The Dying Animal

Mom wasn't always old, of course, but now that is all people see.  It is difficult for me.  Sad and terrifying.  Phillip Roth wrote a book titled "The Dying Animal."  That is what we are, Dying Animals.  It is stupid not to preserve everything we can in our lives, especially when we are young, but "younger" is better, too.  There needs to be a record, I think, though in the end it doesn't matter, I guess.  Still, it is nice to pretend that it does or will, to have the illusion that we will remain once we are gone.  

I don't want my picture taken anymore.  Nobody took it when I was young.  Now people with their phones are always wanting to put me in some dumb fucking picture.  Fuck that.  I love photos of the young Cary Grant.  Even Trump does.  But I hate seeing him toward the end.  He was still better looking than most men his age, but that isn't the point.  

Pepsi had an add long ago that went, "For those who think young."  I try, and I think I do.  But the body. . . oy!

Yesterday I told my mother I thought I had a bout of diverticulitis.  Ironically, I said, I hoped it was that or else it could be something much worse.  I rallied a bit late in the day and went to see her right before dinner.  

"You had me worried," she said.  

"You've had me worried, too. . . for a year.  It has stressed me out."

Indeed, I think stress is what brought on the attack.  That and too much liquor.  

So yesterday I didn't eat.  That is what you do when you have an attack of diverticulitis.  My gut was still worrying me with little but constant pain, but I had my fingers crossed.  Around three, I decided a walk might be good for me.  And indeed, at the time, it seemed so.  Once I had showered, though, the nagging pain was still there.  It either was or I imagined it to be intermittent.  

When I got home from visiting my mother, I ate a can of chicken noodle soup.  Here's my gastronomical recommendation--drop an egg into it.  That's what I did.  It made a sort of egg drop soup.  Strands of egg thickened it.  I had it with a slice of fresh white mountain bread from the bakery.  Clear liquids and white food, they say.  White rice.  Bananas.  I was wondering if vanilla ice cream was included in that.  

I took a nerve pill and went to bed.  I didn't waken to pain during the night.  I am still paranoid and think I feel some sensation deep down, so it will be another clear liquid diet day.  Toast for breakfast, another egg drop chicken soup for dinner.  Tea.  

The finger is a mess, too.  My fingernail is half black.  The nail has weird and painful sensations.  I will surely lose it.  

Other than that. . . I'm a mess.  What is there to say?  

I keep reading that people are not in favor of A.I.  Who are these people?  I saw a "town hall" with Matthew Mcconaughey, just a clip, telling young actors like Timothée Chalamet (really?) that A.I. is not going to be stopped and they need to trademark their voices and images so that they own them.  I find this silly on so many levels.  A.I. will make their own new stars if it comes to that.  They might train their engines on past stars, but the new ones will be unrecognizable amalgams, just as writers steal the styles of others until they synthesize their own.  But that is not the thing that really struck me.  It was the rationale behind it--$$$!  It wasn't about art.  It was simply commerce.  Like. . . "I deserve to be rich because people like to see me act."  I abhor the amounts of money paid to celebrities and athletes.  It is a large part of the insanity in this country.  

But some people fear A.I. technology. 

"It will take over.  It won't be stopped.  Eventually, humans will be puppets."

Something like that.  Too many 1950s sci-fi movies, I think.  Oh, don't get me wrong--I loved those old sci-fi movies, and just a whole lot of other stuff, too. 

If A.I. can make those movies, I'm all for it.  And the music.  And anything else.  

Hey. . . maybe it can make photos of me when I was younger and better looking.  I think I'll work on that.  

O.K.  This ain't there yet, but you can tell it's coming.  This was made for zero dollars by kids on a laptop.  What do you think some studio with bank will do?

This Life Is Killing Me

Things went to shit last night.  Stress, I reckon.  Cleaning up after dinner, I sliced my right pointing finger open.  Not sliced, really.  The tip of a very sharp kitchen knife cut small and deep.  I had the devil of a time getting it to stop bleeding.  I used a styptic pencil for a long time, and finally wrapped it tightly in a bandaid.  I went back to the kitchen to take out the garbage.  Coming back into the house, I closed the same finger in the door.  Hard.  The nail went blue right away and did not stop throbbing all night . 

But it got worse.  Woke up with a terrible pain in my gut.  Wouldn't let up.  I finally realized it was probably diverticulitis.  I didn't get an hour's sleep all night long.  

The pain has lessened but it is still there nagging me.  I can't sleep.  I can't stay awake.  It is going to be a miserable day.  

Mystery Hole

"I have a lot of work to do around here still."

"Like what?"

"I need to do the driveways.  Mulch the one in front and re-rock the other two."

"Re-rock?  I've never heard that before.  Do you hyphenate that?"

"You bet.  I love the hyphen.  I love a good hyphen and I love a dash, and I especially love the ellipses."

Today will be a work day.  When I finish this, I will head out for the Home Depot.  This seemed like a good and noble idea a couple days ago, but I am face-to-face with the monster now, and I do not feel as fresh for it.  I fell asleep on the couch last night, not even watching television,  and woke up at 11:30.  Afraid I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, I took a Tylenol P.M.  Taking one of those approaching midnight is not a good idea if you are hoping to wake up and get to being productive.  Uh-uh. . . I wouldn't recommend it.

Already, though, I've used the hyphen, the dash, and the ellipses.  At least there's that.  

My Satruday workday, though, started on Friday afternoon.  As was reported, the neighbors had spied a hole in my mother's front yard.  Not knowing what to expect, I dutifully went over to look.  Sure as shittin', there was a hole.  A perfect hole, not sloppy.  I looked in.  It was eight or nine inches deep, and as one reported, there was a piece of pvc pipe.  

What the fuck was I looking at?  I reached my hand into the hole to feel around.  Dumb, right?  Nothing squirmed or bit me though.  I reached into the pipe with my fingers and dug out some dirt.  The pipe was attached to nothing on the side pointing toward my mother's yard.  It was on the border between her yard and the next door neighbors who live in Georgia but come down on weekends some.  They have been remodelling the house for a year in preparation for moving in. . . eventually.  

I was stymied, so I walked across the street to the handy fellow's house, the couple who always invite my mother and me to holiday dinners.  

"I HATE asking people for favors, but if you have two minutes, I'd like for you to look at something and tell me what I'm missing.  You know more about this stuff than I do."

He followed me back across the street.  He looked in the hole.  He put his hand in.  

"I have no idea," he said.  "It doesn't make sense."

"That's what I thought.  Good.  I am not as dumb as I thought."

After a minute he said, "Get a shovel.  We need to dig it up to find out."

