Enough for Me

Last day at the factory for a bit.  My leather RH couch will be delivered late this afternoon.  I will be sitting in my Essex green room on my leather couch reading or watching something grand on television.  It doesn't sound like much to you, perhaps, but it is what I have.  And it is fine. 

Much chatter about the bunny rabbits.  I was sent videos of hawks taking bunnies.  And cats.  What can you do about the grandeur of a hawk.  Q says to get Ili the dog.  Ha!  Of course he says that.  He is stuck for the next fifteen or so years with a fur shedder.  The dog will grow out of eating seat belts, sure, but weekends in the city will be problematic.  It is pretty much a must, though, to have a dog if you have a kid.  Dogs help kids immune systems, I believe.  I think I read that.  And they are good for psychological development,too.  Kids learn early on that dogs are better than people.  And then the dog dies, and they learn that as well.  Prepares them for their parents departure.  

But I don't need any of that.  For the first time in twenty-some years, I don't have an animal to take care of.  It is fine.  Animals in the house seems gross now.  What sort of people do that?  You have to watch old National Geographic specials to answer that one. 

I'm looking forward to a drink on the couch later today.  Boy oh boy, that will be something.

Bunnies

Ili wants a dog, but I am dead against it.  I have had cats and dogs in my house always.  Finally there is no dirt, no hair.  My nose doesn't run.  My eyes do not itch.  The wood floors are clean enough to lie on.  Nope.  Nope.  I know they are sweet.  I know they are good for you.  But nope. I've been through it.  Done. 

So. . . we've decided on bunnies.  Not indoor bunnies, but bunnies that live in the yard.  People have them in their yards.  We see them on our walks.  They hop around and eat things and they will come to you when called, crawl up in your lap and give you nibbles. 

For around two weeks, I presume.  Then the hawks or the snakes will get them.  But if it will make Ili happy. . . .

You know how people begin to look like their pets?  I assume I will start to look like a bunny.  Ili says she has already begun to lean in that direction. 

Cute.

There Are Many Pleasures

The painter's done his work.  The old couch has been taken.  Now the room is bare and Essex green.  The chandelier will be here mid-March, the couch on Thursday.  We have ordered deep vermillion drapes for the window.  Therein lie life's pleasures for the moment. That and gardening.  We will go "carporching" this weekend to find gardening pots.  That is the hillbilly term for going to garage sales.

A few more days of work and I will have a ten day break.  Gardening, eating lunch and drinking wine, taking naps, etc.  Maybe--just maybe--I'll be able to ride a bicycle.  I am hoping.

What I am saying is that there is still a life after the life of physical adventure.  There are still many, many things.  I'll continue to enjoy many things.

Abbot's Pizza, Venice, day and night.  I didn't plan these, of course, just found them in the camera.

I haven't taken a picture for weeks.  I haven't really taken a picture for months.  Maybe over break.

Maybe not.

S'All Good Man

No time to write this morning.  Painter coming at seven.  Therapy at eight.  Observation at the factory at ten.  Too much life, not enough liberty.

But it is all good.  S'all good, man.

Saul Goodman.

If you haven't watched it, do.

Little Pleasure

I am feeling punky.  My mother and Ili have been sick for weeks. My woes seem more tied to my accident.  My ribs and shoulder ache like the devil.  I don't care to do anything, and it scares me.

Last night I watched the Van Gogh movie, something Eternity, with Willem Dafoe.  It was so bad, I don't even remember the name.  Terrible, really.  That Dafoe is getting an Academy nod just testifies to how bad movies were this year.  Not a good year at all, I think.  But I haven't watched "BlackkKlansman" yet, and that looks to be something.

I won't watch the Academy Awards tonight.

I plan to read much today.  It seems a day for reading.  Tomorrow the painter comes to paint the library/t.v. room Essex green.  The new leather couch comes Thursday.  The wildflowers are growing though not yet blooming.  Those are my pleasures right now.

Take the pleasure as you can.  Make some, too.  If you can.

