The printer is a no-go. I wrote to the owner and he sent me a picture of the head check print out. It is as bad as my big printer and beyond saving.
I've not decided about the scooter yet. I'm going to have to use the Magic 8 Ball for that one.
I just got my new copy of Reader's Digest in the mail. Did you know hydrogen peroxide will take out blood stains? That or baking soda. They have some good articles and it isn't that expensive, really. I got a deal by bundling it with the T.V. guide. That has some pretty good articles, too.
That fellow on Fox was rude to Kamala Harris yesterday. I was shocked. He wouldn't let her talk. Maybe he is a member of Hamas.
Oops. I don't want to get in trouble with the Pro-Palestinians.
Just kidding. I don't care.
I had a job once. They were always encouraging people to "think outside the box." Ha! They were always trying to put me back in it, but then someone would come along and turn the handle.
I actually stole that from C.C. It was his line. But a good writer must be a good thief. I've met several. None of them liked me.
I think that I need to use that short sleeve plaid shirt and a popsicle disguise when I go out to take photos. It's a darn good one. Nobody seems to care at all. I think disguising myself as a woman would be better, but I can't seem to bring myself to do it. I do think people would be nicer to me, though. I could probably even take pictures of children. Newspapers run headlines like "One hundred and five people killed in attack, including children." Children are the future, I'm reminded.
I was walking with one of my favorite profs in grad school once, just the two of us. In a candid moment, I guess, he said to me, "You just like to piss people off, don't you?" I was taken aback for a second, but only a second, and then I laughed. "I prefer to think of it as shaking people out of their complacency," I responded. He seemed to like that.
But yea. . . people don't enjoy having their ideas about things challenged. I know my bosses at the factory didn't enjoy it all that much, but I was playing to a different crowd. The workers enjoyed it a lot. . . as long as I wasn't standing too close to them.
I think the door was left open too long, though. It seems a lot of people got out of the box. Some of them got together and made new boxes. MAGA, The Woke, etc. People like boxes, I think. They feel safe in them.
As Hemingway said in To Have and to Have Not, "[A] man alone ain't got no bloody fucking chance."
He meant "person." I believe so.
I am taking my mother to another Happy Hour event tonight. It seems I have created something. Her neighbor asked her yesterday if we were all going. What can I say? The girls like getting out. So it will be another night of hot dogs, soft pretzels, and beer, I guess.
Writing is much about where you went, what you saw, and what you thought about it all.
"He stood on the high bank of the muddy river listening to the swirling water he could not see as the quarter moon climbed higher in the sky, and he thought. . . ."
Famous quote. I just made it up. . . but it will be.
O.K. See what I mean, though? It's all about sitting in a cafe drinking a tea, coffee, or brandy and watching the fly struggling in the spider's web and finding a question or drawing a conclusion from what you have just witnessed. Describe and delight.
Whatever. I haven't been anywhere nor seen anything lately. I haven't a thought in my head. Not any that I can control, anyway. Lately, I feel I am victim of my own memories of the life I've lived. Many that I don't wish ever to remember have been coming back to me as a flood. I don't want to think them, but I can't stop them, and I imagine, "This is where the concept of hell must have begun."
My advice? Don't let yourself spend much time brooding. Better yet, always do what's right. Never do anything wrong. Your memories may be bland, but they will likely be undisturbing. You can grow old without a wrinkle in your pretty little face. You won't even need Photoshop.
I have two big dilemmas now that have nothing to do with that. Yesterday, for the first time, I went on Facebook Marketplace. Holy smokes--it is so much better than Craig's List. I wanted to see if I could find a large format printer for a good price. I found one that is dubious. It is the larger 44" version of my 24" Epson printer which has died. I like the printer, but it is very, very old for a printer. However--$500. What? The description says it has some clogging in a couple of the color channels but is still printing well. That is a problem. . . that maybe I could solve. Maybe. For $500, though. . . I might take a chance. The rub is that it is in a city on the coast some hour and a half away and it won't fit in my Xterra, I think. I'll have to measure and see.
But while I was on the site, just for fun, I searched for Vespas.
I found one that is a bit newer but exactly like my old one--even the color. What--$1,700! And it is only a few miles away. I was excited, but the more I thought about it, the more fearful I became. Would it be tempting the Fates? There is not much protection from collision is there? The thing brings back both good and bad memories. Would I have the nerve to ride it again?
Here's a photo of my old one I just found. Huh.
I was telling my mother about it last night explaining where I might and might not ride it. I told her I would eschew the major highways unlike before. This was during the first few minutes of my visit. Later on, I mentioned it again.
"You're thinking about getting another Vespa?"
"I just spent fifteen minutes telling you all about it. What?"
"I thought you were talking about getting a new car."
"Why would I not drive a new car on the highway?
Then I was not so nice, and it makes me angry with myself. I told her she couldn't just do a stupid grin and nod her head when she can't hear what is being said. But that is what she does. It is getting harder and harder to have a conversation with her now. She needs hearing aids, but she is refusing. I am frustrated, not by her refusal, but my inability to do anything about anything at all. And the anger wells up inside me. I probably need some counseling. I mean. . . in this case, it might be a good idea. Just behavioral stuff. How not to react badly, etc.
I probably won't buy either the printer or the scooter. That is the easy thing to do, and I have been choosing the path of least resistance of late. My bank account is steadily shrinking despite the reports that we are in an improving economy. Somehow, I need to make some money.
I don't think I can make a living as an artist and stripping is now out of the question. All that is left is becoming a Walmart Greeter, but I am not sure they have those anymore. Maybe I should start posting my blog on Substack. Hell, it might really take off there. I could probably make enough to cover my new checking account fee at the bank.
Well, I'm, out of good ideas. I'll need to think on all of this much, much more. Until then. . . .