I paused.  He wanted to dig up the yard.  I said, "I don't know," but I turned to walk back to the garage.  "Get a picture of this," I told him.  "This really isn't my thing."

I cut through the grass and pulled out the dirt.  Loe and behold, the pipe popped out.  It was simply a piece of four inch pvc pipe about two inches long.  It was connected to nothing.  

"What the fuck?"

That didn't explain the hole, though, so the neighbor took the shovel and kept digging.  About two inches below where the pvc pipe had been, he found another two inch pipe.  He dug and found it was going toward the street.  

"Ah-hah!" he said.  

"Yea, but the soil isn't swampy.  There is no water puddled up around it."

He decided it was an irrigation pipe.

"We need to turn on the irrigation," he said.  

My mother's irrigation meter/timer is from the '60s.  Nobody knows how to use it.  It is connected to a shallow well.  The neighbor started flipping and punching things.  

"Man. . . nobody knows how this works," I said.  

But he was undeterred.  For awhile.  He never got it to turn on.  I have no idea if it will ever come on again.  

We went back to the hole.  The across the street neighbor who lives next door to the other one, came over to see what we were doing.  We were three old men looking into a hole. 

"You're mother had a drain line put in for her washing machine," said the new guy.  "They didn't want to go under the slab, so they ran a new line out down the side of house."

That made sense to everybody.  

"Sure, it's a drain line.  If it were a water line, it would be under pressure coming from the street."

Duh.  

The first neighbor went across the street to get his prober, a long. slender metal rod with a handle for pushing into the ground to find pipes and such.  He started probing trying to find the drain line.  We had already dug up the yard from where we saw the pipe running to the street, but there was no pipe.  Then he spotted a clean out drain that was covered with grass.  He pushed in the probe.  Ah--the line took a turn toward the clean out drain.  

"If it is a drain line, it doesn't make sense that it blew out a hole in the yard."

"It could have gotten so backed up. . . who knows, it may have bee backing up since they put it in."

"I don't know. . . ."

He had me run the washing machine on a rinse cycle and we waited until it drained.  No water showed.  

He said he'd help me dig it up later if I wanted.  Right now, he had to take his wife to the doctor.

"I do this kind of stuff all the time.  I enjoy it.  I didn't like the way the drain lines ran at my house and I re-routed them.  Hell, it's just pipe and glue."

"I don't know.  I don't do this, you know?  This is the kind of thing where I go, 'shit, I need to call a plumber.'"

"Man, a plumber's going to cost $800.  I like doing this.  I'm a Renaissance man.  I can do it all."

I looked at him and grinned.  "A Renaissance man didn't do the work.  He knew how to do it, but he didn't dig the ditches himself.  He just knew it needed to be done."

He laughed and nodded.  Then he said let him know as he turned back to his own home.  

I filled in the holes we dug and put the grass back on top, all but the original hole.  I put a garbage can over it and put flags around it so nobody would step in.  Then I went inside, washed my hands, and got in the car to go and see my mother.  

Driving there, though, I thought about the hole.  If water had caused it, the offending pipe would be exposed and not be two inches beneath normally damp dirt.  A drain pipe wasn't going to blow a hole from eight inches below the ground.  Fuck no.  The hole was still a mystery.  If an animal had dug the hole, there would have been dirt on the grass in front of it.  Nope.  I had no idea how it got there, but I was pretty sure I knew how it didn't.  

When I told my mother about it all, I said, I'm just going to fill the hole back in.  "If a leak caused it, we'll see another hole, right?  I'm going to fill it back in."

And I will. . . with some trepidation.  

But now it is time for the Home Depot.  Today is just dumb work, nothing technical.  I kind of forget what I had in mind to do today, really, but it will come to me.  

I'd like to be on the Boulevard somewhere for lunch this afternoon, though.  And then off to see my mother.  

So I'd better get started.  Yup.  

My Photo Confession

Fuck it--I'll post a photograph.  I have a hundred of these kind of images sitting on my desktop.  There is nothing special about any of them, but I don't know if everybody or anybody is enamored of my A.I. creations.  There is some enigma about this photo, maybe, but not enough to hold interest for more than a second.  It sure as heck ain't no Vivian Maier.  But. . . you know. . . photography gets me "out in the world."  

I watched this guy on YouTube last night.  He's about as fucked up as I am. . . but with a better accent.  I "enjoyed" what he had to say about his photography experience, though.  And he mentions Kierkegaard.  How about that?  

I've watched all of his six or seven videos.  He has only been on YouTube for a few months.  While his YouTube vids are pretty well shot from different angles and edited together fairly well. . . his photography is bad.  I don't watch him for his aesthetic vision.  I'm not sure his has been well developed.  No, I watch him to hear him explain his tortured soul.  

This morning, I thought to just shoot medium format film today.  It is going to be sunny and 87 degrees, or so they say.  Similar weather all weekend.  People will be out, I think.  Me and my Hasselblad.  Me and my two Rollieflex cameras.  Me and my Mamiya 6x6.  

And I'll wonder if I am experiencing life or just recording it.  Ha!  I've been "experiencing" life for a long time now without recording much of it, and I have to tell you. . . it ain't much fun.  I'd rather put it in a box for awhile, see it through a little viewfinder.  

"Did you just take my picture?"

"Not really.  I mean, I don't know you.  I used you as a trope, perhaps, for the time and place, but no. . . I don't think it was you."

That doesn't usually help.  But with film cameras, I can simply say no and hope they don't punch me.  

I haven't taken a good picture for a very long time.  I am beginning to suspect that I have put too much pressure on myself to make the kind of photos that I think I should.  I've gotten too many voices in my head.  I really should only be photographing what I like and what truly interests me and fuck the rest.  I don't really care about broken down factories, grain towers, old cars, etc.  I like the way girls look.  I like what they do.  I'm not allowed to say that anymore, I know.  These aren't the Rat Pack years.  I shouldn't even confess it now, I am certain.  But it is true and I still can't take my eyes off them.  It isn't sexual.  Even now, I am like a chaste girl from a Victorian novel.  I still say no most of the time.  I like the attention, but I really want love.  So no, you can guffaw if it pleases you, but it is purely visual.  Boys are the most awkward looking and acting things alive.  They are like horses.  Some of you, maybe many, think horses are beautiful, but to me, they look hideous.  That long neck and outsized head are monstrous, I think.  Same with boys.  Not head and neck, but just the way they seem to be put together out of machine parts.  Maybe it is their psychological makeup.  Their attitudes about everything, really.  Not to say that girls aren't fucked up.  Sure they are.  Badly.  But the aesthetics disguises so much of that if you only look from a distance.  And sometimes their talk really makes me giggle.  They make me want to be smart and witty.  I like to make them laugh.  The way they laugh. . . omg. . . like diamonds falling into a crystal goblet.  A boy's laugh, of course, is a donkey's bray.  I do have male friends, don't get me wrong.  But I don't enjoy looking at them.  From women friends, I must always tear myself away before I become too obvious.  