Mundane

Mundane things.  Nothing to report on except household news.  Leather couch is ordered.  Painter came today and will start work Monday.  Painting the library room where the couch is going a Hunter's green.  Dark leather, dark walls, a real whiskey drinking place.  I will work in the garden again this weekend, too.  The wildflower seed I planted last weekend are already coming up.  I should have flowers in a couple more weeks, just in time for spring break.  Everything is a "stay-cation" this time of year.  Why would I go someplace else.  Everyone wants to come here.  And I will have a "new" room.  Must get everything done before the overwhelming heat comes this year.  Trees to trim, insulation to be blown in.  There is never an end to things.  

It is pretty today.  I will not stay long at the factory.  I am addicted to sitting on the deck now in the pretty weather and watching the birds and the garden.  Tough stuff, but somebody. . . etc.  

The Dead

Sure, this blog sucks right now.  I can tell that from the drop in my previously anemic number of visitors.  But remember, I am working my way back.  Shit.  Give a brother a break.

So I watched the last episode ever, probably, of "Ray Donavan" tonight.  Six seasons, I think.  I started watching it from the beginning.  I got hooked.  Ili couldn't stand it, so I had to watch it when she wasn't around.  But tonight, I saw the last episode.  And boy--John Voigt recited the last part of "The Dead," by James Joyce, and I got a shiver.  That is the last book of "The Dubliners," and if you have never read it. . . well, shame on you.  If you want to learn to write, you can start there.  I will go back and re-read it tomorrow.

Tonight, I got shivers.

"What happened?" I asked myself.  "Where did you go wrong?"  I mean, I used to read that stuff all the time.  It informed my life.  Now, too much, I watch something on HBO.  Like "True Detective."  Thank God that stupid series will end next week.  It is hideous.  But I have to finish it.

It is not like "Ray Donovan," an old fashioned piece with really flawed characters you can't not like.  It is wrong for its day, a throwback like John Voigt, but if you have missed him in this, you have missed the best part of t.v. this century.

Or so I reveal.

I try to get better.  I do.  And someday I hope I will take pictures again.  I look at them all the time, and I have ideas.  I think I know what I want to do next.  I just have to learn how to do it.  But for the one, two, or three of you still left, don't run away.  There is a potential for mediocrity again.  I might still give the occasional thrill.

Maybe.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

A Little Poetry

I sit at the dining room table in a moment of respite eating olives and a strong Stilton cheese, some roasted garlic with a French loaf.  A glass of red sits beside me.  I have a moment this afternoon.  I could do anything.  I could, but I can't.  After a day at the factory I am too tired to go out and do the things I dreamed of doing the night before.  Although I get better every day (or so I tell myself),  I don't have it in me to saunter yet.  Yet, I say.  But I must.  It is all I have dreamed of and longed for.  The means to travel, the time to go.

I urge anyone not to wait.  There is no waiting, no certainty.  All you ever have is the now.  There is no future that you know of or want to know of.  If you don't do it now, you won't.  I tell you the truth.

But there is always some old guy trying to tell youth how to live their lives.  That is what they say.  That is what they have always said.  It must be true.

Since I don't have the energy to go tonight, I will eat and drink and write, and then I will look at a new book I have just gotten, "Early Work" by Joel Sternfeld.  It is a real dandy.

And then the news.  I watch less and less of it, but I can't turn away from the train wreck.  I am rubbernecking the American Experience.

It looks to me like the democrats will lose again in two years.  I don't think Identity Politics is going to win the national vote.  It might carry Queens, but we'll see how that works out.  But the usual crew is on hand this time around.  I'm waiting for Hillary to announce again.  There is no learning, only idealism and theory.

And the Russians.

Did I tell you I got beautified for the Snow Moon?  We went out to the lake and watched it for a good, long time.  I thought of Li Po but could not think of the other Chinese poet of the era.  Lao Tse?  No.  Who?

Drinking rice wine under a full Snow Moon.

The Solitude of Night
BY LI PO
TRANSLATED BY SHIGEYOSHI OBATA

It was at a wine party—

I lay in a drowse, knowing it not.

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap.

When I arose, still drunken,

The birds had all gone to their nests,

And there remained but few of my comrades.

I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

Fluff

The Vatican has acknowledged it had "secret rules" for priests who fathered children.  Huh.  Who knew?

