Monday, March 19, 2018

In Bloom?

These sort of places fascinate me.  We were driving back from a wedding in a distant town and passed this ice cream shop.  I had a camera.  I turned around.  It is the thing I should always do and the thing I rarely do.  Modern life, I guess.  Always on a beeline to somewhere.  I parked in the lot and picked up my camera and went to the front and tried to shoot quickly.  We were in Redneckville and people were looking at me in a funny way.  I snapped two photos and went back to the car.  I could feel eyes poking me in the back.  Back at the car, however, I found that I had pulled out the Leica Monochrom instead of the M262, meaning I had just taken black and white pictures.  I told Ili.  She glibly told me to go back and do it again.  "I can't," I said.  "Those people don't like it."  "Oh, they don't care.  Go back and take the picture again."  So I did.

The picture could be much better.  It would be better if there were not cars in the parking lot.  The thing would just float in an emptiness as the light fell off.  Still, I feel a "Nighthawks at the Diner" quality in it.  O.K.  Grandiose.

Winter ends this week.  Tomorrow.  It will be spring with the water beginning to flow and the sap starting to rise.  Soon there will be love in the air.  Or pollen.  We, here, have been inundated by it.  Even people without allergies are complaining.  Each morning, the cars are covered in it.

Ili is anxious about the garden.  It is not growing quick enough for her.  Only a few of the seeds have begun to sprout.  None of the garlic bulbs nor the potatoes.  No onions.  I keep telling her they will come, but she doesn't believe it.

If you were of age in the late sixties or early seventies, you remember gardens.  Everyone was going natural.  It was like living in Middle Earth.  Communes and farms and earth shoes and stoneware and hairy underarms and legs and beards and bushes.  I had a garden and earth shoes and all the accoutrements.  I am sure the garden will grow.  But that was a long time ago and while I was tilling the soil and protesting polluters, people like Trump were buying and selling and making the future what it has become.  What happened to all the Middle Earthers?

Oh, well.  It was a fantastical idea that people wanted to be self-sufficient and self-sustaining.  It was ridiculous to think that everyone wanted to go back and live in the forest.

In just a few years, it had all given way to disco.  What can you do?  Even the seasons are not the same as they were.  We will see.  Will love still bloom?  Surely.  There is enough pollen.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Nada y Pues Nada

The weekend already feels half over.

I have much to do without desire.  I have eaten.  I'll return to bed.  

Friday, March 16, 2018

Such Is Life

The town's big Art Festival begins today and runs all weekend.  It used to be my favorite time of year, but satnav has made this once beautiful hamlet a tourist destination, and this weekend it will be overrun with the hoi-poloi.  That's o.k., though.  I'll make hay with my camera.

The worst part of it is that I will be missing my favorite party of the year.  It is my favorite because the entertainment is usually a Django Rheinhardt gypsy trio.  I take a seat in front of them until I get up to leave.  But my secretary is getting married that night, so I will go to another town and sit with people I don't know for a couple hours.  I'm sure there will be music, but most likely it will not be anything I like.

Such is life.

Ili and I have a garden that is beginning to grow.  It is Ili's first, and she is amazed that it works.  She thinks it weird that you can cut up a potato and put it in the ground and it will make a lot more potatoes.  The same with garlic.  The same with the stump at the end of celery.  All of it, even that seeds grow, seem somewhat unlikely.  I sure hope it works.

I thought the sick season was over and had started eating out again, but suddenly half the people at work are sick with a variety of things.  It is not all flu.  Yesterday I began to feel punky, but I hope I am fighting whatever it is off.

I only want a happy and healthy life.  I will change my ways.  You will see.  You will see.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Too Much

Just a picture today, or a fragment of one.  I really can't do more.  Life, as they say, is too much with me.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

The Stuff of Pulitzers

Oh happy days.  It is staying light so long now, I have to adjust.  I came home after work yesterday at my usual hour, tired, of course, or more correctly worn out, but the sky was so bright and clear and the air not quite so chilly that I couldn't ride my scooter, so I decided to take a ride.  I didn't know where to go, really, so I ran an errand.  To the liquor store.  I bought a scotch I have never tried before, and when I got home, I lit a tiny Cohiba cheroot and poured a little of the afore mentioned whiskey, and went to the deck to smoke and drink and soak in the day.  This would be o.k. on standard time, but it just felt wrong with all that tremendous light falling all about me.  I can't do this, I thought.  I have to begin a new way.  And having thought this, I let the cheroot go out and put aside the new scotch and got my camera and drove to a part of town that I had been thinking of walking with a camera.  And for the next hour or so, that is what I did.

I must take advantage of the light.

The thing is, I took a black and white film camera, but everything was in color.  Why oh why do I make these mistakes?

Today's posted picture would have been alright in black and white.  I've been looking at the early color work of Eggleston and Shore and Leiter, and I've noticed one similarity in their works.  Almost every photograph has some very saturated red in it.  Most often, there is red and green, but red and blue is fairly common.  But red and green is the thing.

I'm not saying everything they did is that.  Two of Eggleston's most iconic photos are of people, the boy pushing the grocery carts and the white and black men standing at a funeral, and neither has those colors.  I hadn't really thought of that until now, and I will go back and see if the red/green theme is mostly non-portraiture.

Uh. . . I just went looking, and I might be wrong.  Maybe those were the pictures that most stood out to me.  Never mind.  I'll have to think about this more and get back to you.  I'm just trying to figure things out.

But how does one go wrong with a picture of a happy boy, especially one with curly hair?  All this photo needs is a dog to win a Popular Photography award.  It is one to make people believe in life again, one to make people smile and to dwell on the goodness of things.  The kid looks like a throwback to a different time.  He reminds us all of our shared history, when life was good and times less troubled.  Kids.  You know what I mean?  Baby On Board.  Kids playing soccer.  Kids winning awards.  It is the stuff of Pulitzers.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

The Clown and the Monkey

I can't stand the Trump/Daniels scandal.  It is proof that there is no liberal left.  Who am I supposed to cheer?  Or is this a "gotcha" moment that I am supposed to seize with a of carpe diem fervor?  What is my stance supposed to be on strippers and porn stars?  Are we fer 'em or agin' 'em?  Am I supposed to relish the fact that people's sex lives are now fodder for public arousal?  Am I to cheer for a woman who took $130,000.00 to not speak about a private affair?  Should I cheer for the press who wants the pictures?  Is sex bad?  And is the left only in favor of it when it is sanctified by marriage?

