This is what happens sometimes in A.I. It is all about the language you use. Oops. But then again, there is something truly appealing about this like some Russian toy. The more I look at it, the fonder I am. It has grown on me.
I had lunch with some of the kids from the factory yesterday. They were on a daylong train and drinking tour. They stop at bars along the route, get off and have a few, then catch a later train and go further down the line. They start around nine and get back twelve hours later. Some drop out along the way and other join up, but there is a hardcore group that travels the entire day. I met them at their second stop, so nobody was sloppy yet. They were already there when I walked in. I was nervous for I hadn't seen them in a long, long while.
Cheers.
Hugs.
Genuine smiles.
I had an hour. A glorious hour with people who treated me as if I still mattered. They wanted my opinion and advice about what to do about the fascist administration now in charge of factory life. Oh, how I wished I were still there. I was good at this stuff, crazy brave but well supported. I had advantages and was clever enough to be absurd rather than aggressive. I could agree with the dumbest ideas on the table by going to the wildest case scenario as illustration. Smiles would crack. Heads would nod. Disagreeing through agreement. I had other, equally crazy strategies too. Whenever I entered an office, I had one goal. I wanted people to be glad to see me. I didn't want them to think, "Oh, fuck. . . what now?" Nope. I'd always asked if we were having cocktails yet. I'd compliment whatever I could. I got help. I got support.
Other than that, I was pretty lazy. A lot of people did my work. It became legend.
I was afraid I'd be awkward as I no longer get to interact with people other than the gymroids. But it was o.k. I got back on the bike. I could still ride.
And then they were off to the train station and I was alone. The day was gorgeous. I wanted more. I drove around, went to the photo store, then to the cafe. The photo store took away my euphoria. The cafe put me in a funk.
I need to find a new cafe.
I went home and worked more on the weekend photos and video, but I was already getting bored with it and had my doubts about the efficacy. The kids from the factory had asked me if I was still doing photography. One of them is a renowned painter, a Black man who paints photos of a Black Jesus, sometime on crucifixes, sometimes in near erotic scenes. I did some portraits of him back when I had the studio. Another of them was one of my first models. She came to the house before I had the studio and was one of the first to be shot when I first got it. She came a few times. I told them it was a difficult question to answer, but I DID get out a couple times recently and made some festival photos. I told them about my AI project and how I was making a video from the stills of the entire thing. I wasn't sure how it would turn out, I said, but it might be interesting.
"At least you're doing something creative," they said. It is good when you have people in your corner. I don't have much if any of that anymore.
I had decided that Friday would be the first day without liquor. Beer, sure. Some wine. But the hard stuff. . . no more.
When I pulled into my mother's driveway, the sun was shining, the air was soft, and my mother was talking on the phone. This was the rest of my Friday. I had stopped to get groceries and would soon be making dinner. Resolve went out the window. I made a big Negroni and went to sit outside.
"Just the Negroni," I said. The rest of the night would be maybe a beer, then tea.
Wine with dinner. Then a scotch. T.V. Another.
When I went to bed, I took a Xanax. I slept the whole night through.
This morning, I'm in an elastic bag I can't get out of.
I've spent most of the morning insulting my conservative friend. He says so. He has a drum he beats whenever I send him Trump shit. He says, "Thanks Joe autopen." He constantly berates Fauci. For him, Fauci is the devil. I asked him to name any legitimate scientist who was calling Fauci a failure or worse. Not Dr. Oz nor he White House take vermi-whatever doctor, and not any of his broheme podcasters, but someone legit. He sent me this:
Here are the three authors of the Great Barrington Declaration on COVID-19 (October 2020) and their credentials:
Author Credentials / background
Martin Kulldorff Biostatistician and epidemiologist. At the time (2020) he was a Professor of Medicine at Harvard Medical School.
Sunetra Gupta Epidemiologist with expertise in immunology, vaccine development, and mathematical modelling of infectious diseases. At the time she was a Professor at University of Oxford.
Jay Bhattacharya Physician, epidemiologist and health-economist. At the time he was a Professor at Stanford University School of Medicine focused on public-health policy, infectious diseases and vulnerable populations.
If you like, I can provide a more detailed breakdown of each (degrees, institutions, publication history, etc.).
It took me about three minutes to find out they were quacks who had written that climate change was a hoax and that sweatshops had benefits. They were funded by the Koch Brothers. Seriously. I sent him the results. He changed the subject.
He says I'm mean. I tell him to stick with the Andy Griffith show.
I'm not allowed to write about politics on the gymroid group chat anymore.
C.C. sent me a text after ghosting me for a few months. Q wrote me a few times from San Fran breaking a monthlong silence.
It is Saturday. I want to make some pictures today, but I have a beauty appointment at three, and so far I've not been able to climb out of the alcohol/Xanax bag I've put myself in. I guess I need an upper just like the housewives used to do in my childhood. Speed to keep you skinny, tranquilizers for your nerves, and sleeping pills at night. A cup of coffee, some cigarettes, and a Benzedrine got you going in the morning. You didn't fuck with those moms until they had their coffee, cigarette, and Benzedrine.
"Searching for the shelter of mother's little helper/And it helps her on her way, I hear every mother say."
My mother is unbelievable. She is beginning to walk around the house without her walker. Who comes back like this at 93. I brought her home from the rehab facility because she was miserable there. I cook for her. I clean. I give her meds. It must be working.
"You'll be blessed for this," they say.
"When."
"Oh, honey, you just need to count your blessing. You've still got your mother."
"Tell you what. Spell me for a bit. I want to take a long cross-country trip with cameras. I've got some strong ideas. You think you might bless me with that?"
I'm an ingrate, of course. Hell. . . I have Halloween to look forward to. I'll be passing out candy with mother. WTF do I have to complain about?
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