Minor Swing

I have no desire to read the news this morning.  Maybe not for a long, long while.  I want to make something, to say a thing.  I will walk early, go to breakfast, and begin on some new mixed media pieces I've had in mind.  Later as the day gives way to afternoon and the crowds begin to disperse anticipating the mundanity of tomorrow's horrors, I will walk through the blocked off Boulevard of my small village's downtown and look at the end of the weekend's art show.  Then, of course, I will go to my mother's for dinner.

Last night, I went to a party with artists and lawyers, or so it seemed to me.  The friend who gave the party is a lawyer and an art collector and a pretty swell guy.  I know that "lawyer" and "art collector" sound precious and terrible in their own ways, and I'm sure this fellow would not wish to be categorized as such.  He is a traveller and a reader and many things that no longer exist or are not supposed to any more.  I usually run into him in the places that you would go, the "best places" in that sense.  You would like him as I do.

Many years ago, he bought a small house on the edge of our small town in what was the transition between chic and run down.  It is not so transitional any more, and he has expanded the house and built outdoor gardens and seating areas designed by people who are brilliant at that.  And so last night I was tempted to leave my house after dark to venture into a select crowd.  It was not without some trepidation on my part.

I parked on the street lined with cars and walked into the back yard just where the food was being served. I was hungry and thought this a good sign, so I filled a plate with barbecue and sides and looked for a place to sit.  Right away, I found a chair just in front of the trio he had hired to entertain.  It was absolutely the best place I could have been that night.  Beneath the clear sky and bright stars they played Gipsy Music lit up by a set of small blue lights.

(here is the trio who played last night under the moonlight)

Enthralled, I sat with a small group of people bobbing my head up and down with a goofy grin like the kid that I am.  My friend had left a message that said if I wanted to I could bring a date but that wouldn't be necessary as there would be lots of single women.  "What would they want with me?" was my internal response, so I was happy to sit and eat and drink and listen to these fellows in so intimate a setting with no need to interact with the crowd.  

After about an hour, though, they took a break, so I got up to throw away my paper plate and to get another drink.  I stood about for some time looking at and listening to the crowd.  The easiest to hear were the older attorneys, especially if they were from the south.  They are quite funny, really, if you are used to them.

"How do you know Harvey?" a woman asked the man standing behind her waiting to get a drink at the bar.  

"Glad to meet you," he said in a loud, Alabama voice.  "I'm Reverend Spilker, Divine Guidance at your command."

"Oh," said the woman, "nice to meet you.  How do you know Harvey?" she asked again as if it really mattered.

"I'm his spiritual advisor," said the reverend.  "And I'm available for service."  

"Really," the woman said again in an astonished voice.  Apparently she knew Harvey well enough to be surprised that he had a spiritual advisor.

"No. . . not really."  

"Oh," she said.  You could tell she had lost some balance.  "What do you do?"  

"I'm an attorney, sorry to say," he offered with the old apparent pride.  He'd made it long ago.  

I drifted off into another conversation but that booming drawl kept drawing me back.  He was talking about cattle and land.  

"All land isn't the same, you know.  You hear somebody has a cattle ranch down here, but it might take twenty acres to raise a cow and a calf."  He was full of wisdom.  But he was cleverly drawing her into a joke set in Montana that I knew well as a hillbilly joke set in the holler, but there are versions set in Alabama, too.  By the time he had finished, I had my drink and was headed for the house to see what my friend had hanging now.  

The art had all been changed and was, as always, magnificent.  As I stood gazing at a portrait, a friend stepped up to say hello.  He, too, is an attorney, a generous fellow who leaves me books of art and literature on a regular basis, another traveller and adventurer and a fellow full of good tales.  In a bit we wandered outside to sit and chat.  And after awhile, halfway through an interactive tale (nothing, of course, gets to be told as planned), I felt a dash of something cold thrown against my shirt.  I looked down and saw that it was red wine.  Oh shit, I thought.  And I looked up to see who had thrown it.  Surely this had to be retribution for something I'd done in the past.  Now would come the reckoning.  

I looked up to see a big fellow waving his hands approaching me.  It didn't take me long to realize he was in good shape.  I was seated and didn't think I had much of a chance of swinging first.  Hell, I probably would have to ask him to help me up out of the chair.  But then I realized he was dismayed that he had spilled his wine.

