd find me hanging by the neck from the rafters.  Still. . . I was pissed and full of the green-eyed monster hearing of this coming show.  

I wasn't proud of that.  It is just another shortcoming.  I have many.  

After a fun afternoon at the cafe, I went to see my mother.  My cousin said she was going to leave for the coast in a few days.  Now what, I wondered?  

"Mom, are you o.k. to stay alone at night now?"

"I don't know."  

Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  I knew this was coming, but I had been pretending that it wouldn't.  So. . . I will be back to elder care in a moment or two, I guess.  My beautifully insane contemplative life will once again be sidelined.  I'll have my duties to see to, and that will give my life meaning.  

So there's a cheery note at the equinox.  Feel the balance.  

At day's end, I sat out on the deck and drank a Campari on the last day of winter and pulled up the best of R.E.M. on my Apple Music app. . . and you know what?  They WERE pop music.  Poppy.  Totally.  Sometimes with an attitude, but total radio stuff.  

And this one. . . yea. . . I am Superman.  I know what's happening.  

Trust me.  I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend.  

Happy People Laughing

I read today that iguanas rafted 5,000 miles from the Americas to Fiji on vegetable rafts.  Blue is the rarest color in iguanas.  They are found only in The Grand Cayman Islands.  I found one in a front yard on a walk one day.  Rare sighting.  

I'm feeling a little giddy, but I don't know why.  I could complain a lot, but. . . sometimes a small thing will happen that lightens the load.  

Two things.  Silly things.  

I took my bed cover--not a duvet, not a quilt--to the dry cleaner yesterday.  Dry cleaners?  Dry cleaner's?  I don't take anything to the dry whatever anymore, not since I left my job at the factory.  I rarely did then.  But for years now, none of my t-shirts or shorts have needed it.  So. . . 

I walked in with the big green thing--comforter, I guess--and lay it on the counter.  

"Hello," said the pretty Asian lady.  "Tell me your first name again," she smiled.  I was caught off guard by this.  First name?  She did something in the computer.  "Remind me of your last name. . . ."

Ah.  I see.  Smart.  Seemed intimate, but she was simply fishing.  

"You're not in our system, it seems."

I gave her the requested phone number.  She did some key strokes, then looked up at me and smiled once again.  

"Didn't you bring in a red one last time?" she asked.  

I was stunned.  I remembered her and the conversation we had then.  They had just bought the dry cleaning place (got around that one) from the family who had owned it for a long time.  We kibitzed about any damage to the comforter.  

"Hey. . . wait a minute," I said.  

"Oh. . . it's o.k.  We own the WP Cleaners, too.  We've done this before."

I said something clever and left.  Of course I remembered the conversation.  She is pretty and I don't have a lot of dry cleaning conversations to remember, but that she remembered what color comforter I brought!?!?  Holy smokes!!!  

"Yea," I explained.  "I have two, one burgundy and this one.  I put the red one on for fall and winter then put the green one on for spring and summer."  I grinned foolishly.  

"Ah. . . that makes sense.  It will be ready on Thursday.  Is that O.K.?"

"Perfect.  Thursday is the first day of spring."

I had helium in my shoes walking out.  Yea, man. . . that was super weird and cool.  She had taken years off my biological age.  

Teeny tiny thing writ large.  

Later when I was in the grocery store, I heard R.E.M.'s "Shiny Happy People" playing through the store and I felt like dancing.  It is a wonderful song, I think, with a "Love Shack" vibe lent by singer Kate Pearson of the B-52s.  Now serious people hate the song's pop melody and "childish" lyrics preferring R.E.M.'s more "complicated" offerings.  But I think that is silly.  Michael Stipe was a talented song writer, but he was quite a glum person whose songs inspired the Grunge Era and bands across the country.  Listen to enough Grunge and you'll start to do heroin, I think, to ease your psychological pain.  

But I don't care.  I like the B-52s and the Monkees version of Carol King's "Pleasant Valley Sunday."  I mean. . . it's nearly spring and I wouldn't mind being happy for a minute.  Stupid Beach Boys happy.  

Gleeful.  

So that's it.  Two small things.  Everything else is shit right now. . . but hey! . . . how in the hell could she remember the color of a comforter from six months ago?

So, I say. . . get up and dance.  Silly dancing.  Happy hippie dancing.  Peace and love dancing.  Fuck Trump dancing!!!!!

Yea. . . that's it.  Fuck Trump!!!!!

Join me at the Blue Iguana for a margarita.  I'll put money in the juke box.  We can dance the day and night away.  

You Can/Should Skip This One

Man oh man. . . the days come more quickly than I can prepare for them.  I never have enough photographs anymore, at least not ones of which some people might approve, and I can't keep up with the business end of things.  I got an email from the roofing company asking me if I had gotten something notarized.  I hadn't known I was supposed to.  They can't start work until I do.  I thought my part of the job was simply to get the big bucketful of money.  