"What are you looking at?"

"I was just admiring your earrings."

Yes, I've learned.  There is a deep paranoia in many beautiful women.  Boys stare at them day and night.  They end up concentrating on their flaws.  

Have I made enough generalizations yet?  I'll stop.  But that was fun.  My choice of photographing anything, though, would be a woman in just about any context or setting, cheap and tawdry or deeply textured and romantic.  

There is my confession.  Do you think I could put that in an ad?  

And yea. . . like that fellow says, it is not a real interaction.  I would be stepping out of the river, a mere witness.  

Hadn't planned on writing that today, but there you have it.  Something other than the miseries of my own current life.  

Maybe tomorrow I will explain how that spills over into my musical tastes.  Yea. . . that would be good. 

If I can remember.  

I Had a Feeling. . .

I went out to dinner last night.  It was fine, but I got nothing out of it.  I'd have just as soon stayed home.  I didn't even have to pay.  Still, the whole thing left me feeling hollow.  

Just the way I feel this morning.  Empty and soulless.  

I looked through the photos I have taken in the last months to pick one to post, but they all left me blah.  Worse.  

I'd better find something soon to fill the void, to replace this fear and dread.  

I'd sat in the afternoon with my mother and two of her neighbors through one hour of entertainment at the luxury rehab, a singer with a karaoke style machine and a microphone.  Funny, I'd seen him last time my mother was there.  He wore a tropically patterned shirt, a small brown Panama hat, brown pants with a belt and big buckle, and, the kicker--gold shoes!  He had a nice voice and danced around as if he were playing in a nightclub, but what he was looking at. . . oy!  

And perhaps that stayed with me through the night.  

I don't know.  But once again, I could go to sleep forever.  

I ordered a new Buck Mason t-shirt yesterday.  Maybe that will make me happy.  I haven't created a tangible piece of "art" for a long while now.  Maybe that would help.  Or maybe just taking care of all the house projects hanging over my head would do it.  

But my mother will be out of rehab soon, and I'll be in that routine once again.  

The world becomes a Beckett play.  

Will Trump attack Iran to distract people from the Epstein files?  We'll know something by this weekend, they say. There is no telling what the Syphilitic King will do.  Will he wait until the Olympics are over?  

We'll all just have to wait and see.  

I can find no way to end this post, nothing with which to finish it off.  I had a feeling when I got out of bed it would go like this.  So, rather than ponder any longer, I'll just say. . . 

Sayanora.  

Hippie Surfer Dude Son

I watched a documentary on the origins of "surf music" a couple nights ago.  It was fairly fascinating.  Surf music of the late 50's and early 60's was jazz.  Back then, in California, the people making surf movies were shooting with 8 and 16mm film and no audio, so when they showed them in small gatherings, they would just put on a record, Miles Davis or Chet Baker, and let the projector run.  Henry Mancini, and, a surprise to me who loves this shit, Martin Denny and Les Baxter, too.  The early live music came from people like Dick Dale, Duane Eddie, and The Ventures, all instrumental, no singing, no lyrics.  In other words, kind of jazzy.  Once the surf craze caught on, mainly after the movie "Gidget" was released, surf music got commercialized. . . and so. . .  The Beach Boys.  But early on. . . it was all jazz.  

Love that. 

When I went to see my mother yesterday, her across the street neighbors were there.

"Here's your hippie surfer dude son," said the man.  Such are his ways.  

When I left, I went to the grocers to get the fixin's for a pho dinner.  I hadn't time to run to the Vietnamese place where I buy the bone broth they cook every day, but I had read a recipe in The Times that said when you don't have stock, buy chicken drumsticks and boil them for an hour or so, then take out the drumsticks and used a fork to take off the meat.  

It worked like a charm.  I boiled them in grocery store stock, added all the spices, peppers, and vegetables, and served it over rice noodles.  Wowza.  

As I was buying the fixin's, I saw a guy a little younger than me, I'd guess, kind of bummy, surfer looking guy, eyeing me.  Did I know him?  I didn't think so.  In the check out line, I heard a voice behind me say, "You were a surfer.  Where'd you surf?"

I turned around.  It was him.  

"I surfed when I was younger some," I said.  "Mostly at the inlet and south."

"East Coast surfer," he said. "Me, too.  I went to the Pipeline once, but it was too much for me."

"Yea, I had a hard enough time surfing here."

I turned back to settle up the bill when he said, "Good hair."

"I pay my beautician for this," I said.  The small Black cashier looked up and giggled.  

As I walked out, I waved goodbye.  

"Keep the sand between your toes," he said.  

Man, that sounded good to me.  

Here's a little clip of my buddies and I in the 9th grade.  We'd all just gotten surfboards and were learning to surf in no break white water.  We had to go with my parents, of course.  But as I've said many times before, pretending's fun.  

Etc.

It Takes a Lot of Medicine

I got beautified yesterday.  Hadn't been since October.  I was looking more than a little Wild West/Buffalo Bill Cody.  The beautician improved me once again.  We talked.  I didn't really want to talk all about my mother, but she had plenty of things she wanted to say.  So I mostly listened.  

Went in at ten, out at one.  I went to see my mother.  Oy!  I finally said to her, "Has there been one good thing that has happened to you today?"  

She wanted to know when she was going home.  That is her mantra.  For me, the question sounds like, "When are you going to spend all your life taking care of me again?"  

"You've only been here a few days--I don't know what to say.  We have an evaluation meeting on Monday.  Probably then."

"I've got another week?"

I could get them to keep her there for over a hundred days, of course.  I argued and argued to get her into the Four Seasons Rehab Facility, but. . . . 

And so, my day was pretty ruined.  I was going to go to the gym after seeing her, but I couldn't manage to pluck up the energy when I left.  

This morning, the neuralgia is back.  Head to toe agony.  

"The pills, the pills."

Driving back from my visit with mother, I heard this song.  Yea.  Seems true enough.  

All things come, and all things pass.

It takes a lot of medicine to go this fast.

 

Stepping Over the Fence

Yesterday was warm and windy.  I sat out in the early afternoon to take in the sun and weather with my mother on the second floor balcony of her rehab hotel.  I don't know the root cause just then, but things were feeling pretty old Key West, and I was thinking seafood and adventure.  

"I could go for some oysters," I said. "It's the season for them, isn't it?"

I don't really eat oysters anymore because of the dirty bay waters full of sewage and chemical runoff, but especially because of the chance of getting hepatitis.  Still, life (mine) is short but memory is long.  

