Those Were Different Times

Science and tech eschew superstition.  Tonight, on April Fool's Day and a Full Pink Moon, they will attempt to send four astronauts on a trip around that orb.  Hmm.  I am not superstitious, either, but. . . . 

I find this feat less than thrilling anyway.  We sent men to the moon in 1969 with math done on slide rulers by people wearing pocket protectors.  The spacecraft was powered by a hybrid Ford/Chevy engine.  O.K.  Not quite, but you get my drift.  Armstrong and Aldrin rode a little space toy to the surface of the moon hoping that when it was time to take off again and they put the key in the ignition, the thing would start.  Meanwhile, Collins became the first man to see the dark side of the moon, alone and out of contact with earth.  In 1969 we still had the Loch Ness Monster and the Abominable Snowman.  He had to be wondering what sort of aliens he would see.  

Nope. I'm not excited that we are going to accomplish less than we did in 1969.  

"We"?  You know what I mean.  "We" planted the American flag on the moon.  It is ours, by God, and we aim to keep it.  There's gold in them there hills.  

And in 1969, Peter Gimbel of the Gimbel family fortune, set sail for adventure and daring.  The ocean was believed to be boundless and enduring, a source of life for eternity.  We still knew little about the creatures of the deep.  Sharks were maneaters.  Hell. . . giant squid could still eat your boat.  

For six months, Gimbel hired a 150 foot steamship, a former whaling vessel, to search for Great White Sharks in order to film them.  This wasn't a scientific expedition.  His team included Ron and Valerie Taylor, both Australian Spear Fishing Champions, if you can believe there ever was such a competition.  For part of the trip, Rodney Fox, the only person every to survive a Great White Shark attack, joined them.  The pictures of his body ripped open, ribs and organs visible, makes it difficult to believe he could actually survive.  He, too, was spear fishing.  

I am tempted to post the photo, but it is pretty gross, so I will leave it to you to Google if you are curious.  It is easy to find. 

Here is a full list of his team:

Peter Gimbel: Expedition leader, lead diver, and director.
Ron and Valerie Taylor: Famous Australian shark experts and photographers.
Stan Waterman: Underwater photographer and producer.
Rodney Fox: Guide, shark attack survivor, and photographer.
James Lipscomb: Director/filmmaker.
Tom Chapin: Folk singer/guitarist who accompanied the team.
Peter Lake: Still photographer.
Phil Clarkson: Diving coordinator.

Holy shit, right?  But at the time, again. . . it was just how things were done.  Now it seems more like "The Life Aquatic."  

Old times were funny.  

So I watched the film in 1971 when it was released and again two nights ago.  The first viewing inspired my already huge desire, birthed by my father's tall tales, the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan films, the t.v. show "Sea Hunt," and hundreds of hours of watching old adventure movies, Jacques Cousteau, and Marlin Perkins "Wild Kingdom," to seek out, again, "adventure.  My buddy, Tommy, and I took scuba lessons with a notorious man, Hal Watts, who owned the world record for the deepest underwater dive in history.  He was seen by many, though, as a villain.  He had become an underwater cave explorer and had shown that vast numbers of Florida's underwater aquifers were joined by tunnels and caves.  Trouble was, many of his dive partners never returned alive.

Tommy and I joined him, first on simple dives, but soon following him into wild nighttime lakes accessible only by dirt track and old civil war corduroy roads where we sank below the dark surface waters into tunnels thirty feet below that led to underwater caves hundreds of feet deep.  We were kids, really, and we made one fuck up after another.  One night, we each let go of the rope leading to the surface at the same time, and because it was stretched by the divers below us, it disappeared.  There we were at one hundred feet in the soundless dark, shining our lights into one another's eyes, doomed.  Fortunately, after many moments of panic, we saw another divers light shining below us and we descended and found our lifeline.  

Another night, I got nitrogen narcosis and didn't know if we were descending or ascending.  All I could do was follow my buddy in front of me through the narrow tunnel.  Fortunately, we were going up. 

Tommy and I decided to go out on our own.  Our first trip was a decompression dive into a cave.  It was two dives, actually, as we exhausted one tank and came up for a second.  The next trip down would force us to decompress at several depths for differing amounts of time.  We calculated at the surface before we went back down.  As we got into the water, though, I said, "Tommy, I think we figured this wrong."  We went back to look at the tables, and indeed we had.  If I hadn't caught it, we surely would have had the bends.  One fellow we dove with had gotten them and had a permanent limp from the resulting paralysis.  

On our next trip, we went to a now famous springs that at that time was on private property.  We drove through brush for miles to get to the huge sinkhole.  It was rough getting our dive gear down the steep slope.  Once in, we descended to the tunnel that slanted at about 30 degrees for fifty or sixty feet before it opened up into a giant cavern.  We descended to 150 feet where we were hit by the silent onrush of water spewing from the opening to the spring.  We went ass over tea kettle, as they say, our masks ripped from our faces.  By the time we had gotten them back on and cleared them of water (as we had been taught), we were both ready to head back to the surface.  Stupidly, however, we had not brought a line, and when we headed up, the roof had many tunnels.  We chose one.  It was a dead end.  We backed out and chose another.  It, too, narrowed until we could not pass.  We backed out, and now, shining our lights into one another's panicked faces, the bubbles from our exhalations almost continuous, using up what air we had left far too rapidly, we tried again.  This time, we followed the sloping bottom, merely by chance, and were in the right tunnel to the surface.  

"Holy Christ, I was reading the headlines in tomorrow's papers," I said.  

Since then, the state has put steel bars over the entrance to the cave to prevent divers from going in.  Too many people had died there.  

That is when we decided to become ocean divers.  We were done with caves.  There was nothing to see there anyway.  

And when I went to college the following year, I decided to degree in zoology.  I wanted to be a marine biologist.  

It wasn't what I thought.  I was studying with a world famous invertebrate zoologist who got some of his class a weekend on the State Oceanographic Research Vessel.  We were dredging the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico for marine specimens.  We slept aboard.  The boat was diesel.  In the morning we were served cinnamon buns and orange juice.  The weather was nasty.  By ten, people were puking.  I was doing fine, but one of my friends felt sick and went below to lie down.  I went down to see how he was doing.  Big mistake.  The loss of horizon and the smell of diesel fumes got me.  I went back on deck to try to shake it. I was standing at the railing talking to another fellow when he suddenly and violently puked overboard.  Chain reaction.  I, too, unburdened myself of sweet buns and orange juice.  

By the time we lowered the nets, dredged, and brought it all to deck to pick through our deep sea treasures, the entire class was sick.  Insult to injury, we were picking through our treasures with bare hands, and plentiful among it were spiny sponges that had a toxin.  Depending on your reaction, it was either merely painful, or, as happened, inflammatory.  Some people's hands turned bright red and swelled terribly.  One girl couldn't hold a pencil to take notes for a week.  

That was "The Life Aquatic" without the romance.  Later I learned that Jacques Cousteau didn't travel aboard the Calypso very much.  His crew would go out and Jacques would be helicoptered in for the filming.  Life aboard an ocean vessel wasn't as much fun as it looked in movies.  