Let's try an old Jimmy Buffet tune. What? Yea. You won't recognize it, though.
Well, shit. . . my blog went to Google Jail once again, so now EVERYONE must pass a test of moral courage to view the site. Selavy. That's what I get for listening to C.C. He told me that was the perfect photo to post about the loss of romanticism and giving up on the hope of love. I thought so, too, but it was his encouragement that pushed me over the edge. Indeed, this entire blog was his idea.
"Jump. . . jump. . . the water is deep!" he said. Fifty years later, here we are, still getting into trouble.
In truth, though, not everyone can look comfortably at the human figure. Indeed, I was considering doing something really odd. I thought about SELLING my photos instead of giving them away as I so often do. Well, not "so" often. But I do. I'm not a very commercially oriented person, but I need a new printer, and to buy one of the appropriate size with inks will cost me somewhere in the neighborhood of $7,000.
And no sense.
I looked at a site that sells art online. They had some things I really liked. It led me to this woman's photography. I even wrote her a fan's note (link). I admit, I am envious of those photos.
So I went to the sign up page for the gallery site. . . and read this.
Though this isn’t an exhaustive list, Saatchi Art generally considers the following to be indicative of adult content.
• Photographic/photo-realistic nudity, either full or partial
• Depiction of sexual acts
• The use of expletives (i.e. strong language)
The types of images/content that will be removed immediately are:
1 Those images we deem racially offensive, promotes discrimination, bigotry, racism, hatred, harassment or harm against any individual or group.
2 Images that depict or otherwise promote the sexual exploitation of minors (persons under the age of 18) or harms minors in any way. We strongly advise that photographers and artists painting in a representational style have their models (especially those posing in the nude) sign release forms indicating that they’re over 18, should the legality of the images come into question. Saatchi Art reserves the right to remove any images that are in violation of laws protecting minors or which may promote illegal actions against minors.
3 Images which violates, or encourages any conduct that would violate, any applicable law or regulation.
4 Images which are deemed fraudulent, false, misleading or deceptive.
5 Images (and or text) which is defamatory, obscene, pornographic, vulgar or offensive.
6 Any images determined to be violent or threatening or promotes violence or actions that are threatening to any other person.
7 Images (and or text) which promotes illegal or harmful activities, products or substances.
It makes me fearful and rather killed the dream. Oh. . . I have plenty of images I could post there, of course, but the thing is. . . do I want to support such policies? There is still the defiant rebel within me.
But. . . these are the "community standards," I guess, the stuff of "the people," so. . . we'll see. I need money if I want to be an "artist" again. I need a studio.
After I posted yesterday's entry, I felt bad about something. It seemed I was saying that women age noticeably and badly in a decade. Well, I did say something like that, but I didn't mean it to be exclusive. We all do, me more than most. I was once young and clever and now I am a mentally crippled, overweight Quasimodo. But I am hardly in the public eye. What I was meaning and not making clear, I think, is that those people make a living by being in the public eye. They are dream makers. They shouldn't be mortal nor should they be subject to the laws of aging. It crushes me.
It should not happen to any of the women of the circa 1980s era.
Nor to me.
But it does and has. And I am often late to the party. By the time I fall in love with their visages, they are already a decade down the line.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer.
Look what your god has done to me!
In truth, that is two decades and I was already old in the first photo, and we know that we race towards becoming a mushroom the farther we travel. So. . . by way of apology.
While I was writing, though, this just came in from my conservative friend.
One of the ancient rabbis quoted in the compendium of wisdom known as “Chapters of the Fathers” offered a rule of thumb for thinking about the ages of life. One’s 20s, he wrote, were for the pursuit of livelihood, then: “at thirty the peak of strength; at forty wisdom; at fifty able to give counsel; at sixty old age; at seventy fullness of years.” Even if by the age of 90 one can expect “a bent body,” this outline suggests that the first chapters of one’s personal story are by no means the most significant.
I can't post the whole article here as it is behind a firewall, but this is the final paragraph.
Perhaps it is this balance between consistency and a willingness to adapt that is the key to a successful second act: Taking a longer perspective can be a powerful antidote to viewing a career as some kind of binary success or failure. Contemplating a passage by Samuel Johnson on the importance of avoiding indolence and the need to make the most of one’s time, Mr. Oliver writes: “Our lives, if they are well lived, are long works.” Don’t stop writing your story too early.
My friend's note said:
You should take your images to NY and find a gallery that will feature them.
He does not read the blog and I rarely send him photos in order not to disturb him, but I find the synchronicity of his missive somehow meaningful. Kismet.
I don't know if I have succeeded in my apology, but that is my attempt. Self-incrimination is all I've got.
Now I must prepare for the cleaning crew. They will be here early and I have much to do to get ready for them. We haven't had a song for awhile. Let's see what I have.
I guess I'm still more of a romantic than I thought!
It is a surreal sense of normality that infuses the air. I took a walk yesterday morning up to the Boulevard. The street was blocked off to traffic for the Autumn Crap Festival. They call it an art festival, but it is not. Just crap.
Make sure you look at the price. You could have this large piece on the wall in your living room for just $1,600.
Or this.
There was other stuff. String and fabric, painted rocks on wooden boards, handmade jewelry, and lots of pastel paintings of horses and skies and flowers. Oh. . . two of Travis' friends who are fairly well-known artists were showing there, but they were not the norm.
Just as I was about to leave the house, the woman who. . . I should call her something else. Doc? She has a Ph.D. Doc texted.
"Are you going to the art festival?"
Oh, shit. What would I say? I could have said, "Sure, if you are," or something suggestive. But I froze. I don't know what I imagined, but I felt unprepared, fat, diseased. . . scared?
I told her I was almost there, but that it wasn't really an art festival. I added, "Are you going?"
"Considering it."
When I got there, I sent her the photos above.
