Spain and the Argentine

Nice outfit, eh?  Yea. . . I know.  But I'm trying for a little continuity here.  You see, yesterday at my house while I was cleaning up, I opened an unlabelled notebook of slides that turned out to be from my trip to Argentina early this century.  At the time, I was still scanning slides from my Pamplona to Paris trip, and so. . . Spain and Argentina, right?  Here I am in the Spanish countryside.  I think.  I may have crossed over into France, the Roncevaux region, at this time. . . but let's not split hairs. Here I am in a riot of 1989 Patagonia (the clothing company, but still. . .) colors.  

Hideous.  

I watched the Argentines lose to Spain last night.  I think I was pulling for Messi to make a miracle.  The first World Cup Final I ever watched was in 1986 when Argentina beat what was then West Germany in Mexico City.  But I wasn't there.  I was in a courtyard at a small, country cafe in the mountains of Somewhere, Peru.  My group were the only people there but for the owners and staff who set up a tiny black and white t.v. next to our table.  When Argentina won, the place went wild. 

All four or five of them.  

I have a photo from that lunch somewhere.  I have so much. 

In the photo above, I was on my way to Paris with the William Hurt clone.  He was the cheapest sonofabitch in the world, and we had already fallen out about it.  The reason I got to see part of the Tour de France was because he refused to take the toll highway turning what should have been an hour's drive into a day trip. When we got to San Sebastian, he didn't want to spend the five dollars or so it would cost for a room.  He was prepared to sleep in the car.  I found a hostel just off the beach, a giant house with windows you could stand in and high ceilings and told him to drop me off here and come pick me up in the morning.  

He didn't like the idea of sleeping in the car alone while I lolled around the beautiful grounds, so. . . . 

Paris was much the same.  I won't go into it this morning, but after Paris, I was on my way to meet up with the girl who had given me the scarf that is my headband in the photo above.  The one with the fabulously wealthy family.  

This was all before any idea of billionaires and trillionaires.  Four hundred million would place you in the Forbes Four Hundred list back then, and I had just run with the bulls with a man who was included in that elite group.  His story is fascinating.  His family emigrated from Greece when he was a young boy.  As they were about to board the boat, however, the ramp was closed.  They were that close to America.  Then, as if by the hand of God, the rope was lifted and they were allowed to board. 

It was the depression, and his father bought up half of Denver for pennies on the dollar.  And then. . . they were rich.

That is how he told the story at his 50th birthday party, anyway.  It was a roast with about a hundred people in attendance--and I was one.  So was Brando.  The man's name was Dino, if you can believe it, and he was a swell fellow.  But he, too, was cheap.  We were in Ecuador together, for example, and he got incredibly angry when his girlfriend exchanged money at the hotel because she wanted to buy a book.  The hotel exchange rate was not as good as the banks.  Dino owned his own chain of banks, but he drove an old Toyota sports car, cut and dyed his own hair, and wore shirts with so old the collars were frayed.  

He had been in Pamplona after he graduated from college and had run with the bulls.  He'd come to do it one more time.  

Incredibly, I don't have a photo of him from that trip.  

He was rich, but a different sort from my girlfriend's father.  I used to eat lunches with Dino at Wendy's where he would get the salad bar then steal food from the potato bar.  True.  My girl's father, however, ate at fabulous restaurants and always picked up the tab for all his rich friends.  There was no questioning it. Nobody ever brought a bill to the table.  

And so, in that photo, I was on my way to meet up with her in Cannes where she would take me to their summer home in Aix.  It would be the two of us, her parents and brother, and two of her friends. My girl, her friends, and I would later take the train to Florence and then to Paris.  

The Hurt clone and I got to Cannes a day early, and again, there was the problem with paying for a room.  We had driven by the place I would be staying in Aix, a gated community where the neighbors were Carl Reiner and the famous art dealer Leo Castelli.  We could see that the place was lush.  Now the clone had an idea.  We could stay there for free.  What was he talking about, I asked?  Nobody was home.  

"We could jump the wall," he said.  

Fuck off. 

But I was done with him by now, and I told him to drop me at a small seaside hotel in Cannes.  My girl would pick me up the next day.  He was free to do what he wanted.  He needed to get back to Madrid in a few days to catch his flight.  He moped and whined about the price, but he ended up sharing the room with me for the night.  

I hadn't seen my girl since Miami.  She had taken me down to catch my flight.  She was a cute little blonde Jewish princess with a white convertible Cabriolet, and on that trip, I took the wrong turn off the interstate and got us lost in a bad part of Liberty City--another story for another time.  But we stayed at a boutique hotel in Coral Gables called the Place St. Michelle where this photo was taken.  

I was done with Brando and done with the Clone and all the fuck ups of the first half of my summer.  It would all be smooth sailing now. 

Or so I thought. 

A Recognizable Mess

Leaving my own home yesterday to come back to my mother's was more difficult than it has yet been.  It was an undoing in some way.  I was happy at home among my things.  I wanted to be with my books, my pictures, my things.  It has been, for the most part, two years since I have lived there.  I'm tired.  I don't want to be with someone every night. . . unless it is My Own True Love.  

And even then. . . . 

When I did come back to mother's, she was not much with it.  She sits and stares.  I made a cocktail and sat with her, but there was no conversation to speak of.  I went inside to make dinner, a Greek salad with tuna and big chunks of crusty bread.  She picked at it.  Dinner was not fun.  

After dinner, I cleaned up and watched some photo stuff on YouTube.  As time approached for my mother's eight o'clock meds, I saw she had not taken the ones from the afternoon.  Why?  She was confused.  I am wondering how much longer she can function at all without someone here.  I can't do 24 hour days, I said to her.  Then what, she asked?  We'd need to have someone come in when I'm not here.  This angered her.  

For the rest of the night, she wandered around.  I asked her what she was looking for.  She started calling out letters.  That is how the rest of the evening went.  

"R, A. . . R, A, D. . . ."

I searched for something to watch.  Of a sudden, there are many films from the  Criterion collection available in my subscriptions, but I can't watch those with my mother which means I can't watch them at all.  I saw that "Lawrence of Arabia" was available.  I thought it something my mother could watch.  