"Oh Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, shit, I can't believe it, I was just standing over there and it just flew across I've never seen anything like it. . . ."  He was unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the tails out of his pants.  "Here, man, I'm giving you the shirt off my back, take it, man, I'm sorry. . . ." I was glad we weren't fighting because he didn't have much fat on him.  Suddenly his girl was standing in front of me with some club soda and napkins.  "Here," she said, "here. . . " and she began dousing my shirt with water and patting it down until I was completely soaked.  But her blouse was low cut and so I couldn't help but stare at her breasts as she worked her drunken motherly magic.  Then my friend offered, "He'd rather have the shirt off her back," and she turned her head and laughed.  

"Don't worry about it," I said.  "When you have the kind of friends I have, this is a nightly occurrence.  It's not a party without a spilt drink.  I thought you threw it on purpose.  Hell, I'm just glad I don't have to fight."  

The apologies went on for awhile.  The fellow obviously felt badly, not for me, really, but for himself.  Obviously, he wasn't an attorney and didn't know the host.  It was obvious, too, that he had embarrassed his girl before.  He was just a fellow who couldn't live above his station, I guess.  Not like the fine hillbilly whose shirt he had just ruined.  

And so the night went on, my shirt drying to a nice shade of purple.  And after a few more tales, it was time for me to go.  The night was still clear, and the Gypsy Trio was playing its last songs.  Walking back to the car, I thought, "You need to get out more.  There are so many nice people to meet."  But really, the music was the best thing that had happened so far this year.  Such is my life.

I've spent more time telling this tale than I intended and the morning is no longer that young, so I must now hurry if I am to do what I had thought to do when I woke.  Then, lying in bed, I imagined opening a small cafe where Gypsy Trios would play.  I'd need a piano player, I thought.  Something like this.  

The Best Unplanned

O.K. That entry sucked, but I don't have it in me to change it.  I'll just say this.  I've looked forward to this weekend unreasonably.  I've dreamed and felt it and made too many plans.  Now, Saturday, the sun is up and dreams recede.  That is the way it is.  The best things happen when you aren't looking.  They catch you by surprise.

St. Patrick's Day.  Let's lift a cup.  Here's to the best surprises that make our memories past and futures.  I'm going now to look for Leprechauns.

The Wisdom

I have put on much weight in the last two years, but it has recently really begun to show.  A combination of vile and pernicious conditions have conspired to waylay my good looks.  We'll overlook the inevitable slowing metabolism.  That's the given.  And of course the degeneration of the padding between disks that serve to shrink us, too.  Injuries abound, the knees and hips hurting most.  Torn tendons that scar and are never as strong again play their part.  But given all of that--it's the fucking job.  Stress and a tyranny of time management rob me every day so that each weekend I think I am beginning once again a new exercise regimen.  But this is not my point.

Having gained weight and not being happy about it, I knew that I would have to change my eating behavior if I was to get back to my original weight of eight pounds, eight ounces (and even at that, I was a chubby baby).  So I went on a diet, the high protein thing, the old Atkins diet that allows you to eat all the calories you want as long as they don't include carbohydrates.  I did that many, many years ago for a very long time.  It is boring, but after awhile your mind changes and you look at the carb eaters with disgust.  I used to get coffee every morning at the Dunkin' Donuts just to watch people eat.  I was in the Devil's Den and wasn't tempted as I watched those voluntarily marching to perdition.  I was staying lean.

Eggs and bacon for breakfast, sardines or fried chicken (peeling the skin, of course) for lunch, a one pound steak smothered in banana peppers for dinner.  And gallons of diet cola.

All of you who scoff must do your research.  It works in many ways.  You have to avoid complete ketosis of course, but studies done on people maintaining this diet were surprising.  They had lower bad cholesterol levels, great triglyceride levels, and were generally more healthy.

I had based my decision about this restricted diet on the look of the Masai tribesman of Africa whose diet consists of a mixture of cow's blood and milk and the occasional stewed meat.  Of course, there are plenty of carbohydrates in both blood and milk, so years later I opted for a milk diet.  I had been watching people around me spend lots of money on liquid diet drinks that I thought little of.  One day I looked at the nutritional label on one and it was milk with vitamins, minerals, and flavoring thrown in.  And it was expensive, too.  I calculated that if I drank a gallon of low fat milk every day and ate a normal meal at night, I'd be better off than they were and spending much less money.