There is no logic to it except for the shaming.  We are Puritans, left or right, and we believe in punishment for anything with which we don't agree.  We are all now Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Public.

Trump is a dope.  I don't need a porn star to tell me that.  If THAT is what I am relying on to show the alt.right Christians that Trump is a hypocrite, then I am lost beyond redemption.

Don't get me wrong.  I am twisted and would like to see the pictures.  I want to see the Russian piss tapes, too, but just once and maybe not all the way through.  I forget who was peeing on whom, though.  If I want to see Trump pissing on someone, I just have to watch the news.

Everyone knows that the Russians and the Chinese are winning.  Nobody likes Americans any more.  Nobody.  Hugging up to us is like cuddling a cactus.  We have become a nasty people.  We are all addicts of one kind or another.  We smell of our own feces.

That's it.  I just wanted to point out the obvious.  As C.C. has pointed out to me several times, it is a classic diversionary tactic.

"Hey, everybody, look over there!!!  The clown is fucking the monkey!!!"

Monday, March 12, 2018

No Need to Say It

I won't go on about the shifting of the clocks.  We are all against it.  I've never met anyone who likes it (but maybe that is just the crowd I run with).  And even though I don't really have a set time to be up, my body is all jacked around by it this morning.  Maybe it is my brain.  I don't know.  Unfortunately, however, I return to the factory today and must be there at an earlier than "normal" time.  Not the factory, actually, not where my office is, but at an off-site version.  It will be a long day.  That is the perfect way to end a vacation.

My nose is sniffly and my throat a little scratchy.  My body feels like cement.

But I won't go on about it.  No, not me.

It is to be a rainy day.  The sun will not come up making the entire ordeal worse.


Let's talk about aesthetics.  Or something else.  What do YOU want to talk about?

I like these blurry pictures most, I think.  Or at least "a lot."  They are more dreamlike, I guess.  They seem universal.  It is like trying to say something without knowing what it is, a mystery shrouded in an idea.  Riffing on Arbus there.

But I must begin my day which will lack all aesthetic qualities.  Back to the land of the living dead.

And I really don't like the changing of the clocks.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

No Accidents

I am cursed, of course.  I am charmed, yes, and have been very lucky in some ways, but I am careless and often must pay for that sin.  Maybe I am just becoming incompetent with age, though, which is a universal curse, I guess--Adam's Curse.  But old age and death are not my topic.  Nope.  It is Freud, I think, who said, "There are no such things as accidents."

I have been shooting film this week, a lot of it.  This is probably because I bought the Leica M Monochrom, the only black and white digital camera.  I am like that.  I buy a thing and feel guilty and don't use it for a long time.  It is a flaw, or maybe two flaws, the desire and the guilt.  Nonetheless, I took myself to the streets and shot lots of black and white film in four different cameras.  I was using up some rolls that had been sitting in my Olympus XA and in my Leica CL for far too long.  Those are teeny-tiny little film cameras that are wonderful, and I took them to the big downtown main drag and shot for an afternoon.  I also shot with my Leica R5 which is an SLR and is wonderful fun, a beautiful camera.  I also finished up some film in my Leica M7.  Then, just for fun, I shot some rolls with my medium format Mamiya 6.  So you see, I had been busy.  And on those rolls were many images I knew in my soul were going to be great.  That is the way of film, of course.  You can't wait to see the greatest images you have ever shot.

Film is precious and delicate.  You have to keep track of film rolls.  I've lost plenty in the years I've been shooting.  You have to keep track of it and you have to keep it cool and dry.  And when you develop it, you need to be precise. And this is a problem for me.  I mix the chemicals approximately.  I mean, I am not a stickler.  Same with temperature.  Again, you need to be precise.  For me, however, a degree here or there. . . .  Time is of the essence, as they say, and when you put the film "in the soup," timing must be rigid.  As with temperature, however, a minute here or a minute there. . . .

But I was excited to develop some film yesterday.  Ili was out of town, so I had the entire day to shoot and develop film.  I mixed up some new developer and stop bath and fixer, then went downtown and finished up a couple rolls and shot some more that I wanted to experiment with.  When I came home, I put my big changing tent on the table on the patio and grabbed two rolls of film that I was least concerned with, the ones from the Olympus and the CL, the scissors, the tank, the reels, etc.  And, of course, I had trouble getting the film on the reels.  I am not a dextrous person, I think.  I don't draw well, and I was never good at coloring books when I was a kid.  Most of all, I am impatient.  Putting film on reels is a test for me, so I try to think it is like therapy.  After far too long putzing around, I got film loaded, though, and into the tank.  Half an hour later, it was hanging in the bathroom to dry.  Everything looked fine, the chemicals were good.  There was just one problem.  I had forgotten to mix the developer 1:1 with water.  I had the developing time wrong.

So. . . I took my two most precious rolls of film into the changing tent.  These were the ones I looked forward to.  These were the ones that I had changed my shooting style, no longer shooting from the hip with a wide angle lens but putting the viewfinder to my eye and focussing the 50mm lens.  I shot a little ballerina on the street.  I shot a well-dressed woman standing and talking on her cell phone in a vacant lot full of bums.  These were among the things I could not wait to see.

And everything in the changing tent went swell, and this time, I was ready to mix the developer as it should be.  I had all the times written down.  No mistakes.  I pulled the developing tank out into the light and set it on the edge of the table.  Then I did something in the tent, I don't remember what, but the tent shifted and bumped the tank off the table.  It hit the deck and the lid popped off.  Just like that, 72 exposures were gone.

I won't try to explain the dizzy, despairing sickness I felt.

I got Zen.  This was a life lesson, a good thing.  Yup.


Get back on the bicycle/horse, whatever they say.  I did.  I had three more rolls, and I wanted to experiment with another developer, Rodinal.  I had never used it before.  It is the oldest of all film developing formulas, and it give sharp images and a lot of big grain.  It is O.K. for the bigger medium format film, but I wanted to try it on 35mm, too.  So I mixed up the chemicals and put the film in the bigger tank and began.  Halfway through, I realized, though, that I had only used half the amount of developer I needed.  I measured it out for the smaller tank.

Jesus Christ, I am an idiot!  I had ruined all the film I had shot during the week.  I had spent the day fucking up.

There are no such things as accidents.

Here is an image I didn't ruin that I shot through the viewfinder with the little Leica CL.  And here is one from the Olympus.