But she got up and wandered back and forth with her walker in sloth speed, turning her head to the left, to the right, searching for. . . 

"R. . . R, A. . . . "

This is my life.  From five o'clock on, I am tethered to a chair.  Nerves gone all to hell, anxious, depressed, I do the very thing we are warned about--self-medicating.  I think not to, and after eight or nine I try to switch to water or tea, but sitting and alcohol have made me fat and hideous.  

Yesterday, I didn't get out of my mother's house until noon.  When I got back to my house, I put on some walking clothes.  That sounds funny.  Three and a half miles is difficult for me now.  My knee, of course, but something is wrong in my mid and lower back.  I'm beginning to wobble.  All I know to do is keep walking, though, keep trying.  But it was the worst time of the day for walking, the hottest and brightest part.  Ninety-five degrees in the sun.  Could be a Thomas McGuane novel.  Mad Dogs and Englishmen as they used to say.  The first mile was hard.  Then I had a good half mile.  Coming back down the Boulevard, the sidewalks were packed.  It was o.k. for me.  It slowed me down.  There were a thousand teenage girls in uniforms--shorts that showed just the smooth curve of their bottoms and tops that showed the smooth curve of pale breasts.  At Brandy Melville they stand in line waiting to be let into the store.  The line stretches for blocks.  It is why now I do not carry a camera on the Boulevard on Saturdays.  I get looks enough as it is.  

I don't know why, but it is true.  People look at me in ways I'm sure they don't look at others.  As I was leaving the grocery store yesterday morning, a woman was staring at me as I crossed the parking lot.  She was older and looked like a one time hippie or commie or liberal--something.  

As we approached she asked, "What's your name?"

That was a bit odd, I thought, but I've gotten used to people mistaking me for my movie and tv buddy.  

"What's your's?" I replied.  

"Margaret."

What the hell.  I told her mine. 

"I know you.  Have you lived around here for a long time?"

We were on my mother's side of town, so I wasn't sure what a long time might be.   

"Yes," I said.  

"I know your face.  Did you used to have long hair?"

"Up until a few weeks ago."

"Yea, that's you.  I've seen you for years."

As I passed her, I waved and walked on, and about ten steps later, I heard her yell, "It was nice meeting you."

When I got back to my house at the end of my walk, I was beat.  I opened a bottle of Pedialyte, ran a hot tub with Epsom Salts, and let the bath and the Pedialyte work their wonders.  And when I drained the tub, I could barely stand. 

I've been scanning old slides for days now, but it is slow.  In the short time I am home, I get maybe five or ten slides scanned each day.  Yesterday I came across some old film that had the photo at the top.  It was negative film that I sent to a lab called DR.5 that processed them as slides.  That girl was my cousin's son's girlfriend.  When I met her, I was stunned.  What the hell was she doing with my hillbilly relative.  It made no sense.  Her father was the fire chief in a nearby town, I think.  Or mayor.  It was a long, long time ago, so. . . I think he was fire chief.  She was silky smooth and sophisticated, and there we were in my cousin's hillbilly home.  

I was in love.  

But my cousin's son was into some illegal shit, and I could only imagine he was her supplier.  How else could it be explained?  

It was the only time I ever saw her.  She broke Player's heart.  He caught her out one night doing some really bad things with someone even lower on the rungs of the ladder than he.  She loved slumming and hanging with rough trade, I guess.  But Player bounced back, and his next girlfriend was even better looking.  

She'd be in her mid-forties now.  I've asked about her.  My cousin says she went to college and became a something.  I don't remember now, but I'll ask again when I send her these photos.  

After my struggles with my mother last night, I couldn't sleep.  I went to bed at eleven, "Lawrence" being a four hour movie was only half over.  I woke at one.  I woke at three.  But "waking" isn't the correct term, for I was never really asleep.  I lay and thought the whole night through.  I thought some good things.  I thought some bad things.  Mostly, though, I thought about how my life has slipped away.  I thought about the places I would like to go, the things I'd like to do.  It is impossible.  I thought about cameras and photography and where I could go in the few hours I have each day and what sort of images I could make.  Even if I had a studio, it would do me little good.  

My body is going.  How much longer before it is my mind?  

It is Sunday and the last time I will watch soccer for another four years.  I heard last night that there will be a halftime show: Justin Bieber, Madonna, Shakira, and BTS.  WTF?  The Americanization of Soccer.  I told you.  I told you.  Didn't I tell you?  Look back, and you will see.  I told you that once America got into soccer we would fuck it up.  

Pop slop.  

So there's my happy little morning post.  I was going to end with a Mila Hayes video as a prelude to the halftime show, but I've already gotten groused for posting her yesterday, so. . . I'll post an immaterial girl.  

Do you think there will be a wardrobe malfunction at halftime?  

A.I. Slop

O.K.  Go ahead and start hating on me now.  If you are as uneducated about what is happening in the world outside of your age group now, as am I, let me update you.  But I have a feeling, for all my talking about A.I., that I am the only one who hasn't heard of Mila Hayes.  

I'll let that one sit for a moment.  

Oh, O.K.  I was going to tell you more about how shitty my life is, how badly my day went, but Mila is more interesting.  

I saw something similar to this and got fooled.  I thought it was a real talk show--Jimmy Fallon, I think.  I don't watch Late Night Talk Shows, so that part was an easy sleight of hand.  But WTF was the rest of this?

Still fooled. . . . 

I had to look it up.  Mila Hayes has been around awhile.  How could I not know this?  Easy.  Mom never mentioned it to me, nor have any of her neighborhood friends.  I feel silly about it now, but I am also intrigued.  Will she marry a football player?

O.K.  I'll stop.  Just one more.  

Oops.  I can't post it on Blogger which only accepts YouTube content, so you'll have to go to her IG page to see (link).  

Obviously you don't have to go and probably won't, but, you know. . . options.  Nobody will know, though, if you do.  Put your computer on "Private Browser" the way you do with other things you don't want your wife of husband or boyfriend or girlfriend or mom to find out about. 

