Sunday, September 12, 2021

Peeper


I'm out of photos unless I go back into the dinosaur cave.  I haven't taken any for a couple weeks, I guess.  So I am hereby posting one of the 1960s vintage fashion era radical change in direction/Italian Vogue images from a different time and sensibility.  I'll try to make something new today.  

The problem is I'm not working digitally and I am using big, burdensome cameras and am experimenting all the time and so have an overabundance of test shots and nothing of real value.  I have to develop all the film or plates and can only do so much at a time.  I'm not complaining.  I just don't have anything to show right now.  Fingers crossed, something tomorrow.  

But I am a people photographer.  All those building shots from the Time of Covid. . . just ain't me.  I'm a voyeur.  I get excited looking at just about anyone through a viewfinder.  I'm sure there is a name in the psych journals for this malady.  Well. . . voyeurism will do.  Yea. . . I'm a real peeper.  My ex-wife's father had wonderful apartments in Manhattan.  I used to go all the time.  At night, looking out back toward the courtyard, it was like the movie "Rear Window," only more so.  The things you'd see were astonishing.  I read an article decades ago about a photographer who had been making photos from NYC windows for years.  He had a huge portfolio, the writer reported, that would astonish people when shown.  As far as I know, however, that secret stash never came to light.  Probably too many legal hassles.  

I don't have even one person to make photos with.  Not one.  You might say, "What about your mother?" but I'm not going there.  I guess I do have limits.  Actually, it doesn't take too much thinking for me to find many.  O.K.  Yes, I guess I eschew most people.  My interests are. . . I'm sure there is a term for it.  

Refined. 

But I am a good caregiver and a good son.  My mother has never eaten so well.  Last night I made a chicken barley soup with carrots, onions, celery, and spinach in bone broth and wine.  Served with crusty bread.  God it was good.  

I'm taking her swimming this morning at her neighbor's pool.  Not swimming, really, but the therapist said that getting in the pool would be good for her shoulder.  I'll be there as the fat lifeguard remembering that since my accident, I'm unable to swim.  We might both be discovered floating face down sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.  If not, tonight there will be more soup.  

I am trying to stay away from the news, but here is my big takeaway today.  

In a single zany sentence, this is how the once-promising summer of boxing ended: Triller, a social video app that is a much less popular version of TikTok, put on a pay-per-view fight between a 58-year-old Evander Holyfield (who hasn’t fought in a decade) and a 44-year-old mixed martial artist, Vitor Belfort — and paid former President Donald J. Trump and Donald Trump Jr. to serve as live commentators, all on the 20th anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks. (link)

 Trump had hoped to box Biden in the main event (link), but I guess the money wasn't right.  

This, my friends, is the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.  It is Your Land.  It is My Land.  Stand Beside Her, And Guide Her. . . . 

So maybe we've all gone mad.  It seems so.  And from what I read today (link), t.v. execs are going to feed us an endless stream of sci-fi/Marvel Comics entertainment until we all become addled teenagers once again.  It will be the triumph of Clearasil.  

And so it goes.  There seems to be no sun today, so much of my photo dreams are cancelled for the umpteenth day in a row.  I need sunlight for those glass plates.  I may have to move on to a plan B.  Or make more pictures of "things."  

It is not much of a life for a peeper.  

4 comments:



  1. Sweet Jesus.

    "O.K. Yes, I guess I eschew most people."

    Wandering the house this morning -- and late last night -- something came to me. I don't really like people that much.

    Oh. I love people. In the abstract.

    But there are too many who want me for reasons I simply do not have the energy for anymore. Does that sound hideous? So be it.

    I'd rather be alone than bothered with people who don't ignite my passions.

    Isn't it a horrible thing to say. I'm Lisa the Libra - the empath. The justice lover. Etc. People are drawn to me.

    There are 5 texts this morning from friends/acquaintances that wish my company today. I texted each of them a sweet reply that I had a busy day of chores and perhaps we could plan for something next week.

    I've never passed your blog link to them, so they won't know what a douche bag I am.


    I've been ruined. I suspect. By books. Art. Music. By T.

    I'm so grateful.

    The melancholia is good for art. Perhaps I will be able to settle in and write some things. or make crafts.

    I went to the garden and hugged and lavished love on my plants. Even the dogs are bothering me today.

    Oh. I can fake it. But that just adds to the energy suck.

    Last night - the moon was the most incredible orange thing. I wished to hug him, too.

    The change of season is upon us. It's just like me to funk out --

    I must go to the Isabella Stewart and see the Titian exhibit. Alas, there is someone who wants to make that trip with me. Will they ruin it for me? Will have to make a second trip alone to get out of the trip what I need to get out of it?

    I'm an asshole.

    Oh sorry. That was a selfish rant. Back to you.

    I have always been partial to that model - I mean in your "white girl" category. Ha!


    x

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  2. Oh. It must be Tales of the Crypt month.

    T. had a small/part-time blog. I never read it - unless he asked me to look -- which he didn't.



    I stumbled across it today.

    What a burst of thought he was. I found a poem I never read (hugely long - Wastelandish) and lo and behold - I even found something I wrote in 2008 that he had squirreled away, unbeknownst to me.

    And you are right -- sometimes you don't remember. It's a little poem about Louise Bourgeois.