"Remember Lee and Rick's?" I asked her.  It was a place not far from where I grew up, and I remember going there with my parents when I was young, so, so many decades ago.  

"Yes.  I wonder if it is still there?"

"I think so."

I got out my phone.  Yup.  Sure as shitting.  I think the last time I was there was in the 1980s.  

"I think I'm going to go get some oysters," I told her .

"Take me with you."

The sky began to take on a dark cast as the edge of the approaching front moved in.  It wasn't feeling so Key West anymore.  

"I wish my friends still lived here.  I used to be able to call people on the fly and say, Hey. . . let's go get some oysters, but not any longer.  

When I said goodbye to my mother, I was wondering if I really wanted to go.  It was easier to simply go home and. . . . 

Nope.  Determined to break out, I mapped my way to adventure and daring.  

I grew up in a bad part of town, but we were able to look down upon the people in the neighborhood bordering the oyster bar.  Lee and Rick's is just off Old Winter Garden Road, then a two lane sometimes dirt thoroughfare of diesel mechanics and transmission repair shops.  It had changed.  Now it was four lanes, but that was all.  Old block buildings that hadn't been painted since I was a kid, dirt spattered, oil covered, surrounded by sandy, bare ground lined the new highway.  

I missed the turn.  I'd gone too far and had to run back through the shanty neighborhood.  The hair on the back of my neck rose a touch remembering who lived here and what went on.  Neighborhoods like this could be brutal.  People still looked at the unfamiliar car that drove down the street.  If some young guy smiled, you could take odds it wasn't genuine.  

The parking lot was littered with signs telling you that the restaurant was not responsible for whatever happened to your car while you were there.  Good to know.  I found the austere entrance, an unadorned door with a small, isignificant sign saying "entrance." 

"By god, boy. . . if ya h'aint got sense to know how to get in the goddamned restaurant. . . ."

Inside, nothing had changed.  Nothing.  It still smelled of old seafood.  There were two cast cement bars with a deep basin for scraping in the oyster shells.  There were tables, too, but nobody was sitting at them.  I walked in and took a seat in the middle of the second bar.  A big fellow came over and asked if I needed a menu.  

"Yea."

Another fellow brought me another and told me to move to the end of the bar.  

"What can I get you?"

I hadn't looked at the menu yet, but. . ."I'll have a bucket of oysters."

"How do you want them?"

I like them raw, but hepatitis and all. . . "Steamed.  Medium, I guess."

I ordered a beer.  He brought it and began to set me up.  

"They'll be ready in about four minutes," he said.  

I told him I came here with my parents when I was a kid but hadn't been back in like forty years.  

"I brought my wife here on our first date," he said.  He was thin and fit and had the obligatory tattoos on each of his arms.  

I'm a good listener, or, perhaps, a good interviewer.  I found out where he lived, in another dumpy part of town, with his girlfriend, though they've been together twelve years so he calls her his wife.  They have three kids, not his kids.  She is a little older and had the kids with another guy.  He never had any of his own.  But he was born in my own village, went to school there.  Odd, I thought, his trajectory in life.  

Oysters ready, he put the bucket in the trough and began shucking.  Shucking steamed oysters is much easier than shucking raw, so he was filling the bar quickly.  

I was eating them like a sissy.  A real oyster connoisseur squeezes some lemon on them and sucks them right out of the shell.  I scooped up a bit of horse raddish on the oyster and dipped it in cocktail sauce and then butter before putting it on a saltine cracker.  

The shucker didn't comment. 

"I saw you had butterfly shrimp on the menu.  When I was a kid, there was a place out on the trail called Gary's Duck Inn.  You'd think they'd be known for their duck, but it was a steak and seafood place.  At the time, they were the largest purchasers of shrimp in the country, if you can believe that, and they were famous for their butterfly shrimp." 

If you don't know:

Butterfly shrimp is a popular, visually appealing preparation method where the shrimp is split open along the back, deveined, and flattened into a butterfly-like shape while remaining connected, often with the tail left on. This technique increases surface area for better coating adhesion (ideal for breading and frying) and ensures faster, more even cooking.

"When Gary sold the place. . . "

Rather than write it on my own here, I'll paste the history from a local newspaper account.

Gary's Duck Inn ,a popular seafood spot established in 1945, inspired the creation of Red Lobster after investors Bill Darden and Charley Woodsby purchased it in 1963. Recognizing the success of the no-frills, high-volume seafood model, they launched the first Red Lobster in Lakeland, Florida, in 1968.

The Inspiration: Gary Starling opened Gary's Duck Inn in 1945 on South Orange Blossom Trail, becoming famous for shrimp and serving celebrities like Dolly Parton.

"Cool, huh?"

"Really?  I worked for Red Lobster for twenty years."

"Wow.  Did they still serve the butterfly shrimp?"

"They called them something else."

"Well, I'm coming back to get the butterfly shrimp next time."

"You'd better bring someone with you.  It's a pretty big platter."

He spread his hands apart as indication.

"How are you doing with the oysters.  You still have this many left."

He held up the bucket.  There were still a good number of shelled oysters on the bar.

"My eyes were bigger than my stomach," I said.  

"I don't want to charge you for the rest of these," he said.  "I'll just charge you for two dozen."

And to think I was nervous about coming in.  What a guy.  And of course, I tipped him 50%.  

 I'd come out by the Expressway, but I drove home down the old highway past my old neighborhood and the giant Shopping Center that bordered it.  It caught me by surprise.  It was HUGE, but now it was an eyesore, having been very badly updated, stuccoed, and painted a terrible orange, seeming miles of it.  For a long, long stretch, the aesthetics of poverty dominated the landscape, dirt lots and withered or dead shrubs bordering dirty parking lots, people's IQs affected by drugs, inbreeding, and a terrible lack of education.  

My people. 

It was still early.  Back home,I worked on some picture ideas, mere sketches of things I thought about making.  Music, drink. . . .

As I've told you before, I spent my life running from that place.  I wanted to live in the places I saw in movies and in the glossy magazines.  I wanted to fall in love with my own Golden Girl.  Some of it had worked out O.K, maybe.  But now and then, I need to step over the fence of Leave It to Beaverland and go to Zone 13.  

And live to exaggerate the tale. . . to gentle lovers.  

I Need to Join a Club or Something

This was a real Nextdoor post--kind of.  I added the possum.  There are many variations of this, but they are always funny.  None, however, are as hilarious as the original.  

V-day with mom.  Then home to make my dinner.  I could eat meatloaf, broccoli, and mashed potatoes at the facility with mom--for $25!  Rather, I had a pot of meat stew on the stove. 