The house is a mess of photo gear and the detritus of my living in it once again.  I have at least an hour's prep work before the maids get here.  And I have a lot of prep for an upcoming home studio session once again.  

I can't keep things straight in my head.  

Do you know that old ELO song, "Don't Bring Me Down," the line that goes, "Don't bring me down. . . Bruce"?  That exact line was playing over the speakers at my mother's therapy place when I got a text telling me that the fellow who hired me for a lifetime of work at the factory had died.  Now that was weird.  

What was weirder is that when I pulled the song up on YouTube, it had the lyrics on screen, and the line isn't what I thought it to be all this time.  It goes, "Don't bring me down. . . groos."  WTF does "groos" mean (link)?

Bruce was a nice guy.  He was a "published" poet.  Quotes because it was all vanity press stuff "his people" would raise money to pay for.  I guess, though, that it would be hard to get a company interested in publishing a volume of poems.  

Late in life, after marrying his college "sweetheart" and adopting a daughter who was then grown and had her own child, he came to my office one day to say he was getting a divorce.  I knew his wife and daughter well.  

"Oh, my.  Why?  What happened?"

"I guess we're good enough friends that I can tell you.  I'M GAY!"

Of course the mind automatically begins to run through things, but surprisingly, at least to me, I burst out laughing.  

"Jesus, Bruce. . . I hope we're good enough friends that I can find this. . . uh, not funny, but. . . I mean. . . I don't know.  It's just such a seismic shift."

He got a new haircut after that and began his internet dating life.  He was in his sixties.  

RIP old pal.  

It was a week of death for the factory, I guess.  The fellow who chaired my hiring committee also died.  It seems to be going around.  

I keep getting similar messages from different people lately.  

How are you doing?  

I don't know how to respond.  It is unnerving.  

I've had some good times.  I've had some bad times.  Sometimes I have no times at all.  

Maybe I should just tell them about my allergy.  

 I'm looking pretty shabby.  Haven't seen my beautician for a very long time.  I asked her if I should get a beauty treatment.  She said, "let me see," then didn't text back.  What happened to the love?  

I'm not invited to parties, I can't get my hair done. . . what is going on?  I need to check my horoscope.  

I took a pretty good fall yesterday off a platform at the gym.  My gymroid friends were all standing there when it happened.  It seemed that I had a lot of time to think before I hit the floor, sort of falling in slow motion.  They all looked shocked.  Did the old crippled man get hurt?  I could have.  Probably should have.  But it didn't seem like it.  I got up with a smart comment and blamed them for not catching me, then I continued my workout.  

Last night in bed, I woke with lower back pain.  Hmm.  

O.K.  I have much to do and little motivation, so I had better get started.  Winter is ending and the Spring work will commence, and you know what that means.  BBC.  

I don't know, though, if I have it in me.  

There is only one way to find out.  And so. . . . 

Boy. . . was this a shitty post.  Apologies.  But they can't all be winners, can they?  

They Stand, They Sit, They Lie Down

I didn't leave the house all weekend.  I didn't bathe, didn't change clothes.  I may not have brushed my teeth.  I don't remember much of it.  I was living in my head.  It was not unpleasant in any way.  Indeed, I was having quite the life.  I get like that sometimes.  Then, come Monday, I start anew.  

I should amend that, though.  I left twice to get takeout.  And last night, I took a shower and went to see my mother.  Two of my cousins were there and the neighbors came over, so it was a bit much, but I survived.  Couldn't wait to get back to the house and live my interior life again.  

But now it is St. Paddy's Day and I will be out and about.  Not celebrating the silly day, though corned beef and cabbage and a Guinness doesn't sound bad, but getting my physical life on track again.  I've gotta move!

I look at a lot of pictures.  Too many.  But it is something to do between reading and moping.  

Are you having a good time ?
Are you ok?

 Recently, I've realized something silly about pictures of people that is obvious but mostly invisible, too.  People are either standing, sitting, or lying down.  There is a background against which they are juxtaposed, inside or out.  And that's it.  There is nothing else.  So why do we look at photos of people?  It starts to make no sense.  

It's like, "O.K. . . stand over here in the light.  I want to get the Eiffel Tower. . . hold it. . . yea. . . that's good."  

They are dressed in something or they are not.  They may stand in front of a blank wall.  

Holy shit--you came up with this all by yourself?!

Yea. . . I know.  It is a stupid thing to articulate, but it is maddening, too.  

I can't wait to make pictures again.  What should I bring?

But that is why, I think, AI pictures are so intriguing.  Anything you can think of, really.  It's crazy.  The parameters grow much, much wider.  

I'd like to think that we look at pictures of people because it says something about being human, about the human condition, etc.  But I am not so sure anymore.  Now we are attracted to what it means to be AI in an AI produced environment.  

Still. . . so far, AI won't let me make pictures with certain prompts.  It is all controlled by someone with the Musk mentality, so. . . I'll keep making pictures for the moment.  

