Without Hydration

Sunday.  What's a fellow to do?  I planned on doing what I always do--read, write, exercise.  I've expounded on the difference between habit, routine, and ritual here before.  This was beginning to feel like habit, and it wasn't what I wanted to do.  I decided it would be better for me to just take my cameras out for a walk.  I would exercise both my body and my spirit.  

I took two cameras, the Canon with the Holga lens and the brand new Fuji X100vi.  I am enamored with the first and need to put the second through its paces.  It was 9:30 when I left the house.  I drove to what is euphemistically called "Little Viet Nam," parked my car, and took the walk.  

Nobody was out and the day was already steamy.  I carried both cameras, one around my wrist and one around my neck, and within minutes my clothes were soaked through with sweat.  Was it the weather, or was it me?  It might have been a little of both, a fat man walking on a gimpy knee and an atmosphere with 90% humidity.  No matter--I was committed.  And so, determined, I struggled on.  

After awhile, having covered the territory, I went back to the car and drove to downtown Gotham.  It was hotter.  The Farmer's Market on the lake looked empty.  I turned toward the main drag then looked for parking.  I quickly found a spot, a metered space on the street in front of a big church.  Old one.  Big.  Been there my whole life.  When I pulled into the space, though, there was a blue cover on the meter reading "Reserved for BDFC."  All up and down the street, metered spaces were reserved for Church.  WTF?  

I backed out and drove on, and fortunately I found a spot only two blocks away.  Then I thought, "How in the name of the little baby Jesus would anyone know if I had gone to the church or not?"  

But I was sure they had their ways.  

I decided to leave the Canon in the car.  I wanted to see what the little Fuji could do.  As I limped up the sidewalk, fat, wet, wearing a bum's clothing, I passed the Church.  People stood in groups talking in false, chirpy congregational voices, the men in jackets, the women in semi-formal dresses, all looking self-congratulatory at one another through the bright eyes of the knowingly saved.  

They scared the shit out of me.  

As I approached one group, a young teenage girl turned and spotted me over her shoulder.  Without hesitation, she moved to the other side of her mother and took her arm.  I am sure she was convinced she had just seen the Devil.  Were I able to spew fire and brimstone. . . . 

Such is the life of Quasimodo.  

And so, crippled and sweaty, I hobbled my way around Gotham.  

When I walked by the two women in the photo at the top of the page, they asked me what I was taking photos of.  They were Bible ladies, the kind you see on street corners, in parks and shopping centers all over the country.  They are always pleasant, always nice.  They were friendly ladies, and so I stopped and chatted.  They were missionaries, of sorts, but they did not arouse any ire.  Nope.  They were just nice ladies.  

"I just got this camera," I said, "And I'm trying to learn how to use it.  It's a real pip, but every camera is a little different."

"Do you take photos of people or. . . ."

"Sure, but a lot of people are paranoid, you know, that you are going to put them on some social media page. . . I don't know. . . here, let me take your picture."

They didn't mind at all.  

"I can send you a copy if you like."

They looked at one another then shook their heads.  They didn't want it.

"Do you take pictures of girls?" I heard one of them ask.  

"Girls?  Uh. . . yea, I. . . uh. . . ."

"Squirrels," she said.  

"Oh. . . ha!  No, not really."

"There are usually a lot of them around here.  I don't know where they are today.  You should have been here a little while ago.  There was a girl over there," she pointe to the across the street corner, "in a ballerina costume having her picture taken."

"Oh. . . just my luck."

As I say, they were nice ladies, nothing like the Congregation I had just passed, and we chatted a bit more before I said it was getting hot and I'd better move on.  As you can see, their umbrellas were not for rain but simply parasols against the rays of the sun.  

In a little while, I passed a pizza parlor where a toothless man was forming doughy balls for making pies later.  I was timid, but pointed to my camera and raised it to my eye.  He just looked at me and grinned.  I took only one picture which is a habit from my film days that I am going to have to get over, but I put it on the rear screen and held it up to the window for him to see.  He simply kept the same expression, the same grin, so I waved goodbye and left him to his chore.  

I walked for a couple of hours, then, just before noon, wet from head to toe, I headed home to get clean.  I stripped as soon as I walked into the house, filled the tub, and poured a Guinness.  Once clean and dry, I decided that the Cafe Strange and a mimosa would be just the thing.  

The girl who makes them for me was there.  

"Hey," she smiled.  "What can I get you?"

"Do you think you could make me a big old mimosa?" I grinned.  

She thought she could.  

"You are the only one who will do this," I said.  

"Really?!"

"When the young girls are working the counter, they look confused and say the bar doesn't open until five." 

I watched her as she sliced the oranges and put them through the juice press.  Just behind her on the wall were some small instant photos of the other counter help, some of whom I have taken pictures of right there, but the pictures on the wall were not mine.  

"Well, now. . . that isn't right," I said pointing to the photos. "I'm going to give you a photo to put up there in a moment."

I took my mimosa to a table, pulled out my instant printer, did all the magical things I had to do, and made a sticky back print which I took to her.  