Nobody ever talks about the nuns any more.  What did they do?

How is The Church going to recruit nuns and priests now?

No matter.  The Mormons have built a giant temple in Rome not far from Vatican City.  The Italians are very excited.  I doubt many know of the rabid competition between the Catholics and the Mormons for lost souls.  The old joke goes that missionaries were competing for native souls in the South Pacific.  One native asks the other, "What's the difference?"  The answer was that the ___________ let you eat dog.  I can't remember if it was the Mormons or the Catholics.

Such were the bad old days when you called people "natives" and competed for their souls.  You know, Mike Pence and all of that.

I was raised a Mormon.  Did I ever tell you that?  But I love the Catholic Church and all its devious history.  I wouldn't want to cross the Catholics.  They've quite a history of retribution.  The Mormons. . . not so much.  They got killed a lot.  My experience was that they are a very gentle people.  They don't go in for showing the gold as much.

My friends all tell me I must see "The Book of Mormon."  They say it is hilarious.  I remember that it got a thumbs up from the Mormon Church.

I think I had something else to write today, but whatever it was is gone.  Just another fluff piece in the Time of Trump.

The Price

We've talked of such things before, but it is good to speak of them again.  I am preparing to buy a sofa from RH on the Boulevard, a slick move if you do not care about money.  I should.  I really, really should.  My mother just bought a couch.  It was very inexpensive.  She needed to compliment it, so she bought a red ottoman at a garage sale.  She showed me a picture of it last night when she came to dinner.  I could not complain.

"Me and Martha were driving down the street and saw a stand on the side of the road.  Martha said, 'You want to turn around and get that.'  So I did.  It was a real nice stand, sturdy, and it has a stamp on it by the maker.  It looks good.  I put it in the corner of the room that looked so bare."

She showed me a picture of that, too.  Ottoman and stand (with stamp)--$30.00.

She went on to tell me that my cousin and her husband were going to the Casino for their anniversary dinner.

"Fifty dollars for the steak, twelve dollars for the salad.  You can order whatever you want.  You know, it comes to about a hundred dollars."

My father always ordered things by price.

"Sir, would you like a small, medium, or large?"

"I'll have the fifty cent one."

There would be no mistake about the price.

I haven't that talent.  If I can, I will go down and order the leather sofa today.  

Don't Tell

 No photos from me today, just things sent to me by those who care.  I didn't get one for Valentine's Day or I would have shared that, too. 

I am getting over the fever and chills and aches, I think.  Sweat through my morning therapy like I was really working out, so I figure something was breaking.  Now a full day of work and an evening of beautifying to test the theory.  I will collapse tonight. 

I am buying a new couch.  You would not approve.  It is from Restoration Hardware.  My friends never approve of my purchases.  But I will get what I want.  The couch I bought at Pottery Barn in 2001 is shot.  Who knew you could wear a couch out in a mere eighteen years.  It cost me a hundred dollars a year.  The next one will last longer.  I am positive.  Longer than I will, probably.  Hell of a thought. 

My laptop died.  It wouldn't turn off, wouldn't turn on.  It was in limbo.  I had what is referred to, apparently, as the "black screen of death."  I tried everything.  Now I have to buy another.  I will look for a three year old Mac, I think.  Something I can buy on the cheap.  I'll let you know. 

O.K.  The old factory whistle is blowing.  My weekends of late have been horror shows.  I have trepidation about the one to come. 

About that, I probably won't let you know.

The Obvious

I am trying not to write about the obvious. It is difficult to do.  I think writing about the obvious well is a special talent, but I was praised for not doing it once, and it made me consider.

Still, I have posted an obvious picture.  How do you not photograph that?

There are secrets out there waiting to be discovered.  Read "The Crying of Lot 49."  I suggest that because it is his shortest book.

I may be willing, however, to live on the surface of things.

Not Yet

Pretty California days.  Not so here.  Still sick.  Another day on the couch.  I'll miss getting beautified.  Ha!  I try to dream of better things, but nightmares come to haunt me.  T.V. is a bust.  I am not well enough to read.  So I will lean back, close my eyes, and wait for better days.