Look at you!

There IS something thrilling about it, and something terrifying, too.  Just don't try to do it in public any longer.  People are paranoid about having a man with a camera around in a crowd.  I think it is still o.k. if you are a woman, but that window of opportunity will be closing soon enough too, I predict.  Now I even get confronted for taking photos of yard ornaments.  

I wish I had a studio again, but everything is super expensive here in my own hometown.  Maybe once Trump crashes the economy, there will be vacant buildings again, and rents will get cheap.  Now that is a hell of a thing to hope for, I know, but if Trump is going to drag me into poverty, I should at least have an artist's loft.  

Right?

They sit, they stand, they lie down.  WTF are you going to do?

Sometimes, I write, too.

i love the story
i just got off of work
busy day
i loved reading this - thank you for it

"I can resist everything but temptation," said Oscar Wilde.

I'd include flattery.

I think I need to move.  I've been living in my head for days now.  It is like the Wild West in there, like Edwardian Africa.  

It is a dangerous place to be.  

Little By Little and Was By Was

I'm going to have to leave my tropical paradise and move to the desert.  I've been sneezing and blowing and scratching my eyes for days now.  I can barely move or think.  That is a handful of oak catkins.  Times that by ten billion and you have what lies in the streets surrounding my house.  My deck is covered, my car yellow.  Should I go homeopathic or allopathic?  I don't think osteopathic will do me any good.  I don't like taking drugs, though.  

I'm going to check in with Kennedy's Department of Health site to see his recommendation.  It's probably bear grease and whale blubber.  

There was a fellow living three houses down from me.  He was a weird guy with a little dog.  His house was as old or older than mine, set far back from the road toward the creek that runs behind the house.  It's a very deep lot, and the house was obscured by a stand of plants and shrubs to which he tended.  He had the typical long hair and beard of a recluse.  I'd see him ever so often coming out to the mailbox, always holding his little dog.  He was an artist and did a lot of work for Disney.  I imagine they let him work at home.  He did not fit the Disney image.  But that they hired him at all is some sort of testament, I guess, to his talent.  

one day anyone died, I guess
(and no one stopped to kiss his face)

I didn't find out for months that he had died.  My neighbor mentioned it one day awhile ago.  Another neighbor at the end of the street asked me other day if I knew that the fellow was dead.  

"Yea. . . he's been dead nearly a year now, I think."

I wondered how long it took for anyone to find out?  Nobody ever came to his house.  And what about the little dog?  His truck still sits in the driveway collecting leaves and pollen.  The plants have taken over the yard.  The man from the end of the street said, "I heard that coyotes are living in the house now."  His wife is a veterinarian, so I didn't scoff.  I drove behind a coyote running down the street one day, and he cut off into the brush-filled lot, so it makes sense.  And I'm guessing that is what happened to my little feral cat.  

It was hard to tell, but I would guess the fellow was around my age.  It makes me wonder if he died of natural causes or just decided that shit was no longer worth it.  

My new young friend tells me about her life.  It's much better than the old recluse's.  She's a cool kid, more thoughtful than most people I know.  She is burning the candle at both ends right now, and I envy her.  There is nothing but future for her.  She hasn't fucked up her life yet.  She still has "The Dream."  But she will.  Somehow.  If she doesn't do it herself, it will not matter.  Nature has a plan.  She wants to get married and have kids.  A good man, she says.  Someone stable who will treat her right.  She shows me pictures of potentials.

"He'll be boring," I kid.  "He'll begin by having that medium kind of corporate success.  He will be bland and work his way up the ladder.  After awhile, you will have vacations at resorts and maybe a condo at the beach.  You will quit working to raise your children and have lunches with the village housewives on the Boulevard.  You will become enamored of material things, jewelry, clothing, and will join the racquet club where your husband will talk about sports and upcoming golf tournaments with the other men.  His leisure outfit will have come from the pro shop.  He will fit in with the others well.  Your children will go to private schools and you will take them to soccer.  Is that what you want?"

She just laughs at that.  

"You're silly.  Send me more music."

She is at the end of her crazy days and about to enter the serious life.  She will do well, I think, and I don't want to dissuade her, but the life she aspires to. . . I don't know.  I really have no life advice except to tell people "don't do what I did."  I am being disingenuous, of course.  My life has been fairytale material and I've enjoyed it immensely . But, as I say, it really doesn't matter much.  Nature has a plan and it isn't in our favor.  Ask my old gone neighbor.  He was a successful artist living in a very nice 'hood.  What happened?  I sure would like to know.  

"Come see me tonight.  I'll buy you drinks."

But I don't go.  I don't leave the house.  If I did, it would be to go photograph at the little league wrestling thing again.  But I can't motivate.  I don't want to leave the house.  

And so. . . I'm missing this.  The champ was defending her title.  I'll bet it was really something.  