"This is what you will be missing if you don't come."
Radio silence. That night, I texted, "Did you go?"
"Nope."
Just that. Oh, well. . . sounded a little curt. Sure. I wanted to write, "Give me a little more head's up sometime," but I didn't. Once I lose twenty pounds, though. . . .
It was early morning, but the streets were full of locals trying to beat the crowd. I live .5 miles from the Boulevard, and the neighborhood sidewalks were full of fellow travelers, so to speak. When I got there, I looked for the booth of the Israeli woman I met at the party for the German filmmaker some months back. She had intrigued me then. Standing in her tent booth with her pastels, though, she barely looked the same. I said hello, but there was no there there. I looked at her small but expensive pieces from which she makes a fair living now having left her job as an interior designer some years ago. Landscapes. Huh.
I walked on. I decided that the best thing you could be is a young female in your late teens or early twenties. Everyone likes them. They are like Christmas decorations. The worst thing to be, surely, was an old man. They are like old vegetables left in the crisper far too long. Nobody wants that.
I ran into a friend who is head of the "art" festival. He was with a woman I had seen him with before. She, too, is on the festival committee. We said hello, and then the head of the Chamber of Commerce came up. There was a lot of something in the air.
"Oh, yes. . . I think you were on the email I sent to the group."
"Yes. . . I think I was."
"We should make a decision soon."
My friend was having a difficult time explaining me, so I said, "I used to date the daughter of the head of the Chamber many years ago."
She was a Country Club College student then. She used to walk by my house every day, and one day she decided to ask me out. She was a pretty little socialite who eventually went on to work for a fashion magazine in NYC as did some other of her friends. They had "connections."
The current Chamber head seemed unimpressed or worse.
Later I ran into another old friend. I shouldn't say "friend." He was a friend of a friend, a real character well-known around town. He had married a very wealthy woman who was later institutionalized. He got the kids and the money, then married an even wealthier woman. He was a party boy, a real heavy drinker with an acerbic wit. His wife was incensed when they were blackballed at The Country Club, so she sent him away to the Betty Ford Clinic. Three times. And eventually, it worked. Sort of. He later divorced his wife to marry a young girl who took him for everything he had. Now, in poor health, he was sweating heavily in the early morning air.
"Hey, remember when we used to come to the art festival and take the girls into he outdoor store and screw them in the changing room?"
"Uh-uh. I never did that."
He looked at me as if I had just spoken a foreign language.
"You screwed a lot more women than I did, pal."
He shook his head looking to the ground.
"A lot of fucking good that did me," he laughed pathetically.
In the distance, I saw a matron of the town standing with a group of her social friends. I moved off in the other direction.
As I was walking home, a group of people were approaching on the sidewalk ahead of me. In the lead was a very pretty young blonde in a typically short skirt. I think I might have been looking at her when I heard, "C.S.!" It was a woman who had once been in my class, as had her father and brother. She became friends with my wife and roommate with another buddy. Holy cow. . . that was her daughter. We stood on the sidewalk and chatted for a bit, then she pointed to a woman and said, "You remember Ramona."
And sure enough, I did. After I got divorced, I saw her at a party. I'd always liked her, and when I left, she followed me to my car and kissed me. We dated a few times, but the chemistry I'd hoped for wasn't there. We were never going to be in love. But we continued to write one another for a long while. She, being younger, had weathered the past couple of decades well enough. I, of course. . . well. . . whatever.
I was introduced to her husband who was something of her own age and a fairly good-looking guy, and we all chatted for a moment and then went on our separate ways. It had been a morning's walk down memory lane for sure.
Back home, I wanted a mimosa but I had no "mimosa juice," so I headed to the grocery store to get the things I needed. I still had a big piece of ham left and decided to make a split pea soup. When I got home, I made the mimosa straight off, then started chopping onion, celery, and carrots. I put it all in the InstaPot to sauté, then added the split peas, chicken broth, water, wine, garlic, spices, and ham. I poured another mimosa and called my mother.
"Do you want to come over for some split pea soup later?"
I was bushed, so I lay down to take a nap. When I got up to shower, my mother, always early, was knocking on my door. In a few minutes, we were sitting on the deck with drinks.
"The tenant is going to join us," I said. The late afternoon was pleasant but for the mosquitoes. We all sprayed and prayed not to get some horrible tropical disease. I was uncertain how the soup would turn out as I had never made a split pea before.
It was magnificent.
"You are a good cook," they said. I've taught them to say "cook" instead of "chef." I'm no chef, indeed, but I can make you some tremendous and wholesome meals. I've been cooking since college. I'm a real catch, I am.
Dinner finished, though, guests gone. . . I did the dishes alone having not been caught. That is when I replied to "Doc."
My mother is back in her home with power and air conditioning. She was done it by it all, but I am hoping she feels better today. Myself as well. I spent most of the day getting things taken care of for her then came home, ate a very late lunch snack, and fell asleep. I didn't wake up until five. I wanted to stay in bed, but of course it would not have been wise. A soak, a shower, and then a Campari on the deck. I called my mother. She still had not, as she put it, "settled down."
"Yup, that was a lot of stress and worry, but we were certainly lucky."
Of course, she agreed. All around us, people were still without power. A bit further on, people had lost their homes.
Still, other people's suffering does not simply dissipate your own. We all live in a world of frustration and worry beyond our meager control. That alone merits anxiety.
However, as someone said, we must live "as if. . . ." I think it was George Berkeley, the Irish philosopher. He might have been drunk when he said it, I don't know. I'm not even sure I recall correctly, but I think that was in reply to someone who challenged his idea that reality was a construct of the mind. He was asked then why he wouldn't step out in front of a speeding carriage. "One must live 'as if'" I think was his reply.