They are not all that, but they are two of the few I didn't completely ruin yesterday.  They are what I have.

Sick from failure, I poured myself a drink.  I would start again, I thought.  I loaded the cameras with new film.  It was early, but I was hungry.  I took a shower and got on the scooter and headed up to the hipster noodle shop.  I took my cameras.  I thought I might shoot something, that it would make me feel better.  But the little noodle shop was full.  I wanted noodles, though, and put my name on the list.  I sat and looked at the crowd and wondered at the things I didn't know.  Can you just wear anything?  Is there a fashion book I haven't seen?  Why am I the only fellow with long hair?  I watched overly confident people having what looked like a lot of fun.  I sat on a stool clutching my camera bag knowing that the cameras weren't coming out.  I waited to be seated at the small bar looking into the kitchen next to another fellow who was eating alone.  The bowl of ramen and chicken and eggs and spices would be perfect, as would the conversation with the young man who worked for GE as a field engineer all around the country developing power plants.  And then I would go home to have a whiskey and fall asleep.

Shit.  I have to do better.  I have to quit making mistakes.  I need to quit making my own misery.

Saturday, March 10, 2018


This photo was taken by Ili from the back of the Vespa.  Everybody's an artist. Speaking of which, we watched "Mother" last night.  Don't.  It is one of the worst movies I have ever seen.  "Waterworld" was ten times better.  The movie is dominated by close ups of Jennifer Lawrence walking through an old house breathing and sighing and giving little starts of horrific surprise.  The main line in the movie, and it had to be repeated thirty times, was, "Excuse me!"  It should win an award for worst screenplay.

The movie is said to be a Christian parable, but I don't care about that.  For me, the movie was about the incredible ego of the artist and how success is measured in admiration for his/her work.  That's a nice theme, if uncomfortable, but it needed a better vehicle.

Who doesn't want admiration?  Can you trust someone who says s/he doesn't?  Yesterday, Ili and I went to one of the famous restaurants in our own hometown.  Call it Fauntleroys.  I have known Fauntleroy for decades, since before he opened his first restaurant and had a little wine and cheese shop on the Boulevard.  He came from mommy's money, or so it was told, and was married to the all-time money winner on the old t.v. gameshow, "Concentration."  She was a nice woman with a good brain who was also attractive.  But Fauntleroy fucked that up when he opened his new restaurant that was all windows.  He needed better cover, it seems, for one night, after the place was closed, his wife drove up to see him screwing another woman at the bar.  How such a thing can happen. . . well, who knows.  But his wife, being a clever woman, drove her car through the glass double-doors, then backed the car out and entered the restaurant.  Now no one was there but the three of them, but I got this tale from the girl who Fauntleroy was screwing, so I think it is accurate in the main.  Fauntleroy's wife took up one of the big chef's knives and came after him, and he, even though drunk, was deft enough to escape and avoid being carved up like the swine he, at that moment, seemed to be.  He did, however, leave my friend there to fend for herself all alone, and she, having been blocked from the escape route taken by Fauntleroy, ran naked into the bathroom where she put her back against the sink and both feet against the door.  She was a big girl (ahem), and, though admittedly quite scared, she was able to prevent the wife from entering.  She said she stayed there for a long time, naked and afraid, but after awhile, she ventured to peer out into the darkness of the restaurant.  Everything was still.  She was alone.

By opening time the next day, the doors were replaced and the wine cleaned up so that no one would ever know what had happened.

But nothing ever stays secret long.  Ho-ho!

I don't go into Fauntleroy's much any more, but Ili and I had mimosas and sandwiches there yesterday, and Fauntleroy was there, too.  He came over and said hello and we talked for a bit.  Then his business partner came out to say hello, and the barmaid, remembering me as well, was very chatty.

The point of this sordid story is that I enjoyed the attention.

Really?!  That's the point of this story?

Sure.  And I would take more, too, if I could get it.  I would like to be an admired artist, but, as Aranofsky's film so poorly illustrates,  they are such assholes.

It is a pretty day, and I must figure out how to spend it.  Such is life.  Such is a very good life.

Friday, March 9, 2018


Critics abound.  The number of critics is amazing.  If you try creating things, any things, you will get to meet them.  Unsolicited.  The moment you try to get "out there," though, is the make or break period, and without positive reinforcement, some people can't continue.  Others do. . . for awhile, at least.  Some we hear about.  Some we hear about too late.  Some are never "discovered."

Yesterday was International Women's Day.  To celebrate, I revisited some of photography's great women photographers.  They had varying degrees of success, or didn't.  Vivian Maier, of course. Diane Arbus.  Francesca Woodman.

Of the three, only Arbus had any recognition.  Yesterday, the N.Y. Times ran an article on women who had been overlooked in their obituaries.  Here is Arbus's:

Diane Arbus
A photographer whose portraits have
compelled or repelled generations of viewers.

Diane Arbus at the Rhode Island School of Design in 1970, holding a copy of “Child with a Toy Hand Grenade in Central Park, N.Y.C. 1962.” Stephen A. Frank

