"Jesus marimba. That looks like a vision from the planet distopia. WTF? Feel free not to share more of that work."
That from my conservative friend. Maybe his is "the voice of the people." I don't know. I don't respond to his texts much anymore. He sends me provocative news clips, MAGA kind of stuff, with commentary, but when I respond, he gets insulted. I will no longer be provoked. My comments only make him dig a deeper trench. Nothing I can say will change his mind. So, in response to his provocations, I send him misdirects and nonplussed responses. You can't change an authoritarian personality with argument.
But I liked the picture. And therein is probably the difference between us. He has been financially successful. Had three boys who all went to Ivy League schools. One has gone into the military. Remained married to a lovely wife who quit her high-powered job to stay home and raise the children.
Me? Didn't make much money. Worked in the factory. Always promoted my partners' careers. Lived a more bohemian existence. Championed alternative ways. Wanted to be "artistic." Ended up alone.
See? He lived the rule of the American Playground which is also the rule of American Business--never say anything unless you are sure everyone agrees. Not everybody, though. Just those who can make or break your career, those who can do you ill or good. You can make fun of "the little people."
Bitter? No. Not really. Envious? No.
What then?
I'm sure it is simply genetic. 99% certain. I could never have done things any other way. Selavy.
I'm certain, too, that I am losing readers. Two ways. First slowly, then suddenly. There is no photography here now, or little, and nothing recent. And there is no adventure, no story other than the long, agonizing one that leads nowhere good. I tried to live a life yesterday for a few hours, but I got a call--no, two--from my mother. She could not get the commercial tv to work. Where was I? She had a terribly boring day. When was I coming home?
Yes, she doesn't want to suffer on her own. We'll both be in the grave soon enough.
The tenant will come back from her long summer vacation today. Yesterday was her birthday. She made sure I knew. Otherwise, I would not have. I don't remember anyone's birthday but my mother and dead father's and my own. I don't like birthdays, as I have said repeatedly, especially not mine. It has always been a time of disappointment or much worse. But, because of constant barely subtle reminders, I sent her a birthday greeting yesterday.
She didn't respond until late last night. Again, not everyone shares my sensibilities.
I had some ideas about how to work with images in what I believe is a unique way, so yesterday, after chores and errands, I sat at the big computer and tried working them out. That is when I got my mother's call. But I did manage to find a couple ways to enhance the old Polaroid photos I used to make. I'll share those with you someday soon if I get more time to work on it/them.
So, after my mother's second call, I drove back to her house. I keep telling myself I will not drink, but WTF am I to do? I made a Negroni and went to sit outside with my mother. We sit. Conversation is not possible. I say something, she smiles like a moron letting me know she has not understood a word I've said, so I shout it to her one word at a time. I'm certain her new neighbors think I am abusive. We look out over the driveway, across the street, past the houses, and into the sky above the roofs watching the clouds and checking the weather. Eventually I get up to make dinner. After dinner or maybe during, we watch the news. It is six, six-thirty. At seven, I decided to watch a movie. Last night, "A Rainy Day in New York." I'd seen it, but it still was a surprise. Timothee Chalamet. Elle Fanning. Selena Gomez. Liev Schreiber. I'd forgotten. And yet. . . the acting is atrocious. And again, the film is beautiful.
By the end of the film, I was in the bag. Nine o'clock. What to do? I'd been sitting now since four-thirty. I felt myself a corpse. I put on "Wonder Wheel." I must have hit my head at some point and not realized it. I have seen all these films before but can remember none of them.
Nine-thirty. My mother wants to go to sleep. She wants to sleep on the couch. I turn off the television. Whatever. I get ready for bed.
11:00. I wake up. I'm not going to sleep. I get up to look for the Tylenol PM. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, has moved it. I wake her up. She tells me where it is.
1:00. Up.
2:30. Up.
4:00. Up.
6:30. Up for the day.
Fascinated? Yea. It is what I have except for the danger of smelling those franks cooking outside the Home Depot when I was walking to my car. I was very tempted. It was the most exciting temptation of the day.
Will the carpenter come to work today? I have grave doubts. I fear he has abandoned the project.
In a bit, I must get my mother to a bank to deal with a maturing CD. I will make her breakfast first. I will clean up the kitchen after. She is up now, moaning, moving, making as much of a racket as possible. Pill bottles open and close. More moaning. One can only feel sorry for her. It is misery about which one can do nothing but suffer along with her. No, she doesn't wish to suffer alone. Who does? And so. . . .
That illustration really isn't that far off from the original photograph, is it? You remember it, I'm sure. Those are her real eyes, not something stylized. She looked like a German Expressionist painting all on her own.
Somewhere, there is music. Someday, maybe, I'l get to hear it again.
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