Still, I degreed, and a few years later bought a sailboat that I kept on the coast for several years.  By then, I was ready for mountains.  Solo trips, then high altitude and classic rock climbing.  

All because of my father's tall tales and old movies.  

When I watched "Blue Water, White Death" the other night, it seemed fairly shocking.  The crew followed whaling ships, for the blood in the water attracted sharks.  The footage of ships using huge pneumatic guns to harpoon whales from the deck of 150 foot ships seemed barbarian.  Shot through the lungs, the whale spewed bloody plumes high into the air.  The crew would blow the carcass up with air, attach a float to it, and head off to kill more whales.  Meanwhile, Gimbel and his crew dropped steel cages in the water to film packs of sharks stripping the flesh from the whale.  

They decided to film outside the cages.  People had not swum in shark infested waters with feeding sharks before.  For the times, this was truly shocking.  

Six months later, they finally found Great Whites, by god, and they filmed them.  

They congratulated one another.  Roll the credits.  

Man. . . that was another time.  I guess we live our lives in eras.  

Now, of course, we are on the road to perfecting human behavior.  It has taken a lot of therapy.  

Phew.  I have to go now.  Busy day.  T took me to dinner last night to tell me he was moving back to Tennessee.  He asked me to take him to the little airport in Grit City this afternoon.  Before that, I have to take my mother to do some banking.  And her niece returns today, so I must wash the sheets and make the bed. . . and make other preparations.  

Tonight, once again for a little while, I will sleep in my own bed.  April 1.  Full moon.  It should be something.   

I'll look up and remember. 1969.  Man on the Moon.  Those were different times.  

Intellectually Cute

I heard a piece about Looksmaxxing on NPR while driving yesterday.  Some very "concerned" female therapists were analyzing the whys and wherefores of the movement.  It is bad, I heard, very bad.  Young boys, inspired by incels, are trying to maximize their looks.  This, of course, obviates their insecurities and inability to connect with people of the opposite sex.  They probably didn't bond well with their mothers.  

It must be truly awful.  These are boys going to the gym, using skin care products, and maybe even red light therapy.  They watch their weight, and even in extreme cases Facemaxx.  What is that, you ask?  Something about smashing the bones in your face with heavy objects to reshape them.  

Yea. . . that one sound pretty bad. 

Does it work? 

Apparently, I've been Looksmaxxing for a long time, exercising, watching my diet. . . and hell, I may even be an incel if my recent dating history is any indication.  But then again, I've rather fallen off the watching my weight wagon, so. . . . 

And yet, here I am taking care of my mother.  

My friend at the gym who is training for some kind of body contest that I don't quiet understand--and I--were talking the other day.  

"The only reason I exercise is for women.  I sure don't give a shit what the boys think.  I think I only learned to drive for girls.  If it weren't for that, I probably wouldn't even brush my teeth.  But women don't do this for the boys, do they?"

She thought a minute and shook her head.

"Women do it for themselves.  That's really selfish."

She laughed at that one.  "Yea. . . probably." 

"I think I'm intellectually cute," I said.  Her eyes popped at that one, then she agreed.  

"Probably so." 

I think the boys need to start Smartmaxxing.  Read lots of books.  The classics.  Read the philosophers and the great scientists.  Understand art and music.  Have something interesting to say.  I mean, really. . . look at the people attracted to bodybuilders and real athletes.  Holy shit.  Back in the days when I was working out with freaks at the steroid gym, a bunch of the boys were getting ready for a bodybuilding contest at a huge nightclub.  They thought this was cool.  

"Really?  You guys, you're going to be like circus animals.  People will come to watch you on the stage.  You'll be like carnival strippers or performers at the freakshow.  And when it's all over, the girls are going to go home and sleep with some skinny guy who was drinking martinis and smoking cigarettes.  You guys are going to get to eat your first real meal in a month.  You aren't going home to sex.  You are getting boners for a pizza."

I thought I was funny, but they didn't.  I think I lost some of my popularity right then.  

Yea. . . I think I'm intellectually cute.  I wish I were financially buff, too.  The girls, I've learned, like that a lot.  

I had a busy day yesterday.  My mother's internet is running at dial up speed.  It's hard to download porn, so I called the internet provider.  We went through step after step for a long while before the kindly woman on the phone decided to send out a technician.  

"We are sending you 400 megabyte speed, so it may be your router.  I'll have a technician there between one and two."

Great.  Middle of the day.  Whatever.  I need my porn.  

I'm joking about the porn.  The premium channels are internet, not cable, and they keep catching and bumping and stopping.  But if I were downloading porn. . . . 

I went to the gym to do a little Looksmaxxing, then headed home.  I had to wash the sheets and straighten up for the cleaning crew who come today.  I had a minute to spare, so I got my newly re-handled sod lifter and went at it in the garden.  First I had to rake out all the leaves the yardmen blow into my beds no matter how many times I tell them not to.  I filled a big Otto garbage container and then started pushing that sod lifter underground.  It was nothing but tough roots, big and thick and wiry, and I was heaving and shoving and sweating as I tilled the soil.  It is muscular work.  

And then I heard a pop.  The new handle, lightweight, had snapped.  Not in two, but a big crack ran through a foot of it.  

Piss shit fuck goddamn.  

I don't want to tell the neighbor.  

Shower, then back to mother's right on time, one o'clock on the button.  But the cable truck was already there.  My mother was sitting in the garage.  The fellow was in back of the house.  He heard me and came walking into the garage with a big smile.  Really nice fellow.  He was changing out some things, he said, then he'd like to show me something.  

What he showed me is that I needed a new router.  He had one in the truck, but there would be a ten dollar a month upcharge on the cable bill.  

"You can buy one at Walmart or someplace for about twenty bucks, though," he offered.  That sounded like the deal to me.  

I had a three o'clock appointment with H and R Block to do my mother's taxes.  Only when I got there, they said my appointment had been for eleven.  

"Oh.  My mother told me three."

"Wait a minute," said the nice lady, and when she came back, she said the consultant could see me now.  

It took about twenty minutes.  $350.  But it gives my mother peace of mind.  

I had to run back to my house to change the sheets to the drier.  First, though, I would run to Walmart.  Only I couldn't.  A wreck had the whole highway blocked.  I turned around and went to another one that Siri told me was only three miles away.  It turned out to be a Walmart grocery store.  No electronics.  

So I ran across town to an Office Depot.  Boy was that cable guy wrong.  There were no $20 routers.  Over $100 for the cheapest.  I went for the newer one that is faster.  $179.  

It was after six when I got back to my mother's.  I decided to hook the router up.  There were no instructions.  You had to scan a QR code with your phone then download what you needed.  I tried but it didn't work.  Fuck it.  I could do this.  

I thought.  

I never got the thing to work.  Duh.  

I hooked the slow modem back up.  

That is how my days go now.  My cousin decided to stay longer at the coast.  A week with mom before I come back permanently.  I'm just a "Do Boy" now.  

After dinner, t.v.  What to watch?  On my list is a doc that has only recently become available.  I watched it when I was in high school.  It shaped much of what I did then and after.  But I will save that for tomorrow.  I have much to say about it, I think.  

Yet one never knows what tomorrow will bring.