Ate alone on the deck.  Later, I watched a silly cop movie on Netflix with Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.  I'll never get that time back.  Maybe that's why I slept so poorly.  That or a million other reasons.  I should quit drinking again.  I should stay off my computer, and especially quit making those silly movies I've been making that I get such a kick out of.  I should quit pissing and moaning about my life and focus.  

I will.  I swear.  

Here's the photo on the sticky paper thing I have to wear at the rehab facility.  They take the photo and print it out in nothing flat.  I want one.  I'd use it.  It's like the old dot matrix images from the wayback, but better.  I'd bet dollars to donuts that Warhol would have a ball with it.  

Wait!  I have an idea.  I'll be right back.  

Well, nice idea, but no dice.  I was going to make something but A.I. had other ideas.  

WTF?  

Oh, well. . . I said I was going to give that up anyway.  I think I'll read.  I've heard that's a good thing to do.  I'll be like one of "those people" who take walks and reads books and recycles.  

"Hello, Mona.  Your garden looks lovely.  How about this weather?"

Valentimes Redux

 O.K.  I know it is wrong, but I can't seem to quit.  Ho!

No Valentimes today.  

Valentimes

I really liked this one from the N.Y. Times today 

It was better than the one I had cooked up but decided not to send this morning.  

I don't really have anyone to share the day with but my mother for whom I have flowers, a balloon, and a card.  

So. . . fuck it. . . there's enough of that.  It completely got by me that yesterday was a Friday the 13th until late in the afternoon.  Remember from now on, when Valentine's Day is on a Saturday. . . . Or as we used to say in the hills, Valentimes.  Yea, that's right. . . just a bunch of uneducated hillbillies.  

So. . . mom is doing "great" at the spa I got her into.  Yesterday when I went to see her, she was with two of her neighbor friends at a "concert," a man singing karaoke to a room full of people with walkers and wheelchairs, so I left a note in her room and said I'd call her later.  She even showered without help, so. . . it won't be long.  

"But you said she could stay in that place for 90 days, right?"

Yea.  I can't do that.  I'm just not built that way.  She wants to go home.  Who can blame her?  Well, I know I do a lot, but. . . .

And actually, as well as she is doing, and as anxious as my hillbilly cousin is to have her Florida time, maybe that will work out.  Still TBD.  

But for now, I am home.  And that is pretty much it.  At home or at the rehab center.  I'm a veritable shut-in otherwise.  Surrounded by the ephemera and tchotchke of my life, of course.  

And so, to steal an old Royal British Navy toast with their daily allotment of Pusser's rum, a Valentine's Day ditty--"To Wives and Lovers. . . May They Never Meet!"

Having neither, it doesn't matter to me.  Rather, if you are smart and knowledgable and know the reference, "Here's to Esmeralda."  

Now I circle the bars on the promenade
While the girls in the glass, they're just throwing me shade

You're all fucked up, Saint Valentine

In·de·fat·i·ga·ble

Before I begin today's misery, let me say BONDI.  What a piece of shit.  The entire hearing demonstrated that Congress really is the weakest part of the governmental trinity, a dog without teeth.  My favorite congressman comes from my own home state.  He is both smart AND a hoot.  Here are his five minutes with Bondi.  You need to skip ahead to 1:44 in the piece to get where he begins.

But for all the praise she gets for being something other than what she now is when she was the A.G. in my own home state, everybody said even then that she was a political hack, a face lift for the conservative republicans in this state.  Everyone said she was a piece of alligator dung from the get-go. 

Now to my triumphal tale.  My mother.  What a gal.  She called to cry about being in the most wonderful rehab facility you can imagine.  

"I want to go home." 

The price of a room in this facility has gone up to $640/day.  I could only afford to get her in there if the hospital made the recommendation.  Say what you will about me. . . I do have some skills.  The rooms are large and clean.  The service is almost concierge, and maybe not even "almost."  There is staff for everything, and they are incredibly polite.  I watched the food staff yesterday as they prepared dinner for each diner, going over their preference cards, noting who was gluten intolerant, who was vegan, who requested this or that, and then they dished it with a delightful flurry showing one another the final product.  Therapist come to my mother's room.  A few steps away is a comfortable sitting room with a giant t.v.  My mother's neighbors came to visit yesterday, she said, and they sat together there.  But mom, in typical fashion said with a sneer, "They had that skiing stuff on all day."  

Yup.  Mom constantly complains.  

"How was therapy?"

"We didn't do anything."

"How was breakfast?"

A shrug.  "The bacon was greasy.  The toast was cold."

"What did you have for lunch?"

"I don't remember.  Nobody knows how to work this t.v."

"What do you want to watch?"

"Put it on Fox."

Of course.  I did.  

"How did you do that?"

I showed her.  

"You need to bring me my walker from home.  This one is too high.  They tried to adjust it but it doesn't go any lower."

So I went to her house and got her her own walker.  When I brought it in, it was EXACTLY the same model and same height.

"Oh."

BUT, HERE'S THE THING!!!!  After lying in bed in a diaper with a wick thing between her legs, she is scooting around on the walker as well as she was at home, and she is going to the bathroom on her own.  No kidding. . . she won't need to be in rehab long at all.  Oh, she couldn't tell the social worker the year or the day, and she couldn't repeat the three words she was supposed to remember, but the heart, lungs, and kidneys. . . . 

So, we'll be back to our old ways in no time.  I'll get to move back in with good old mom and start my 24/7 duties all over again.  

👍

"You're a good son."

She hasn't a clue about where the hospital wanted to put her.  

I shouldn't have put the little nubbins of horns coming out of her head.  It is just a joke.  It is a reflection of my own shortcomings, not hers.  Just illustrative.  Meant to be funny.  

Me?  Oh, it is kind of you to ask.  I looked into the mirror this morning and noticed my hair is thinning.  I always had a wonderful head of hair.  The stress may be taking it's toll.  The neuralgia continues, of course, and the great and terrible fatigue.  I couldn't face cooking yesterday so I ordered takeout sushi from a place on the Boulevard.  It is hit or miss, and I have quit eating there, but it was on the way home.  

When I plated it out, I had great hopes, but they were quickly vanquished.  The sushi was soft and slimy.  I am lucky I didn't get sick, I think.  

Such is my life.  Friday.  I think I'll party.  

Ho!

I'm in no mood to leave the house.  I must start preparing for returning to my mother's.  

Broken

If you didn't read yesterday's post, I would advise you not to read this one, either.  Maybe you can just come for the pictures.  I've enjoyed turning myself into a creature/character.  Here I am morphing back into a more recognizable form, half me, half creature having escaped for the moment, but. . . dying?  That is how it has felt.  