All the while, I was able to work out every day at the gym, bang the heavy bag, play basketball twice a week, and run the rest.  With my buddies I climbed mountains, paddled kayaks, swam in rivers, etc.

Where in the hell did the time go?

But again, I've strayed from my point which is O.K. because it isn't much of a point at all.  Written out this way, the behavior looks obsessive enough to be in the same category as anorexia.  Except I was very healthy.

So this week, when I said at work that I was on a diet, I constantly heard the modern wisdom, "Diets don't work.  You can't just cut calories for awhile.  You have to change the way you live.  It is about being healthy, about maintaing a healthy life style. . . yada, yada, yada."  I got this from all camps, from those who are obsessively skinny to those who are perpetually overweight.  No matter, they were all imparting The Wisdom.

I was unable to maintain my diet this week.  I had too many lunches and dinners to attend.  And when I was out, I just forgot.  Sitting with the famous '60s activist, I realized that I'd been reaching around the table eating fried potatoes off everyone's plates as I drank beer and kept up my end of the conversation. "How long have I been doing that?" I pondered.  Then again yesterday at a luncheon.  Tonight I am going to a party with spectacular food.  All of that combined with The Wisdom has done me in.  Thusly, to the last person who lectured me about the difference between dieting and changing the way I live, I announced, "I don't care if I'm fat.  I'm going to be fat. I like being fat.  It is fun."

I'm not fat, but I may soon be.  It is just a matter of changing the way I live and the way I think.  That is the truly remarkable thing about being human.  You can always change your mind.

Another Piece of History

Exhaustion finally gives way to a full night's sleep.  I was busy all day and didn't get home until ten.  I went to bed exhausted but didn't wake for eight hours.  When I opened my eyes to look at the clock, I was grateful.  Tonight, an attorney I know (who has a fabulous art collection) is having a party to kick off our little hamlet's weekend art festival.  The weather is to be gorgeous, the people beautiful, etc.  Truly, that is how I want it.

I worked on a video with Jane Fonda's ex husband yesterday.  No, not that one, the other one, the '60s activist.  I taped an interview then later a group of us went to dinner.  I sincerely liked him.  Some may have been disappointed, I think, because they want the figure to be an ideologue all the time.  Some people are looking for a Jesus, I guess.  But he wasn't that.  He was a guy who liked to play baseball and fish and take hikes with his son.  Of course, I didn't try to engage him in political talk and enjoyed that he had a tremendous eye for the women. Remember, Jane left him because of his infidelities, not vice-versa.  We were seated outside in the most beautiful weather (he lives in L.A but swore he loved the weather more here this time of year) waiting for our meals when someone asked if anybody knew the score of the Syracuse/UNC game.  A fellow pulled out a phone and checked.  Three points with a minute left.  And like jackrabbits we made haste for the bar.  Yea, he was just a good guy I think.  And now I'm "pals"* with three of the Chicago Eight.

Friday at the factory.  I have about ten models who want to make pictures in the next five days.  It is impossible.  I want to shoot them all.  As I've said before, I want to photograph everybody in the world.  I can't, of course, but I'll settle.

With sleep, I hope, my head will clear.  I've been muddled and anxious for days.  And with a clear head, perhaps I can write something coherent.  Maybe not, but there is always hope.

The proof, as they say. . . what is it?  In the "putting" or in the "pudding"?

*means I remember and am not remembered 

Rise and Fall

“Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.”    

(Charles Bukowski)

I fall asleep easily, wake hours later at two or three, then can't sleep until dawn.  But with the time change, dawn is past the getting up time.  Body and brain now ready for sleeping, I rise muddle headed.  This hangs on me for the rest of the hideous day.  They've increased the speed of the assembly line at the factory, and complicated the process to boot.  "Profits are down," they say.  "We must increase productivity if people aren't to lose their jobs.  You can help everyone here."  So the capitalists make a socialist appeal.

So the workers work harder and the foremen work longer and. . . the cheese stands alone.

At home, bills must be paid, tax information collected.  I eat, sit, fall asleep.  Some nights, some weekends, I try to make "art."

But I have an idea for a story about Lonesomeville and the Cripple Factory.  A series of stories.  They are outlined in my head.  They loosely tie together like the stories in "Winesburg, Ohio."

And I'm afraid they will never get the chance to be written.

