Anywhere Anyway. . . Probably

This has become one of my favorite images.  I have so many that I can't really show.  I haven't shown this one out of fear of alienating somebody, but I can't be sure anyone comes here anymore anyway.  The counters no longer work.  So, by and large, I am writing to myself in the great and vast void.  And that is what I love about this photo, the explicit world weariness of it.  It is the model.  She nailed that Existential dilemma. . . is life worth living?  In looking back at the pictures I made with her, she did it over and over and over again.  

But I can't show this photo anywhere, though.  Not on FB, IG, X, TikTok.  The media world has banned nudity.  You just don't see a naked person any longer except at home in your own mirror.  

There is always a story.  This woman had diabetes very badly.  She had a stint in her back for an insulin pump,  a big plastic thing we had to shoot around.  She had faced her own mortality, I would guess.  Probably was.  I think she had probably stared into the void.  

"I can't go on.  I'll go on."

When I sent the photo to C.C., I said I had become paranoid about showing such things because I was afraid to piss anyone off.  

"WTF has happened to me?"

"You already piss people off. You’re old goddamn it. People already dislike us. What have you got to lose? Your regrets??"

Ha!  When you start trying to please other people, you've already lost. . . or so they say.  Maybe it was Ricky Nelson in "Garden Party," but I don't think he was the only one.  

So here I post it in the only place I can.  I think she and I made a goddamned good picture.  

I've been facing my own Existential crisis lately.  The whole "what is the fucking point" thing keeps creeping in.  My mother hasn't been well for a month.  She looks to be in decline, and there is literally nothing I can do.  My own health hasn't been so great, and now I'm a gimp with two bad knees.  Maybe it is this whole Christmas season thing that is getting to me.  I am pretty sure I don't like being alone without a love of my own--I think those are song lyrics, too. . . "Blue Moon," maybe.  

Yesterday when I went to my mother's, I got out of the car and saw that my left rear tire was almost entirely flat.  I looked.  There was a screw in it.  My mother bought me those tires at Costco one Christmas, and they came with a Road Warrantee, so I drove there as it was only a couple miles away.  It was 3:30.  

"Can I help you?"

"Yea.  I have a screw in my tire and it is almost flat.  I have the Road Warrantee with you."

The large man, much taller and thicker than I, looked down at me.  

"I won't be able to get you into until after 8:30.  We have to take appointments before walk-ins."

WTF?  There was nothing I could do.  I've learned not to get pissy when there is nothing I can do.  It does no good and makes me feel like a real prick, so, in resignation, I simply made an appointment to take the car back at 10 a.m. this morning.  I filled my tire up before I left and am hoping there is enough air in it this morning to drive there.  It is cold and still dark outside, so I have yet to look.

My bathroom sink is still held up by caulk.  

My mother complained about the sprinkler repair guy.  It took all her energy, she said.  She can't take care of this stuff any longer.  O.K.  I will.  But wait. . . I can't even take care of my own shit.  

And so.  I had taken a trip to the legal CBD store and got some things to help me sleep.  I took a double dose.  I woke in the night thinking it was morning.  I was sure I had slept hard and fitfully all night long.  I looked at the clock.  1 a.m.  Holy fuck!  All I wanted was someone to cuddle up against.  That always made things better.  

What I had was a nighttime of THE VOID!  

I asked my mother if she would like to go to Vespers.  O.K.  I'm taking her on Saturday night.  Her birthday is coming up.  I need to get her something.  I should quit drinking, but I am going out with Red tonight and the Brohemes tomorrow.  There is the village Christmas Parade on Saturday morning and a factory Friendsgiving at Factory Brewing on Saturday afternoon.  I have a hair appointment on Sunday, and on Monday. . . wtf do I have on Monday?  Something.  Fuck, I've forgotten.  Bad sign.  And all week I am supposed to be calling the courthouse to see if my presence is required for the trial of the camera thieves.  

Monday, Monday. . . wtf is on Monday?

Oh, yea. . . I'm going to lunch with my shop foreman replacement and her/my old secretary and one of the other workers.  Yea.  That.  

Sounds like a fun week, right?  Ho!  I am filled with anxiety over it all.  I've been broken, I think.  Paranoid fat crippled homeless looking man.  

I watched "Lee" at home alone last night (link).  Maybe that didn't help me sleep, either.  Oh. . . there is nudity in the film, but YouTube won't show it in the trailer.  Just saying.  

But that is what my life has become, by and large.  I can't do a whole December of Christmas with you.  I just can't.  I thought I might, but I was wrong.  Maybe here and there, you know, but it seriously overwhelms me.  

Red is going to Miami this week.  Art Basel is taking place.  I have thought about going down.  I've never been.  I don't know, though, that I can get away.  I could drive down for a couple days, maybe.  I am told that trying to drive anywhere near the venue is impossible.  Getting a room would probably be, too.  There are many reasons not to go.  That has become my thinking, my logic.  

Red is writing songs and making music.  "Maybe you can help me with some lyrics," she said.  Yesterday, I heard this song and sent it to her.  But, really, it is how I feel.  

"Nobody will remember my name," she says.  "I guess that's what you get."

I can't wait to hear C.C.'s response.

If this is country music, I guess I like country.