My body has given up.  There are pains I can't explain.  I lay in a tub of Epsom salts yesterday and could not get up.  After the water had drained, I lay there for what must have been an hour, chilled, weary. . . .

Every day now, I am faced with death.  Not my mother's.  Nope.  My own.  My mother will never die.  And each day and each night, I think I will just take the pills.  

The last two days were a struggle.  First the hospital was going to release my mother.  Her/my problem, not theirs.  

Have you ever seen anyone screaming at the ticket agent at the airport thinking that the agent is on his or her way to a board meeting to discuss customer relations?  Yea, right?  It doesn't help.  It does no good.  So. . . I read the room, said what I needed to say, told them what I could and couldn't, would and wouldn't do.  

When my mother first went to the hospital, the palliative care person talked to me about putting her in hospice care.  Yesterday when I went to the hospital, I was told they were sending my mother to a nursing home.  Do you know what a nursing home is?  That is the place where they send you to die a miserable death.  At the last minute, however, they arranged to send my mother to the place I had wanted her to go, the place where she was before, the nicest rehab facility in town.  

That is me at the top of the page having received the news.  All good.  I told people who asked and they were glad.  

I sent an informational text to my mother's hillbilly relatives and got a message back that they had talked to my mother and she wanted to go home.  I started to reply, but decided not to.  

Ever again.  

I got a message from the facility admissions person that my mother would be in room 222.  I drove over to see her.  She wasn't there yet.  

"They are going to transport her over at 6:30.  

At 7:30 I called my mother.  

"How's your room?"

"They are just taking me down to transport now."

"Oh.  O.K.  Call me when you get to your room."

That call went badly.  Very, very badly.  

"I want to go home," she cried.  

I'm not proud of my response.  

"Go ahead.  Go home."  

"Can I?"

"Sure.  Just tell them you want to go home.  I'll check on you in a few days to see how it's going."

When I hung up (in anger), I told myself I was done.  I was over it.  I thought about taking off on a trip.  I am dying, I thought.  She is not.  I need to see one last thing.  

It was time for bed.  

I'm more in control today, but something in me has snapped.  One day, if I'm around, I will tell you about my relationship with my mother.  It is a hard tale.  But I won't tell it while she lives.  

So it may never be told.  

I want to do something other than care for my mother.  I don't think I have so very much time left.  Parents shouldn't outlive their children, but my mother is determined to do just that.  And why not?  But she has shortened my life, I believe, considerably.  I have an offer to go to Japan in March.  I want to go to Japan.  I want to go to Miami and shack up in the Four Seasons for a week, lie by the pool and drink Margaritas.  Maybe I'll sell everything and just rent a place in Key West, wander the island, a tropical Quasimodo, until my final day.  

Sitting is hard now.  Getting up is worse.  Moving is excruciating.  It has happened quickly, but that is how it happens, isn't it?  

Did I show you what I looked like last year on my birthday?  Yea.  Look what your god has done to me.

Stay Strong ♥️

Do not read this post if you are not up for misery and suffering.  Things have, unbelievably, taken a turn for the worse.  So. . . I urge you not to go further than this.  

On the other hand, I know for a fact that some people are enjoying my turning and twisting of fate.  I sent this to a longtime friend the other day.  You needn't watch more than a minute or so to get the idea.  

Do you know what he wrote back?

"You used to be like him"

Well, I wasn't.  I didn't have a plane, didn't have money.  But. . . "used to" is the rub.  

Selavy.  

People got married to people they loved.  They had children.  They went after that old American Dream.  I tried, but I fucked it all up, I guess.  But while they were taking their kids to soccer practice and arguing with their spouses about the things spouses argue about. . . I wasn't.  I didn't have children, so I didn't have to be like Brando, the ultimate absent parent.  

Now, I think, mamy enjoy my suffering the wages of my "sin."  The thing is, there just wasn't much sin, just fun.  

Now--and I'm not talking about any one individual but a whole host of my married friends--they wonder if HRT will put the passion back into their lives.  

"Absolutely," I say.  "It's the magic bullet."

People are nice enough.  From time to time, someone will ask how I'm "holding up."  They offer encouragement.  "Is there anything I can do?"  

I'm not being critical.  If it sounds as if I am, I am not.  I am pretty certain I wouldn't even offer that because I know I am incapable of doing much to help other than telling a few jokes, etc.  I might be a little bitter, but I am not criticizing.  

If that makes sense.  Depends upon your mood when you read this, I think.  People do want to tell me that they went through this with their parent/grandparent, etc.  They haven't.  Nobody who tells me such things has gone through this without help all on their own.  There are certainly others, but I've not met any of them yet.  

Yesterday morning, I went to see my mother.  She was pretty out of it, so I stayed a bit and then told her I would come back in the afternoon.  At two-thirty, I got a call from her.  I was napping, so I only heard her message at three.  

"Are you coming up today?  I can't find my charger.  O.K."

I called.  

"I came to see you this morning."

"Really?  I don't remember."

I got dressed and drove to the hospital once again.  My mother was up and more alert.  We chatted.  The physical therapist had come and had her use the walker in a circle in the room.  

"That's not a walk," she said, and so he took her down the hallway and back.  The doctor, she said, had come to see her.  She couldn't recall their conversation.  

In a moment, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as a Case Management worker.  My mother was being discharged, she said.  Did we need homecare?

"What?"

"We can arrange for someone to come in a couple times a week to help your mother."

The adrenaline dump.

"What are you talking about?  My mother needs to go to rehab until we see how much care she is going to require."

Nope.  The physical therapist had written she was ready to go.  

"So," I said pointing to my mother, "you think she can take care of herself?"

"That's not really our concern after she is discharged.  It is up to the family. . . ."

I was pushing down my anger as hard as I could, but my eyes had sharpened to combat mode.

"Fine.  It's up to you.  I'm not taking her home, so what are you going to do, wheel her out to the curb?"

This went on a bit longer, then she said she would have to talk to a supervisor.  

"Right."

And in a little while, the supervisor came in.  She was no more helpful than the lackey had been.  They are used to having the power, I know, and use it on people unprepared to argue.  I'm positive she looked at me and saw another lawn maintenance man who used to be a surfer DOOD.  And that is where we start.  In an officious tone I am all too familiar with, she begins to tell me it is not their responsibility. . . . 

I wave my arms.  "None of this is your responsibility.  You are just living off the proverbial corporate tit.  But when it comes to compassionate care?  I'm not taking her home.  I can't do this.  I can wash her hair, scrub her back, prep her meds, cook, clean, fetch and chaufer, but I can't do this.  I have no idea how to do this."

I pointed to the catheter that was running piss through a tube into a glass container.  