Other than trouble, death and taxes.  

"This I know." 

No Fool

I've never seen one of these this big.  Some kind of palm, but I don't know the name.  It is on a street in my mother's neighborhood.  I spied it the other day when I was taking a walk.  Holga lens, as you can tell.  

Just another snapshot, but this is somehow spectacular, at least botanically.  To me, anyway, if not to a botanist.  God knows how old this tree must be.  

I just looked it up.  Bismarckia.  Not so unusual.  They can grow up to 60 feet tall.  Huh.  

My undergrad degree was in zoology, so forgive my botanical ignorance if you will.  

When I woke up yesterday, I was not feeling "fresh."  My right eye seemed blurry and I didn't feel "present."  Still, I cooked breakfast for my mother and ate with her.  Around ten, I took off for my house.  I was still feeling funky.  When I got home, I changed into my walking costume.  Walking would do me good.  And so it did, I thought, when I got back.  

On my walk, just around the corner from my house and up the hill, there was a big set of nice wrought iron sitting on the curb in front of a big house.  Holy smokes, I thought.  Those chairs are nice.  The ones around my glass topped table are, too, but after awhile sitting on them is like sitting on a sieve.  I still had miles to go, but when I got home, I told myself, I'd come back and get them.  

I doubted they'd still be there.  

They were.  I loaded two chairs into my Xterra looking about like a thief.  Nobody shot at me, though.  

I put them on the deck.  Fine and good.  Do you have any idea how much these would cost at an antique store?

Me, neither.  

I looked for the newly handled sod lifter that my neighbor said she would leave on my deck.  It wasn't there.  Good, I thought.  I didn't really want to do the garden anyway.  I was still feeling funky.  But. . . it was early, so I went to the shed and got out the palm fertilizer and the 666 for the shrubs and jasmine.  The thing is. . . I used my bare hand to spread it all, throwing big handfuls around.  When I was finished, I went in and washed my hands.  And then. . . . 

My gut went crazy.  Suddenly.  I won't detail it for you, but I was sweating and felt weak all over.  Once I was in better control, I jumped into the shower.  I needed to scrub down, I thought.  Did the chemicals cross through my skin barrier and make me sick that quickly?  

Scrubadubdub.  

My gut was still funky.  I was still weak.  I sat down and waited for whatever was going to happen.  

Maybe some whiskey?  Something.  It was mid-afternoon.  I decided to get up and go.  Cafe Strange.  I hadn't been more than a couple times this past year staying with mom.  Would my friendly Cafe con Leche server still be working there?  Last time I saw her, her life was much too hectic.  She is a silversmith who works at a jewelers on the Boulevard.  She had gone back to grad school.  I had gone one Sunday awhile ago, and she was not there and the person working the counter would not make a mimosa.  

I would go and see.

When I walked in, there was the usual line.  My "friend" was working, making kid coffees, caramel yakimotos or whatever, and looking a little harried, not quite frowning but not looking cheerful, either.  

Then she looked up and saw me. . . and she lit up.  

"Hey, you. . . I was just thinking about you the other day!"

A tall Persian man, who with his brother is at the cafe everytime I have ever been there, was standing in front of me.  And like her, he lit up, too.  

"You were?"

She looked a little embarrassed.  "No. . . not you.  Ha-ha.  Him."

She pointed to me.  The room turned to look.  

"Are you still making mimosas on Sundays for strange old men?"

"Always for you," she said.  

The Persian turned to look at me.  I wanted to make him feel better.  

"Don't be stealing that from me," I said.  "I don't get much of that anymore."

He laughed.  

When I got to the counter we chatted.  She was still in school, she said with a frown.  She wasn't digging it.  She was still working at the jewelry store and was still dancing ballet.  She told me she had just had a birthday.  

"Which one?"

She hesitated.  "Twenty-six."

"Jesus Christ, girl, you're life is passing you by.  You're getting old."

"I know!"

"Way to old for me," I laughed.  

As she squeezed the oranges in the press, I saw the Tall Goony Goon girl, the pretty, nutso six foot two girl, sitting at the bar.  She looked up.  Smiled.  I shot back a peace sign.  She smiled more.  

Now I've seen the movies.  I've seen it live.  Old men go to the same diner because some young waitress chats them up.  See "Wrestling with Ernest Hemingway."  1993.  Richard Harris, Robert Duvall, Sandra Bullock, Shirley MacLaine.  A terrifying tale of growing old.  I saw it then.  It stuck with me.  

I don't make much of it.  I'm just saying, for a shut-in, it is nice just to be in the room, to not have disappeared from view.  And you, my friends, can say, "She was probably wondering if you were still alive," and I will laugh.  But Red wrote me just the other day to tell me she had a lovely dream about me.  

I'm not saying I'm not an old fool.  I'm just saying.  

This.  

The place was hopping. Two tall girls in short shorts and cowboy boots.  One of them had a movie camera.  

"Super 8?" I asked.  

No.  It was digital, but she did shoot Super 8, too.  It was Super alright.  Film and developing for two minutes and fifty-nine seconds--$85.  Wow.  I'd thought about it awhile back, but the price was too high.  

A girl in a miniskirt with fur trim at the hemline.  An Asian girl with electric green hair.  

A young hippie couple, college kids, sat at the table in front of me.  She took the seat facing me.  She was spectacular, long dark hair, a hairband, big hoop earrings with peace symbols inside.  I could go on.  I envied them as they chatted and laughed, she speaking loud enough for me to hear, looking, smiling, just to be noticed.  Cool kids.  

I never had the confidence they seem to have, never the sophistication.  I grew up on the wrong side of town with dumb MAGA kind of kids who would get in Einstein's face to show they could beat him up.  I look back with wonder at how my life progressed.  

I should write it--"The Secret Life of a Hillbilly."

Oh. . . yea. . . I think I do.  

More like, "Confessions of an Ignoramus."  

"You're a narcissist."

Ah. . . you've been infected with "therapeutic talk."  It has spread like Covid.  It's really getting around.  

 When I got back to the house, the re-handled sod lifter was there.  What the fuck.  I'd better try it out, I thought.  

It really works, but you have to put a lot of muscle into it.  It is a real workout, and by the time I'd cut through most of the garden, I was huffing and puffing and sweating mimosa juice.  

I went back to my mother's and made a Negroni.  We sat outside.  She drank a beer.  

Etc.  

I never did call those girls from Bike Week who wanted me to make pictures of them.  Miami still wants to make more pictures, too, but. . . . 

"There's no fool. . . ."

It is, for me, all visual.  Did I ever show you pictures?  Not sexual.  I only want sex with My Own True Love.  

"I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend." 

Oh, yea. . . and there is this one, too.  The trailer makes it look like something it isn't, though.  It is funny, but it is bleak.  Very.  

I'd recommend it. 

 

 

Other People

Snapshot.  Holga plastic lens on a Cannon digital camera.  Manipulated contrast and color in Photoshop.  It means nothing.  It is just an example of. . . me taking pictures on a daily basis.  Snapshots.  

