Momentary

This is the kind of photograph I should be taking, but, you know, times being what they are with people suffering from OMWC syndrome. . . .  Still and all, if I just didn't give two fucks about what people think. . . you know, Marcus Aurelius and all. . . . 

What?  You don't?  WTF do you do all day, wait for the Trump/Biden debate?  I can't even believe this is happening.  "The best thing about this election," I read in The NY Times, "is that one of them will lose."  Holy Christ on a Cross. . . neither of them have even been nominated yet, and yet they are going to debate?  I'm sickened. 

But I'll watch.  How can I not?  My most fervent hope as that they are both carried offstage on stretchers.  

This is not what I had planned to write.  I had planned to write a followup to yesterday's post, but I needed to scan a lot of photos first, and that didn't happen.  There were a lot of things that were supposed to happen yesterday but didn't.  It's O.K., though.  It was a good day nonetheless.  I had an early workout that left me time to lie poolside and color up a bit.  Just ten minutes front and back. I color quickly.  Surely my ancestry is mixed.  My father's side of the family looked like gypsies.  Roma people, I mean.  Sorry.  But yea. . . I'm sure to have gypsy blood.  Do you know the Gypsy's Curse?

"May you find a lap that fits you."

Look it up. 

Following my poolside visit, things went splendidly.  I was happier than I had a right to be, I think, for nothing spectacular happened.  Perhaps I was simply rebounding from the low I experienced the day before.  Manic/depressive shit?  I don't think so.  Just a normal, healthy reaction to the vicissitudes of life.  

I planned on finishing a roll of film.  I didn't.  I planned on buying a new pair of running shoes.  I didn't.  I was going to skip my nap and be productive.  I didn't.  What I did do was the very usual things, a trip to see my mother, a cocktail with the cat, a light meal, etc.  I had no surprise love letters, no communications at all, really.  But my attitude about things has changed very much recently.  Did I tell you how much I don't care anymore?  Oh, yes. . . .  I've been inspired by something I've read.  

"Do what you do better."  

Yup.  Reading Doctor Phil's Guide to Self-Realization.  

Ha! Kidding. 

Actually, the afternoon rains came late yesterday, so I sat inside and watched an interview with Somerset Maugham.  I'd watched a documentary on his life the night before (link).  He was quite debauched and extremely well traveled.  Some of his works had a profound influence on me, none more than "The Razor's Edge."  So last night, as the rain poured down, I watched this.  

Maugham, an 80 year old queen in 1955, is as fascinating and informative as anyone I've seen interviewed--ever.  There are very few people I know that I thought might enjoy this interview as much as I, and halfway through the show, I was so excited I sent a link and a note to C.C.  The interview is full of gems for a writer, I think.  

When that interview was finished, another one came on.  This. 

Holy moly!  I sent this one to C.C., too, but he wrote back that he had already watched this some time before.  This interview with Frost, however, from 1952, would be of interest to more than writers, and I sent it to my conservative friend with whom I argue.  He wrote back before he went to bed how grateful he was that I had sent it.  I thought he would like it, for Frost was a practical man.  It was he who taught me that "everything must go to market."  As I've said before, this confused me for a very long time, but finally I realized that there are many marketplaces including one for ideas.  There is a marketplace for writers, too, of course, as Maugham mentions.  Kipling, for instance.  When he died, F. Scott Fitzgerald hadn't a single book in print.  

My mood had lifted.  

It didn't help me sleep, however.  I eschewed all sleep aids and had a fitful night.  It's O.K.  I'll get used to it.  

I'll scan today, I think, and post today's supposed piece tomorrow.  Perhaps.  Things can change, of course.  

Not long ago, I told of my revelation that my inability to draw or use tools was from my constant sense of hurrying.  I went back a couple days ago and read some of the posts on the blog.  I was dismayed by the number of errors I let stand for lack of editing.  I was embarrassed, of course.  If I were a different sort, I would follow Maugham's maxim and rewrite things three times before setting them free.  But, I'm afraid, there would be no daily record were I to do that.  It's just that I am ever so in a hurry. . . . 

So forgive me for my sins.  It is not ineptitude, I hold, but recklessness.  Maybe I have an undiagnosed form of ADHD.  Do you think I should try Ritalin?