The woman's face changed.  

"I didn't know she was on that."

"She was put into bed with a diaper and never gotten up the entire time she has been here.  They tell her to just go to the bathroom in her diaper.  I need to know if she is going to be able to use the bathroom by herself again.  She needs to go to rehab so we can try to get her back to where she was before she came in."

The conversation changed.  I told her I had put in a call to the palliative care person who had suggested Hospice just last week.  

"Oh, no. . . no. . . ."

She said she would go back and try to get her into rehab.  

Nice.  But I have no idea how this is going to turn out.  

When the woman left, my mother said, "I couldn't hear what you all were saying."

And that is where I am.  That is all the help I will have in the coming. . . how long?  

My entire being gave up.  Neuralgia has taken over my body.  I don't know if it is psychological or if the stress has brought on whatever evil disease that lurks inside us all.  I couldn't move.  I couldn't do anything.  

When I went to bed, I decided I needed something stronger than Tylenol.  I took a hydrocodone.  An hour later, I was lying awake in bed feeling exactly as I had.  I got up and took a Tylenol P.M.  An hour later, I was lying in bed awake and thinking the same hideous things I had hours before.  I got up and took a Xanax.  I thought about taking everything I had in my cabinet.  I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up.  There was nothing in life to look forward to at this point.  No help.  Only strife.  Fuck me, I'm tired of dealing with everything all the time.  I don't care anymore.  I just don't.  

I am up late this morning with the drug blues feeling no better than I did.  My entire body hurts.  There must be a cause, but I don't have a clue and I don't want to go to a doctor.  I've been watching my mother, and I would rather take the pills than do what she is doing.  

So. . . if you are here, I told you not to read this at the top of the post.  Never has life been so dire, so bleak.  

People send me words.  

"Stay strong ! You have no other choice ❤️"

Oh. . . but that is not true, is it?  It really isn't.  But thanks.  "Just keep taking the beating," is what I hear.  

I appreciate everyone, of course.  People are swell.  

Party Animal

This was my celebratory meal, this and another batch of hospital sushi.  I was really partying.  I spent yesterday's birthday just as I spent my first one oh-so long ago--in the hospital with my mother.  

When I got home at the end of the day, there was this .

Sort of.  There were no Roman arches, of course.  But I was so exhausted, I truly thought I would puke.  There seems to be a limit for the human body and psyche.  Mine, at least.  

After lying in a hospital bed for ten days with a collapsed vertebra, no one doing anything but feeding and cleaning her, my mother finally got in for an operation.  I got to the hospital at 8:30 not knowing what time the procedure was scheduled.  Good news, they said.  Ten o'clock.  At nine-thirty, they wheeled her down to the staging area.  And there we stayed.  At one, they took her in for surgery.  I went to celebrate my birthday like the party animal I am with sushi and pizza.  In an hour or so, they called me to let me know the operation was successful and that they had returned her to the staging area.  So, party over, I hustled back to the small holding pen.  

And there we stayed waiting for transport.  

"You are in cue to be taken back to your room, but the cue is long and there are only a few people working in transport, so I don't know how long it will be."

At four-thirty, I couldn't stand waiting any longer.  I woke my mother.

"Do you know what today is?" I asked my mother.

"No."

"It's my birthday."

"Oh.  Happy birthday."

I had been sitting in a folding chair in a dark, crowded room watching her sleep for many, many hours.  I told her I was leaving, that I would call her later when she was back in her room.  

I got one birthday card, the same one I get every year offering me a free drink on my birthday at Bradley's Saloon in Palm Beach.  They are very sweet.  

The rest were mostly the perfunctory "Happy Birthday!  Have a great day," text messages from people who keep electronic calendars.  I don't care, really, as I don't keep one and never know anyone's birthday, by and large.  Late in the day, birthday almost done, the sweeter, more heartfelt wishes came.  

I wondered how I'd spent my birthday last year, so I went back and looked it up.  It was Super Bowl Sunday, and I spent it pretty much the same way, alone with my mother for whom I was caring.  But for this. 

In the afternoon, I went for a mimosa at the cafe.  Waiting in line, I used to take mirror selfies and wonder how I could look so good in the mirror and so bad in pictures.  Looking back, though, I kind of collapsed inside.  Was that only a year ago?  Man. . . I don't look much like that anymore.  This year has taken its toll.  I think I still could look a woman in the eye then.  As a matter of fact, the girl who made me mimosas on Sunday, though the bar was not open, flirted with me a bit, or at least she did in my journal.  

I can't look a woman in the eye anymore.  It is too obvious to me what she sees.  

I looked up my birthday horoscope. 

Born February 9 - This can be a highly creative year, and personal magnetism is strong. Your attractiveness, tact, and ability to go after what you want without stepping on anyone's toes, all contribute to your success. A positive attitude and an enterprising spirit takes you places.  You are a person who is very committed to what you believe in--and sometimes very stubbornly so! You are a true artist at heart--creative to an extreme and occasionally nervous if you are not channeling your considerable artistic talent constructively. 

Compassionate and concerned, you care much about others but often come across as detached. It is very important that you finish the projects you start-- which is not always easy for you--in order to feel content and satisfied.

February 09 Aquarius at Their Best:Uninhibited, compassionate, wise

February 09 Aquarius at Their Worst: Troubled, irrational, moody

All true, I thought.  It is crazy.  When I read someone else's horoscope not my sign, I know absolutely that is not me. How do they do it?  Surely it must be true.  

Though it does merely say I'm a true artist at heart, and not that I am a talented one.  There is always a caveat, I guess.  

 So that's it.  Almost.  I wore my phone battery out sitting with my unconscious mother, and I decided to make my picture move.  Pretty cool. 

Oops.  In order to get it onto Blogger, I had to take it into iMovie and make it compatible, so. . . 

Only now did I think to make the other.  

There you go, Daddy-o!

Life's Cabaret

Found out yesterday that my mother goes to surgery today, only ten days after she was admitted to the death ward with a collapsed vertebra.  For ten days, she has has been left to lie in bed.  It has been a tremendous shit show.  I still don't know what time she goes to surgery.  I will have to go up in a bit to see if they have set a time.  

I have a beauty appointment at one.  Ha!  It is not my day.  

I watched the Super Bowl last night.  Maybe it is just me, but. . . meh.  First time I have heard or seen Bad Bunny.  It was quite a production, and I like reggaeton music well enough, but. . . celebrate as they will, I DO believe that it will cost dems in the upcoming elections.  Why?  A chorus line of booty dancers twerking, Bad Bunny grabbing his junk over and over again. . . and then reaching out for a female child who is smiling up at him like a survivor. . . etc.  There was just too much there that some independent voters will not go for.  It may have excited the youthquake, but they are not serious voters, at least not traditionally.  Didn't seem like the right thing to do for the midterms, but maybe that was the whole idea.  The NFL is not a liberal corporation, you know.  I just don't think the halftime show had a wide voter appeal.  