I do love a snapshot aesthetic, but I think some human presence makes a picture more profound.  We don't wonder what the azaleas are thinking.  Not even a bird at the birdbath, a squirrel, or a dog could hold my attention very long.  But the colors are nice and the lack of clarity, I think.  

I'm fattening up for the slaughter here at mom's.  There is nothing to do but sit, eat, and drink.  If I make a cocktail at five, it is all over.  I'll make dinner with wine, watch the news, clean the kitchen, and then. . . watch something more.  With snacks. And a drink. . . or two.  

I lose interest in things.  My mother sits nearby scrolling FB on her phone.  Y'all need to try watching television with a gremlin at your side.  

My mother is not a gremlin, of course.  She is just another person in the room without interest in what I am interested in.  

I saw this. . . is it called a "meme"?. . . yesterday.  Yea. 

I don't even know who Tom Hardy is, but I've probably spent too much of my life alone because other people really DO get on my nerves.  

Yesterday while driving, NPR had a segment on helping people learn to travel alone.  

"Start small.  Try just a day trip to the forest or the beach.  Nothing radical.  Something easy."

It went on.  Try a trip with friends or a group where you plan one day to be by yourself.  

Etc.  

Eventually, you can work up to going to Europe alone, meeting a man who will put you on the back of his motorcycle and show you the Italian coast.  

I just deleted my take on it.  I privileged myself by putting down those who are more social.  It sounded bitter.  But I really don't think it is a choice.  I believe it to be genetic.  Herd genes vs lone wolf genes.  You can't teach a sheep to be a wolf except in cartoons.  

But wolves run in packs, too.  Hmm.  What example am I reaching for?  

Maybe I'm wrong, though.  Maybe men alone are the Ted Kaczynski type.   Unibombers.  

Whatever.  It doesn't matter.  I should have stuck with my original point--I'll get fat(ter).  

More snaps.  Here's the gremlin at my side, good old mom, making a comeback at 94.  Again, the plastic Holga lens.  Fun.  

I spoil her terribly.  Now that I'm back, she's drinking all my coffee again.  

"I'd forgotten what real coffee tastes like.  Strong."

She eats my breakfast treats and waits for me to make her breakfast.  Yesterday was avocado toast with an egg on top.  But I put a piece of ham on the bottom, and it detracted from rather than added to the tastiness of the thing.  It was too much.  I'll do better today.  

It seems to me now that every day adds something more to the multitude of things I need to take care of.  Some of it is my own fault, however.  Me and tools and handy things.  The engine on my Xterra has been heating up when I sit in traffic.  Scary.  I thought I'd try the easy thing first.  I bought some radiator fluid to see if that was it.  Well now. . . when I took off the cap of the radiator, it was obvious that was not where the fluid would go.  I got out the owner's manual.  Ten minutes later, I found the reservoir where it should go.  I think.  I took off the reservoir cap and funneled in some fluid.  Then I bumped the cap and it fell into a place inaccessible to human hands.  Piss shit fuck goddamn. . . sonofabitch.  I needed long pinchers.  Of course, who has such things?  I tried using tongs.  Nope. It is like dropping a key that goes through a crack in the deck.  No chance of retrieving it.  I COULD remove a bunch of engine parts to get it.  

Ha!

I will buy another cap.  Twelve bucks.  

So, adding radiator fluid took an hour, losing a cap, and costing me $17 plus another $12 in the process.

Today, I will rip out the old garden.  I've already chopped it down and my neighbor has put a new handle on my sod lifter.  That will cost me, too.  I will buy them a nice bottle of wine from a good wine shop and not the grocery store.  

My only hope is that you get a kick out of the miseries of this semi-fictional schlemiel.  I mean, in place of good pictures.  

I thought about going to a No Kings Day thing, but I was busy with the car.  This morning, however,  I looked at the pictures from the big news moguls and I'm glad I didn't bother.  It looked like Halloween.  I read that most of the big ones took place in Republican strongholds.  I saw a video of a conflict between the goofy fuckers and some MAGA guys on 'roids.  Those jacked up Joe Rogan wannabes were aggressive, walking up inches from the goofballs' faces.  Tough guys, you know?  Might makes right kinds.  

"I'll kick your ass, motherfucker."  

And that's the world I live in--goofballs for trannies and 'roid boys raging.  I'm neither against trannies nor muscled up boys, but back to one of my points I think I might have made--dealing with other people is bullshit.  There seems to be a bunch of whack jobs among us.  

Better, I guess, to stick with pictures of azaleas and mom.  What is it that C.C. always quotes to me?

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

Pretty much.  

Back at Mom's

Back at mom's.  I won't say more.  

Sure.  Of course I will.  

I made dinner at five.  Then what?  What to do with the remains of the day?  Trapped, I turned on t.v. but couldn't gain interest in anything.  At six and six-thirty we watched the news.  The NCAA tournament came on--Duke vs. St. Mary's.  I'd watch that. 

I couldn't.  I can't watch the commercials, and muting the t.v. every few seconds was killing me.  I went to my paid subscriptions, but didn't care for any of it.  I got on my little laptop.  It irritated me, too.  Mom went to bed and I took a cup of tea outside and sat for awhile.  At nine-thirty I went to bed.  

I got up and did the exact same things I do every morning, but somehow the ritual felt mechanical and irritating.  Why?  What's the difference?  

I can't imagine what it must be like to be held in prison.  It must be cruel and unusual, but despite what people may say, most punishments are.  They are meant to be.  Nobody renders a fun and happy punishment.  There is no deterrent in that.  But taking away all personal items and putting a person in the blandest, blankest, most depressing environment is certainly cruel and unusual.  

"He's a good son."

 That's what they say. 

"You're riding high in April and seriously shot down in May."

That makes no sense, but it popped into my mind right away.  Rhyme, I guess.  You know whose line that is, right?

I need to make breakfast for my mother, so I won't belabor you with any more.  Saturday.  No Kings Day.  I should find a rally.  

I just want to take pictures.  

The Good News

Let's look at the bright side of things, O..K.?  Trump's War has raised gas prices.  It has increased the price of groceries.  

"Wait, what?  I thought we were going to look on the bright side of things?"

C'mon now. . . think.  People will probably drive less, right?  That is good for the environment.  Maybe the climate will begin to heal now.  There will be more car pooling and ride sharing, don't you think?  People will quit buying gas hogs.  And people are going to waste less food, too.  When they look in the fridge, they are more likely to find a way to use the broccoli that is starting to yellow rather than pitching it.  Leftovers are going to be eaten rather than thrown out.  That has already happened in my house.  People will just consume less of everything.  Everyone, that is, except the rich.  And as people see those privileged fucks live the lives of the New Gilded Age, they will become, as I have just read in a nice article today, proletraitized, if not radicalized.  "Eat the Rich" will become a popular slogan once more.  

Maybe I'm a Polyana, but I think this time Trumpism is going to take a hit.  

But don't listen to me.  I've been wrong many times before.  I'm just hoping.  

The happiest countries in the world, if you can believe those who rank such things, live in countries with the least disparity between the "haves" and the "have nots."  In those rankings, America is not the happiest of places even though most people seem to have much--cars, big screen t.v.s, cell phones, computers.  It is not what you have, apparently, but what you don't have that others do.  It is about discrepancy.  The less discrepancy, the better.