I am dizzy and need to hurry.  I've taken to calling ahead, asking someone to open my office door.  Jesus, I say, I'm running late.  I'd never survive working for real, working seven days a week in Mexico or China or India.  No, I'd be locked up, beaten, thrown under some prison.  The leisure class float on a sea of stolen life, on workers' sacrifice.  They've even convinced the workers that they don't like unions.

No shit.  Why wouldn't a kid choose to be a drug dealer instead?

The South Looks Like a Moveable Feast

The world is hellish.  It is best not to think about it.  Santorum won primaries in the southern states last night.  What's his platform based on?  Evil stupidity.  Read your Faulkner.  He didn't make that stuff up. It is real.  And there isn't much defense against it.  That's why Faulkner was a drunk.  O.K.  That's a supposition.  But it is a logical defense.

I want to think it is just "the south."  It is not that you can't enjoy it from afar, can't get a kick out of its provincial ways, its shitty food and consequent obesity.  Even the ignorance is funny if you don't live in it.  Boss Hogg is alive and well, of course, and Smokey and the Bandit was hardly a joke even if a few of you laughed.  Some of you who live in bellwether cities and who know some educated and sensible people will object, I imagine.  Your friends aren't NASCAR addicts, don't live for professional wrestling, and have sensible tastes in wine.  You may even have a bookstore and a small theater that shows "films" rather than movies in your town.  But you know what I mean.  Insulate yourselves from the hideousness all you want--it is there.

However, this is just an hors d'oeuvres on a global scale.  In Iraq, police are killing "Emos."  That is what they call anyone who looks too western, has longish hair or tight clothing, who wears t-shirts with emblems of any sort, listens to western music, etc.  Well, somebody is killing them, and it is assumed to be the police.  What the police admit to doing is arresting anyone who is Emo and doing whatever it is they do to scare them straight.  They are called "morality police."  It is considered a good thing.  If only they liked NASCAR.  The American south looks like an educational mecca if you live in Iraq.  And Fundamentalism is just that no matter where you are.

In China, they have passed a law that allows the government to keep anyone they want in secret jails for up to six months.  "What happened to Xi," a mother might ask.  The only answer she will get is "the cold twinkling of a distant star."  They are provided with a pretty strong liberal arts education in China, too.

Iran.  Whatever.  Makes Russia looks like a safe house.  Kenya.  Somali. The list isn't just long.  It is ubiquitous.

I don't know what I'm saying here, really.  Probably never do.  I'm just frustrated this morning.  I have a little voice in my head that keeps yelling, "Run away.  Run away."  But when I ask, "Where," I get this.  Perhaps I should have married a rich girl when I had the chance.

Enlarge Your Hippocampus

I read that love in early childhood causes the brain to better develop.  It increases the size of the hippocampus which is a good thing.  The bigger the hippocampus, the better one deals with stress and depression.  Etc.

I've been wondering about the size of my hippocampus.  I was an only child, was breast fed, and got lots of love early on.  Still, I don't believe that love is the only factor.  Genetics.  So now I want to go have my hippocampus measured.

But I have an idea for making money off this.  I must do some research, but surely there are some nutritional factors that play a role in the creation of the larger hippocampus.  And surely I can market it.  People will pay, even if it doesn't work.  We know people will pay to grow larger organs.  I get ads every day.

Hippocampus Enlargement Pills

A Proven Enhancement Program

Double Your Size in Seven Weeks

I'll get as rich as a Russian.  I'll work on it.  

Thinking about it, though, all the mean ass, stupid, rotten kids I grew up with had mean ass parents who hit them every day.  But meanness was their heritage and their pride.  It wasn't looked down on where I grew up.  It was an adaptive trait for dealing with a cold, cruel world.  They rarely smiled, but when they did, you were not happy.  Their smiles looked like something cut from a pumpkin.  

Working at the factory can't enlarge your hippocampus.  Studies need to be done.  I am sure it causes shrinkage.  Reverse development.  It is a crippler.  Henceforth, the factory in which I work shall be referred to as The Cripple Factory.  Or maybe simply Cripple Factory.  Yes, that's better.  

In Lonesomeville, there is the desire for love, the pretense of love, but little love at all.  It sits just around the corner from Cripple Factory.  A little bit of mother's love.  