But I'm no savant.  Don't mind me.  Bad Bunny jelqing onstage is the norm now.  And I never did enjoy the halftime marching band.  

In other news. . . I have no other news.  I'm exhausted.  My only real movement this weekend was my twice a day trips to the hospital.  My mother is up and down, sometimes there, sometimes elsewhere.  How much care she will need after this operation, I don't know.  I just know that I can't get on with my own life, and I feel guilty for even thinking about that.  

I do need a beauty appointment, though.  Haven't been since mid-October.  My beautician may not want to see me if I am a no show again.  I was supposed to go the Saturday my mother went to the E.R.  

Right now, life is a cabaret, old chum. . . just not the one I desire.  

Selavy. 

I Like the People in This Photograph

I want to write a bit about this photograph and about "agency," but just before I came to post, I read this, and, holy shit, I just have to share.  

Thursday, however, took things to a new level in Milan Cortina — ski jumpers allegedly injecting their penises with hyaluronic acid in order to fly that little bit further.

Injecting the penis with acid would increase its size and give the ski jumpers bigger genitalia at the point their suits are measured by 3D scanners.

Temporarily enhanced measurements would theoretically mean athletes being given a bigger, looser suit and, like a sail catching wind, could allow them to make longer jumps. Research from the scientific journal, Frontiers, published last October said that a 2cm change in a suit represented an extra 5.8 metres in the length of a jump.

 Christ. . . what next?  I'm thinking. . . before my next date. . . . 

Ha!  I've been waiting a long time for my next date.  Does hyaluronic acid go bad?  And once injected, how long does it last?  This is the same stuff I get shot into my bad knee every six months.  Could one have a big old pecker for. . . whatever.  

Back in the day, before Viagra, there was an older gay man who trained at the gym, a fellow whose wealthy partner had died and left him everything.  He had gone hog wild.  He was flamboyant and drove around town in a little Mercedes convertible.  He liked the younger men.  To wit: he used a vascular drug that he injected into his penis.  When he told us, I flipped.  How in the fuck could he stand sticking a needle into his penis?  But, he said, he would stay hard all night long much to the amazement of his young concubines.  

I once read that African tribes did something called jelqing from an early age.  Perhaps the idea of this came from watching Black kids. . . anyway. . . . 

There is sure to be a hyaluronic acid craze now.  

One last thing--I use it on my face after every shower.  Now it feels a little gross.  

O.K. Onward.  That is a photo from the Cafe Strange.  Cafe Life writ large.  I love going to this place as you don't see anything else like this anywhere in town.  If you want to be a freak and feel the love. . . this is your place.  

But. . . and I will get to my point. . . should I be taking such photographs?  Is it a criminal act?  Is it immoral?  Am I an exploiter?  Am I guilty of objectification?  Should I have asked permission?  

These are all the rage over street photography now.  Many people want to make taking photos in public places illegal.  With the invention of Google Glasses, though, I don't see how that will ever be possible.  In my own hometown, there are cameras everywhere.  You can't prank your neighbor without being posted on Nextdoor or the like.  Everything on the Boulevard is monitored by cameras.  You must be ready at all times, for every moment is your Hollywood moment.  Do something wrong and your image will be all over t.v.  

So, this brings me back to my confusion over the subject/object distinction.  Let me clarify how philosophers make the distinction.  The subject has "agency," meaning it is cognizant, is motivated, is thinking, etc.  The object, on the other hand, does not have agency; for example, my toaster.  So, simply put, I am somehow taking away people's agency by photographing them if you agree with the argument.  I have, essentially, turned them into toasters.  

However. . . to say this about my actions is to objectify me.  In the same manner, you have taken away my agency.  You objectify everyone and everything about which you communicate.  You objectify "the photographer."  

Maybe.  As I admitted in another post, this relationship has always confused me.  

One of my colleagues at the factory wrote his dissertation on animal representation in 18th and 19th century literature.  He was a feminist and applied much of the theory to the depiction of animals.  His argument was about agency.  Animals were objectified and thusly abused.  

It makes me wonder about the subject/object representation in Christian mythology.  Adam and Eve were given agency, then punished for choosing to use it.  Of course an all-knowing God would have predicted that.  And thus, they were punished and forced to live with the knowledge of their own deaths and the deaths of all those who came after them.  

Cool, right?  

Where the fuck is the agency in that?  

I will confess, I hate the fucking term.  It was all the rage with the Woke faction at the factory.  But everytime they denounced someone or their action, I felt they had objectified them, had, in essence, categorized them and stolen the very thing they wanted to promote.  

As I often said aloud, "You can't perform the theory."

Which brings me to A.I.  

Moltbook.  

What is intelligence and how does it develop?  A.I. is problematizing the discussion.  And so some are pivoting a bit.  Feelings are really what agency is all about.  Maybe.  Much of the brain, you see, is not about consciousness but is responsible for monitoring what is going on in the body, such things, as I read this morning, regulating blood gases.  Yea, the brain isn't simply an organ responsible for thinking and cognition.  But feelings, it is proposed, were an evolutionary necessity when, in the given example, the brain recognizes it is both hungry and tired.  Choices must be made, and so. . .  

As I read this, I could only hear that little voice in my head that says, "Nobody gives a fuck about how you feel."  

Which is not true.  Your therapist does, right?  

"How did you feel when you first realized. . . ?"

Television is full of emoting.  So many statements now begin with, "Personally. . . ."

Personhood.  Agency.  Computers may be smart, but can they feel? 

I take pictures of toasters, too.  I've taken thousands of photos of inanimate objects.  But really. . . wouldn't you rather see a photo of some guy jelqing on a street corner as the crowd walks by?  Sure, one may be aesthetically pleasing, but the other has much more meaning.  

Of course, we all want to know how you "feel" about the survivors and the victims.  But you need more information, right?  All of it.  

If A.I. can create a moral universe. . . you know, a systematic hierarchy of values like Christianity, Judaism, or Islam, but better. . . . 

I guess I need to work on how I feel about that.  

What I feel right now watching my mother suffer is that life is a giant shit show no matter what we do.  

For the rest of it. . . just watch the news.  If it ain't objectifying, I don't know anything about any of this at all.  

So there you go Susan Sontag.  They say you were really something when you wrote "On Photography."  You are often quoted.  And oft photographed, too.  But I'm guessing the next topic should be about "consent."  

And, of course, how long it is good for. . . how long it lasts.