Rather, I get takeout from the Greek place and put on "Conclave."  It won some Academy award, I think.  People told me that it was a good movie.  It wasn't.  It really wasn't.  I guess certain people liked it because the new Pope turns out to be a hermaphrodite.  They like the shocking moral/political aspect of it, I imagine.  But man, that movie was a real drag.  It wasn't worth the six bucks I paid for it.  

Sorry to give away the ending if you haven't seen it.  All I can say is "don't."  And I can tell you this--I'd already guessed that.  It seemed obvious to me.  I was in no way surprised.  

I don't want to tell my friend that there are only so many hours, so many days, that you feel the way she does.  Burning that candle.  Girlfriends, boyfriends. . . crazy times.  You can tell certain things, of course, but it all gets Lost in Translation.  

Ha!

e.e. cummings understood, but a lot of good it did him.  He was, by all reports, not a happy man.  What artist is?  I saw this meme the other day and thought it very apropos.  

I think my friend is probably better off, whatever that means.  

I should probably do something now rather than think.  I did that all of yesterday, and today I feel like I've slept in a tomb.  I'll go out among the throng and listen to the inauthentic laughter from women of a certain ilk.  

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

And Then. . . There Is the Music

It is the time of year for beauty here in my own home state.  And. . . allergies.  I have one now that seems severe.  The oak pollen is falling and lying like dry rivers in the streets.  I took a walk yesterday before the gym.  Every other house had a yard crew.  Every yard crew had a blower.  My eyes burned, my nose ran, and I sneezed hundreds of times.  I was a mess.  I hadn't any allergies until a few years ago when the pollen fell like rain.  After that year, if oak pollen, or rather, the "catkins" of the male flower (wouldn't you know) falls on my exposed neck or shoulders, I get a burning red rash.  

Before this happened, I thought people who had allergies were weak crybabies.  

"Man, this pollen is killing me."

"Uh-huh.  Shut the fuck up."

Now I know.  I don't want to know.  

I think the allergic thing has made me tired, too.  A low, sleepy hum runs through my body.  A part of the BBC invited me to happy hour yesterday.  It would have been nice, but I didn't have it in me.  I just wanted to make a roasted vegetable dinner at home.  

Which I did.  And I sat out on the deck with a Campari and a cheroot and reacted to my texts as I listened to good jazz music.  My young friend has become quite taken with some of it.  

you can spam me with this music 

makes me very happy

i love new music 

just added them to my playlist 🤗

yes!

i’m vamping up my jazz playlist

so this is perfect 

i loved all the songs you sent 

went straight into my playlist 

Youthful enthusiasm is contagious.  

The vegetables roasted, the rice cooked, and I poured another Campari.  The world seemed full of possibilities and wonder.  

As the light began to fade, I plated my food, shredding a roasted chicken on the vegetables and rice, and poured a glass of wine.  But I worried.  I'd bought some deluxe mushrooms, the weird looking ones of all kinds, but when I put them on the vegetable platter that went into the oven, they felt slimy.  I had rinsed them, so I thought maybe they were simply wet.  I'd slathered everything in olive oil, too.  Maybe it was that.  I couldn't remember the sequence of events, though.  What to do?  I remembered movies where people were poisoned by mushrooms.  It might be a horrible death, I thought, but wouldn't cooking them mitigate that?  I had no idea.  I pictured myself in the ER late on a Friday night with teenaged interns who had no clue what to do about toxic mushroom poisoning.  

Youthful enthusiasm isn't everything.

So I nibbled with consternation.  Why hadn't I just taken the mushrooms off?  

The meal was good, but I didn't eat as much as I might have.  Perhaps, I thought, I could survive a little poison.  

Just as I was finishing up dinner and pouring my after dinner drink, a text came in.  

"I'm at John's new place.  Oh, my!"

John is a fellow I've known since playing in the old band.  He was a kid playing drums in a group that sometimes opened for us.  Back then, there were two little clubs right on the Boulevard where we played.  It is hard to believe such things were allowed then.  I would be the first to object if they tried to do such a thing now.  

John went on to become a very successful businessman importing furniture from Indonesia and Thailand, exotic, beautiful things.  He opened up several shops.  I have several nice pieces from his store in my house right now.  

But he had a clever idea. He opened up cafes in several of his stores, and as the retail hours ended, the bar hours began.  And he found the cafe business more profitable.  And so. . . just now, he has opened up a cafe/salon on the Boulevard.  I was worried it would be of the sort I would object to.  Rather. . . . 

OM f'ing G!!!  Was it opening night?  Why wasn't I there?  The tenant said that it was very, very nice.  

I sent the videos (she sent several) to my friends.  

"it’s soooo your vibe. you live there now."

Indeed.  I have a daytime cafe that I never go to at night.  It is great for coffee or tea, but the evening it is the kind of music and scene I can no longer enjoy. But now, I thought, I have an evening cafe as well.  I knew that it would not be like this every night, of course, and that bummed me a bit, for how many such musical groups are hanging around town waiting for a gig?  