American Splendor

So last night, I had my Harvey Pekar moment.  My mother was coming over for dinner, and I had already chopped the garlic and sliced the avocado and gotten the Brussels sprouts ready for steaming.  The big chunks of tuna were cooking in lime and salt while they waited for grilling.  So I poured a glass of wine and sat down to find a movie for us to watch on television.  "American Splendor" had just begun, and since I hadn't seen it since it came out in 2003, I watched for awhile.  My mother and I, I thought, would watch "Game Change" when it came on in half an hour, but until then, I'd get a kick out of this.

My mother showed up and talked up the cat while I prepared the salads.  We sat in front of the t.v. with trays (o.k., o.k., I too much info), and she began to chuckle.  By the time I had the tuna on the grill, the other movie was about to start.

"You want me to change it or do you want to watch this?" I asked.  She said to stay with this.

And so we watched and laughed at Pekar's life, but too soon, I recognized too many scenes from my own.  There he was, for instance, sitting in the bathroom with the cat between his feet.  Walking by the mirror, he says famously, "Now there's a reliable disappointment."  A frame from a cartoon shows him with a dish and dish rag in his hands saying, "I could wash this ten times and it wouldn't be clean."

And then as he walks across a highway bridge, the narration is about loneliness, and I suddenly realized that tomorrow, I'd be back at the factory.  An entire week had gone by, and I'd barely left the house.  I looked at my mother surprised and said, "I haven't seen anyone all week."

"What?"

I thought hard about it.  I'd been to the gym and to the studio and out for meals, but other than that, I'd talked to no one.  It startled me that I hadn't thought about this at all.

What had I become, I wondered.  And just then, Harvey was asking his wife:

"What's wrong, Harvey? What are you doing up?  What is it?"

"Tell me the truth. Am I a guy who writes about himself... in a comic book? Or am I just a character in that book?"

"What are you talking about? What are you saying?"

"If I die, will that character keep going? Or will he just fade away?"

I've never been a comic book fan, and I've never read an issue of "American Splendor."  And I wasn't perturbed by the intimations about me the movie seemed to be making.  When I drew the parallels, my mother laughed real good.  There is not tragedy in it, I guess.  It is just the way things work out.  But tomorrow--yea--I'll be back at the factory, and later, I'll write about the things I see in my life.  I'll even show you pictures.  

Here is the song over which they rolled the credits. 

The National Disaster

Another day, new deal.  Late in the afternoon, I went out into the 'hood with my Liberator anxious to further the victories of the day before.  Nothing doing.  Emboldened by my minor success, I walked tall with the Frankencamera under my arm looking for an appropriate subject.  And soon enough, I saw two girls about ten years old dressed alike pushing a twin baby stroller with two babies in it.  Holy smokes, holy smokes, I thought, this is BEAUTIFUL, but right away the two little girls looked at one another, gave out two shrieks, turned the carriage around and sped back to the place from which they had come.  And I was there soon enough.  On the carport sat a bunch of women and children.  One woman, who I assumed to be in charge of the two little girls, stared at me as I passed, mouth agape.

"Hey," I said like a white man studying the natives, "what are you kids afraid of?  Did my camera scare you?"

They just looked at mom who looked at me without registering I had said a word.  I continued to walk as the crowd in the carport studied my back.

I crossed the tracks and was at the old train stain which now served as the Farmer's Market on Saturdays.  I spied a wedding couple walking with a photographer who had four digital cameras and two assistants.  The bride looked at me, then at her fiancé, and said, "Is that a camera?"

"It sure is," I said like Pecker, and continued, "and I'd take your picture with it."

The photographer looked at me with unguarded antipathy, and the wedding party turned to run away.  So I walked on further 'til I came to an old wagon made of wood and steel.

"This will be good enough for a test," I told myself.  "It will be plenty good enough."

And so with my test frames shot, I returned to my studio to develop them in my new formula to see how they'd look.

They turned out to be too weak.

So I headed out again.  Maybe I'll be luckier this time, I told myself.  But I wasn't.  And after walking only two blocks, I was out of my crack neighborhood and and into the million dollar white shopping street.  It's the south.  Not kidding.  So, quickly coming upon a Vespa. . . I shot that.  And while I was working away, a youngish, middle-aged couple walked by.  Two film packs lay upon the sidewalk.  I heard the woman give a little snort in passing.  Sure, I thought, it is the same as it's always been.  Distrusted by the one crowd, disliked by the other.  How long, oh Lord, how long.