In other words. . . . No, I think I lost myself somewhere in there. But what is an essayists job but to reveal the inner turmoil of an often confused mind?
"To instruct and delight,"said Horace.
But I don't have it in me today to do either. I've tried for an hour and have deleted everything. Wisdom and levity are not my strengths today.
Hell. . . I don't even want to tell you what I think. And so. . . . I will go out into the aftermath and try to live. . . "as if."
I dated a girl long ago who used to say that. I don't think she meant it the same way Berkeley did.
I'm sitting in the chair where I usually sit when I write in the morning. My mother is sitting on the couch next to me, so. . . .
We made it through the storm. I stayed with my mother. The tenant of my apartment decided that she would stay with us. We brought much hurricane food. For lunch, the tenant made a giant eggs Florentine. We drank wine and watched the hurricane news. The rain began to fall. Just before dark, there was a knock on the door. It was an excited young man.
"Your air conditioner is on fire!" he shouted. His girlfriend was holding out a fire extinguisher to me. We ran through the house and into the back yard. The panel to the electrical box of the compressor was lying on the ground. Water was pouring off the roof onto the wiring. I did not see any flames, but I could smell the electrical smoke. Stupidly, I walked barefoot through ankle deep water to the compressor. I picked up the cover. It bore no marks, nothing charred, so I assumed that it had not been blown off but had simply fallen off at some point. My mother had a technician working on it a month before. Perhaps he had not been careful when replacing it. I looked at the wiring. It did not look as if it had melted. I tried to put the cover back on.
"Don't! You're going to get electrocuted."
By now, there was a group of people from next door standing around.
"We heard a loud noise and looked out. Flames were shooting up over the fence."
I put the cover back on. The neighbor's boyfriend had a little more sense than I and reached over to flip the breaker. I guess I should have done that first.
In a minute, a police car pulled up, then, just behind it, a firetruck. I walked out and explained the situation.
"O.K. Leave the breakers off."
Then they were gone. The neighbors who had made us aware of the fire said, "We didn't call them." That would remain a mystery.
Fortunately, the day had not been hot. . . the clouds and rain. Still, it would be humid without a.c.
My mother's 90 year old neighbor and her daughter called. They heard that there was an ambulance and wanted to know if mom was O.K. They were knocking on the door in five minutes bearing fresh made cookies of various types. They stayed and chatted for awhile, then left before the weather worsened.
We watched the slowly approaching storm on various t.v. channels. The predictions changed slightly. We would get less of the wind and more of the rain. We didn't make dinner. We snacked on ham, cheese, and crackers. We drank beer, wine, whiskey.
At eleven, we went to bed. I turned on the overhead fan in the bedroom where I was sleeping. I woke in the night sneezing, eyes puffy. I guess the room was dusty. The wind outside was rattling the windows. Just before four a.m. I got up and went out to turn on the t.v. The eye of the storm had just passed south of us.
Boom!
The neighborhood lost power just then. I went back to bed.
I got up again at dawn. I went outside to see. There were limbs littering the yards and street. It was barely raining. I started cleaning up my mother's yard. When that was done, I went back inside. My mother was awake. I decided to drive to my house to see.
The miles were strewn with limbs and branches, but it wasn't as bad as one might think. The lakes had risen above the docks but had not encroached so much on the banks. Nervously, I turned onto my street, hoping. . . .
No trees on the house. No limbs, no branches. The yard was littered but the house and apartment looked o.k. I still had power. The house was damp, so I set the thermostat low to dry it out. The roof had leaked where it met the chimney. Water had run behind the wall and soaked the coir carpet. That was the extent of the damage as far as I could tell.
I called to tell my mother. I was making coffee, I said, to bring back to them. Pack up and we'll come back to my house.
When I got there, the tenant was still in bed. We didn't get out of my mother's house until eleven.
Back to my place. The tenant went upstairs. Things seemed to be fine. I took a look. We were lucky.
Another big pan of eggs Florentine. The tenant went home. My mother sat nervously. The storm had unnerved her. I found something on t.v. for her and went out to clean the yard. There was a lot to do. I haven't been paying much attention to things lately, I guess. As I hauled limbs and branches to the curb, I realized I had a whole lot of work ahead of me. There was much maintenance to be done.
In a couple of hours, I came back to the house. I asked my mother if she wanted a beer. I poured two and we sat out on the deck. We talked about how fortunate we had been. My mother talked to relatives on the coast. The weather was beginning to clear. Many people were without power, but not in my little village where most of the power lines had been put underground. The weekend weather would be cool and sunny.
"The town will go nuts this weekend," I said. "It will seem like a tremendous celebration. We were lucky."
I put chicken into the InstaPot. We would have that with rice and broccoli. The tenant would come. She baked apples. We finished the wine with dinner and the tenant went home. I tried to find something that my mother and I could watch together. Her tastes are not mine. I decided on "Hillbilly Elegy." Two hours plus. It was a terribly mundane movie. It was eleven. We went to bed.
My mother was sitting on the couch when I got up in the morning.
"I've been up since three," she said miserably. "I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't shut off."
She likes my house, but it is not comfortable for her. I made coffee and she called the a.c. people. They could come out that day.
"Do you want me to take you home now?" I asked. Oh. . . yes she did.
Now I am back. They are preparing to tear down the almost two million dollar house across the street. They will be building a new house for the next couple of years. The photo at the top is one I took of it with a tilt/shift lens. I thought it kinda sorta fit the whole hurricane theme.
Now I sit in my house exhausted, alone. There is much to do, but I don't want to do it. I must think in small units, tiny steps. If I think of it all at once, it overwhelms me. Much does these days. Chief among my concerns is my mother's well-being. She can't see well. She can't hear well. The simplest things now confound her. It is going to take up more and more of my life.
Life goes only in one direction. It's not the one I would suggest.
