I have new photos, but when I look at them, I just want to throw them in the trash; however, I may have new photos soon. Maybe. I broke out the big Black Cat super camera yesterday and made a few pictures. Nothing of any note. I just want to find out if I am ever going to use it or if I should sell it. I have gotten better at the technical part, I think, but the thing is big, awkward, and heavy. The middle of my back got worn out using it yesterday in very little time. But I am determined to make sixteen photos with it before I decide. My main problem right now is not really knowing what film is in the film holders. They are labelled with colored stick on dots, but I am no longer sure what those dots mean. I am guessing. Once I shoot through all the mystery film, I will reload them all with the same film so that there is no mistake. Then begins the sixteen photo project. Last night, lying in bed, I convinced myself I would use it to make stranger portraits. I would pretend to be deaf and dumb and hand people cards saying "May I Take Your Picture" on one side and "I Will Give You A Dollar" on the other. No shit--it seemed like a capital idea at the time. I would just grin with the big-assed camera on my shoulder and a dollar bill in my hand. It seemed a sure bet.
But I was probably drunk. I had made spaghetti and asparagus for dinner and had been drinking red red wine and was on my first scotch while cleaning up the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I was at the kitchen window and could see it was Mormon Missionaries. Surely you know what that is. You've seen them riding bicycles wearing white shirts and ties. Yes, those are the ones. My mother is a Mormon.
"Mom," I said, "some missionary boys are here. Entertain them in the living room while I clean up."
She had the look of a cornered rat. She wants me to sit with her whenever people come over, but I wasn't in any mood to do that. I had just broken a vertical blind slat that my mother asked me to try to fix because it was not lining up properly. They never do, and she has had the neighborhood men come in to try to fix them when I am not here so that I am silently shamed. I HATE vertical blinds and my mother's imperious ways and was too forceful when I turned it and it snapped. Now I was pissed off at my life and at the world. I went to answer the door.
"Hello, boys. . . come in. My mother will be right with you."
I went back to the kitchen as my mother hobbled by. As I washed the dishes, I could hear them talking to her and then repeating what they had just said, and then asking if she heard what they said. I let this go on for five minutes until I heard them say something about leaving, so I walked into the room.
"It's nice of you to stop by and see my mother for a couple minutes," I said leaving out the shitty part about how it must make them feel good and righteous. "My mother has been giving her ten percent tithing to the church her whole life. She is a Christian and a True Believer," I said knowing that some do not believe the Mormons to be Christians which came as a shock to my mother, "and anytime the church wants to build another annex or a new building, they come and put the touch on my mother. Now she could use some help. She would like to go to church on Sundays, and it seems to me that maybe someone could take her and bring her home, and maybe there are activities she could join in during the week."
The boys were now wearing perma-grins and pop-eyes.
"What do you think?"
"Yes, uh. . . I think we can arrange for a ride to church. I don't really know what activities they have. . . . "
"That's great. I appreciate you guys and love you," I said. "Her friends from the church are all very sweet and she appreciates them."
They said they would come back on Friday to see my mother.
"Is six o'clock good?"
"Fuck no, man, that's Happy Hour. We'll be balls deep in the liquor bottle by then!"
Of course that isn't quite what I said. I told them that was dinner hour and that my mother didn't stay up much later, the second part being a big fat lie, and that mid-afternoon would be perfect. And so, they said, that is when they would come. I gave them more gratitude and love and saw them to the door.
When they were gone, I looked at my mother. She looked like she had just walked through a hurricane.
"How was that? Was that O.K.?"
"Yes."
"I didn't come on too strong?"
"No. You know how to do things I don't."
"O.K. then. You'll be going to church from now on. Good news."
I don't know if that is really what she hoped for, but I am weary of her complaints. My life is shit, what little I have, and my last years will be spent caring for my mother, cooking, cleaning, driving her to her many appointments, taking her to banks and insurance companies, etc., and still feeling guilty when she complains about the misery of her life. And then I will die and she will have to find another caretaker.
I think it was snapping off the vertical blind that did it. This morning I looked it up, though, and found I can either buy another one for $45 or I can order a repair kit on Amazon for a few bucks. That is a bit of a relief.
But I still hate the fuckers.
All the sports world is abuzz about the N.Y. Knicks, up two games to none over the San Antonio Spurs. Swept them two games on their own home court. Now tonight the series heads to New York, and fans are rooting for a four game sweep and a championship. But Donald Trump is going to tonight's game sitting nearly courtside, and he will be a curse. He is definitely going to jinx the Knicks, and it would be a miracle if they could overcome that. The crowd will be booing Trump, I think, though it may be made up of rich republicans as tickets are going for tens of thousands of dollars.
Still, I believe in the jinx. Trump gold is all gilt. He can turn anything precious into shit.
I don't think I'll watch.
Well. . . you know the drill. My mother is up and sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me to make some breakfast. I think I'll put on some music this morning and try to pretend I'm going to do something fun. Here's one that reminds me of The Beach Boys. 21st Century Beach Boys. Hell, that would be a good band.
No comments:
Post a Comment