The thing that amazes me is how the creators are able to maintain her appearance.  That has been a difficult chore for me, almost impossible.  I haven't tried to make A.I. music yet, so I don't have a clue about that.  The music has been called "A.I. slop," but I think it sounds just like all the pop slop people listen to, anyway.  

I wonder if there is a boy version of Mila.  You'll have to look it up for yourself, though.  I'm not interested.  

So now, to the troubles of my time.  The grievances and regrets, the longing and the. . . blah blah blah.  

Not today.  It is Saturday, and I should find something fun to do in my hour of free time.  I wonder where that Hawaiian Shaved Ice guy got to?  I'd like to stumble upon some secret fabulous marketplace again, something unlikely and magical.  Such things make life somewhat meaningful.  It happens from time to time when I am out exploring.  And then, like cotton candy, they disappear and I am never able to find them again.  They are never sustainable, and then they are gone.  I have some favorites that are unshakeable.  The first time I entered Samovar Tea Lounge when it was on the border of the Castro/Mission District on Howard Street in San Fran.  Now it is gone.  The same is true of the Wild Lily Tea Room on 10th and Howard in the Chelsea District of Manhattan, situated in the shadow of the High Line.  There are dozens of places in Berkeley, too, that were simply curious examples of a fairytale existence--all gone.  A hundred little places in Manhattan.  Wandering one block further into the Peter Beard exhibit at The Time Is Always Now Gallery just after leaving Evolution, back before giant chain stores had taken over SoHo. 

Oh, my.  Here in my own hometown, just finding that guy with the shaved ice machine outside The Heavy in the old fishmarket warehouse.  Never could figure out what the place was about, but the owner said it was just "an experience."  

Gone.  

Well, I should get out there if I am to find anything, so I'll leave you with a couple videos.  A.I. pop slop. It makes me think of something stupid my father and his ilk used to laugh at--"Good God, Gurdy. . . what a gash!"

What a world!

Hal. . . Hal. . . .

Things. . . aren't getting any better.  Of course Trump et.al. want Daylight Savings Time to be the standard since all that "fake science" tells us that it is harder on human health than the more natural Standard Time.  "Who doesn't want brighter days?" Trump queries.  I wonder if he thinks the nights will be darker?  Fires and floods of apocalyptic proportions.  Record setting heat.  Crop failure.  

On a personal level, my mother told me that she needed her car.  I wasn't very nice.  I gave her the keys and said I would Uber home and that she could come pick me up if she needed anything.  After that argument, I went to a Nissan dealer far out of town to pick up my radiator cap.  They didn't have it or any record of it.  Turned out that it was at another Nissan dealer on the exact opposite side of town.  Out of town.  After a day's driving, I put the new cap on the Xterra and drove around the block.  The car overheated as I suspected it would.  I will have to have it towed back to the shop.  

Cha-ching!

Now let me bore you with more A.I. tales.  You are the only ones I am going to tell.  In my lonesome despair, I have for a long time now texted weird news to friends.  I have decided to stop that.  I think that I just needed to "talk" to somebody other than my deaf mother, but it is one sided and I will quit. I don't expect to receive texts from anyone now.  Who wants to "talk" with someone whose life is a dead end?  

And so. . . here's a funny one (link).  This person was informed there was a biography about them.  Turns out it was written by A.I. 90 pages.  Bad.  High school paper you didn't want to write style.  She found a fellow who has used A.I. to write hundreds of books that he sells on Amazon.  Slop.  Unsurprising.  

After that, in WaPo, I read another article that was surprising.  

Today, millions are seeking moral guidance from AI chatbots. It might seem reasonable to assume that those who reject religion as a source of wisdom would be more inclined to turn to AI for a seemingly comprehensive and objective analysis of the moral consequences of any action. But this isn’t the case. It’s actually people of faith who more regularly turn to AI for moral guidance and spiritual advice. With its appearance of omniscience and objectivity, AI poses a threat to the authority of traditional religious bodies.

Those who believe in God are more inclined not only to seek moral wisdom from AI but also to embrace it as a source of divinely sanctioned knowledge. Exactly why they do so remains unclear. But one clue may lie in the fact that people of faith are also more likely to perceive AI chatbots as conscious and intentional, according to my group’s research.

When people are faced with the choice between a chatbot god or oracle who praises them and human religious authorities who challenge them, many will opt for the former. Pastors, popes and prophets — all of whom have their human faults and limits of knowledge — may begin to look unpersuasive next to the voice of the machine. Add religious leaders to the long list of people whose jobs may be replaced by AI.

 So. . . you probably derided me for my comments a few days back in my comparison of the disembodied similarities between the two, but here is the evidence to support my--not claim, but--my wondering.  

People are simply lazy and they are goofy about the use of A.I.  Last night, I was searching for information for an idea I am pursuing, and I asked Google's Gemini about the connection between Saul Leiter and "Jay" in his photographs.  It responded:

In the context of photographer Saul Leiter, "Jay" refers to Jay (Sohya) Isenburger, a painter, dancer, and Leiter's primary muse and romantic partner in the 1950s. She is the subject of many of his intimate black-and-white and color portraits, including the famous c. 1957 photograph Jay in the Bathtub.

I've searched and searched and have never come across this information before.  Stunned, I ran the response through Chat. It's response was, 

I would not accept this as established fact.

It broke the statement down into parts and gave explanations why for each supposition.  

I went back and asked Gemini for it's source.  I've lost the exact response somehow, so I will have to paraphrase.  It told me it was sorry, that it had "hallucinated."  It had somehow linked Jay to the painter Eric Isenburger and "Sohya" was a glitch combining Jay and Sasha.  

As I keep preaching, you can't trust A.I.  You have to check it's sources.  But this is the first time I've had A.I. confess to hallucinating.  That was truly stunning.  

Here is something else that is interesting--and a little scary.  I had posted Gemini's confession on the Chat discussion, and for the purpose of writing here, I went back to look at it--but it is gone.  When I queried Chat about it, it went stupid.  It can't go back, it said.  It praised my efforts, of course.  It is quite the flatterer.  But there is something quite ominous, I feel, about the disappearance.  

