My mother's neighborhood. . . just to give you an idea. It is a fine neighborhood built in the 1960s. Most houses are cement block, between 1,500 and 1,800 sq. ft., usually three bedrooms and two baths. It was built just outside of my own hometown when the road between them was two lane with very little traffic. Since then, much of the neighborhood has been incorporated into the city limits, and indeed, my mother's house has a Hometown address. The road between her neighborhood and mine is now four lanes and always lined nuts to butts with traffic. It is only a few miles from my house to my mother's, but it can take twenty minutes in either direction. There are only quick chain restaurants on this "side" of town, some strip malls with grocery stores, and not far away, a Costco.
That is where I went with my mother yesterday. She pushes the big cart that serves her as a walker while we are there. She is slow. I mean S-L-O-W-W-W-W. Now on Saturdays, Costco is jam packed, this day with mostly crackers, hillbillies, and Hispanics. Crackers are the worst for my mother. She pisses them off. They want the lane. They want to get by. The hillbillies are more tolerant. But it is the people of Hispanic culture who are nicest. When they see her, the men ALWAYS smile and say, "How you doing, mommy." I don't know if I am spelling that right. In Spanish, I'm certain it has a different connotation. They will touch her arm, and if I am not immediately visible, will ask her, "Are you doing o.k." Sure, there are asshole cartel wannabes, but by and large, I find that Hispanics are the kindest and most helpful for my mother.
We ran around a bit more, then brought lunch back to her house. At two, I had to take her down the street to a "girls" party. They do this a few times a month. That is when I finally got to go back to my home.
By 5:30, my mother was calling wanting to know where I was. In 72 hours, I've had fewer than 8 to myself. This one almost broke me. She can't find things. She can't figure out how to call people. She needs.
I want to write away from myself, this fictional account of my real life. It has become to tedious and frustrating in a way you can't understand if you haven't been a sole caregiver for a very long time.
I played some with A.I. The image. A story. A collaboration.
Do you want such stories? Do you want such things? I don't know. These are perilous times. I like the terrible oddness of some of the things I have designed. There are many reminiscent of Balthus. I don't know. What are these things called in French? Carte somethings. Some are from London, some set in Italy and Mexico City. I've yet to try the South American Pampas. Simply amusements, I guess. Grim plaisanteries.
I watched a YouTube doc on Martha Gelhorn last night. I think her life and writing inspired some of this. She wrote clear prose in the Hemingway tradition as she had learned before she married him. She was a good writer a lot of the time. So was Hemingway. Hem's claim, however, was in the invention of the style that would be copied ever after. But she was good.
I would, you know, make such images. Yea. . . you know.
C'est la guerre. In Paris, after the war, there were few luxuries. They did what they had to do to get by.
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