    On the Nature Of Certainty - Feb. 2009

    In this very uncertain world, there are an awful of people who are certain of things. This is that, or that is this, or this is diametrically opposed to that. Despite all we know, we really know very little. How to put our pants on maybe. Friend of mine once related a tale to me: seems he was an artillery man in Nam, and he was sleeping one night when his base came under attack--he allowed that he was fully dressed and on his way to his post ten seconds after the first shell hit, never asked him if he tied his boots, passed on now, shoddy work of the VA carried him away--yeh, but in times of stress I guess we know how to put on our pants.

    We are entering a brave new world; how may we certain that this theory is any better than the one it debunks? How long will it be before the parameters change; the stars shift?

    No, it doesn't matter what theory, we have theories for everything--the computers leave us with a range of probabilities and we just rearrange the facts to fit the current condition, or at least as many of the facts as we can fit into an incomplete and fragmentary picture.--watching the detectives, they often say, "it's all we got to go on--sanitized for public viewing they never smoke anymore--another subtle hint for acceptable behavior, another subject--

    One recalls reading the Foundation trilogy--Hari Selden's invention of Psychohistory, and the second Foundation's refinement of the data over a millennium--the project's purpose, of course, was to predict the the future history of the Galactic Empire through the movement of a vast number of people. Even so, the data was incomplete, errors could occur...

    Our confrontation today, well, at least mine--is with Economics, Politics & Art, specifically poetry; and I for one, know so little about them that it would be best if I just crawled back in the cave and pulled the bearskin over my head. I should note here, that it would have been my step-dad that killed that bear, if I were confronted by such a fearsome beast, I fear the outcome would be somewhat different.

    Through the good graces of our various magic boxes we are indeed bombarded each day with certainties,--yet those same certainties have led us to the brink of Armageddon rather than the steps to the gates of Eden. Something has gone awry. It would seem the experts know more than they are telling us, or they know very little at all.

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  3. "No, that's not what I meant at all, I was not sure of things, and really, it just seemed to be that be that way, at the time."

    When I was a boy, over in Dogtown, I'd go up to old Earl's and listen to the old men sitting around the Burnside, spitting, telling lies and cussing the politicians. They'd all been union men, democrats and John L. Lewis was a god--one of Grandpa's favorite stories was the time he'd met John L. up in Brownton when the union was first getting going, "shook his hand," he'd always say. They was certain of God, though they weren't very good Christians, certain of the union, punching the chicken on the ballot, and damned certain every politician that had ever been born was going to pick your pocket. Back then, having only one tv channel, and having Uncle Pete as both news anchor and kiddie show host wasn't quite enough to affect the way you behaved; so I hung out with them old guys and probably learned a lot of things I shouldn't have. I suppose, through everything because of that, I have a few certainties of my own deep down inside, one's you might say as I keep for my own.


    "There's nothing better that 250 mics of good acid to kick start the cosmic coonhunt for Enlightenment. It takes juice. After all sonny boy, you don't knock down stars with a bee bee gun."
    -- Mad Dog Howard, Hippie Doper/Philosopher
    http://www.joebageant.com/joe/

    Yeh, all that was later on, something about it--where you came to a rockhard place that you knew you were going to and the Great Game was laid bare. Kinda pointless here, to try and illuminate the motel rooms, the neon, the flimsy walls and the animals--but it was what it was at the time: The whole damn world as a charnel house; everything bleeding & breeding and dying--ancient visions now, and prophesies that saw way down deep at the seams of things. I looked at the Nature of things and who we are, and was amazed at the veneer which we use to cover it up. That is another certainty which came along; I suppose if I could translate it, it might be helpful, but I reckon that particular certainty can't be taught or bought or stole.

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  4. It was round about that time, I decided I was going to be a poet--Dave's fault really, he wrote about the wheel of life in a little poem, and I was astounded, got lost in a fever from which I have never escaped, and have been lost in the uncertainty of certainty ever since. Damndest thing about it is, you have to learn all this stuff, (damn near everything) just so you can write about that which you cannot know; and that's the easy part. Damn silly thing to want to be in the first place--quite vogue these days; the net is crawling with "poets". There are some commitments you can't escape, yet all the wanting in the world won't make you what you want to be; that may or may not come along after you are gone, and by then I don't suppose it will matter much, now will it. Turns out, I was never much good at making a living anyways so it was just as well I wrote things down. Point is--I was certain that is what I wanted to be, since nothing else made any sense; everything I learned from that point on had no practical purpose, it was simply grist for the mill, stuff to be sifted through for the next poem.

    Whatever other certainties I acquired, I applied to that. Studied philosophy from Thales to Sartre, dumped most because the next one proved the last one wrong, History from the Nile Valley to the second world war, literature from Homer to Ginsburg. Came away from that with a few things--Birth death rebirth, the absurd, and the dialectic--which seemed reasonable to me. I rejected the formal, preferring instead to see in each finished poem a form. To me the formal structures lacked weight, they determined, not allowed. (many consider a mastery of the forms as liberating, but that is not my view.)At any rate, I determined that I would find my own way through the maze; and that is not so easy as it sounds; everything you read sends you to the next one you will read and certainty about anything retreats ever further away.--Nowadays, and I suppose it was always true, though I cannot be certain of this--most folks will have you do something in one particular fashion; because it is their way, and therefore it is the correct way. Put the square a sixteenth of an inch longer than it should be, and maybe it will come out right, whatever it is, it's a feel for the the thing that matters and that's something you can't be certain of no matter how sure you are that you got it right.

    http://lutescorner.blogspot.com/2016/01/

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