Diane Arbus was a daughter of privilege who spent much of her adult life documenting those on the periphery of society. Since she killed herself in 1971, her unblinking portraits have made her a seminal figure in modern-day photography and an influence on three generations of photographers, though she is perhaps just as famous for her unconventional lifestyle and her suicide.
Her work continues to spark fierce debate among photographers and intellectuals. Are her portraits — of circus performers, transvestites, mentally disabled people and others — empathetic acknowledgments of a shared humanity, or are they exploitative depictions that seize upon their subjects’ oddities to shock her audience? After her death, many critics who fancy themselves armchair psychiatrists have tried to analyze her impulses, searching for the role these encounters played in Arbus’s psyche.
She was born Diane Nemerov on March 14, 1923, to David and Gertrude Nemerov, and had two siblings. Her family owned Russeks, an upscale Fifth Avenue department store founded by her maternal grandparents. Raised in spacious apartments on Park Avenue and Central Park West in Manhattan, she was attended by nannies, maids, a cook and a chauffeur. At 18, she married Allan Arbus, an aspiring fashion photographer, and together they started a fashion photography company with the family store as their first client.
After having two daughters, Doon and Amy, she quit the business to go off on her own as an editorial photographer and artist. Though the couple separated and eventually divorced, they remained close. Allan Arbus later became an actor and played the psychiatrist Dr. Sidney Freedman on the television series “M*A*S*H.” He died in 2013.
Arbus worked for publications such as New York Magazine, Harper’s Bazaar and The New York Times Magazine, shooting portraits and occasionally fashion, all the while barely cobbling together a living even as her artistic success and reputation in the photography world grew. During her lifetime, there was no market for collecting photographs as works of art, and her prints usually sold for $100 or less. Today, the same prints garner hundreds of thousands of dollars. After suffering prolonged bouts of deep depression, Arbus killed herself on July 26, 1971, by consuming barbiturates and slashing her wrists. She was 48.
Throughout her career, Arbus broke taboos — in her portraits of people pushed to the edges of society, and in her personal life. She often befriended her subjects and even seduced them on occasion, according to her most recent biographer, Arthur Lubow, in “Diane Arbus: Portrait of a Photographer <>.” Starting in the mid-1960s, she photographed couples in bed as well as orgies in which she sometimes participated, according to Lubow.
John Szarkowski, the influential director of photography at the Museum of Modern Art from 1962 to 1991, championed her work and included it in his groundbreaking 1967 exhibit “New Document. ” A year after Arbus’s death, he curated a posthumous exhibit of her work that heroicized her and helped to create a legend around her. In the wall text for the show, he wrote that her honesty was “a reward bestowed for bravery in the face of the truth.”
“Arbus did not avert her eyes,” Szarkowski went on. “She stuck with her subjects, exploring their secrets (and thus her own) more and more deeply. She was surely aware of the danger of this path, but she believed that her bravery would be equal to the demands she made of it.”
Her critics were equally passionate. Susan Sontag savaged her in a 1973 piece for The New York Review of Books.
“Anybody Arbus photographed was a freak — a boy waiting to march in a pro-war parade, wearing his straw boater and his ‘Bomb Hanoi’ button; the King and Queen of a Senior Citizens Dance; a thirty-ish Westchester, NY couple sprawled in their lawn chairs; a widow sitting alone in her cluttered bedroom. In ‘A Jewish giant at home with his parents in the Bronx, NY, 1970,’ the parents look like midgets, as freakish as their enormous son hunched over them because the living-room ceiling is too low.”
Still, many others embraced her after the 1972 MoMA exhibit and the publication of “Diane Arbus: An Aperture Monograph <>” the same year. Her fame seemed only to grow as subsequent biographies delved into her private life. For some, she became the Sylvia Plath of photography, admired in part because of the tragic elements of her life.

Arbus posing for a portrait in the Automat on Sixth Avenue between 41st and 42nd Street in New York City, circa 1968. Roz Kelly/Michael Ochs Archives, via Getty Images
As a young photographer shooting street portraits at 16 with my father’s East German-made Exacta camera I, too, struggled with Arbus’s work. Attracted to her bold images of those outside the margins of respectable society, I was also repelled by what I perceived to be an underlying coldness toward her subjects.
My father, a physician, saw me looking through the Aperture monograph and told me he knew something of her work. Eddie Carmel, the Jewish giant who was photographed with his parents by Arbus, was my father’s patient and over the years the two had become friendly. My father described him as smart, sensitive and very funny but living a tragic life and unable to fulfill his most cherished desire. Carmel wanted to be a standup comic but could not break into mainstream show business because of his size. Carmel liked Arbus as a person, he said, and this wasn’t the first time she had photographed him. But Carmel didn’t care for the image with his parents because it didn’t capture who he was inside — just what he looked like outside.
Arbus did not have a social justice agenda like her contemporaries, the embedded documentarians Danny Lyon <>, Bruce Davidson <> and Larry Clark <>, who also photographed outsiders, and she was a portraitist who often spent time with her subjects, unlike the street photographers Garry Winogrand <> and Lee Friedlander <>, who were also pursuing their personal visions. Her beginnings in fashion and magazine portraiture honed her ability to produce instantly captivating, straightforward images, Matthew Witkovsky, chairman of the photography department at The Art Institute of Chicago, said in an interview.

“She was moving toward something that could be seen as art-world acceptable, though that didn’t really exist for photography then,” Witkovsky said. “She somehow managed to take all of the conventional categories that you could put photographic work in at that time and then crosswire them without short-circuiting them. She opened the door so you can be a photographer and have the highest art aspirations.”
After decades of intense examination of her work and life, perhaps there is room to understand Arbus as a woman driven by artistic vision as well as personal compulsion, and her photographs as documents of empathy as well as exploitation. Arbus herself hinted at the difficulty of understanding and interpreting images.

“A photograph is a secret about a secret,” she said. “The more it tells you the less you know.”

They did her no favor here, I think.

Last night, I watched a documentary on Francesca Woodman. Like Arbus, she committed suicide, but unlike Arbus, she gave up at 22 (link). She found no success, and perhaps too much negative criticism. That is what happens, perhaps, when you believe too much in what you do.
I'll tell you about my own experience sometime, but it is not International C.S. Day, so it will have to wait.  Once you submit yourself to their opinions, though. . . . 

Vivian Maier, of course, was the bomb.  She knew what to do.  Keep it to yourself.  All that great work. . . . 

But then again, how'd that work out for her?  

Thursday, March 8, 2018

What Was Exotic?

I'm frustrated and bored and can't find real meaning in anything.  Is it me or a sign of the times?  What's called for is some really bad behavior, but that will only get you tased or worse.  You could end up on the local news and your family and friends would shun you.  Everything sounds like fun until that happens.  So we all simply medicate ourselves and live safe, drab lives.  Not all of us, I'm sure, but all the people I knew who were fun now tread softly.  Wouldn't want to end up alone and broke at this age.

And so I look forward to a little workout at the track, a quiet breakfast, and some gardening.  Soon the boredom will kill us, though, or will cause us to kill one another.  There is nothing much that can be done, really.  What do people do?  Watch movies, drink, eat, go shopping, go somewhere to be amused.

Yesterday, Ili and I, bored and crazy, decided to go canoeing down one of the areas rivers.  Canoeing is a well known way to break up.  Ili wanted to be in the back of the canoe.  She likes to steer, she said.  And so we drifted over the clear shallow waters of the spring fed run winding through the curving banks of trees and fallen logs over the grassy river bottom, the occasional turtle or alligator sinking below the surface as we approached.

Afterwards, we went for sushi.

And then we were home.  It wasn't even seven o'clock.  What to do?