That's the report. Just a report without decoration. As I say, I'm exhausted. But, as I have heard others say, life goes on.
Without cable television, I am reliant on print for information about the coming hurricane. It is nice not to be constantly involved in the hype, but this morning, I can find little relevant reporting on the monster. There seems to be some sort of storm weariness in the media. From what I can gather, however, I am in for a real bad thing.
The old question, "What would you do if you knew you only had days to live?" comes to mind. People's answers are usually silly. You would do nothing but sit, think, reflect, perhaps with the aid of anti-anxiety drugs to counter the constant and terrible adrenaline rush. You wouldn't try to live your life "to the fullest." That time would be over. It would be too late.
The thing is coming about which you can do nothing. See "Don't Look Up" (link).
"I don't deserve this," you would think, but as William Munny says in "Unforgiven," "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it, kid. If we got what we deserved, we'd all starve to death."
So I sit and wait on what comes next, the inevitable. Or as "we" decided a post or two ago, Fate.
One thinks of those who live in war-torn countries, displaced people with ruined lives. A terrorist must feel some godlike sense of power in bringing destruction to others, take them from the lives they were living. They must feel as if they are Harpies of Fate.
I am sick of terrorist and terror.
I read an article on one of my favorite contemporary authors this morning, Michel Houellebecq (link). He is a novelist of quiet despair. It is difficult for me to recommend him to friends for his novels are anything but uplifting. Most modern literature is not. I had a mostly brilliant colleague who had authored two books on contemporary poetry who thought modern literature was a major source of depression. I disagreed saying that I found it cheering to know I wasn't the only one in the world who experienced life in such a way. One doesn't read Woolf or Hemingway or Faulkner to have a cheery time. Nor a Christian Bible for that matter. And certainly not the Koran. And as this morning's article touches on, fairy tales, neither. They are dark.
One reads in order to prepare.
And so. . . there are alcohol and drugs. I took knockout drops to sleep last night. And I did. The whole night through. But the morning did not break bright and cheery. There is still the coming of the storm.
I'm a bit of a drama king, I know. Read this metaphorically. The storm is real, but it is a trope. I am troping like a mad hatter. I always am, always do. Blame it on my education. I am what it has made of me.
I'm nervous. I can't help it. We're dead in the crosshairs, and I've been through a hurricane devastation before. At this point, there is nothing to be done but put away objects that can fly away and fill pots with water. I have a ten gallon stainless steel pot we used to use for boiling crab legs and several other two gallon pots. And others. I've never not had water before, but it is easy enough to fill pots with water just in case a tree topples and its roots takes out a water main. The ground here is saturated now which makes it easier for trees to fall.
So today, I prepare to stay with my mother. We will see who loses power. Probably both of us. They have not yet put the power lines in my neighborhood underground, so. . . .
I tremble a bit. It is the remembrance of that thing past. I can't afford another devastation.
The grocery stores are overrun. I went yesterday to buy the things for making dinner with my mother. And though I am nervous about what might come, the constant spewing of "stay safe" irritates me. WTF does that mean? What is the speaker really saying?
"I'm a concerned person. This makes me feel good."
When I look in their eyes, I see the equivalent of a school shooter.
When my apartment was destroyed by Charlie, no one offered me any help. They might say, "Oh, man. . . that is terrible. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
"Sure. . . give me money. Come over and help me put on a roof, replace the wooden siding, tear out rain drenched walls and put up new drywall, repair the kitchen, refinish the floors, paint. . . something!"
What they were really thinking is how lucky they were.
$65,000 and nearly a year of labor later. . . .
I don't want to go through that again.
The worst thing that can happen at my mother's house is having shingles lifted off her roof. Her house is block and solid. She is on higher ground. My house is old and so is built on the highest ground around. But we will get tremendous rainfall, and I know people who are sitting in new homes built around retention ponds are even more nervous than I.
It is grey. Constant rain. Hurricane predictions get worse rather than better. Just about anything can happen.
And it is still two days away. Once again we live through the slow motion nightmare.
Not everyone. The young, of course, and non-home owners haven't much to worry about. Already schools are closed for at least three days.
And so it goes. We are predicted to be on the worst side of the storm.
It is not that I fear any loss of life. Just suffering, of which, it seems, there is never an end.
My friends who have left the state to live elsewhere send me screenshots of their weather forecast. Sunny. Cool. It says something great about human emotions.
After this, maybe I'll splurge and spend everything I have on buying one of those Mercedes Benz converted camper vans. I, too, will go where the weather suits me.
I will not be going to the gym this week. I will need to get on the floor, stretch, breathe, and meditate. I scoff.
"Serenity now!"
My mind is a jumble of disastrous thoughts right now. You can call me Nelly if you want, but I think there are good reasons for it. Most of our fears come from imaginative thinking, I've been told, but most of mine is experiential memory. There are reasons we don't send traumatized soldiers back into war.
Yup. After ten or so days of not seeing the cat, I took up her bowls, washed them, and put them away. So guess what? That's right. At four o'clock, she had her nose against the bottom pane of the kitchen door. There she was, as imperious as ever, looking none the worse for wear.
Did I tell you about the "ghost squirrel"? I don't think I have. So. . . I was sitting out smoking a cheroot and drinking a Campari and thinking about the missing cat a couple days ago when a "ghost squirrel" appeared out of nowhere. It had white skin and no hair but for a big tuft of dark fur between its shoulder blades and a few straggly hairs on its otherwise bare tail. It wasn't moving right, but it was looking me dead square in the eyes. A chill ran up my back and neck. I couldn't figure out what it was for a second. It hobbled off a foot or so then turned back to look at me. And at that moment, I realized there was not another squirrel around, nor had there been for days. I looked to the trees, the power lines, across the street one way to my neighbor's lawn, then across the second street to my other neighbor's lawn. It was the squirrel hour, but there was not a squirrel in sight. Just then the ghost squirrel began to move--awkwardly, and hobbled around the corner of the house.