"You're talking Bolshevik nonsense now, that's what you're talking."

Fair warning.  Remember the Romanovs!

I waited all day for the gas person to come out and check my meter.  I was told someone would be here between one and five.  Nope.  No one.  I had a good morning, though.  I took care of much that needed care.  I renewed a CD.  

"Why are you putting your money in CDs?!"

I'm not a money guy.  

I rescheduled my mother's teleconference with the pain doc.  And a number of other things.  I was feeling pretty productive.  It was noon.  I was stuck in the house then, so I decided to do my income tax.  Turbotax.  Easy. . . except when you can't find your "Important Tax Information."  I had it all together. . . somewhere.  It was not where I thought.  I have stacks and stacks of papers that are of some importance but not filed away.  I went through them all.  Not once.  Over and over like I was missing something.  I went through drawers.  I went through the house.  Shit piss fuck goddamn. . . I couldn't find them.  

Wait. . . I had an idea.  Yes!  I won't tell you where they were.  It is too stupid.  I'll just say they were "in the house."  

Relieved, I sat down to input my tax info.  But. . . one thing was missing.  Social Security.  

And so I went back through everything again.  And again.  And again.  

O.K.  I went to the Social Security website.  I could download my 1099.  Perfect. 

Only it wasn't. Did I have an account?  I must have had one at some point, but I could find no evidence of that on my computer password search.  I decided to create a new log in.  Login?  

That worked, but when I went to download the form, it took me to another page.  They needed to confirm it was me.  They had to take control of my phone.  Photograph my drivers license.  Front and back.  And then, no shit, a selfie.  

That took me to another page, but not the one to download my 1099 form.  I clicked out of all the open webpages.  Now that I had my login info, I'd try again.  

And again. And again. And again.  I kept being directed to the page asking for all the photos again.  

I called the SS hotline.  Not much of a hotline.  I was on a 15 minute hold.  Then a tired sounding woman came on.  

"I can't get to the page to download my 1099.  I keep getting the security page over and over again."

"I can mail you a new form."

"O.K. But can you help me login and download the form?"

"No."

"Oh.  Can you direct me to someone who can?"

"No."  

And so Turbotax would have to wait.  I decided to wade through the stack of papers I now had scattered across the house.  

When I had finished, the piles looked just as they had when I first started looking for my tax info.  I need a caretaker.  

Three o'clock.  No gas person.  I decided to go through this year's files of photos on my computer.  

Oh, god. . . they made me sick.  I had tried.  I took a lot of pictures.  They were labelled by the date I took downloaded them, so I had to open every file to know what was there.  I'd taken my cameras with me a lot.  There was a house, a lake, cars driving by, a mural, a sign. . . . They were awful.  I could feel the cold hard truth.  I tasted pennies in my mouth.  

I deleted almost everything, not in one fell swoop, but day by day, week by week, month by month--picture by picture.  I was a shitty photographer.  It felt good to get rid of the evidence.  

Most of what I kept were photos of my mother and of friends, just like anyone else.  

Thousands of images no longer existed.  I felt better.  

My cousin leaves for the coast today.  She's probably already gone.  I need to get to my mother's house to babysit.  It will take a lot of prep.  I need to get coffee beans, milk, liquors.  I need to pack my things.  My carefree weekend just got taken away.  I'll need a computer, books, magazines. . . . 

And so it goes.  

I'll need to play some nerve balm music to calm me. 

Not Even a Song

Yesterday, I was blogging about standards and values.  I guess that is what I was writing about.  It's hard to tell.  Sometimes you just have to talk to come to a point.  I was just talking.  Something was taking shape, but it hadn't quite yet.  That's what happens, though.  You say something, then you ruminate, and you may change your mind or the thing you were slouching toward begins to take a more decipherable form.  There is, or was, an entire philosophy built around the concept that "writing is a process," and that revision is the key.  Somehow, in that theory, writing never ends.  

I hate that concept.  

No doubt, however, that it is difficult to say a thing properly.  Unless you are a genius of some sort.  That is why someone like Christopher Hitchens is so fascinating.  He seems to have crafted his words long before he spoke them.  

Onward.  Reporting is easier than opining.  No, not easier, just less susceptible to sounding foolish.  

My bachelor retiree days are coming to an end, first for a few days, then for the rest of my life, I guess.  My cousin is leaving for the coast tomorrow and will be gone a few days.  I will be living at my mother's house once again.  Twenty hour shifts.  My cousin will come back, she says, for a few weeks before she heads home.  At that point, I am the caregiver again for as long as my mother lives which I am absolutely certain is long than I will.  I sat with her all afternoon yesterday.  We went to the grocery store.  She pushed the cart around and shopped the entire store.  This is the same woman who could barely use a walker a month ago.  She is a freakshow, a hillbilly phenomenon.  

She no longer watches t.v., though, so there is that.  She seems to just sit and stare, but I will know more about that tomorrow.  

I have had a wonderful time being in my own home, but now I am thinking of all the things I didn't do in my lassitude and laziness, things I will be yearning to do in a few weeks when I am in lockdown.  There are places I should have gone.  And so I am thinking.  When my cousin comes back, I am going to confer with her and my mother and see if it might be alright if I slip out of town for a few days.  Truly, it's been years, so long, in fact, it almost scares me.  I'm not sure I know how to do that any longer.  I will stay in state so that if need be, if something goes wrong, I can get home again in hours.  Just to lie by a beachside pool and drink spicy margaritas for a few days, though, or to walk around Miami with a camera, or even further south into the Keys.  

But I get ahead of myself.  We'll see if it is even a possibility.  The Keys seems what might be called "a bridge too far."

* * *

I just deleted a big block of bad writing and bad photographs and now the day is wearing on and I have much to do before I wait on the gas man to show up and look at my meter.  12-5.  You know which time he or she will probably come.  

I'm tapping out now.  I've wrestled with things after the asterisks long enough.  Let's end it here.  

Without even a song.

Can You Please Yourself?

This is what you get from a Holga shot from the hip and developed and scanned at home.  It is kind of fun, but is it. . . worth it?

I almost asked, is it. . .  "art"?

The real question is whether it is interesting or entertaining.  

And of course, each of you knows the answer to that.  

But, would you like it better if I posted without pictures?  Or music?  Or other silliness?  Hell, Vanity Fair couldn't stay in business that way, and they only post once a month.  

I heard a government official on the evening news, I don't remember who, say they wanted someone to lead [some agency] who had "the highest moral standards," and I wondered what he meant.  What are the highest moral standards and where in the universe are they located?  

Of course, you can't find such a thing anywhere but inside your own noggin and in group settings where people agree with you.  It is a social construct.  Obviously.  

Only it doesn't seem obvious to people, does it?  What that fellow meant was someone who agrees with his concept of behavior.  Nothing more.  And yet, I'm sure by his own standards he, too, is guilty of "moral turpitude." 

How do I know that?  Oh. . . I've made a life's study of it.  Trust me.  I'm not like the others. . . I'm your friend.  

And you see, Trump isn't guilty of "moral turpitude" because he is free of moral concepts, just as is Putin and Xi and the Pope.  Moral concepts are a tools they use to gather power.  Their minds are free of moral boundaries.  