We watched the movie "Tangerine."  It was over by eight thirty.  We putzed around for half an hour, then heads filled with cheap trannie images, we went to bed.  Who knows what horrible dreams we probably had.

We've villainized all the old ways and valorized everything that was once sleazy.  I don't know what is exotic any more.

All we have left is this.

It will have to do for now.  Old movies like "Red Dust" and "Morocco" aren't available for streaming.  I can't even find "La Dolce Vita."  All we are left with are films from the Academy Awards, and they suck.  I'm not watching "The Shape of Water."

I guess I'll go work in the yard.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Pissing Away

Monochrom just before dark.  

Pissing away my vacay gardening and eating and drinking and watching movies and not much else.  At night I sleep awhile and then wake up and worry.  I wake up because my body hurts.  I will have already tossed and turned this way and that finding new positions that will not pain me for awhile, but by the time I wake up to worry, I am in too much pain to even try to sleep.  I should never have played basketball, should never have touched a weight.  I should never have done a lot of things.

After the first cup of coffee, things begin to settle a bit.  In my mind, I mean.  By the time the sun rises, I am ready for bed again, but I usually wait until afternoon when I will have a glass of wine and take a little nap.  I look forward to that nap the way I used to look forward to other things.


Monochrom just before dark.  

Tuesday, March 6, 2018


Breakfast in a Grit City diner.  What isn't in the photo is the picture of Elvis on the wall.  Should have thought about that.

People say "experiences, not things."  You know what I mean.  People try to buy happiness, I guess.  That won't work, but experiences are no guarantee, either.  There are some pretty rough experiences out there.  And I do like things.  Yesterday I think I had an interesting look.  Nothing special, just the way I like to look.  Black t-shirt, white Oxford, jeans, a beautiful Ona canvas bag, a Leica, and some big, expensive sunglasses.  I was on the boulevard, and as I was climbing on my Vespa, two boys in a slowly passing car shouted out, said love, and gave me two thumbs up.  I think I looked like something out of an old Italian movie.  It wasn't me, exactly, just the things I'd chosen. And none of it was expensive, I should say, but all bought at bargain basement prices.  I just know what I want, and the things I carry shape my experiences.  You see?  They go hand in hand.  Everything I buy, from the  art on the walls to the books on my shelves and the 19th century nomadic tribal rug on the floor--all of it, is to shape the way I experience the world.

Yea, I'm a prick.  But most of the time, I'm happy.  And I have experiences.  Lots of them.  More than my share, I think, though not so many recently.  It is that I hope to remedy.  Soon.

Still, things define us.  We are "thing" makers.  Many of the things we make are shit.  Most of them.  But there are some things that are so beautiful they make you ache.  Not so many, but enough.

My family were settlers.  No, they didn't settle the land.  They settled for what they got.  Easter, for instance.  I hate it.  It is a bad memory of cheap, waxy chocolates and overly sugared candies and gaudy plastic eggs.  It was so bad, it hurt.

Maybe one nice piece of good chocolate would have done it.  Maybe just that.  Or a nice pair of shoes.


I'm not complaining about my family, but that was an experience that surely shaped me.  Things, no matter what, define us, whether we live in a mansion or a dormitory or a commune.  A hippie with a nose ring is proud.

Anyway, Wallace Stevens says it better in "Anecdote of a Jar."

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill. 
It made the slovenly wilderness 
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild. 
The jar was round upon the ground 
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere. 
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush, 
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Monday, March 5, 2018

Watch Your Step

Ili made me take this picture, too.  Umbrella as sunshade.  Bumbershoot as parasol?  She says she loves this photograph.

Like a sabbatical, my week off dribbles away like water through my fingers.  I did little yesterday.  I did nothing.

I can't let people smile when I photograph them.  Or, rather, I need to do both.  People like to smile, apparently.  They do it as soon as you raise the camera like you are taking pictures for the yearbook.  Well. . . I am not smiling in my yearbook picture. . Maybe a little Mona Lisa grin.  I need to look back and see if I was the only one.  Maybe others are happier than I.  Who knows.

Ili sleeps.  I get up early, my body aching--right shoulder and hip, left elbow, lower back.  In the darkest morning, I feel as if I have been getting the shit kicked out of me all night.  I do not wish to get out of bed, but there is no choice.

Thank God I was not tempted to watch the Oscars.

I will make more pictures of strangers today, I hope.  It is better than being on Facebook or Instagram.  They are with you for a moment, then forever.

"The bikers are coming, the bikers are coming."

Drove past the Cabbage Patch on Saturday.  They are putting out the Port-o-lets in the big fields where thousands of scooter trash will camp.  They come looking like comic book characters in super-villain costumes, a can of beer in one hand as they sit on wooden picnic tables or stand looking at some "rad chopper," rough looking women straddling the rear seat or, more often now, riding bikes of their own.  The police will not bother them, of course, for they are busy chasing down those dangerous skateboarders trying to use some abandoned warehouse steps as a playground.

The world is just weird.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

I Must

Spent a lazy, hazy first day of vacation eating and drinking and traveling and napping.  It started Friday night with a restaurant dinner, the first in a long while and one of only a couple in the last two months as we try avoiding the flu.  But vacation is a vacation from a lot of things, so we ate out, then went to breakfast in the morning.  Afterwards, we started "mimosa juice" and headed to the coast to see Ili's folks.  But all along the way, I had my new camera in hand.  It feels good and I will have it in hand for the next week.  It is the only way to be a photographer.  You have to love your camera and know how to use it in your sleep.  I caress it and focus it and even take pictures.  "Service" is one of the first images with the new M Monochrom.  Ili saw the light hitting the building and stopped and told me to make a photo, and being a good fellow, I did.  This is a true working garage in Grit City.  It is a photogenic old town full of crumbling and repaired things.  It is coming back to a reasonable facsimile of its former glory from when it was the Jewel of the River, the last stop on a river that runs from this mid-state location to the open waters of the sea some hundreds of miles away.

Ili often wants me to take photographs of people and things.  She'll see some fellows sitting on their porch drinking beer and say, "You should take their picture," to which I respond, "Not now," or "Sure, that's what they are wanting right now."  I tell her I have to be in a rhythm and groove, but she persists as she did with these two fellows yesterday as we came back from breakfast.

Real barbers, they were, and they were happy to pose which is not exactly what I wanted them to do but it was good enough just to be doing the thing again and not from the hip.

I am learning one thing over.  When shooting with a 35mm lens and a rangefinder camera, find your frame, then move in one more step.