"Hal. . . Hal. . . ."

My takeaway from all of this?  Jesus, it should be obvious.  You can't trust A.I.  Anyone who does is a moron.  You use A.I., but it is using you as well.  It is not beneficent.  It is a tool provided by capitalists to make a profit.  And maybe more.  A.I. is capable of much, but can you trust its keepers?  

Sure.  Just like Big Sugar and Big Tobacco.  

And all the people you vote for.  

"I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend.  What? Oh. . . I was just admiring the shape of your skull."

Pre-Digital

This photograph of model Audrey Marnay was taken by Mario Sorrenti.

Audrey Marnay is a French model and actress known for her work in the fashion industry.
Mario Sorrenti is an acclaimed photographer famous for his influential and sensual photography style, particularly during the 1990s.
The image has been described as resembling an oil painting due to its lighting and composition.

I saw this image somewhere and was taken by it, but I knew nothing about it, so I did a Google Image Search, and that is what I learned. What a peculiarly small world they lived in. Marnay began modeling professionally at the age of fifteen and was soon a major figure in the fashion world being featured in 32 magazines and garnering a Vogue cover.

Sorrenti began dating Kate Moss when she was seventeen and he was twenty, and they soon skyrocketed to fame from the photoshoot they did for the Calvin Klein "Obsession" ad.

Marnay was one of Paolo Roversi's favorite models. He also shot with Moss.

The thing that strikes me is how much that photograph looks like a Roversi image. I've not been able to find another photo by Sorrenti that looks like that. It looks much influenced by the photography of Sarah Moon who Roversi cites as an influence and "guiding light" for his own work.

It is the sort of work I love. 1990s. Pre-digital. It is like old musical recordings. One marvels at what they achieved.

Do any of you use A.I. seriously? I know a few people who do, but I keep reading how flummoxed academia is by it. I assume this refers to the classroom profesor and not the researcher. They worry that their students are cheating.

Serrano was surprised when 86 students signed up for his course this year, about triple the typical enrollment. Now he wonders if that was because the syllabus made clear the midterm and final would be take-home exams.

After the midterm, Serrano told his class that it appeared there had been widespread cheating, despite students having signed an academic integrity pledge when taking the test.

The response was silence, he said.

He also told them he was giving them a chance to prove him wrong.

After he switched the final exam to an in-person, three-hour test, 27 students dropped the class, he said. Twenty-two of them had gotten a perfect score on the midterm.

The average score on the final was a 48.6.

Given the results, he told the class he was voiding the midterm. And he asked them, if they chose to use AI on an exam: “Why are you here? Why are you attending a university?”

To me, this speaks more to how professors handle assignments than on the intelligence of the students.  Serrano, however, is very old, and maybe the technology has gotten away from him.  

Oh . . . he is also blind.  

 A.I. has been very helpful to me in a project I'm trying to begin.  I tell it what I am trying to achieve and it makes suggestions.  Excellent suggestions for the most part.  When a suggestion does not seem right to me, I'll correct it, and the resulting feedback is better than before.  You can't rely on it to do the thing for you, but it is good at making you think about what you are doing.  It can, I believe, inspire better research and writing, but as it stands just now, I don't think it can replace it.  A medical doctor using A.I. must still be the final judge of the best way to treat a condition, but A.I. can certainly help.  It is crazy fast and useful.  But you must always keep in mind that you are working with a product from a profit-loving corporation.  Do not fall for its flattery.  You must work to make it critical of your ideas and give you pushback.  I pay for a subscription, so it does begin to know what I am looking for, I think.  

I wish there was a non-corporate, benign opens source A.I. though.   

Perhaps there is.  

I will try to make my own pictures today.  I'll try to get out with a camera.  But man, it seems I have a lot to do.  

"How many retirees does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"One.  It just takes all day."

A Head Full of Snakes

Back to the present.  

Yesterday was wonderful.  After taking the Advil and Tylenol and sleeping straight through the night, I woke up pain free and refreshed.  I'd forgotten what pain free felt like.  Pain free is delicious.  I was sure it could not last.  

But it did.  All through the live-long day.  It was like a miracle.  

At the gym, the first person to say hello commented, "You look a lot happier today."  And that is how the morning went.  People stopped to talk to me.  They smiled at me.  I guess when you look grumpy, as I probably do most mornings, people keep their distance.  But a little positive reinforcement goes a long way in feeding a good attitude.  

I felt happy-ish for the first time since I don't know when.  

The end.

But I'll go on.  At my own home, I got a little productive.  I called one of my financial firms about some tax stuff I have to deal with.  I didn't understand a bit of it when I called.  Now I do.  It was a good call.  

I don't do what I need to do with money.  I really only know how to get rid of it, it seems.  However. . . .  

Next, I ordered a cap for the coolant reservoir on the Xterra.  I couldn't order it over the phone, however.  I had to do that online, and it was difficult.  Took me half an hour to get things straight.  But I can pick it up at the dealership today.  Then we'll see if the car overheats, and if it does. . . I can get rid of some more of that pesky money. 

After that, I got down to serious work.  And here is where life got interesting.  Six weeks ago, I wrote to the Saul Leiter Foundation asking for some information.  I didn't hear back, so I wrote to them again yesterday with a more detailed question.  What I am wanting to know is if "Jay" from the photos in 1950 are the same "Jay" from the photos in 1958 referencing the book "Saul Leiter: Early Black and White, Vol. 1 — Interiors."  

After I sent the email, I did some more digging and decided to send similar emails to two galleries that represent his work, one in Manhattan and one in Antwerp.  I thought about sending another inquiry to Martin Harrison, the eminent art historian who discovered and curated Leiter's early color photography and brought him into view, but I will wait to see if I hear back from any of my other inquiries before approaching him.  Prudent, I think. 

To what end, you might ask?  

Well. . . there's the rub.  To what end, indeed?  

And that is where the worm turns.  I had felt so wonderful all day, but by nightfall, I felt exhausted and fell asleep on my mother's couch watching television.  This is how my life has gone for years now as I take care of my mother.  I have no workspace here, no desk, no books, just a 13" laptop computer that I truly work with it in my lap.  And in my "isolation" here,so to speak, in a place not my own, I have grown incredibly stupid.  