But there was the annual Crap Festival coming up next week, and there is, as always, the party at a friend's house who always has great music.  

I texted John to say how great the club looked from the video.  I sent him the video clip above and encouraged him to try and book them.  He texted back in the affirmative.  

O.K . I was feeling good and happy.  My oh my.  

Then I got a text that brought me down.  I wasn't 't invited to the party at my buddy's house.  The fellow, I was told, didn't care for me.  

WTF?  Why would someone not like ME!!!  I think I'm a pretty swell fellow.  

Well, whatever.  It's just a bunch of old geezers anyway.  I've got new friends now.  

oh my gosh i love the music and the vibes!  so so nice

i want to go to a place and just sip on some wine and listen to music like that

On a night when everything seemed to be happening, I was sitting alone at home playing with my phone.  It wasn't late.  I could get up and go out still. . . but I wouldn't.  I was still waiting on the potential poisoning and trying to mitigate the possible effects with good drink.  And, of course, there was the whole oak pollen thing that was making me lazy.  It was enough that people wanted me to come out, I thought.  Not all, it was reported, but I'd try to let that go.  Fuck him.  

"i loved all the songs you sent "

The photo is from last year at this time.  Miami.  If I can get away, I want to go again soon.  It is so very visual.  And there is the music.  

Maybe the Moon

Zenith was once a giant electronics corporation in the United States.  It was the last company to make televisions in America.  In the 1990s it underwent a "corporate restructuring" and was eventually taken over and owned by the South Korean company LG.  That is a television tube in the Zenith advertisement.  Many will not know about t.v. tubes or radio tubes, either, for that matter.  Transistors took their place.  

You'll remember what's behind the t.v. tube, though you never saw them on a television that had tubes, so I wonder at the ad.  

Maybe Trump's tariffs will bring television production back to the U.S.A.  Wouldn't that be something?  

I am wrong, though.  That is a radio, not a television tube.  The nudity distracted me from what she is holding in her hand.  They did have bare breasts on radio, I think.  

The whole thing is confusing to me, really.  What flag is that?  No matter.  The ad has its own appeal.  

HST was always prescient.  This sounds like a prediction of the Trump Era.  But we were all born into "Future Shock," the premature arrival of the future.  What can one do? 

As I sit here typing in the dark, my mind is a bit like a moth in a blizzard.  My life is traveling at high speeds, it seems, but only sideways.  When it stops, I'm sitting crossways on the railroad tracks.  These are unpredictable times, and people have gone strange.  Maybe it was Covid.  Perhaps we've all mutated in ways we don't comprehend, in ways science has yet to explain.  

Or maybe it's the moon.  I stepped outside for some reason last night, and this was shining outside my front door.  I grabbed my phone to take a snap to send as a reminder to my friends.  It was the Blood Moon that would be partially eclipsed in the wee hours of morning.  I wrote to my waitress friend to look up when she got off work.  My tenant is always awake at those hours.  The eclipse would occur between 1:30 and 2:30. 

There was no hope for me.  I went to bed just before ten.  

And had strange dreams.  Or were they?  A friend texted to tell me that his wife "was open."  I think she wants me to photograph her.  So many people do just now that I have done it again.  Still, I am shy.  

I went to the cafe yesterday.  The tall, tatted girl was working.  Have I told you how tall?  How tatted?  She is crazy.  I'm sure I told you that.  I took a photo of her one day while she was working, and she ahhed over it.  But she is also often very mean to me, too.  Yesterday when I got there, she was in the middle of a shift change with another girl.  

"It's going to be a couple of minutes," she told me with a challenging look.  The other girl stared at me.  

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do.  Do I wait here?"

"You can.  Some people do." 

Again, they stared at me.  

"I'm uncertain.  I'll wait, I guess."  

The tall, tatted girl picked up bills from the register to count out her shift's totals I guessed.  

"92, 16, 43. . . ."

She looked up at me.  

"Don't stand here if you are going to do that."

She giggled.  She cut her eyes up from her downturned face and grinned.  When she finished counting, she asked me what I wanted.  

"A jasmine green tea, please."

"How's your mother?"

I was surprised.  I'd told her about my mother about a month ago, told her that I was staying there to take care of her.  

"Thanks for asking," I said.  "That is very kind."  

Then I had an idea.  No, not then.  It is an idea I've been knocking around for a bit.  

"Tell me something interesting that I can write about."

"I don't think the world is as bad off as it seems," she said.

"No.  No good.  I need an anecdote, a story, something strange or weird or surprising."

But there was no time for that.  People were lined up behind me now.  There was a beautiful girl, tiny, maybe 5'1" but perfect in every way, dressed in a white top tied at the waist, cut off jeans shorts, and boots.  I'd seen her in the cafe once before.  Both times, she was with her boyfriend, a bland, quiet kind who looked like he would be very sweet.  I looked back just as she leaned up to give him a kiss.  I wanted to tell her how very much I wished to photograph her and that I didn't think her boyfriend would mind.  I wouldn't bruise her in any way, I wanted to say.  She'd come back fresher than a daisy.  