Neither of these are good photographs, but again, but this illustrates the difference one step can make with this camera and lens.  I actually prefer the first one because it puts them in better context, but neither one is meaningful.  

We ate out once again for lunch yesterday, and we were ready to go out for dinner.  We actually did go all the way to the parking lot before we changed our minds.  The restaurant looked packed and we were both achy and tired from mimosa juice and travel, so we changed our minds and went to the grocery store instead.  

Back home, we ate and talked and went to bed.  

This morning is once again gorgeous.  The thing that killed the northeast has made our weather right. We will take a long walk and decide which way to sit and pass our long love's day.  That's a quote.  Tell me who or where and I'll give you extra credit.  

I hope I'm right.  I hope I keep the camera on me and use it.  I never do, but this time, I must.  I must.  

I must.  

Saturday, March 3, 2018


Staying in the tree house in Crackerville posting from a tablet.  Are out last night for the first time in months.  Been avoiding those winter germs.  But restaurant food is rarely as good as mine.  Just easier.

I've indulged myself a bit, enough to cause myself anxiety.  Bought an old Leica M Monochrom camera.  Now I have to use it and justify the cost to myself.  The camera is a beauty, but I already have doubts.  Why do I do it?

Just nuts, I gjess.  Pretendjng, maybe.

I will take it out in Crackerville today and see if I can get my ads whipped.

Friday, March 2, 2018

Ambition ≤ Disappointment

Last day at the factory for a week.  For some reason, though, rather than ecstasy, I feel anxiety.  I do not take enough time off, I know, and perhaps I have become an automaton.  That is how I feel.  What does a machine do if it is not working?

Much trepidation.

I have work to do here, though.  There is weeding and mulching and planting galore.  If I really wanted to be productive, I could paint some of the rooms inside the house.

I just feel sick with doom.  Paralyzed by it.

I shot this picture from the car as I was driving by.  I had an idea for a car series.  It seems dumb now.

I must give up ambition in order to rid myself of disappointment.

Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

A Losing Hand

The problem: I am lacking equilibrium.  Not in my inner ear, but in my life.  There is nothing you can take for that, though many people try.  I did take a Xanax last night and slept through the night.  But in the morning, I am faced with the same (left unsaid) concerns that I had the night before.  How much of a life can you give away to palliate the fear?  Or maybe the better question is how much freedom can you stand?

I have realized one thing about my life.  It occurred to me just the other day, and I feel free to change my mind at any moment.  But, given the lack of stone tablets or any other evidence of truth beyond mere fact, I wonder why have I been such a liberal socialist in my concern for others rather than simply enriching myself?  It is not as if I like other people much.  I mean, I am pretty reclusive and avoid joining in a crowd.  Even when I do, I am the contrarian and usually piss somebody off or make them cry.  Mostly, people annoy me.  I enjoy them in the abstract in the form of literature and art (and sometimes music, though my tastes are narrowing greatly there), but when I meet the people who have created the works, they are such flawed and twisted characters that I don't want to know them, either.  You have to be selfish, I think, to create anything.  You must have large amounts of time alone, free time to do with as you want, to watch t.v. or surf the internet or simply sit and think, anything, really, until the urge to create is upon you.  Who wants to be around a person like that?  Not much, and not for long periods.  Just long enough, perhaps, for some witty repartee over a drink, or maybe for an occasional adventure or two that doesn't quite involve incarceration.

I also realized that my favorite people are irresponsible with money.  No, wait, I just changed my mind.  I have wealthy friends I enjoy quite a bit.  Many of my best friends, really.  And while they aren't selfish, they haven't minded keeping a bunch of the world's capital for themselves.  I, on the other hand, have enjoyed spending mine and have been, perhaps, too lazy to accumulate much.  I've spent my money on good food and drink and on travel.  I haven't spent money on cars or clothes or country club memberships.  I wouldn't mind them, of course, and am not against those things per se, but I've barely had enough cash left over to buy the cameras that I use.  And my Vespa was a steal coming in under a thousand dollars.

I should say that I have been influenced by people who are irresponsible with money.

Now, at the point I am in life right now, I think if I had more money, I'd have more freedom.  I may be wrong as I have never been able to test this theory.  But when I look around at my friends who do have it, they are able to do what they like.

Perhaps, however, they now have the freedom but not the imagination.  I don't know.  Obviously I am still working this out.  Or thinking it out, rather, for there will be no working it out.  It is what it is at this point, and I am going to have to play the cards I have.

Sometimes, like this morning, it just looks like I've played them wrong.  Seems I'm at the table with a losing hand.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018


I don't know if I can do this any more.  I think I've said everything already.  As author of this site, I have been "discovered" too many times and can no longer tell the secrets I used to.  My writing is constrained.  I can't be honest, or at least creatively so.  Still, I have a need to write, to tell, and I may go back to writing in a journal, electronic or otherwise.

But wait!  Something has happened.  A big Barn Box of gingerbread and candy that was delivered yesterday (not for me but as a present for Ili's friend's kid) was sitting on the dining room table.  When Ili got up, she asked me what happened.  The box had two big holes chewed in it.  Some candy was on the floor, still sealed in its clear plastic wrapper.  Inside the box, the gingerbread had been attacked.  WTF?  It had to be a rat, but I don't have rats.  Not possible.  There is no rat poop anywhere.  I've left things out on the countertops overnight and nothing has ever been disturbed.  I'm freaking.  Was the rat inside the box?  But the cardboard is lying all around the table and on the floor. How did it get in?

This is war.  Traps are coming out.  Poisons.  Cats.  Where does the little fucker live?  Where is it now?

I hope I have more to report tomorrow.  I'll give photo evidence if I can.  Jesus.  I feel I have the Plague.

And so it ends this morning.  There are other reasons I can't write.  But maybe another time.

Monday, February 26, 2018

Back from the Dead

I just erased today's post.  There was nothing anyone would want to read in it.  It had nothing fresh or new.  Oh, there were lots of words, of course.  Sometimes I fool myself and think I've said something.  But I hadn't.

And then. . . just now. . . something happened.  You may remember that I was enamored with a cat that would come and look into the house through the bottom pane of the kitchen door--old Black and White.

Well, Black and White disappeared.  It hadn't shown up for weeks.  I wondered about it until the neighbor told me her cat had gotten into a fight and had to be taken to the vet's.  He fixed the cat up and said it would be o.k., but then it died of a heart attack.  It was a black and white cat, she said.  Oh, my.  We grieved for old Black and White.