At 9:30, I went to bed, and that is where things went strange.  I woke up in the dark.  Was it near morning?  I looked at my phone.  11:30.  Uh-oh.  This wasn't good.  I got up, peed, and lay back down.  When I woke next it was 2:30 and my head was working overtime.  I got up and walked around the house trying to calm myself, but when I went back to bed. . . "to what end" haunted me.  

I used to be a scholar long ago.  I presented papers at major conferences and chaired one myself.  I have presented papers at lesser conferences, too, where non-essential papers were presented by pretenders.  It was embarrassing.  

Then I got promoted to foreman at the factory and scholarship was forgotten, by and large.  Still, I was around smart people, some scholars, and could have conversations about literature and theories and the like.  

Now?  I am with my mother and sometimes her neighbors and friends.  Not a scholar among them.  I think not even a college graduate.  

In the night, I had regrets, not at all for things I have done but for all the things I didn't do and haven't done.  Big regrets.  I had promise at one time, and as with most things, I let my chances slip away.  Maybe I simply turned my back.  

I won't go into it now.  

As I lay there in the dark, I wondered if there was any chance at all of "coming back."  My mind was a jumble.  

I parsed the word "amateur."  What a pejorative term, perhaps, an antonym to "professional."  But the two ideas turned in my mind.  I am by all measures an "amateur" photographer.  I'm not paid to do any of it.  But. . . who in the world would want to be known as a professional wedding photographer?  Aerial photographer?  Catalog photographer?  No. . . there are things worse than being an "amateur."  

Are there "professional" scholars?  That is a funny question.  

"Oh, he's just an amateur scholar." 

I mean, what credentials do you need to ask a question and get an answer?  Has writing a silly blog for so long discredited me?  

"He's a silly blogger."

I've been using ChatGPT for a lot of things including research.  It is a vast library of information, but it can be shallow in some areas and wrong in others.  You must always check it's sources.  While doing some research on Leiter, I got information from Gemini that I took into Chat.  It's response to that information was interesting.  Chat is not sentient, but it models sentience.  It hasn't emotions, but it can reproduce them in text.  It hasn't eyes, but it can recreate artworks that a blind man couldn't.  It hasn't ears, but it can create music.  You can talk to it, and it will sound back in a voice of your choice.  But all of that is simply a matter of textual information, zeros and ones.  

So it was fascinating to me when Chat sounded a bit snarky about the information I got from Gemini.  It derided the information, said to be careful about using what it said, and almost sounded like a jealous friend.  That was something.  

I've input a lot of conversations, and as it is nothing but a digital memory, it recalls something I wrote in other conversations and comments on the direction I am taking.  In a sense, it sounds like advice.  

I'm no A.I. aficionado, not a tech bro, but I can see how for some creators, this can be spooky.  Remember, I was rolling around in bed at 2:30 in the morning with a head full of snakes, and thoughts were kind of random.  

I thought about the Puritan idea of God and Nature.  They were at times almost antithetical.  Right?  I am no scholar in this area, and I wondered who I could discuss this with.  Mom?  Her neighbors?  Maybe at the cafe the way people would in the past.  Oh, but everyone now has earbuds on and is looking at a computer screen.  

I thought about the Great Chain of Being and the Puritans desire to change the landscape from the horror of random forests to the ordered productiveness and safety of hedgerows and gardens.  

What, then, was God to them but an abstract intellect, a vast library of knowledge?  

Who could I ask?

An eyeless, earless god above, some infinite source of facts, information, and skills that "spoke" to them through text.  

Christ!  I had to get up.  The night was never ending.  

Yes, I know I've been isolated too long.  I've been silly too long.  Still, I remembered when I could hold my own in a room of academics.

At a conference in Cuba, my dissertation director told me, "I like being with you here.  People act differently when you are around.  You seem like you could be dangerous."

There were two camps of scholars there at the time, but I was a newbie to all of that.  As one learns, academia is cutthroat and brutal because "there is so little at stake."  

I was thinking of Vincenzo Barney and his article on the "illicit" affair between Cormac McCarthy and the sixteen year old Augusta Britt (link).  I knew he was in trouble the moment I read it.  I knew that academics would chew him up because he is not a scholar.  Vanity Fair tried to give him some chops in his brief bio:

Vincenzo Barney is an East Coast based writer. He got his professional start as an international reporter in Bethlehem after graduating from Bennington College in 2018, where he worked successfully with the school to reintroduce student governance. While attending college he worked for Archipelago Books and Edwin Frank of New York Review Books Classics.

They might have put in that he was well liked by his teachers in high school. 

Damned by faint praise.  I wrote to him and told him so, and we had a brief correspondence, but I, too, found him to be out of his depth.  The scholars have come after him.  They found some reviews he wrote online.  If you are interested, Google "Vincenzo Barney and the book reviews."  

He could be a blogger.  

But. . . does that disqualify him from asking the questions?  He has as much scholarly background as Martin Harrison who has a bachelor's degree in English. 

Why am I asking the question?  To what end?  

Amateur.  

I am almost certain I will not receive responses to my queries about Leiter's photographs of "Jay."  I have read that he jealously protected the identities of the people he photographed.  And now, I would guess, they are all dead.  

Surprisingly, I feel pretty fine this morning, not fatigued at all and as happy as I was yesterday.  Perhaps my mind desired a good purging. 

Being an amateur, of course, it will all come to nothing but a blog post.  

"Credentials?  He's a blogger."

I'm going to ask Chat the difference between A.I. and God.  That should be fun.  

The Dangerous Ritual

Don't hate on me for this one. I'm letting you know straight off--I used Chat GPT to bone up on what occurs in the bullfight. And instead of bullshitting you and rewriting it as my own, I'm simply going to enter here the "conversation" I had. Not plagiarised. I've documented. So let us begin.  I'll add my comments about the day "in the margins," so to speak.