"Do squirrels get rabies?" I wondered. Then I thought maybe someone had put out some kind of poison. But there were no squirrels then and there are no squirrels now. I've been looking for days and haven't seen a one. They should be out right now, but nothing. I live in a neighborhood full of squirrels in the norm, so I wonder if there could be some kind of disease that has taken them all. I need to find out. I know the feral cat couldn't have eaten them all.
We've made a very toxic planet, so who knows. I'm convinced that we are living through End Times.
Well. . . I had a lot of fun.
But not a lot of money. I'm friends with some money boys, but not that kind of friend. I'm good for drinking at the pubs but not at the country club. I'm not the proper kind of people, I think. Or they think. And I'm glad I didn't meet up with them on Friday night. Those money boys like to get drunk and do stupid things. I don't get drunk and do fairly smart and meaningful things. O.K. Sure I watch clips of women being interviewed on t.v. shows, and I have been known to watch a reality t.v. series or two, but that is just to keep my head in the game if you know what I mean. I can't just hang with genius nerds all the time.
So while I was boning up on the decade (or two) that I missed, the boys were out drinking until they puked and ended up at a nude dancing establishment. It is the famous one in town, and they are friendly with the owner, so. . . . I don't like such places. . . because I am not allowed to take my camera. Ho! No, indeed. . . well, I would like to take my camera, but I don't like lying, and those place are A House of Lies! That's what they should be called. I would photograph the lie, of course, but I don't want to live it.
The reports started coming in yesterday afternoon. They thought the drinking, arguing, puking, and all was a really good time.
"Jimmy said he didn't remember anything after the sports bar! I made sure he got home alright."
It was Jimmy's birthday.
As a result, nobody was going to Oktoberfest on Saturday which turned out to be fine with me. Well. . . one fellow gymroid was going, and I got a text from another late who wanted to know if I was going, but I was already of a homeboy mindset and declined the offers of beer and fun. I stayed home alone on a Saturday night instead as is often my fated state. I had "important" things to do. I'm an artist, goddamn it. I'm not like the others!
Now I must prepare myself for the coming storm. Milton. They are predicting that it will come right over my house and bring tremendous devastation. It is raining now and will continue to rain, they say, for the next five days. My PTSD is emerging. I don't think I can take another hit. But, you know. . . I think I am beginning to see what goes on in the mind of believers. I mean, I can't do anything about what happens next. Some call it "fate." Fate, I guess, is just what happens next. As a lapsed Existentialist, I still believe that I can decide how to react to what happens. . . but I am even believing in that less and less. If I listen to science, I am programed to react in certain ways. So yea. . . I can only wait and see what the great unknown has in store. And then we'll see how I'm programmed.
I think my program is getting messed up, though. It seems at times faulty to me now.
Wait. . . what? You come here for the photographs? O.K. O,K. I have a few.
This was for a series I was doing on formal dresses. This was her mother's wedding dress. She thought to sex it up a little. I think that was her idea.
A few days ago, I had in mind that this was going to be a post about traveling to NYC. I downloaded "Sunday in New York" to put with it. But it is cloudy and gloomy here now, and it doesn't fit my mood. Feral cats, ghost squirrels, stripper bars, and hurricanes. I'll bet there are wild animals living under my house again, too.
If you are anything like me (and I hope you are not), after visiting your mother late on a Friday afternoon instead of heading off with your friends to a pub, you decide to have a lovely sushi dinner alone at a fabulous Japanese place where, unexpectedly once again, the chef comes over to say, "Welcome back. . . nice to see you again." And if you get the Tuna Kobachi Poke Bowl with avocado and some miso soup and decide to forego the sake in favor of a good green tea, and you take phone pics of everything and send it to a woman who wrote you a brief hello in the morning, and you even drink the filtered water the waitress keeps brining you. . . you will wonder what to do next because. . . your friends who are out carousing have shunned you. Once again, you will be home alone on a Friday night wondering what the fuck happened to your life, and that is where the trouble begins. You will light a cheroot and pour the medicinal whiskey to kill the worms, and you will go out to the deck where there will be no cat, or at least not the little feral you have fed for so many years.
That's right. I think this time she is gone. She survived the storm and came around for dinner the day after, but I haven't seen her since.
So you sit and think, which is hardly ever a good idea any more, until the cheroot goes out and the whiskey glass is empty and the mosquitoes begin to find you. You go in, check your phone. . . and nothing. For the millionth time, you think, "Maybe I should start making plans in advance," but you are a spontaneous creature used to being found. It just isn't you.
So, trying to fight despondency, you turn on the television. YouTube. And this.
And if you are a sad fuck of a person, and you have all the time in the world on a Friday night with nothing else to do. . . well. . . I warn you. . . it is over four hours long. Don't do it. No. . . no. . . !!!
But I did. I know I'm losing readers left and right as I become a confessed imbecile, but all I can say is a hater's gotta hate. These are my remaining years to waste however I wish. And in a day or two or ten. . . I'll tell you a secret if things go the way I hope they do. . . but I shouldn't make promises I might not be able to keep. Who knows what fates the gods have in store.
As my mother so often says. . . anyway. . . .
I was going to write that there must have been a factory somewhere that made these. . . but I realized that is more demeaning than funny. Not that comedy isn't based on demeaning someone, however. . . . But there was something in the water or air circa 1980. There must have been. It's like circa 1939 for men. They were a different breed with distinctive tastes and personalities. Circa 1980 for women. Apparently, they just knock me out. I have no defenses against them.
I Googled "famous women born in 1980." Holy shit! I haven't even gotten to "circa 1980" yet. They are like a Venus flytrap for me. I even know they are, but I can't resist. I'm sure it isn't every woman born then, but there are some. My oh my. . . there are some.