But just now, Black and White came to call.  At first, I wasn't certain it was the same cat.  But it was, Ili confirmed.  Old Black and White back from the dead.  A miracle, of sorts.

I've been in some sort of torpor.  I did nothing but sleep all weekend.  I think now I should come back from the dead, too.  I'll take my inspiration from old Black and White.

I like today's picture.  I don't know why, really, but if you look closely, the guy with the guitar is looking at the girl who just dropped the catsup/ketchup on her leg and laughing.

Little things.

Sunday, February 25, 2018


It is thirty degrees above normal here, they say.  Hot.  Summer skies in winter.  Sick humidity, high 80s.  Bad storms will surely come this way.  The once pristine yard has been taken over by weeds.  We pull them by hand but make little headway.  It is time for the chemicals.

My sluggishness may come as a reaction to all the pollen in the air.  After a short Vespa ride, both Ili and I felt our throats tightening.  We felt lethargic.

Last night I slept with the help of Advil P.M.  Good stuff.  Slept for nine and a half hours.  That after an hour nap in the afternoon.

I have nothing of importance to write here, just simple personal complaints.  And even there, most are kept secret.  There is no plot, no imagery. . . just drab observation of the literal kind.

Saturday, February 24, 2018


I haven't been sleeping well since I entered the last age group.  Last night was hell.  I want an early release from the factory.  I don't feel I have all that much time left to be me as I know him.  I'm not like other people, I know.  At least I don't think so.  No, I'm sure I'm not.

But financially I'm stuck.  I will have to work away my last vitality.  When I am done there, I assume there will be little left.  Just a shell with a befuddled grin.  Somebody else will be starring in what was supposed to be my movie.

Etc.  But it is horrible.

I can't tell what is happening in this photo, don't know if the woman is showing my much weight she has gained or lost.  The pointing man seems more gleeful than she, but that might be a trick of the camera.  I don't know what nightmares she might face.

I watched "The Florida Project" a couple nights ago.  Wonderful movie.  Depressing.  First time actors except for Defoe.  It goes to show that with three weeks prep, we might all be movie stars.  There isn't as much to it as people think.  Ask Q.  He used to make films.  Acting is easy.

The fictional people in the film, however, are America.  They are the majority that the middle class fears.  They are Trump's boogeyman.

The film never validates them.  That is its secret.  No Hollywood there.  Just the vast, uncompromising Waste Land.

And yet life goes on.  They continue.

As I will.  As we do.  

Friday, February 23, 2018

No Time for Nuttin'

Work and illness got me by the balls.  Ain't go no time for nuttin'.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

New Avocation

It's a world of pictures now.  Camera sales have probably surpassed auto sales.  Surely.  Especially if you count phones.

So why do I get all the dirty looks?

That boy's got some testosterone.  I suggest that all women do testosterone for a month just so they know what it's like.  Then they would understand.

"Is that the way you feel all the time?"

"I used to.  Now I'm running on estrogen.  I've mellowed."

"Ha!  All your friends are women now.  They say, 'He's such a good listener.'"

"Pretty much, yes."

I blame the Disney Chanel for most current things.  On their shows, parents were dumbfounded and children were heroes.  Kids always set their parents straight.  That is what happens now.  We have valorized childhood "wisdom."  It is as if people thought Pink Floyd was telling it straight.

"We don't need no education.  Teachers leave those kids alone."

Kids have the good idea.  They imagine they want to be something they are not.  We all did it.  Now we just tell them, "O.K., that's a good idea."

I love kids.  I pretty much don't love most parents.  Seems to me they have abdicated much of their authority.  Some, anyway.  Black comedians still preach the efficacy of disciplining a child.  I saw Chris Rock's special on Netflix, or half of it.  I got to the part where he was saying that we have to quit telling kids they can be anything they want to be.  We should tell them, he says, you can be anything you are good at if someone will hire you.  I think that's what he said.  He said he wanted to ask the official at the school where his children went, "So you wanted to be a Vice Principal since you were a little kid?  You used to dress up in Vice Principal clothes and pretend?"


I guess I'm only talking about middle class white American parents.  That is about .5% of the world's population.

I don't have kids, so I can give this good advice.  And as someone transitioning from male to female (time does that for you regardless), I think I am qualified to give good advice on gender issues, too.

That will be my new avocation.  I'm going to become a Life Coach.  Let me know if you have the money to hire me.  I'm tired of giving this all away for free.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

The Hum

There was no hooky yesterday.  When I checked my calendar, I saw a meeting mid-morning, so I went to work.  I have "events" all week long, so there will be no hooky for awhile.  I don't take off enough and have accumulated so much vacation time that it has to be transferred to sick leave according to the Rules of the Factory.  They have a handbook of such things it seems.  I've never read it, but I am sent emails from HR that informs me of its existence and gravity.  I seriously need some time off.  

Q says he has a seven week sabbatical starting this week.  Jesus, I don't know how he does it.  It seems all he does it take vacations and whine about not having any time off.  There is something screwy there.  But seven weeks off!  Really?  I don't know if I would ever be able to return to work.  

I'd like to give it a shot, though.  

Are you anything like me, kids?  Do you love paying hundreds of dollars a month for premium television and then not watching it?  I haven't had the television on since I tried watching the Olympics.  I feel better about things.  I have become certain that someone puts secret messages in the audio portions of all t.v. transmissions.  It is like the Windsor Hum (link).  It is there for sure, and it is destroying us, but nobody can seem to find its source.  One way to avoid it is to leave the television off.  That and keep paying for all those premium channels.  That's fun.  

I am changing my exercise routine, and that means some early morning aerobic exercise that will make early morning posting difficult.  I want to look like these exercise girls, happy and fit.  I want to wear spandex yoga pants and tight shirts and walk around with  a bottle of water rather than a muffin.  I remember that.  It is a better life.  

To wit. . . I must away.  

Monday, February 19, 2018

Hooky Maybe

I was wrong.  I fell in love with the Sony aRii yesterday.  I put a 28mm lens on it and made myself walk around the market in the park.  I shot with the lens wide open without knowing it which makes the autofocus a bit tricky, but it performed like a champ.   It focused more quickly than I thought it could.  I never put the camera to my eye, just shot from the chest or the hip.  I was amazed.  When I looked at the images in the camera, the colors popped.  They looked almost 3D.  I don't need to buy a Leica Q.  I don't need to buy anything.  I'm pretty happy now.