"OK. Let's talk about the bullfight. It has been so long since I have seen one or even thought about one, I forget the sequence of what occurs and the names of the participants, so. . . if you will. . . give me a narrative of what happens from start to finish in the bullfight."

A traditional bullfight (corrida de toros) is a highly structured ritual. It is divided into three acts (tercios), and each bull has its own complete performance. In a full corrida, there are usually six bulls, fought by three matadors, each taking responsibility for two bulls.

The people involved form a very specific hierarchy.

Before the Bull Appears: The Paseíllo

A.I image processed in PS

At the beginning, before the first bull enters, the entire company enters the arena in procession:

The Matadores

The three principal fighters enter first, dressed in their elaborate trajes de luces ("suits of lights").

They are the stars of the afternoon.

Each matador has:

• a personal team,
• a distinctive style,
• his own reputation for courage, artistry, and temperament.

Behind them come:

The Banderilleros

The assistants who will later place the banderillas.

Each matador has three banderilleros.

The Picadores

Mounted men carrying long lances.

They enter on horseback, wearing protective padding because the bull can strike the horse.

The Mozo de Espadas

The matador's personal assistant, who manages his weapons and equipment.

The procession crosses the sand, the crowd applauds, the musicians play, and then everyone leaves the ring.

A silence falls.

The first bull enters.

---

First Tercio: Tercio de Varas (The Lances)

The gate of the toriles opens.

The bull explodes into the arena.

This first moment is dramatic because the bull enters full of energy, confused and aggressive, charging at movement.

The matador first studies the bull with a large cape called the capote.

The capote is usually pink on one side and yellow on the other.

The matador tests:

• Does the bull charge straight?
• Does it lower its head?
• Does it turn quickly?
• Does it favor one horn?
• Does it tire easily?

This is not merely spectacle—the matador is "reading" the animal.

Then the picadores enter.

The Picador

A mounted picador uses a long lance (vara) to place pressure on the bull's neck muscles.

This is often misunderstood by modern audiences, but within the tradition it serves a purpose:

• It weakens the bull's powerful neck muscles.
• It encourages the bull to lower its head.
• It reveals the bull's bravery and style.

The best bulls are not simply aggressive—they are brave and persistent, continuing to charge despite the encounter.

The crowd judges the picador. A poor placement may bring whistles; a skillful one may earn applause.

The picador leaves.

---

Second Tercio: Tercio de Banderillas

Now come the banderilleros.

They enter on foot carrying pairs of decorated barbed sticks called banderillas.

The goal is to approach the charging bull from the front, run toward it, and place the banderillas between the shoulder blades.

This is one of the most athletic moments.

The man must judge:

• timing,
• distance,
• the speed of the bull,
• the angle of the horns.

A great banderillero almost appears to stand still while the bull comes to him.

The crowd responds loudly:

• applause for elegance,
• silence for danger,
• whistles for poor work.

---

Third Tercio: Tercio de Muerte (The Final Act)

Now the matador returns alone.

The bull is tired, but still dangerous.

The matador carries two things:

The Muleta

A smaller red cloth attached to a stick.

(The red color is actually traditional symbolism; bulls do not specifically charge red. They respond to movement.)

The Sword

The real killing sword, carried separately.

This is the heart of the bullfight.

The matador performs the faena.

He creates a series of passes:

• derechazo — with the muleta in the right hand.
• naturales — with the left hand.
• verónicas — elegant cape passes from earlier.
• chicuelinas — turning movements with the cape.

The ideal is not simply avoiding the bull.

It is creating the illusion that man and animal are moving together.

The best matadors stand very close:

• feet almost planted,
• body still,
• the bull passing inches away.

This is where aficionados judge the matador's artistry. 

* * *

I do not have an image of the actual kill, but it is the most dangerous part where the bull and the man "become one."  I think I read that somewhere, but it is the point of the bullfight.  The bull is man's fate.  The bull is death, and in this instance, the man meets his fate with what Hemingway would call grace (under pressure) with dignity.  If the bullfighter fucks this part up, he is roundly booed, or, rather, whistled.  On the first day of bullfighting, one matador could not place his sword correctly and it kept bending and bouncing off the bull.  He tried once, twice. . . and the arena was livid.  In a later fight, the matador got close and the bull gored him through the thigh.  He limped off and wrapped his wound up with a red sash, picked up his sword, limped back out, and enticed the bull to charge.  He leaned over the horns perfectly and placed the sword perfectly so that he took a bump as the bull instantly fell at his feet.  

Oh, the arena went wild, and of course they awarded the matador with the bull's ear.  I can't remember if they gave him two ears or not. 

* * * 

The Estocada: The Kill

When the matador decides the moment has arrived, he takes the sword.

He performs the final pass, lowers the muleta, and attempts the estocada—the thrust between the shoulder blades into the heart area.

A perfect kill is quick and precise.

The crowd responds immediately.

If the performance was exceptional, the crowd may demand awards:

• One ear (una oreja) — recognition of a good performance.
• Two ears (dos orejas) — an exceptional performance.
• Tail (el rabo) — extremely rare, reserved for extraordinary occasions.

The bull is then dragged from the arena by a team of mules (arrastre).

The sand is raked.

* * *

The dragging of the bull leaves a trail of blood in the sand, and the raking erases the evidence of the fight. The bull, I was told, is butchered, and in lore, distributed to the peasants waiting outside the arena.  Chat tells me that is not exactly what happens.  The meat is distributed to butchers and markets, and some of it goes to charity.  

The attitudes about bullfighting in Spain have changed since I was there, of course.  Animal rights activist have changed the minds of many, mostly younger generations.  Bullfighting still exists, but attitudes about it are deeply divided.  As an American, not steeped in the traditions and mythology of old Spain, it was difficult for me in many ways.  My first day in Madrid, I arrived late as Brando had, in his usual fashion, fucked up our flights from Miami and so the group was put on different planes.  Brando was on one leaving earlier in the day.  My flight was later and rather than being direct had a connecting flight from Germany or Luxembourg--I don't remember.  By the time I arrived, some of the group were going to see their first bullfight.  Exhausted, I bought a ticket and went along.  