I only knew of Kristen Bell from one show, "House of Lies." I never watched her t.v. show, "Veronica Mars," or any of the silly movies, like all the other silly movies the women of circa 1980 made, but I apparently can't get enough of her or any of them just sitting and talking and charming the bejesus out of me.
Yea, yea, yea. . . I've become a shallow version of a very sad man, but what did you do last night? Were you reading Proust or attending one of your MENSA meetings?
That's what I thought.
Besides, after Kristen Bell, I started watching this.
I only got part way through before it was midnight and way past my bedtime, but it is pretty darn good. And don't forget, there is a college scholarship with my name on it, not yours. And I was a semi-good and somewhat known scholar and a niche photographer with a studio and a following of other, more famous photographers. And did I tell you the chef came over to greet me last night?
So. . . yea. Circa 1980, haters.
It's O.K. I put your silly ass down in my head sometimes, too. I think it is just part of the human impulse.
I'll be hitting you up for a little jingle sooner or later to put into the scholarship kitty, though.
I have plans for a big, outdoor Octoberfest thing this late afternoon and early evening with friends, so there is that. After, we plan to go to a Puerto Rican festival across the highway. It is a neighborhood thing, I think. It will be a bit saucier than the Octoberfest for sure.
Well, that's it. My big confession. I'm not unaware of my sins. . . I'm just kinda addicted to them.
Now I will go and put away the cat bowls. I'll miss her, of course, but I won't have to worry about her any longer. She decided to be wild as in the old fable, The Dog and The Wolf.
A gaunt Wolf was almost dead with hunger when he happened to meet a House-dog who was passing by. “Ah, Cousin,” said the Dog. “I knew how it would be; your irregular life will soon be the ruin of you. Why do you not work steadily as I do, and get your food regularly given to you?”
“I would have no objection,” said the Wolf, “if I could only get a place.”
“I will easily arrange that for you,” said the Dog; “come with me to my master and you shall share my work.” So the Wolf and the Dog went towards the town together. On the way there the Wolf noticed that the hair on a certain part of the Dog’s neck was very much worn away, so he asked him how that had come about.
“Oh, it is nothing,” said the Dog. “That is only the place where the collar is put on at night to keep me chained up; it chafes a bit, but one soon gets used to it.” “Is that all?” said the Wolf. “Then good-bye to you, Master Dog.”
Better starve free than be a fat slave.
I will tell you, though, that feral cat was both fat and free.
My midwest friend is in New Mexico. She is staying at the Los Poblanos, a lavender farm/boutique hotel/spa/. . . . She is staying there, she says, because I told her about it. Long ago, in the way back, I picked up a hitchhiking hippie chick in New Mexico, and we had quite a time.
She was a hoot. First we stayed at an old asylum for the insane, the Parq Central, which is now, supposedly, haunted. It was a fine hotel with a great rooftop bar and a great view of Albuquerque. From there we went to Santa Fe. I had been there in 2014 and had fallen head over heels for the place. I was at a printing workshop at the time, and I had come back for another with the hippie. I put her up in a great and wonderful cheap vagabond motel near the interstate with wi-fi and a kitchen that overlooked the parking lot leading to a shopping plaza where Albertsons was the anchor store. Each morning I would get up and cross the parking lot to get us coffee and muffins before I headed off to my workshop. I don't know how she spent her day, but at night, we went into town and had a time.
When the workshop was over, we went to Taos. She took me to stay in The Hobbit House, the first and most famous Earthship in New Mexico (link). She was enamored by it, though at night she swore there were faces looking down at us through the window above the bed. I'll admit, New Mexico IS a spooky kind of spiritual place. We visited some of the most famous pioneers of western womanhood sites, and there are many (link). We visited the estates of Georgia O'Keefe, Mabel Dodge Luhan, Millicent Rogers and a hundred other places as well.
She came back with me to Albuquerque where we stayed in the newly refurbished lavender farm. The entire time was magical. The hippie chick wanted to buy a place there and simply live. I should have listened to her, for now, ten years or so later, real estate prices have gone through the roof. It's like everything, though. I should have bought Apple stock at fifty cents a share.
New Mexico won't be a place for hippies much longer.
But my gosh. . . we had a most memorable time. I wonder if she ever bought a place there.
My friend from the midwest is there now and is in love. Maybe one day I'll return.
So. . . I was sick all day yesterday and didn't move out of the house. I didn't eat until a light dinner. And when night fell, I turned on the television. I didn't want anything heavy, so I watched this.
Hate me if you will. As I've told you, I missed a decade or two. What I knew of Zooey Deschanel was only due to Ili. I had never watched "Elf" until one Christmas with her. And it was with her that I heard "A Hipster Christmas" playing at an Irish Pub and became familiar with She and Him and their very good Christmas album. Beyond that, though, I knew nothing except that Ili HATED Deshcanel. For what reason, I never knew. But yea. . . not her favorite.
So when I watched this last night, I kinda caught up on a couple decades of stuff I had been missing. And I was charmed. Now here's the thing, though, which I should keep to myself for if they ever heard me say this, it would piss off both Ili and Sky. . . but EVEYTHING about those interviews is what I hear and see when I'm talking to Sky.
Cringe. Don't hit me. I can't help it.
All three of them are approximately the same age. I don't know. It is just a different way of being, I guess. But holy smokes, those clips and a little whiskey and I swear I was feeling better than I had for the entire day.
¡Ay, caramba!
I am sure the few of you who are reading this are going, "I knew he was an idiot, but. . . ." All I can say is don't be a hater. The heart wants what the heart wants. If Zooey wanted to come over, I'd just say, "The door's unlocked." That's me.
