And so. . . .
I cleaned my mother's windows in the morning. Some of them. The ones we look out, front and back. They were filthy. Now the rooms are bright. While I was finishing up, one of my mother's neighbors with a lot of her own troubles came over for a visit. She wanted to take my mother out to eat and maybe get her nails done. Would mom rather do lunch or dinner? My mother seemed dazed and uncomprehending, and she looked at me with terrified eyes. It took awhile to get my mother in the game. I let the woman keep talking just for fun before I yelled at my mother, "Lunch or dinner? Which one?"
"Dinner, I guess."
"Do you want to get your nails done?"
"Sure."
The neighbor would pick her up at three. And suddenly, just like that, I was free. I could do anything I wanted. I could have a beer in the afternoon. I could go anywhere I wanted for dinner. When I got into my car to leave, my mind was a frenzied jumble. I'd go home first and make a plan.
I never made a plan. I never left the house. I was as uncertain and confused as my mother. What would I do? I don't know how to have so much freedom anymore. When I looked up at the clock, it was six. I no longer had time to get dinner. I didn't want to go anywhere anyway, I told myself.
I got a Big Mac on my way back to mother's.
I am, by any estimation, pathetic.
"How was dinner?"
"It was good."
She'd had fried shrimp, one of her favorites.
"Did you do alright? Were you able to sit o.k.?"
"Yes. I did fine."
Shit. I mean, I was feeling. . . guilty. I don't take my mother out to eat. First she makes salmon, then she has a half day outing. I think she's getting better. I'm need to start taking her out for beers or something I guess. But she has given up beer. She is now drinking my whiskey. True. Maybe that is why she is feeling better.
In the evening, my mountain friend sent me a video of a little concert on a hilly green, two women on a stage playing guitars and singing.
"This is what I do," he wrote. He sends me such things all the time. It pisses me off since his own mother is here in the same or worse condition as mine. But he is able to feel o.k. visiting once a year and calling sometimes because he has a family and lives in Cali.
"You need to bring your art to Burning Man. Crash for twelve nights. Make memories with a girl."
"I'll see if mom feels up to it."
Nobody gets it. Or maybe I don't.
I put on the television. I watch bookends of my photographic desires. One made beautifully aesthetic photos without going anywhere, sitting alone, drinking coffee, and listening to music in his studio apartment (link). The other had gallery and museum shows and was well known. He travelled and photographed incessantly in the American street (link).
My blood was racing. What do I have left? Six weeks? Six months? How long before I can do none of it any longer?
I sat in my house the entire day without moving.
I will move today. I will trim the branches of some bushes that are growing into small trees in my mother's backyard. After I make her breakfast.
If I were free, I'd already be out with a camera. Before the heat. Before the rain.
So I say. But time is running out.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I am gaining an appreciation of those who have nothing inside them trying to escape, who are content with dinners out, family vacations, golf. . . .
"But what of us who have all the desires of the artist but none of the talent?"
That was a good film. Too bad he only made one like it. His Bergman. But it underperformed at the box office. Naturally.
"O.K. Buck up, laddie. There are things to be done, and you are just the fellow to do them."
There's another big Ribeye in the fridge. There is always something to look forward to.
But first I have to get off my ass and out the door. The first step is always the most difficult.
No comments:
Post a Comment