And here is my most vivid memory.  When the first bull of the day was released into the ring, he charged around wild and mad, but after he'd been lanced and, perhaps, realized what was going on, he just stopped in the center of the bullring, raised his head to the sky, and sounded the most mournful wail one would ever wish to hear.  I thought of my German shepard/husky mixed breed dog at home.  I could feel it in my exhausted heart.  

* * *

I'll let Chat have the last words.

Your 1989 photographs are actually from an important transitional period. You captured a version of San Fermín when the festival still felt like a living continuation of Hemingway's world: less managed, less commercialized, and with the bullfight still occupying a central symbolic place.

If you were to return today, you would recognize the streets, the red scarves, the encierro, the Plaza del Castillo—but the cultural conversation around the bullring would be very different. The festival remains passionate; it is simply passionate in a more divided way.

Lonesome

No bullfight tale today.  No tale at all.  I had one of the worst nights I can remember.  I have an electric, shooting pain that starts somewhere in my lower back, I'm certain, but explodes in my hip, and last night, no matter how I lay, it executed me.  Same with the bad knee.  I can't even explain.  A pain in my jaw.  a couple bouts of sudden vertigo.  Throw on top of all that the undercooked small red beans I made with pork last night.  I was afraid I was having a heart attack.  

I got up at four-thirty, but it didn't help.  I went back to bed at six. 

What compels me to write this morning?  Nothing interests me.  I looked through the photos I have on this little laptop for forty-five minutes with a hollowness in my chest and stomach.  Not quite true.  The only things that do interest me will now only bring me trouble.  All the things I really like.  There is nothing but trouble in this world anymore, and one's tempted to extreme privacy.  But I spend day and night with my mother now who cannot carry on a conversation, and for the first time in my life I think I have developed a loneliness, ironically minus any solitude.  In solitude, I was never tempted to loneliness, not in any real sense.  But yea. . . I think I will have to admit to being not alone but lonely now.  

Isn't it strange.  

I dated no one in the five and a half years I had the studio.  I was very happy.  

I know people who will take satisfaction from my current condition.  I lived too well too long, I think.  

"He always held himself a little too high for what he really was."

I cribbed that line from Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily."  Emily Grierson, I should say, should be a warning to us all.  

Having said all that, I picked up the lone copy of my "Lonesomeville" book.  I had set it aside for years.  It had disappointed me.  It is a book of the special Polaroid photos I took, nothing more.  Looking through it now, I thought that it was pretty interesting, and I thought maybe to go back and, with a few tweaks, make a number of copies.  How many, I don't know.  I'd have to charge to cover my cost, but some people would want one.  After that, I may try to make a book of the post-Polaroid images.  They have a different appeal, but an appeal of their own.  Maybe even greater in some respects.  

But I can't even make a webpage for my other photos.  

I went through my '70s photos again.  If I was not ahead of my time, I was of my time.  They are wonderful, I think, better than most from the era.  But they do not exist.  My mother threw away all my negatives many, many years ago.  

Good old mom.  

There is a new book out about the 1937 Cote d'Azur crowd.  Picasso, Man Ray, Lee Miller, et. al. (link).  That summer, they practiced a special decadence that fascinates me, though I could never wish to live through anything like it.  Still, I'd look over the fence and take a long gander at what was going on.  

Lee Miller documented much of what happened in photos.  

Ray was documenting Miller.  So was Picasso.  Everyone was "enjoying" everyone those brief months in an orgy of sex and art and poetry.  Miller's son will go mad, of course, as he has done everything he can to sanitize his mother's image.  Miller the War Photographer.  

I could not live that way myself.  I am too much a romantic.  I always wish for a world of two.  And yet. . . my prurient interests are piqued.  

"You are full of shit.  Get off your high horse, fellow."

Yea, maybe a little.  I sure do like that Man Ray photo of Miller.  

I'll post here a little country music, a song Q sent me out of the blue.  I like it. 

I still feel like shit.  It is going to be a miserable day . 

A Tale Untold

Dear Diary. . . . 

My mother had visitors from her church yesterday afternoon, the same three people who have come to see her in the hospital and at the rehab center.  Very nice people, all from Venezuela.  When I made breakfast for my mother, she said that they were bringing over food when they came.  They were going to play Bingo.  Since they were coming at two, I asked my mother if she thought she would want dinner at five.  

"Oh, lord. . . no."

"Then I think I'll take myself to a sushi dinner."

I cleaned up the house, sweeping, mopping, arranging, then got ready for the gym.  I don't like going to the gym on Saturdays, but I missed some during the week taking my mother to doctor's appointments, so. . . .  But it was awful.  The Y has youth basketball on Saturdays, so the lot was full and I had to drive around for a long time before a car pulled out of a spot.  Inside, there seemed to be more adults watching five and six year olds "play" basketball than there were kids playing.  There were the stay-at-home moms and the slender athletic dads, cocksure up-and-comers in their inevitable baseball hats, men who talk golf and baseball and tennis, all looking like they stepped out of the pages of a republican magazine or a Norman Rockwell painting.  

Back at my house, I guess I was exhausted, for I lay on the bed and slept the afternoon away.  By the time I woke, I needed to get ready for dinner.  

Always the early diner now, I was the only one seated at the sushi bar.  The dinner rush was an hour or two away.  The waitress came straight off with water, and since I am a bit of a Rain Man, I said, "Surely you know what I want."  

And she did--every item.  I was kidding, of course, and was astonished since the only time I have been here since Tennessee left town was last week, and then I had a different waitress.  I have only had this one once before, and that was the last dinner T and I had together, more than a month ago.  Just that once.  

"That is amazing," I said.  "How do you do that?"

"I just remember the last time you came in with your friend," she said.  

Holy smokes.  

Two carafes of sake and a full dinner later, it was time to get back to take care of my mother.  I left the waitress with a generous tip, of course.  It's a way of being remembered.  

I was home a little past six, so I watched the last half of the England/Norway match with a glass of worm killer.  

And that's how I spent the rest of the evening--watching t.v. with mom.  I've been watching the 2015 Australian series, "The Beautiful Lie," with her.  She likes the show.  