It takes a special person to live without a moral compass.  We used to call them maniacs.  

But what I have found in my exhaustive studies of the matter is that YOU live unconsciously driven by a moral paradigm you cannot truly identify, maybe something vague like "see no evil, speak none, see none."  You know. . . the usual childhood criterion.  

"Stop it!  Don't hit your sister!  Be nice or you won't have supper."

We live our lives by contradictions like, "Murder is a sin. . . unless it is necessary."  

Explain to me the morality of war.  Oh, you are against war.  You can turn the other cheek?  How many times?  

We live in uncertain times.  Ethics are situational.  

I know, I know, that is a little bait and switch.  Morality and ethics are not the same thing.  And perhaps I've intertwined the two to my own discredit.  

Whatever.  They are closely aligned.  I'm not going to delete and rewrite this post now.  

I should, though.  I should write about the big mystery--is what is in the box?  Hand Rolled?   I could have riffed on that instead.  

There are more Holga pictures.  More Bike Week, too.  But I keep asking myself the question--are they interesting or entertaining?  

It is like asking "is it moral."  We live by standards most often that we have trouble articulating.  "Art for art's sake," is about as vague and close as I can get.  

Let's listen to some music.  Some of you may like it, some of you might not.  It goes on and on and on. . . .  But as Rick Nelson said, "you can't please everyone so you might as well please yourself." 

I'm pretty sure you won't.  

Spoiled Morning

This will probably be a short post.  The adrenaline is still pumping, so I'm not concentrating so well.  Blood pressure is up.  Not what I want.  

The construction across the street continues.  I was just getting ready to write this when I heard s truck revving it's engine over and over.  I looked out the window and saw a big white pickup backing a trailer into the new driveway across the street, only it kept going over the curb and into my yard to do it.  I opened the door a walked out.  He kept doing it, so I yelled, "Hey," hands out as if asking a question.  The driver didn't respond and came over the curb again, so I said, "What are you doing?" 

"I'm trying to back. . . "

"You're driving into my yard."

Just then, the contractor appeared, the guy I know from the gym.  We get along fine.  He tried to play intermediary.  

"I've got sprinkler heads all along there," I said.  

"If we damaged anything," he said, "we'll fix them."  

"It's ok, but I've had a guy back a trailer into my palm tree."

The guy in the truck seemed amused.  He got out.  He was a big guy, 6'4", maybe 260, early to mid thirties.  He started talking to me in a passive aggressive tone with a shit looking grin on his face.  

"It's going to be fine," he said.  

That tweaked me. 

"Don't talk to me in a therapist voice," I said.  

He got hot. 

"I'm not the guy you want to fuck with," he said.  

Yea, I already knew that, but I was in balls deep by now.  

"You're a bad guy, eh?"

He stepped up to my curb aggressively.  I was standing on my front stoop.  The distance was short.  But fuck it.  I didn't stand a chance, but. . . 

"You want to do this?" I said standing what I hoped was confidently.  

"I'm right here," he said, hands at his side.  

"And I'm right here," I said.  I didn't move, just stared.  

The builder was jabbering nervously now and the big guy got back into his truck.  I was pissed.  I wanted to pound him, but I can't now.  I'm a fucking cripple. I don't look like one, but I am.  None of the structures on the left side of my body are good, ribs, shoulder, scapula, lung.  I do believe he could have killed me.  

But I didn't shake or quake or shit my pants.  I was just angry and somehow wanted to fuck that shithead up.  

It's a violent world now.  Every moron with an 80 IQ wants to be a badass.  That's what they got.  That and Trump. 

It was the "I'm not the guy you want to fuck with" statement that pissed me off.  Before I got run over to death, I would have pushed his buttons a lot more.  But there is nothing I can do now.  

Most days, I wish I'd died in that accident.  Not hyperbole.  I lost a lot that day.  

Now, here is what I was about to write before the thing.  Yesterday, I bought my mother a new blood pressure machine.  Her old one wasn't working anymore.  We were sitting in her garage, so I unboxed it and put it together and put the cuff on my arm to see if it worked.  It didn't.  I read the instructions again and tried once more.  Nope.  I read them again, took the connector of the cuff into the machine out and put it back in.  This time, it worked.  I read my BP--170/95.  WTF?!?!?  I took it again.  Much the same.  I was freaking.  I put it on my mother and took her pressure.  It was good.  

Holy shit.  I'm on two BP meds right now.  My BP is never where they want it, but this. . . . if I went for my upcoming physical with this, my doc would have me at the cardiologist and they'd run every kind of test.  

"Take your blood pressure when you go to the grocery store," my mother said.  I was headed there to get things for dinner.  My head was spinning.  Fuck.  I'd need to quit drinking.  But what else?  Like life wasn't already tedious enough.  

I did my shopping--carrots, celery, onion, potato, garbanzo beans, crushed tomatoes, and some spicy cooked pork from the deli.  I was making a garbanzo bean soup.  

That done, with great dread, I sat down at the blood pressure machine.  I could feel my blood pressure rising, of course.  The cuff tightened.  I tried to breathe deeply.  It felt as if I was making it worse.  The pressure of the cuff went down, and I looked a the screen--134/74.  Fuck yea--no worse than ever!!!!  

I felt light headed.  I felt like a man who had just escaped a fire.  Life was good.  Things were fine again.  I felt true glee.  

When I got home, I made a Negroni and sat on the deck.  I felt guilty about the Negroni, but not too much.  Then I made the soup.  Holy smokes, my friends, it was good.  

But now. . . yea.  That guy has kind of spoiled my day.  I can't get rid of it.  It is hard to be pissed and sad at the same time, but somehow, I'm managing to do that.  

I'll take a walk now and hope to let it go.  But I know I am going to see that fuckhead again, and I am sure I'm planning on what to do and say.  I don't plan on being the little spoon.  

My Only Sunshine

Another beautiful Sunday.  Another late start.  I am paralytic, stymied.  At noon, I decide to develop the film from the Artfest.  I put two rolls of film, the developing tank and reels, and scissors inside the black tent, slip my hands through the elastic sleeves, and begin the fumbling process of unspooking the film, cutting off the backing, then spooling it back onto the takeup reel.  It takes me awhile to get the film lined up properly.  

Get the measuring cups and cylinders and jugs and mix the developer, then the fix.  Fill the tank with water and agitate for a minute, then set the clock and do the same with the developer, the hypo, and then the fix.  Etc.  

I have music playing, and for 50 seconds of every minute, in between agitations, I dance.  If you could see that. . . but it makes me feel good.  It must be good for me.  

I take the reels of developed film to the bathroom to hang them up to dry.  They look good.  Alright.  I decide to go ahead and do the second batch.  

Wash spin repeat.  I take the two rolls out of the tank.  They are blank, just clear plastic with a pinkish tint.  WTF went wrong?  I stand in dumb bewilderment.  Had I mixed my chemicals wrong?  Maybe I poured from the wrong jug.  Piss shit fuck goddamn.  I don't feel like dancing anymore.  