But of course, I said nothing. I simply turned away.

The cafe is a dirty little visual treat, but it is neither clean nor well-lighted.  

" He walked down to the French Market in the morning and got the paper and sat on the terrace in the cool sun and drank hot coffee with milk."

That was the first sentence I read last night when I opened up Cormac McCarthy's "The Passenger."  Descriptive passages lead you through some narrative door where action of the body or the mind can take place.  

"The writer needs to set the scene."

Something like that.  It seems easy enough to do, but try it.  It can become so horribly artificial or merely rote.  Getting just the right amount of detail is key.  There are so many choices a writer has to make.  

I, of course, try to avoid them all.  

I've been thinking and talking about doing a swimming pool series of photographs for a couple of years now.  Getting people to let me photograph their pools, though. . . . 

I walk up and knock on a stranger's door.

"Hi.  I see you have a pool.  I'm a photographer and I have an idea for a project, and I would like to use your pool if you don't mind."

You see where the hard part lies.  

But yesterday I thought to Google "swimming pool photographs."  And as often happens, what I found was deflating.  

link

Holy shit!  This stuff is amazing.  And there is so much of it.  I looked up the artist, Maria Svarbova.  Oh, yea. . . this woman has no future.  

Maybe I'm running out of ideas.  Maybe my brain is too old for creativity.  Or. . . probably. . . I am simply too lazy.  The road to success is long, and you need to have plenty of fuel.  She looks to have plenty of fuel left in her tank.  

"Did you take that picture?!  I've never had Campari.  I loved the vibe of that song.  Send more if you get bored."

I don't know. . . it was probably the moon.

 

A Chatty Day, A Quiet Night

Jesus.  I just wrote a post so objectionable that even YOU would be embarrassed by it.  I won't post it, but it was fun.  

It was about the "pervert" in each of us.  Taboo, of course.  Repressed memories.  

I concluded that I would become a "spiritual advisor."  

There is nothing but trouble in posting that, however.  So. . . I'll restrain myself.  

I feel oppressed, though.  I do.

I didn't go out with the boys last night.  I didn't want to.  I had texts from the waitress asking if I was coming.  "Nope," I said.  I was making a nice meal and was ensconced in my own comfort.  I wasn't sad or lonely or feeling down in any way.  It is enough to asked, sometimes, just to know there is the potential for. . .  something.  

There are days like that, when people are chatty or just glad to see you.  I went to the photo store yesterday afternoon to look at LED lighting panels about which I know virtually nothing.  I want to see if I should replace strobes with this constant lighting source.  I was looking for other things, too.  But one of the owners was there, one of two brothers.  They are from an old Gotham family.  Generations.  There father had opened the hobby store more than sixty years ago.  His mother was a well-to-do land owner in town.  The two brothers are Kiwanis Club members and seem civic minded.  

But for some reason they like to chat me up when I come in.  That is how I know the family history.  

"Come here. . . look at this."

One brother takes me to a small door leading to a ladder up into the chimney-like facade on the storefront and begins telling me a little of the store's history.  

"It was originally a grocery store.  It was one of the first that became a national chain."

The kids who work in the store look on with a strange mix of wonder and fear.  I look back and shrug.

Yesterday, one of the brothers said hello and followed me over to the lighting section.  

"I can't keep up," he said.  "I don't know about any of this."  

"Yea.  I'm just learning."

He launched into a story.  Story led to story for an hour.  I try to be careful when I talk to them.  I don't want to queer the deal with these civic-minded brothers.  They know every major player in town. But Brother #2. . . or maybe #1, I"m not sure. . . started getting ever-weirder.  It started with stories of gambling.  The store is in the Little Vietnam part of town.  The shops are rife with illegal gambling games.  When his father was a young man, he said, he used to run the numbers for the Bolita games.  That led him to stories of his trips to Vegas.  His buddies liked to hook up with prostitutes, he said.  Brother #2 (or #1) looked at me pop-eyed.  

"Why?" he pondered in astonishment.  "I mean. . . right?"  It didn't take a minute for me to get his drift which was hip deep in prurience.  

"My own little village is full of it," I offered.  "They sit at the high end bars with their purses beside them.  I've been told that if the purse is open, they are open for business."

He was shaking his head in the negative.  

"Prostitutes don't have purses.  I guarantee you, if you see a woman walking down the street without a purse, she's a working girl."

Oh, fuck. . . it got weirder from there.  I wanted to look at the lighting and tried, but it was useless.  He was on a roll.  After an hour had passed, I said, "Man. . . I've got to go," and thus we parted.  

Maybe that unconsciously inspired my unpublished morning post.  

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts and minds of men?"

I do. . . but to call it "evil" might be misnaming it.  

"Isn't that kind of weird?"