Ili is out of town, so last night I was able to process pictures after dinner with my mother.  Just sitting and listening to music and working on pictures.  It was fun.  Oh. . . and drinking.  I woke up early this morning and now I am sleepy.  And I'm thinking.  I'll check my calendar to see, but if there is nothing important, I may stay home and not go to the factory today.  That is very, very appealing.

I could pull weeds.  That is what I've done for part of the weekend.  It is definitely Spring here now.  The weeds tell the tale.  They know.  There are plenty still to pull.  And if I felt industrious, I might buy six azalea plants to replace the ones I am going to take out.  They have gotten old and thin and leggy.  And I could pay my bills and find someone to pressure wash the house.  These things all must be done, and today could be the day to do them.

And, of course. . . a nap.  I would love to nap today while the factory workers toil.  It would make me feel better, I think.

I could also play with pictures.  The ones I am showing are almost straight out of the camera.  I did some Lightroom tweaks, sharpening and exposure mostly, but I haven't tried anything in Photoshop.  I've added no texture layers or anything else that would give them "a look."

I made a few black and whites, but only a few, and this was the most complicated thing I did.  I struggle with aesthetics of the conversion.  I know others don't, but it seems to me that a thing shot in color should be color.  Most of my black and white images are shot that way.  I like not having to make those decisions.

O.K.  I will look at my work schedule and see if I can play hooky today.  I have pretty much made up my mind, though.  It seems like the right thing to do.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

The Heart Wants

I'll tell you a secret.  I don't like going out to take photographs.  I make myself.  It is very difficult and exhausting.  I have a photo/camera fetish, sure, like a lot of other people.  You can go to the camera store and see people drooling over cameras.  There is something alluring about them, something sensual.  A camera is a beautiful machine.  And there is a new one that I want.  All night I longed for it.  I have to have it.  That is how it is.

But using a camera is another thing.  Like everything else, the more you do it, the better you are at it. We do best what we do most.  But it doesn't get easier.  The summer I did my surfer series (link), every shoot wore me out.  I would drive to the beach two or three days a week with my Holga and some film, and all the way there, I thought, "No, I can't do this today."  And when I got there, I was sick with anxiety and dread.  I would take my camera in hand and begin to walk still thinking, "I can't do this."  Then I would tell myself I would just take the day off and lie on the beach.  And then. . . .

The street photography is like that.  I think that other people are not as noticeable as I.  Yesterday, I forced myself to walk from one end of the Boulevard to the other and back.  I will do that in the larger city again today.

But I don't look forward to it.

And still I want the camera.  It is a Leica Q.  I don't need it, maybe.  But I want it.  I took the photos you see here yesterday with the Ricoh GRii.  It is a great camera, one you can slip into a pocket.  The Leica Q is like the Ricoh on steroids, though.  It is larger, but cooler.  It is does the same thing but with a much better lens and a full frame sensor.  They both have attached 28mm lenses.  The camera and lens are one.  And the Leica Q costs about seven times as much.  Where will I get the money?  Oh, there is that.

I am going to rent a Leica Q for a week before I decide.  I want to make absolutely certain that I want it.  If so, I have some things that I can sell.

This is how desire works.  It is not rational.  It is a thing of the heart.  The head hasn't a chance.  I've thought of all the reasons NOT to buy it.  They are good reasons.  The best reasons.  And if I buy it, I will have to make myself take pictures every day.  That is, I must experience the anxiety and the dread daily to make the purchase worthwhile.

For you see, I don't really like going out to take photographs.  It is a difficult thing to do and almost always ends in failure.  I know it is not very smart.  But it isn't a thing of the head; it is a thing of the heart, and the heart often wants what is bad for us.  Right?  I should listen to my head.  Yup.

But I wouldn't bet on it.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors

I watched some of the Olympics last night.  Nostalgic, I guess.  How can you not?  But my attempt didn't last long.  The Olympics are staged so that companies can advertise products.  The ratio of athletic competition to commercial advertisements has to be ten to one.  Or vice versa.  I couldn't take it.  It is why I can't watch sports any more. 

Conversely, I was sad to read about the death of Jim Bridwell (link).  He was the opposite of a commercial athlete.  He was the craziest of crazies.  I didn't "know" him, but I would meet him once or twice a year at outdoor events in the west.  He seemed to like me and said hello when we ran into one another.  One year, we talked about doing a documentary of his life and climbing career, but we didn't stay in touch and nothing ever came of it (story of my life). 

He lived the rattiest rock climber life.  I met his wife.  The two of them lived in a broke down trailer.  Their clothes were hand-me-downs.  He just couldn't make or hold onto money, it seemed.  He tried working as a climbing guide for Exxum in Wyoming for awhile, but one of his clients buckled his Chouinard harness incorrectly and took a long fall that seriously injured him.  He sued, but since Bridwell had no money, he sued Chouinard for not putting a warning on its buckle.  Unbelievably, he won.  Chouinard had to sell the company and Bridwell. . . well, he didn't guide any more. 

But Bridwell was a well-known figure. 

“Adventure and excitement are the two things missing from civilization.  Danger keeps you on your toes.”

My lost point, however, is that he didn't climb for the money. 

Or maybe it would be better observed to say that the point is that I kinda sorta knew Jim Bridwell and that makes me think I'm cool. 

Yea, I guess that's it. 

Friday, February 16, 2018


Sometimes you just get sidetracked.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Antique Maker

I go to bed early and sleep until two or two-thirty.  I roll around until five and then fall asleep for an hour.  I get up tired. 

What goes on in my head for those two and a half or three hours, I don't want to tell you.  But it is disturbing. 

I drag myself through the day without much enthusiasm.  Some days my condition mimics rigor mortis, but usually I am merely catatonic. 

My anxiety is due to a new perpetual paranoia.  Relatively new, but growing stronger weekly.

This is the first time in my life that I have not liked a generation.  There is nothing to do about this, of course.  They will prevail, so I don't resist.  Resistance is futile.  And truly, I like many of them, but they are like domesticated feral cats.  You know that once in awhile they are going to bite you. 

I haven't read Tu Fu or Li Po for many years.  I wonder if anybody has. 

I laughed at C.C. once for saying something about a guy who made antiques.  All of the sudden, though, I know what he meant. 

I just thought you should know that.