It is almost two.  What to do?  I don't feel like walking uptown to the festival once again.  I sit down at the computer and cook up some things.  It is four.  I call my mother.  

"I have done it again," I tell her.  "I spent another beautiful Sunday inside.  I haven't left the house.  I haven't showered.  I'll come over in a bit."

I make a Negroni and go to the deck.  I'm traveling through life with eyes closed, I think.  No, I'm not travelling at all.  I am not producing.  Text come in every day from traveling friends.  Japan, Sweden, Spain, Arizona, Chicago, Minnesota. . . .  I feel my life slipping away.  

I get into the car to drive to my mother's.  I pass the usual walkers, people pushing baby carriages, women walking in pairs, husbands and wives, all looking self-satisfied, feeling successful.  They are living a little upscale.  New cars.  Private schools.  I think just then they are smug.  What do they do?  I mean other than make money and consume goods?  What do they have to be smug about?  Memberships at the Country Club?  

I include myself in this crowd, unconscious, unaware.  

How to wake up is the question.  What buttons need to be pushed?

Banksy has been identified.  He goes the way of all myths--the Loch Ness Monster, the Abominable Snowman.  Everything must be known, every mystery solved.  

The room feels full, yet nothing in it seems to hold. Two people share the same narrow space, the same quiet light, even the same small rituals, but something essential has slipped just out of reach—an understanding, a certainty, a reason for being there at all. Their gestures hover in hesitation, as if each is waiting for meaning to arrive from somewhere beyond the frame, and it never does. The morning coffee, the cigarette, the worn surfaces around them—these are anchors that promise solidity but dissolve into habit, leaving only the faint awareness that life continues without explanation. In that stillness, loneliness is not the absence of others, but the quiet realization that even in proximity, each person remains unknowable, filling the void with distractions and "things", each house, car, yard a reflection of others, the constant drone of dull sameness.

Take Me for a Ride

I almost made a mistake and posted a fictional story about this girl, the festival, the after party.  Then I read it once.  Oh, god. . . the voice.  I am happy to delete it now.  The will probably be the victory of the day.  What follows the pictures is what is left after deleting the story.  I haven't time to fix that.  I must get on with the day.  But good gracious, that was some fiction writing at its worst.  

O.K.  I just had to make something up.  I have no pictures.  I have no story.  The day went on as days will.  I walked to the festival to take pictures with my little Holga, which I did, and to buy an encaustic work I saw the day before.  I finished my two rolls of film and went to make my purchase, but. . . you guessed it, it was gone.  She had sold it the day before.  She invited me to stop by the gallery where she is showing her work this month.  "I have a lot more there."  O.K. I said.  I will stop there when I drive over to see the Tomczak show.  

Four rolls of black and white 120 film sit on my counter now waiting to be developed and scanned.  I alway do my own developing and scanning, but I am tempted to take them to a place that will do all of that and have them back to me today.  I don't know yet.  I slept late this morning and there are chores I need to do.  

One of them is to get a Sunday mimosa at the Cafe I have not been to on a Sunday more than twice this year.  I don't know if the same girl who will always make me one is still working there, and I am curious.  

I just got a text from Travis.  He is in the patron's tent.  I've dallied too long today.  I'm thinking to get a breakfast at the bar of a restaurant at the far end of the Boulevard, just beyond the reaches of the festival.  It is a long walk and things will be crowded, but it could be fun.  But I'm torn between what I should do and what might be fun.  I am driven by guilt, I think, which is not always such a bad thing if it is in advance rather than hindsight.  I don't really have much hindsight anyway.  

One more confession before I go.  I was making a video of the fictional story, too.  It was taking far too long and is now abandoned.  This, however, would have been the soundtrack.  

Possible (If Unlikely)

I'm cheating, of course.  This isn't a photo from the Crap Festival.  It is another of the Bike Week pics.  I could have cheated more, though.  I think maybe I need more color photos here. 

Or even more.

Yea, A.I. colorized it.  It even, in one instance, unblurred the lady and recreated her face.  Yesterday's music selection of Iranian Jazz was also A.I.  

Oh, ye of little faith, those with the wailing and gnashing of teeth.  I went to the Crap Festival yesterday and it really was crap.  And I DID take my Holga toy camera.  And I DID, after many moments of doubt, take not one but TWO rolls of film.  I was going to develop them last night and scan anything that might have been of at least marginal interest, but I ran into a problem.  I always seem to run into a problem.  The two rolls of 120 film were of different brands, one Ilford and one Kodak.  I looked up the developing times.  Radically different.  What to do?  I didn't want to spend the time developing each roll separately, so I decided to take my Holga back today and shoot two more rolls, one of each, so that I can develop four rolls in two batches.  

Brilliant.  

But I must say, I don't think I'm going to be enamored with any of them.  They are, by and large, just people walking around in the street.  I don't get close with the Holga, not like I do with my Leica, so all I can do is cross my fingers and see.  

The day was gorgeous and the crowd not so much.  What do you expect on a Friday?  Retirees shuffling around in their none-to-glamorous attire.  And me.  Only here and there, a finely feathered bird would appear.  Saturday, however, should be another thing.  The Cruise Ships will roll in.  The crowd will be larger and some people MAY have the sense to wear something creative, beautiful, or interesting.  

Probably not.  We live in the 2020s.  It ain't like it was a century ago.  

O.K. Again, A.I.  But HERE'S the kicker--there was a LOT of A.I. at the Crap Festival. 

Tru dat!

And here you can wail and gnash all you want.  Some of it made the old printing press stuff from printmakers look tired and boring.  I'm not saying it was great, but neither was the stuff printmakers were kicking out.  A.I. is a TOOL, and artists will use whatever tool they have in their possession.  Look, for instance, at Maggie Taylor's work.  

She is the most famous digital artist--I needn't say "alive" of course.  She was married to Jerry Uelsmann,  the surrealist photographer under whom I studied.  Well, not literally "under whom," but he was one of my profs.  This digital creation is made from one of Uelsmann's own photographs.  Now Uelsmann, who studied under Minor White, was, at the time, the most valued photographer, in terms of dollars per print, in the world, and he created the first graduate degree pure photography program in the country.  The last time I heard him speak, he'd been teaching most of his life.  He had never used Photoshop, but of Taylor's work he said, "I feel like I've been teaching horse shoeing all my life."  

Now many people are doing it, not with Photoshop, but with A.I. I just now quickly popped in a request to make a Maggie Taylor style creation and got this. 

Now you can see that it is pretty shitty, but the idea is there.  A.I., being language based, takes a whole lot of "talking" to create something halfway decent.  It is not quick, not like this thing I got in milliseconds.  And afterwards, you need to work on it with many other digital tools.  So when you see a work that uses A.I., don't think it was like making a Jackson Pollock at the fair where you throw paint into a twirling machine and come out with whatever.  

"Fair?  What the fuck?  What are you talking about?"

O.K.  Some of my references are becoming obscure.  But you get my drift.  

