I'm tired to death. I'm making mistakes. At night, once again, the horror show begins. I'm in the 7th week of living with my mother and watching the slow decline. My patience has worn thin. There is now just the low moaning howl of slothful agony.
Hers and mine.
I was shopping for the dinner menu at the grocers last night when a woman stopped and said hello. It took me a minute to recognize her. I hadn't seen her in years. She took one of my lit courses many, many years ago. Her family owned the best, most pleasant deli in town. It had been there since I was in high school when I was a lost, forlorn, solitary teen living for some future dream. I had a car and had discovered what would become my own hometown. The Boulevard was for the affluent locals, an oak lined street with great little shops and courtyards. There was a movie theater, an ice cream shop, a family owned men's store, a bank, a locally owned five and dime and another general store, women's dress and shoe shops, and just off the Boulevard, a Morrison's Cafeteria and a small but wonderful grocery store.
Coming from where I did. . .
The deli's name was Brandywine. They made the best sandwiches I'd ever eaten. I'd was reading Tolkien in those high school years. The name. . . everything seemed enchanted.
Years later, the woman's family bought the place, and for awhile, she helped to manage it. And later, when I was in the band, she married the bass player from another local group. He was a tall fellow, and I used to play basketball with him. A couple years later, they opened a record store on the Boulevard. And then, later, they sold it and her husband became a professional photographer doing catalog work for hotels and colleges.
I saw less and less of them over the years.
Yesterday, she was as nice and friendly as ever. We chatted a bit catching up, and then her husband wandered over from another aisle. He stood tall as ever, grinning.
"Are you still doing photography," I asked him?
He kept grinning.
"No," she said. "He had to quit. He's disabled now and unable to do it. He is losing his memory. He has a kind of aphasia. He can't remember words anymore."
I looked up into his grinning eyes.
"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. And so we made our goodbyes. He reached out and shook my hand, grinning all the while.
"It was nice to see you," she said.
I rolled my groceries to the checkout where the unhappy person of indefinable gender transitioning rang me up with a scowl.
When I got back to my mother's house, "Gunsmoke" was blaring at top volume. I said hello and began chopping chicken and broccoli and started the brown jasmine rice. I was only going to drink a light beer, but when it was done, I opened an IPA. Dinner ready, I poured a big glass of wine. Dinner done, I had a scotch. After we had watched the first fifteen minutes of the network national news, I cleaned the pans and dishes. My mother was back to "Gunsmoke." I poured another scotch.
The girl had been texting ideas for another shoot. She was excited, she said. She had posted some of the pictures on her social media account and, she said, people loved them.
"No shit."
The news had pissed me off, and I guess I was a little drunk. Life seemed a real shit show to me now. My conservative friend had sent me a bunch of Goebel's style propaganda, what Zelensky's accurately called "disinformation." I'd had enough. I wrote back an acerbic response.
"Fuck EVERYBODY who thinks Trump and Musk are just "funny." Ukraine attacked Russia? Fuck all of you! There will be blood in the streets by summer, I predict. If Trump/Musk cut 100% of the government workforce, it would be, at best 1% of the budget. Give me your address. Put out a Trump/Musk sign. By August, your house will be burnt down.
DEATH TO THE FASCIST MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!"
I guessed he wouldn't like me much after that.
Then I sent the girl some example photos of other things I have shot--a hog hunt with cowboys, big city street scenes, part of the surf series. She is a media major and works on websites. I asked her if she could help me put one together.
People always wants to know, "Do you have a website," and I have to say, "No." But it is becoming obvious to me that I probably maybe need one.
My mother had left the heat on high all day, and it had become uncomfortably warm in the house, so I got up and put on the a.c. It did nothing. I went out to see if the compressor was working. It wasn't. I told my mother who didn't seem to grasp the concept. She went to bed. I stayed up waiting for a response. The only one I got was from my conservative buddy.
"Is that an opinion?"
Nothing else. I brushed my teeth. It was hot, so I stripped to my skin, turned on the overhead fan, and went to bed.
Maybe it was the whiskey.
In the middle of the night I woke up cold. I got up, put on a t-shirt, and tried the heater. Nothing. I went back to bed dreading the morning, but the night wasn't any better.
This morning, the house was cold. I tried the heater again. Nope. I made coffee and checked my email. I'd forgotten, once again, my old rule of never writing anyone when I was into my cups. I had no response from the girl. Well. . . fuck it. I don't like anyone anymore anyway.
And so it goes.
The HVAC repair guy will be out today, but my mother set the thermostat on "EM Heat" and the house has warmed.
"You can either use the compressor for heat or use the unit inside."
I'd been curt with her about the thermostat.
"I'll pay for the repair," I offered. Fuck me. I'm a mess. My nerves are shot.
This morning as I thought about my old disabled acquaintance, I realized that I am lucky. It is difficult to feel lucky when you are crippled, but yea. . . there is a lot of worse shit. Many I know are going through it. My age, not my mother's.
I need to quit drinking again. I need to find some equilibrium. I tell myself, "If I had a studio. . . I'd be happy."
If it were only that easy, eh? Well. . . maybe it would help.
"So just shut the fuck up and rent a space for Christ's sake."
Yea, yea, yea. The money river's running dry. Trump is going to turn it into a desert. Not just Trump. All the assholes who voted for him. The ones who have money still don't care, but the farmers are already feeling the pain. So will small business owners who thought they were mini-Musks. People who work for a living and pay rent will turn against Trump, too, I think. By summer, when the ice storm turn into tornadoes, floods, and hurricanes. There will be marching in the streets.
One can only hope. But maybe stupid people will just believe in his lies.
Yea. . . I need to get back to hippie ways. I'm already cooking good food, but I need to meditate and drink teas instead of whiskeys. And I have to give in to reality and give up on hope. Hope is futile.
I could see it in those grinning eyes.
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