"It's just sex."  

Rumors about the sex parties of half the wealthy citizens of my own hometown, which I am gladly missing, are rampant.  I've seen photo verification of some of it.  I'm definitely living in Gomorrah.  

But I'm coming too close to writing what I am not posting today.  I guess I'll end with this.  

These apps — which have soared in popularity in the last year — allow users to upload an ordinary photo, which is then transformed to produce hyper-realistic nude images or pornographic videos.

The San Francisco City Attorney’s office is suing 16 of the most frequently visited AI-powered “undressing” websites, often used to create nude deepfakes of women and girls without their consent. These platforms allow users to upload images of real, fully clothed people, which are then digitally “undressed” with AI tools that simulate nudity.

A decent person might wonder who in the world would do such a thing.  Wait for it.  Here's the kicker. 

San Francisco City Attorney David Chiu says the targeted websites were collectively visited over 200 million times in the first six months of 2024 alone.

 And therein lies the moral of the story, I think.  

If the reporting is accurate, one has to wonder why nobody is undressing boys and men in these sites.  Are the statistics merely reporting "women and girls"?  Do lesbians visit the site in large numbers?  I don't know.  I feel that a lot of questions have been left unanswered.  But 200 million is a lot.  

The Victorians were infamously prudish.  They put table cloths on tables to hide the legs.  They had code words for suggestive meats like chicken breasts.  And yet. . . at the turn of the century there were over 100,000 prostitutes in London.  This is verifiable.  You can look it up.  

When photography was first invented, the churches were against it.  It was the devil's tool.  Too many nudes.  

I made some spicy chicken over brown rice and lentils last night.  I drank wine, but not too much, and had only one after dinner drink.  I felt almost holy.  

And of course, there was the music, sad and sweet and romantic.  Why would I want to go into the world on a Wednesday night with a bunch of horny guys?  

As I say. . . it was enough to be asked.  

Undone

My mind is a madhouse, I guess.  It does what it wants now, so it seems.  I've been awake since four o'clock this morning.  You've had those nights, surely, when you must get up to shut down.  I've been reading ever since in an effort to focus on something else.  But I've been reading the news, probably the wrong way to go.  Trump and his Regime.  

Last night, though, I felt that if there were gods, they are revealed through certain arts, music being chief among them.  Music is magic, and the other arts strive to achieve its effects.  How, for instance, can a series of notes invoke a mood?  Envious painters have tried to simulate this with color.  There are tableaux which invoke emotions, too.  A still life, a country feast. . . .  I'm not sure mere words have ever reached such heights.  I think the Moderns, with their emphasis on style, came closest.  Hemingway said he studied Cezanne's paintings to learn how to write.  

But music moves the soul.  

I have done tens of thousands things, but I've imagined tens of millions more, and now, sometimes, I wonder why I didn't do them.  It was sloth, of course, but also the constriction of time.  

"If you could do it all over again, what. . . ?"

I'd probably make all the same mistakes.  The further I go, the more I feel or fear fate.  But we live through imagination, too. . . and I've imagined such a great and wonderful life.  I've done much of it, but there is so much more.  

After a fresh dinner (a modified Greek salad) and a snappy wine, I poured a drink and sat back with music as I often do, and I thought, "this is the closest I will get now outside of love."  

Life is not like this, though it should be.  There are an infinite number of things that are left undone.

Even the Dead Can Dance

The time change is wearing me out.  I've been staying up way too late.  Maybe it's the liquor.  Hell. . . it could be Trump.  The ways of the world can be wicked, and I am not immune.  It is fun at the time, sure.  Last night I stayed up until one-thirty playing my guitar.  I haven't played guitar for a very long time.  I was howling out "Ring of Fire" over and over again.  I'm sure the neighbors could hear me.  I don't know.  I may have been possessed.  But now that I think about it, "Ring of Fire" is a good trope.  

The present makes one yearn for the Days of Covid and Social Distancing, doesn't it?  Things were so quiet and calm.  It seems people now live in a constant, agonizing, and meaningless frenzy.  

"Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump!"

Perhaps I was simply not tired, though. I sat through the entire day.  It stormed badly here in the morning.  There were tornadoes touching down in the near distance.  Friends sent a photo of them sitting in their closet with their dog.  

Right?

But it was so nasty, I hesitated leaving the house for the gym, and then it was too late.  I had to be up in Factory City for lunch with my former secretary at 12:30.  

She brought my current replacement twice removed. 

We ended up having a three hour lunch.  No kidding.  When we looked at the time, I panicked.  I was going to be late in getting my mother to her physical therapy appointment.  I called her and asked her to have my cousin drop her off.  I'd be there soon after.  I drove maniacally to get there when suddenly it occurred to me--her appointment wasn't until Wednesday.  But when I got to the facility, my mother was already in her session.

Not her session.  She had gotten there early and they took her because the person who was scheduled had cancelled their appointment.  