There was only one artist in the entire festival that caught my eye.  She made hand painted photographic encaustics.  I don't know how she painted the pictures, but I think she did it with wax because the blue skies were of many hues, and even yellows and greens, but they did not totally blend together.  I was wondering if they might not have been done with acrylics rather than wax, but I wasn't going to touch them to find out, so I went around the booth to ask the artist.  When she saw me, she lit up and gave me a big hug.  It turned out to be someone I had been with at several Anna Tomczak workshops.  Anna became known for her 20x24 Polaroids in the "wayback," and was collected by museums everywhere.

She was known for her assemblage work as well.  She is the one who taught me the once secret and now well-known techniques for image transfers. That is where I met the woman with the encaustics.  I was an invited guest to the workshops.  For some reason, Anna liked me.  I don't think it was my work because I never really showed her any.  I think the encaustic artist was an invited guest, too.  She was really good, a mother and a housewife who did like my work with cameras and so we bonded.  

But I was truly amazed she remembered me.  It was for me, the shut-in, quite a delight to be remembered that way.  Even before I knew she had made the encaustics, I had determined to buy one, and I will go back and buy the one I liked today.  She is now represented by a decent gallery and she told me that Anna has a show at the big Center for the Arts right now.  I will go to see it this week.  

As I wandered around, once in awhile I'd hear my named called out.  People who knew me, not whispering behind their hands or being snide, but generally friendly people I know.  And that was a treat, too.  One fellow, the attorney who was supposed to go to Africa with Travis and me and our now dead ex-friend Brando--the one who throws the fabulous parties every Saturday night of the Art Festival, the one with the amazing art collection in his bachelor's pad with the amazing gardens out back, the one who always has the fabulous music, the great food, the full shebang. . . called my name.  We chatted for a bit and then he told me to come to the party tonight.  And no shit--I'll be able to go! 

This break from caregiving has been wonderful, but now I am beginning to feel the dread of going back to it once again.  A man released from custody only to be incarcerated once again after just beginning to fully enjoy his freedom.  My life has become the life of a true retiree only recently.  I spend my time as I want, only just beginning to know what I want to do.  This is how I was meant to live.  

It will be short-lived.  

But today and tonight, I will enjoy my newfound freedom as much as I can.  

And I will come home with a new piece of art.  

There will be pictures, I hope.  Maybe even a story.  I'm hoping for torrid.  Maybe I'll get lucky at tonight's party.  Maybe some young artist will fall for me, lick my neck and whisper in my ear and tell me things will be fine. . . for awhile.  

Wouldn't that be something?

Yes. . . as close to a miracle as one is ever likely to get.  Still, there is a potential in the offing, and what more does one need than a possibility, no matter how slim it might be.  

It's the only reason to stand on that little patch of ground, naked and empty, with the void surrounding us--and not take the leap.  

Potential and Possibility.  Now there's a fable I should write.  

Big Prick in Uptown

The "Art" Festival starts this morning in my own hometown.  Three days of crowds wandering through booths of ceramic ashtrays and bland watercolors of exotic locales, everyone with a fried dough or corn dog. . . . 

I'll be there.  

Travis texted me wondering if I got my credentials for sitting with the city's elite, eating and drinking away from the hoi-poloi like a civilized citizen.  Not his words.  My buddy runs the affair and has asked me to stop by the tent where that happens, but I've never gone.  I'm sure I'd see my ex-wife and others from my onetime social past.  Probably a lot of the people from the Club Y, too.  

I don't know.  I've just become a bitter asshole, I guess.  That's what Q tells me, anyway.  He called me the other night just to tell me so.  Oh, he soft-soaped it with telling me I was a good son, but I always take the insults more to heart than any sort of praise.  

Maybe that is why I stay away from people.  Surely, for instance, I'd hear whispers and feel the sneers if I went to the Credentialed tent.  

"Do you know that guy? Yea, he used to be married to her. He lived with Daddy Warbucks daughter for years. I don't get it. He's gotten strange. . . but he was always an odd duck."

Did I mention my paranoia?  

I should take my camera to the Crap Fest so that I can have something "new" to post here, but I'm parnoid about that, too. 

"Look, there's that guy. What's he doing, you think?"

It's hard to believe that I ever had a wife of a girlfriend.  

But it is spring, and the saps starts to rise and the creeks start to flow, and the bombs are dropping like crazy.  I live in Paradise, so I might as well enjoy myself today.  None of what I plan to do could I do if I were taking care of mom.  Yes, I should consider myself lucky for a minute.  I ate corned beef and cabbage, so I should have "the luck of the Irish."

That sounds funny, though, the luck of a  people who suffered through a potato famine.  What kind of luck is that?

Q is Irish.  He's been lucky.  

But there will be no topless women selling beer here in my own hometown.  All the weirdness takes place behind closed doors.  In public, there is a stodgy conservatism in the streets.  

That was an unplanned rant, obviously.  It's like the automatic writing of the mystics.  Spontaneous, written not by the writer but some spirit beyond.  Indecipherable.  

Maybe I should just treat myself to a facial and a massage.  That might be just the thing.  It's a simple exchange of values.  You give them money and they do things to your body.  It is obvious what each of you values.  It's like everything else, really.  

You know, I think I'll take a Holga toy film camera to the festival and a whole bunch of film.  Oh, yea.  There's an idea.  Yup.  That's just what I'll do.  Who gets mad at someone with a toy camera?  

I think I'll get the fried dough, too.  

Cesar Chavez Died for Your Sins. Oh. . . Wait. . . .

What is it with guys, anyway?  I mean about sex.  Popes and priests and public school teachers. . . and presidents and congressmen and on and on and on.  Now Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King.  I mean, I would have expected that from this Dugar fellow, but, really?  Sex sex sex.  Is that all fellows think about?  

Pretty much.  So say the shrinks, anyway.  

"[Researchers] found that the average man in their study had 19 thoughts about sex a day. This was more than the women in their study – who had about 10 thoughts a day."

This research refuted the old standard that men had a sexual thought every seven seconds. However. . . and this is my own brilliant idea. . . the researchers used college students in their study. Given that researchers also find that college students today do not drink or have sex as much as previous generations, I'd suggest a new set of guinea pigs.

In my own hometown, it seems that sex is about all the men think about. Your ribs can get pretty sore from elbows around here every time one of them sees an attractive girl.

Same goes for my gay friends. They are even worse about the boys. But you know that.

Anyway. . . . .

I did nothing yesterday but art related stuff. Not art, per se, but related. I had to fuck around with technology, printers, print drivers, paper profiles. . . then trying to find all the things I use to make image transfers. I didn't leave the house until it was late afternoon and I needed to go visit with my mother. I didn't shower or take a walk. I didn't even bother to cook. I ate leftover corned beef and cabbage.

It was rather glorious.

Today, however, I need to be practical. At least somewhat. A few hours of work on things that need taking care of.

But I don't want to. I'd rather spend my day making pictures again. I am, for all practical purposes, useless.

I woke this morning at four and read the news. When the sun comes up, I'll go back to bed.

Isn't that something?

Oh, darn. . . I just remembered that I wanted to write about Tamara Lempicka. I watched a doc on her a couple nights ago. Well. . . it will have to wait. But she was quite something, I think. As much as I hate to admit it, I am awed by scandalous women.  There is an entire YouTube channel about them.  

I just reread the thing I quoted.  Do you think it's true that women only have ten thoughts a day?