Ill

You can see that Walgreens shows up a lot in my most recent photographs.  Scary.  Just because you get hit by a truck, God won't keep you from getting all the regular illnesses, too.  I hurt so badly yesterday, every cell in my body, that I left work, came home, and took half an opioid, and stayed on the couch for twelve hours until it was time for bed.  I feel better but will stay home from work to drink fluids and rest.  My belly is bad, too.  I haven't eaten for a day.  Soups.  I'll try soups.

Goals

Oh. . . reconciliation, amelioration, etc.  Sunday was better than Saturday, but I am fighting off a grunge in my belly.  My skin and muscles hurt, too.  There are times, for real, when only opioids will do.  I know that from a long stay in the hospital that I hardly remember.  True.  Ili told me I had a catheter.  I can't recall that at all.  She said I kept complaining about it and pulling it out.  But there are far more things that the old Morphine kept me from remembering, all to the good.  If I had Morphine last night, I'd be tip-top today.

But we live in fear.

People ask me jokingly if I am going to get another Vespa.  I think about it.  It was the most fun I had.  People are flabbergasted when I say so.  But what is the point of living in fear?  Bad things happen.  I could have gotten hit on my bicycle just as easily.  I miss jumping on the Vespa and taking a ride.

It is only when I try to move that I question that decision.  Movement is not fun for me now.  But I keep working at it.  I am no defeatist.  Not all the time.  A moment here and there, but who doesn't have that?

More than anything, I want to be able to travel.  Q asked me yesterday if I wanted to take a road trip.  Sure I do.  What he doesn't understand since he doesn't see me is that going to work is as much as I can stand.  I want to get into the car and drive around the country.  I want to get on a plane.

It will be awhile.

I got this grunge from taking care of my mother, by the way.  She was keeping her house very warm.  It felt like she was growing funguses in there.  I tried not to breathe the air or touch the surfaces.  You can only do that for a minute, and I wouldn't not take care of my good old mom.

I will try to find a story to tell, I swear.  I can't tell the one I just lived through, but maybe something will pop up today.  I will try to take a photo or two as well.  I have goals.

Don't we all?

Worst Day

The day is done.  It was a long and sad one.  I spent it alone except for having some cake with my mother and cousin who just came in from Ohio yesterday.  The weather was not foul, simply gloomy.  I can say it was without exception the worst birthday I have ever had, and that is going pretty far.

I won't bore you with it.  I can't tell it creatively yet, and other people's problems are worse than other people's dreams.  What people want is a good tale.  I'll try to gather some.

It is a great day for being lazy.  A constant rain is falling through the grayness inviting me to read and write and rest.  I will drink healthy teas for pleasure.  Perhaps I'll make a pot of good soup.

People were having trouble posting comments on this site, so I took all the filters off.  To wit, I am now open to comments such as the following which showed up yesterday.

neha mumbai escortsFebruary 10, 2019 at 1:16 AM

Welcome to Mumbaihotcollection.com, home of the finest Mumbai escorts in Mumbai area. Our Mumbai escorts are the finest Mumbai has to offer and will provide an unforgettable Mumbai Escort experience!
Escorts in mumbai

Nice.  I think I'll click on the link and give away my social security number.  I'm not sure how many readers I have who travel in Mumbai, but let me know what your experience was like if you decide to use the services.

What could go wrong?

Tomorrow

I'll leave the factory early today.  I want to avoid surprises.  I don't feel like celebrating. 

On the other hand, I don't want to feel under-appreciated, either. 

There is no winning on a thing like this.  Besides, the thing is not until tomorrow. 

I think I got yelled at while I was taking this picture.  I am pretty sure.  But hell, some things have to be seen to be enjoyed.

And so it goes.

Become a Tree

And then you go on. . . but it is no better.  Sometimes, it is worse.

But you go on.

What do we dare hope?

What was it that the Buddha said about hope?  Maybe he didn't say anything about hope, but somehow I feel he did.  It is surely linked to desire and we all know what he said about desire.

Become a tree.  Become a rock.

Right.