I sat through my mother's session, then I took her home.  We sat with my cousin for a couple hours chatting.  Then I went home, worn out, I guess, from sitting.  

There are different kinds of fatigue.  The one I had did not make me sleepy.  Neither did the liquor.  

Oh, shit. . . I'm starting to remember last night now.  I went to the computer.  I listened to music for a long time.  Old music.  I listened to things over and over again, the same song in different versions, extended cuts, remixes, etc.  Then (cringe) I sent them to people.  Lots of songs.  Lots of people.  After midnight.  

Sorry.  

I'm blaming it on the time change.  

Whatever.  

I'll get more exercise today.  Until then. . . keep on dancing. . . and a prancing.  

Deciphering The Plan

It has become obvious to me that the CEO of the United States is employing his historic business plan--don't pay your employees, file bankruptcy, then go to Russia to get another huge loan.  

Duh.  

But his legion is still defending him.  They can't admit they committed a catastrophic mistake when they put the checkmark by his name.  Their jaws just get tighter and their message meaner.  Meanwhile, the dems are running around like clowns with their hair on fire.  

If you thought Wonderland was weird. . . . 

But I am home, and that is where the heart is.  Mine is too big and fragile, perhaps, but, as the old saying goes, it is better to have loved and lost than to never have lost before.  

That's not quite right.  

It is a romantic place, my house, full of witchy things, potions, books, art, and alchemy, and maybe that is why I find it so difficult to leave it on a sunny day.  It is not like the world "out there."  It is a ramshackle love nest for one.  

O.K.  That sounds too onanistic.  It's just words, really, a turn of a phrase.  I do live too much in my head, I guess.  It is probably a common malady.  Many must have it.  

But when I pour gas on the fire, or in this case, a little hooch. . . the flames grow high and I begin to. . . communicate.  I've forgotten the nighttime rule.  No texting after five.  

After a day of leisure and a trip to my mother's, after a cocktail and a cheroot on the deck in the lovely later afternoon/early evening air, after dinner and drinks, if the music is right, my heart clouds my head.

"Oh, please. . . ."

"Shut up and sit back. . . I'm driving now!"

And then new versions of an old idea begin to form, and I think I want to share.  

"What was that!"

"Oops.  It's o.k.  I just ran over a curb.  Shut the fuck up." 

"For God's sake. . . please slow down."

Solipsism might be a better descriptive term for it.  Yea.  Let's call it that.  

So. . . I was listening to this.  She was part of the whole Joan Chamorro Jazz Band thing.  All grown up now and on her own.  A Tiny Desk Concert is a big deal, I think.  You can listen to this with your morning coffee or wait until tonight while you are having a glass of wine.  Either way.  

I am having lunch with my old secretary this afternoon.  The sky is grey and thunder rumbles in the distance.  I was just informed that I will be driving into a tornado warning.  See what happens?  Inevitably the shit will hit the fan.  It is obvious to me that I keep overplaying my hand, but you have to play the hand you are dealt, they say.  

That's probably a really dumb idea.  

F'ing with the Body/Clocks

Trump said he would end the changing of the clocks.  He signed a lot of executive orders, but not this one.  Uh-uh.  Just another empty promise from the Syphilitic King.  And so. . . wtf time is it?  And why do I care?  I can't answer that, but I just know it fucks me up.  Scientists say that DST is unhealthy and that Standard Time aligns with the body's natural biorhythms.  Remember biorhythms?  Used to be a big thing, but I don't hear people talk about them so much any longer.  Madness, they say, can be induced by fucking with the body's clock.  Maybe that is what is wrong with the country.  We've too long fucked with our body clocks.  

"The whole world's mad but for me and thee, and I'm not so sure about thee. " 

Saturday was another beautiful day here in my own hometown.  Much was going on.  I stayed in.  Why?  I haven't figured that one out completely yet, but I must not be comfortable among the throng.  At two, however, I had a visitor who asked me to go to lunch.  She wanted to go to a new French Cafe within walking distance from my house.  O.K.  

It was French. . . maybe.  The New France.  Or, perhaps the Algerian one.  It was very average at best, disappointing in the main.  Slow service, stale macaroons, and not the best croissant I have ever eaten as a sandwich.  But it was nice to get out and take a walk.  After that, I went to see my mother.  Now there's a phrase that rolls off the tongue.  I sat with her and my cousin for a couple hours and then came home.  And then?

Yea.  Saturday night at home.  Still.  My home.  My things.  My music.  My pictures.  My books.  

But the thrill of that will wear off soon enough.

I drank just a little more than moderately, but not much.  Early bed.  I'm an exciting fellow.  That's why my narratives are so rich now.  It all comes down to experience.  Ho!

I DO have things that are more thrilling, but I am unwilling to share them yet.  

"Oh, please. . . you are never a pest!"

Compliments are like water to a plant.  Make sure you give some today.  Try to remember.  They make people happy.  Negative people will always only bring you down.