She looked at the photo, giggled, eyes wide, and said thanks.  

I went back to the table and opened my notebook.  I realized I hadn't drunk any water after my long walk, and I was downing the mimosa greedily.  It was almost gone when I got a surprise.  Tennessee walked around the corner.  

"What's up homie?"

"What the fuck?!"

He and his wife were on the Vespa scooting about town he said.  

"I saw your car. . . ."

It was bullshit.  I've told him I come up here to get mimosas on Sunday.  In a minute his wife came with two teas.  

"I asked the girl at the counter if there was an old man with long hair and light eyes here.  She said 'yes, but I don't know where he is sitting.  He just gave me a picture.'  I told her you were a great photographer and she said, 'I know, but I don't know his name.'  I told her we just call you The Shaman."

My mimosa was almost gone.  I rose and  walked to the counter to get another, but there was a line out the door, so I returned to the table empty handed.  Tennessee was looking around the room with my camera in hand.  

"Man, you could get a year's worth of photos in here in an afternoon," he said.  The place was starting to fill up with wildly colored hair and exotic costumes.  

"Yea, but I can't.  I don't know. . . I should. . . .  What I need is a young female assistant.  It is easier for them. . . ."

"Like your own Ghislaine," T's wife said.  

"Yea. . . exactly."  

The crowd at the counter cleared out, so I went back to get another mimosa.  

"Did your friend find you?" the counter girl asked.  

"Yea."

"He said you were a shaman."

The kid at the counter before me turned around.  

"You look like a shaman," he said.  

"Sure.  Come over to the house and we'll eat some mushrooms and listen to strange music.  I'll light the candles and burn the scented oils.  It will be fun."

His eyes widened and the counter girl laughed.  

I sat and talked with Tennessee and his wife for a long while, and when my second big mimosa was finished, they said they were leaving.  I looked at the time.  I should have already left for my mother's house.  I called her to say I was on my way, popped across the street to get a cold bottle of wine, then turned toward her home.  

Mother was making broccoli, rice, and a pork tenderloin.   As the pork cooked, I asked her Alexa thing to play bossa nova music, then turned the tv on to a football game leaving off the sound.  Even with the tv muted, though, I could not watch.  There is very little football and a whole lot of promotion.  Between plays, there are the closeups of coaches faces or people in the stand, subtle logos and advertising eating away at the viewers' souls.  I couldn't watch.  

My mother's hearing is going, going. . . and she doesn't hear most of what I say.  She looks at me blankly and nods as if she does.  It is terrifying.  All the little jokes and stories are difficult now, and so we sit in silence much of the time.  There is nothing I can do.  And so, I hug her and rub her back, and feel guilty for being able to see and hear, and when I leave, I feel worse, more guilt, more sadness.  

And so, when I got home, I did what I always do to mask the pain of living a mortal life and lit a cheroot and poured a drink and went out to the deck to contemplate "things." Just then came the rain.  

I decided it was my house and I could smoke inside if I wanted to.  I decided that for a minute before I changed my mind.  A text came in from the divorcee who kinda sorta asks me out.  I'd heard nothing from her since I went for drinks at Factory City on Tuesday.  

"Do I remember you said you liked banana bread?"

"Yes. It is a favorite thing."

"❤️"

That was it.  WTF?  

I sat on the couch and listened to the rain.  I had two cameras full of pictures that I thought about working on, but I had a Guinness when I soaked in the tub, two giant mimosas, half a bottle of wine, some whiskey. . . and hadn't had a glass of water all day.  I turned on the television.  

YouTube suggested some fellow named Ferguson interviewing Scarlett Johansson.  I bit.  

And here's the thing.  I am like a man who lives in a cave, I think.  Remember how I just "discovered" Aubrey Plaza?  I mean, I'm like a decade behind.  Apparently, she's HUGE (link).  Well. . . after the Johansson thing, clip after clip after clip of this fellow Ferguson came on. . . and I learned that he is the host of The Late Late Show, has been all century, it seems.  I watched him for the rest of the evening right up until I should have gone to bed and after.  How do I not know these things?  I thought he was pretty good, quick and funny.  I can't believe, though, that he wasn't cancelled with all his sexual innuendos when "interviewing" pretty guests.  Maybe he was eventually.  I don't know.  I guess I should Google him and see.  

I just did.  2004-2014.  Yes, he would not have fared so well after that date, I would guess.  Those almost match the dates I had my studio.  I was busy.  That's my excuse.  I spent last night catching up.  

The photos I posted today are not great photos, not even good ones, really.  I was just pleased that I took humans as subjects, that is all.  Working with a new camera takes time.  I have to learn how to manipulate the digital files.  They are big, but the Fuji isn't a full framed camera.  The images are full of information, much of which I would rather do without.  It will take time for me to learn how to make them look the way I want them to.  There is a whole lot of color information and detail I will throw out.  But the camera seemed to be able to autofocus more quickly than my prior one.  It is a good walk around camera, I think, for days when a Leica would be too much.  

That is my apology, anyway, my excuse.

OK.  Let's listen to a little shaman music.  Won't that be fun?