I have another big confession. After I posted yesterday's song from YouTube, I just let it keep playing, and YouTube played Diana Krall for the rest of the day. I never got up to change it. It was an entire day of her albums and concerts. But she is, you know, married to Elvis Costello--of whose music I was never much of a fan, but who is considered by hipsters as important. So. . . I don't know. Maybe I'm ready to move to a home.
As long as it is in New Mexico.
Hey--have I ever posted that "Temptation" cover here for you?
😂
O.K. Maybe something "western." Those women from the east who came to New Mexico were really fantastic.
Woke up feeling bad in the wee hours of the morning. Still do. Just when I was getting ready to get vaccinated, too. Maybe I should test for the 'vid. If I have that, I shouldn't get the vaccine for months. I've read that. It must be true.
I love these low-fi, saturated images, even the blurry ones. Maybe "especially." Why do people be hating on them? "Pearls before swine," I say. As I hinted yesterday, they are "niche." I like the "snapshot aesthetic," photography in the "vernacular."
So. . . yea. . . I've got the lingo down. Have I convinced you yet? I have a million--well, tens of--ideas for using this "look." I just need someone to help me. This is my plaintive cry. If only someone could hear me!
"Help!"
"Man up you coward."
That's why I never ask for help. Some atavistic manhood thing. I don't whine in public, only here under the guise of faux confession. The people I run with know no mercy.
Maybe I have some mosquito-borne disease. There are plenty of them.
That's all I've got. My tank is empty. Maybe I've been poisoned. I'm an obvious and easy target. Nobody has trouble picking me out of a crowd.
"It was the blond Quasimodo fellow with the light blue eyes!"
Blond or blonde? Somehow it seems feminine with an "e".
O.K. Enough of this fever dream. Let's put on some music and skip to the Lou. Or is it "lee." I just looked it up. It is "Lou" which is derived from a Scottish word meaning love. I'm way off. "Lee" comes from "leeward" which most people mispronounce (link). I know this from my seafaring days. You always piss off the leeward side of the boat and never the windward. . . if you have any sense at all. So, you go to the lee.
Tomorrow I'll school you in seafaring knots. I have a giant book on them. Now there's something you won't want to miss.
I know I posted her live version of this a while back, but I heard this while driving yesterday. Diana Krall? Really?
Saw this on my walk yesterday. I'm not even sure this is Halloween decoration. If so, they are a little late. Most people have had their Halloween decorations up since early September. WTF? There's nothing wrong in this country. No mam, no sir.
"Hey, kids. . . come look at this!"
Nothing that a good election couldn't fix. Yea, I watched the debate last night. It was the first night of my "Damp October." I'd gone with my mother and her neighbors to the community get together. I had a beer and a hot dog. Hell of a way to begin. But, you know, I said only drinking when out with people. Then I came home. I was good. Made an A.A. cocktail of cranberry and soda and decided the hot dog, as unnecessary as it was, had been enough "dinner." I was doing well.
Then the debate. Why? Why, oh lord, why? I wasn't going to, but you know. . . I was afraid of missing something.
I'll never get that time back. I poured a whiskey.
Still and all. . . I drank MUCH LESS than I have been, so it wasn't a terrible start to Damp October.
Except for the debate thing.
I didn't see this yesterday. I see it every day on the drive to my mother's house.
"Do you admit Trump lost the election?"
"I want to look to the future."
Me, too. I'm checking my horoscope, throwing the tarot, reading my palm. It is troublesome, though. The future is only a hazy suggestion. Seers know this. It's a difficult business to be in.
I showed the pictures I posted yesterday to my conservative friend.
"Why are they so blurry?"
Why am I so stupid?
Last night at happy hour with the neighbors, my mother's 90 year old neighbor's daughter was there. She's a nice woman, a librarian at the Big University. She and my mother's across the street neighbor with whom we've had Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with, were talking about books. They were enamored of some popular novels by authors I can't recall and name. They especially liked one about an ex-military guy who is a wizard and works solving crimes with the Chicago police.
"You'd like this one. This guy can really write!"
"Do you guy's like Proust?"
I didn't say that. I only thought it--darkly. Aesthetics are very personal. Everybody should be considered a critic. I'm a niche guy myself, I guess, a member of a teeny-tiny club. No, maybe it isn't so tiny. I mean there ARE museums and galleries, though not so many literary bookstores. And even I, sometimes, diverge from the path.
For instance, I like this.
You can buy this for $1,200 at Lumas gallery. I own several of the photographer's prints that I traded for long, long ago. I think I want to try to imitate this for education's sake. I think I can. I just need a model and a place to shoot.
So many needs.
I am a mess. Do I want to shoot things in dreamy fashion? Do I want to be a street photographer and document the world "out there"?
I'm not sure I can do either anymore anyway. I've lost confidence. I've lost my touch.
Tennessee's wife is right. I need my own Ghislaine. But not like that. I'm not looking to be P. Diddy who everyone of a sudden NOW wants to sue.
"He gave me drugs! He did SEX to me!!!"
WTF? Really? You thought that going to the big parties at a rapper's house was going to be like tea with the Queen? You got what you went for. . . and maybe a little more. . . and now? Really? Now?
Whatever. I'm not qualified to speak about this. I just wish J.D. Vance had gone to live out his party fantasies there. More than once. Maybe not. He'd probably be worse than he is, driven by a deep and unrelenting remorse. He is remorseful enough now as it is, bitching his mother and all.
"I have a beautiful wife and three beautiful children."
You're in denial, dude. You've pushed that shit down as deep as it will go, but it is still eating at you, isn't it, bro? You just know those eyes got him in trouble when he was young, the little flirt.
But enough of that. I'll stop here before they use the leeches.
That's a literary reference. I'm sure you got it.
O.K. then. . . . Let's just forget about it and do a little swing dancing. I mean, I can still drink when we're out and having fun.
