I'm plumb out of photographs except for the ones I shouldn't show. This one is by Saul Leiter, Paris, 1959. Oo-la-la. It is one of my favorites. Old Saul flew under the radar until very late in life. He just kept taking pictures. He is famous now, but he wasn't when he took them. He really wasn't even appreciated. Now, of course, everyone wants to have done it.
Such is life.
Today is the big day. I threw myself a little party last night, just me and a bottle of scotch whiskey. I stayed up past midnight. I read my horoscope. It is amazing how accurate they seem to be in the big picture, isn't it, about the personality traits and talents and longings and desires and even the way one seems to behave?
By gosh, ain't it the truth?
So. . . I will take a long, limping walk in the sun and maybe go to a cafe for a mimosa. Then it will be back to my mother's house to cook dinner and turn on the Super Bowl. As much disdain as I have for that commercial enterprise, it is part of my DNA by now having watched them all. It will be the Trump/Swift show. Drinking game anyone?
Maybe not for me, though. After succoring myself with that friendly scotch until it was today, I took a Xanax and went to bed. I only woke up at 8:30 because my phone kept pinging.
Maybe I'll wait to start fresh again on Monday. That seems more like it. Today may require some anesthesia.
It's not just pictures I lack. I haven't anything to tell.
I HAVE come to realize that it is not simply the multitude of loud commercials on the old t.v. westerns my mother watches that is making me crazy. It is the constant, loud, musical score they add to them. Why this has only just become apparent to me, I don't know, but yes, there is a constant orchestrated cacophony that runs through every program like a pestilence.
So, yea. . . a long, quiet walk and thoughts of long gone things will be the ticket for a little while.
I'll see you at the celebration.
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