I Can't Go On. I'll Go On

It finally happened.  Last night, I broke.  I hadn't until then.  It had been a bad day.  I had probably done too much, pushed myself too hard.  I try.  I don't want to be a burden, don't want to bring others down.  But yesterday, I could hardly stand it.  It happened after we got home from shopping.  We were talking about last year's birthday.  In our hotel room watching "I, Tanya," I got up and did a perfect double flying camel--into the wall, but still.  It was a beautiful thing.  I was beautiful.  The memory of that, just one year ago, broke me.

And so now it has happened.  We'll see how I go forward.  I'm sure it happens to everyone who gets disabled by accident.  Well, no one does it on purpose.

I'll be brave again today.  I go to therapy this morning.  I'll keep trying.

As Beckett's character cries, "I can't go on.  I'll go on."

Best Spent in Bed

The sun is up.  Ili lies in bed.  I sit with this computer that barely works trying to think of something to say.  There is nothing.  Outside, a crazy symphony of birds.  Walkers walk, runners run.  The first morning racket begins.  To what do I look forward today?  There are many things that must be done.  I look forward to none.

It is one of those dangerous days.  Watch the lights.  Don't cross on red.  It's probably not safe to cross on green.

Chinese New Year

I won't speak of Maroon Five (or whatever they're called), of football and such.  Yesterday was the Chinese New Year, whatever that means.  All I know is that it was another weird and lazy day for me.  I can sleep forever it seems.  All I have to do is lie down and close my eyes.  It is an escape, perhaps.

My license tag was out of date on February 1.  I meant to renew it that day, but time ran out, so I put it off until today, Monday.  Yesterday while driving to the grocery store, I saw a cop in my rear view mirror.  "Great," I said to Ili.  "He'll pull me over."

The light turned green and I went straight.  So did he.  I put on my blinker to turn into the grocery store parking lot.  So did he.  I drove very slowly and stopped at all the appropriate places so that my car did the old kickback.  I turned up an aisle to park.  He put on the flashing blues.  He approached the car as they always do, like a cat burglar, speaking to me from the rear fender.  Turning left for me is not impossible, but it is awful.  I must have looked monstrous as I tried to peer back at him.

"Does your window roll down?"

"It could," I chuckled.

"Is this your vehicle?"

"Yes."

"What's your first name?"

"C."

"Wait a minute.  Something's wrong."

I was proffering my driver's license.

"This tag came up as belonging to. . . ."  He said a woman's name.  "Let me check again."

Seems he was off by one digit.  He was very polite in apologizing for pulling me over.  I had to laugh.  He didn't notice the outdated tag. 

Gray

Last night, I had just a little trouble sleeping.  Not the sort of trouble that is horrible, just enough to make you aware that you are having trouble sleeping.  Bad dreams, probably.  As I lay in bed, I would try rolling over onto my broken side, my broken shoulder finding better angles, my ribs deciding to seemingely protrude less, I thought about what now gave me pleasure in life.  The list was not as long as it used to be.

I have lost much of my pride.  I don't walk with the same confidence that I used to, but there is something else.  At the gym yesterday, I saw all the young, strong bucks lifting heavy weights to thicken their growing muscles from my post on the treadmill.  After a lifetime of it, I didn't care.  Are they tough?  Step in front of a truck and find out.  That is what I have now.

So the fun stuff in life no longer based in superior athleticism.  Nor looks, I guess.  So what made the short list?  Communication, written and visual.  That seemed to top the nighttime list.  

The day was gray.  I communicated nothing.  I may, someday.

Wow! A Tirade!

I have this beautiful Saturday all to myself, and all I can stand to do is lie upon the couch and dream.  Not all.  I did my shoulder exercises this morning and then went to the gym to work out my legs.  I asked my therapist if my shoulder was stable enough for me to jog on a treadmill.  He scrunched up his forehead and thought for awhile.  "You should only go slow, really slow, and only for twenty to thirty seconds.  Then walk for a couple minutes and do it again."  Well, that was something, anyway.  So I went to the gym to try it.  I've been walking for forty minutes or so on an incline, and after doing that yesterday and then doing seven minutes on the stair stepper so that my heart was coming through my chest, I was sore this morning.  I planned on trying to run just a bit before getting onto an elliptical machine and then the stair stepper again, followed up with a leg press machine for three sets.  Not heavy, but a lot of reps.