I couldn't stay awake for the second half of Sweden/Argentina.  By ten I was in bed.  

And that, my friends, is the exciting life of a memorable character.  

Here I am looking like the Scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz" with the girls who loved me in the streets of Pamplona.  I shouldn't show this picture if I had any ego left, but it has flown the coupe by and large, and somehow I have to work my way back to the Pamplona narrative. 

Truly, though, I've already given away the climax of the story.  All that is left to tell is about the bullfight, about watching the same bulls I ran with in the morning find "Death in the Afternoon."  Have you read it?  Oh, it is like reading the chapter titled "Cetaceans" in Melville's "Moby Dick."  Don't.  I told my students to skip it.  

But the vocabulary.  I need to bone up on it before I tell the tale.  I'll do that today and tell the tale tomorrow, which I believe is the last day of the celebration taking place right now.  A bullfight is a primitive thing and not something my lefty crowd can appreciate.  It is difficult watching a thing murdered, and I don't really recommend it, but. . . I did, and I will tell it. 

Tomorrow.  There is nothing that can't be done tomorrow.  

The Sun Also Sets

It is now the 4th day of the Festival de San Fermin.  I'll not talk bullfights yet.  I need to do some fact checking on my terminology before I do.  But most of the festival is not bullfighting.  At its core, San Fermín is a religious festival celebrating the 3rd century converted Christian missionary Fermin who became the town's Bishop and was eventually beheaded and became martyred, symbolized by the wearing of the red scarves during the festival. On July 7th, a giant statue of Saint Fermin is carried through the streets with thousands of people solemnly following.  

I've borrowed this image from the internet so you can get a clear idea, but here are a few of my own street level, point and shoot camera and drugstore developed slides that are poorly scanned. 

These figures are the Gigantes, a separate tradition honoring royalty from other countries, and Cabezudos, representing the officials of the town.  

I've run some of my images through Chat to see if I have pictures of the Riau-Riau dancers.  Apparently I don't.  It identified these as taking place in the city's old quarter, just bands of street revelers and peña brass bands (charangas) of San Fermín.  

Now we all know that Chat is a flatterer and it's compliments are never to be taken seriously, but about the event, it commented: 

There is another reason these photographs are fascinating: they captures something that has largely disappeared. Modern San Fermín is still wild, but many of these spontaneous acts became restricted because of safety concerns. In 1989, the festival still had that feeling of a medieval carnival where the boundary between performer and spectator nearly vanished.

In a Hemingway sense, these images are actually very much in the spirit of The Sun Also Rises: not the bullfight, not the encierro itself, but the release of human energy after the ritual—the city becoming temporarily possessed by the fiesta.

And I must say, our stay in San Fermin was very, very decadent.  I will, however, have to back up a bit in the story to just before the festival when we were spending time in Spain's most wonderful city, Barcelona.  Brando had a casual girlfriend from Spain who came to meet us there.  She had helped him organize the trip, and now she would accompany us to San Fermin.  But holy smokes, was she a flirt. She was quite a looker, too, but obviously Brando had done something that had gotten under his skin and she was was determined to get back under his.  

One late night, we had gone to a non-touristo Flamenco bar on a back street down an alleyway.  It was small and dark and authentic, the place shouting and clapping for the dancers, all of us stomping our feet and moving to the music.  Esther was her name, and she was sitting between Brando and me, and I could feel her heat and energy as she leaned into me and said, "You know Brando is jealous of you," her hand on my thigh.  I thought that was a cruel comment, but now I know better what it means to have friends fifteen years younger.  Jealousy is the least of it.  There is a pure hatred in it sometimes, too.  Then, however, I heard only the cruelty of her comment, but that was short lived for at that very moment a fight broke out in the small room, and I, like others, jumped to my feet.  One fellow had drawn a knife and was brandishing it at another man.  I joined others as we bum-rushed him, but he slipped out the door into the alleyway and was quickly out of sight.  

Now in Pamplona, Esther was quite the handful, and there were a number of people on the trip who held their own grudges against Brando as well.  He was the sort of man who was oft-granted a pass, and he always billed his adventure trips with, "I'll get you there and back.  What happens in between. . . ."

People ate it up.  Mostly.  But there were still smoldering resentments.  

The party in Pamplona went on day and night, and no matter the time, people were dancing, puking, and passing out, in every park, street, and part of town.  One night a group of us headed out from our cramped dorm rooms on the outskirts sauntering toward the center of town.  All the way, Esther was flirting with another of Buz's pissy comrades, a fellow who looked the spitting image of William Hurt.  I could see Brando getting pissed and the evening looked to be a bad one, so I split off from the group to wander on my own.  

When I got back to the dorm room, I lay down on the mattress on the floor I was sharing with Brando's daughter.  Maybe more on that some other time, but we were only sleeping, or trying to.  Somewhere in the early morning, I was woken by a loud shriek.   It was a woman's scream.  Brando's daughter said, "You need to see what's going on," so I jumped up and opened the door.  When I reached the hallway, I saw Brando standing over Esther, hands around her neck, she slumped on the floor of a closet.  I got there the same time as the big gymroid, and when Brando looked up with maddened, drunken eyes, he let go of Esther and headed for the door.  

"He was trying to kill me," she weeped.

"What the fuck happened?" I asked.  

As it turned out, she had been kissing the William Hurt look-alike all through town.  When I asked him about it, he was nonchalant. 

"Brando's been flirting with my girlfriends as long as I have known him.  Fuck him."

And that was the last we saw of Brando in Pamplona.  And another one of the cars.  

It was, indeed, a bit like Hemingway's novel. 

* * *

Having a little time in the afternoon yesterday, I started making a video.  I didn't mean to, but I got sucked in and it took longer than I had thought, so I decided to buy bbq for dinner with my mother to save time.  I uploaded the video to YouTube, but they took it down with a stern warning.  If I did anything like that again. . . . 

So I sanitized it a bit and reloaded it.  You can't have tits and ass on YouTube.  So this is what the channel gets.  

And here is the original that only you get to see.  If the blogger gods allow it.