When I turned the speed up on the treadmill and started to trot, my ribs felt like--I don't know what to compare it to.  They didn't like it.  So I did it again.  And then again, running more seconds each time.  I did that for a mile, then did the rest.

I can't move.  I am tired.  All I've done after washing some laundry and showering is doze on the couch. I think about getting up and think again.  I should just enjoy the rest, but the sky is blue and the air is gentle outside and I feel a real guilt for wasting the day.

Wasting the day?  What is it that I should do?  I am content to be lazy.  It is only that "being lazy" is what I've done for months now.  But I did some things today that I've not done since being run over by a truck.  I will motivate, I tell myself.  I will go to the grocery store.  That will be a tremendous feat.  I will.  Soon.

I watched "American Dream/American Nightmare" last night on Showtime.  It is a documentary about Suge Knight, the music mogul.  I watched it with Ili who took the whole thing differently than I, though both of us enjoyed the show immensely.  She has read a book recently about judicial unfairness to African Americans and is on a wave.  I don't love black people any more than I love white people.  I have black friends.  They are not my friends because they are black, they are just my friends.  I don't have many--friends, that is--maybe because I was an only child.  I am used to entertaining myself.  But I saw Suge in the same way I view Trump.  His success was all about power and money.  He was brutal to those who stood in his way.  He was without remorse.  It is the history of things.  I'm not one to wave the flag of right and wrong.  I've never seen anyone with the tablets, never heard from the burning bush.  Right and wrong change over time.  If you don't believe it, watch sitcoms from fifteen years ago.  They are shocking in their racism and misogyny if you believe we have gotten things right finally.  It was o.k. to laugh at people being gay.  It was o.k. to like the Founding Fathers, old Popes, etc.  Nope.  As far as I can tell, there has never been right or wrong, just social conventions shaped by those in power.

For me, Old Suge was a lyrical gangster, a poetic son of a bitch who, as he said, didn't start at second or third base to make it home.  He had to run all the bases.  And he did.  But he wasn't a good guy.  He was a fellow who lived half his life in the back of the paddy wagon.  He wasn't innocent of much and he liked his women sucking on his fingers and toes and wearing nothing.  I'm not saying he was wrong, but you might.  To turn him into some kind of Compton Christ is beyond me.

But goddamn, he was impressive.  And I really liked the documentary.

And I don't even like the music.  The little white boys at Country Club College sure do.  They're all badass gangstas if you listen to them drive.  Old Suge surely made some money off of them.  Kinda pumps 'em up, makes 'em feel wild and manly.

Of course, Suge ends up in prison and Trump becomes President, and therein lies Ili's tale (if I'm to tell it).  Yea, the dice are loaded, the cards are marked, and privilege is for the privileged.  Even Snuffy Smith can tell you that.  Or L'il Abner.

It's why we have religion.  

Different Colors

The colors of film are much different than digital camera colors.  There is no reason for that to be surprising.  It just is.  I enjoy a color film scan more than I do a digital camera capture.  I can't explain it other than to say I do.

The weather, no matter where you are.  Trump, no matter where you are.  Two disasters that need radical solutions.  Not much hope for either.

My world has shrunken, of course.  It is mainly about how I am doing, what I am doing, when I can get home to lie down and rest.  I am tired of that.  I am tired of going to doctors.  I have no energy for taking care of the things I need to take care of, but they must be taken care of.  There is no way around those prepositions.

Wondrous what experience does to a person.  The dreams of the young are always so much the same. That is why we like them, I guess, and why we are so dismayed by their petulance.  Is it experience, though, that makes a person liberal or conservative, or is it something "in the blood"?

"Three Identical Strangers" doesn't really answer the question (link).  It simply stirs the boiling pot.  For us contrarians, though, we know it is genetic.  There is no helping it no matter the cost.  If we could only keep our mouths shut, we might pass for something else, but we must always speak to our own demise.  Why?

That's a question I'd like investigated.

O.K.  I'm off to physical therapy.  I have a couple days alone.  I'll either rest or take a camera out.  Odds are on the former.