But that is how the neighborhood surrounding my studio works.  Next door, there was a fellow selling crack.  A block away, all the fellows hang our all day and drink beer under umbrellas set up on the big side yard.  There is some dealing going down there, too.  Another block and there are Vespas and expensive restaurants, lingerie stores, cello shops, etc.  Thinking about that, I got the idea that I would go to the big church up the street and talk to the preacher.  I would tell him that I wanted to record a history of the neighborhood, the challenges and changes it faces, in photos and words.  I would make prints that he could show at the church.  Yes, yes, I thought, this is my golden ticket.

Back at the studio, I put the negatives into my further modified formula and peeled the instant film.  And in the end, everything had worked like a charm.

But I'd forgotten what a pain in the ass it is to work with film.  I've gotten so used to the kind of process I do with Polaroid that I haven't had to worry about dust and scratches.  So for a tediously long time after scanning, I touched up the images for spots.  I am not a careful man, but I if I continue to work with film, I am going to have to learn to be careful.

O.K.  Welcome to the National Tragedy--Daylight Savings.  They need to quit fucking with the time.  It is bad for people.  Studies show this is true, but none of us need a study to know that.  Which western state does not move the clocks?  I think it's Arizona.  Or is that the state with all the inexplicable lights in the sky?  It is probably both.  One might have something to do with the other.

Well there's a dull report.  Hope you find it useful.

Hard-Ass Fun

People were piling in at the cafes and bars on Friday after work.  I don't blame them.  Work is a new invention, less than a couple hundred years, really.  I mean the kind of indentured servitude we commit to forty hours or more a week in order to house, clothe, and feed ourselves and, perhaps, our families.  And I did that--Friday Happy Hour-- when people were still glad when I walked into a room, though not so much of it as others.  Even then I was given to driving to my sailboat for a weekend of solitude or simply moping around the shores of the lake, the echoes of festivities calling me across the waters.

But this is what I get a kick out of now.  I went to my studio and started mucking around with "The Liberator."  I thought I'd best get out and shoot since I've bragged about it already.  I bought a new Fuji film holder which arrived today, so now I can shoot both black and white and color with a simple change of holders. I thought also to try shooting some black and white negative film and to develop it in the new instant film developer that is a single solution of developer, ammonia, and fixer.  Five to ten minutes and the film is done.  So I loaded some film holders and grabbed the Fuji and headed out to the street.

A little boy on a bicycle was riding by.  He was looking at the Liberator cradled under my armpit.

"Hey, you want to have your picture taken? I called to him.

He nodded and steered his bike into a slow one-eighty in front of me.  Great!, I thought, and started fumbling with my gear.  I took a light meter reading, set the tension and then the shutter and began to focus.

"Hold on. . . hold on. . . I've just gotta. . . Oh!. . . O.K. . . hold it. . . " and I snapped the shutter.  Man, I thought, this is it.

"Wait!" I yelled, "I forgot to do something.  Let me do it again."

I'd forgotten to take the dark slide out.

So we did it again.

And then he was gone.  I thought to flip the holder over and take the other photo of the shopping cart still standing across the street, but some more kids came riding by.

"Hey. . . "  Etc.  So I took his photo, too, and then took another with the Fuji instant film so he could see it right away.  It was underexposed.  I worried about the film negatives then.

As the boy and I waited for the film to develop, his sisters came up.  He was in the second grade, he said. His sister was in pre-school.  The little one running up the street all alone was two.

"You'd better watch out for her," I told him.

"Get out of the street!" he yelled at the two year old.  We were all waiting for the picture when a woman came out of her house and began yelling at the kids.  Sure that it was mom, I waved to her.  She did not look friendly.

"Let's go show the picture to your mother," I said to the kids, and we all began walking up the street toward the house by the railroad tracks.

"Hi," I said and handed her the photograph.  She had a mouth full of gold teeth, but she wasn't smiling.  I thought, though, that I'd take the chance.

"Is it O.K. if I take photos of your children?  They are so. . . . "

She didn't smile, but she said O.K.  I pointed my camera at the daughter in pre-school and the two year old started crying.

"Shut up," her mother said darkly.  "Get out the way!"

Nervously, I shot. . . . one, two, three. . . four pictures with the big old camera.  I was trying to manage everything, but one of the pictures, still wet, fell into the dirt.  Negatives were blowing everywhere.  I was smiling like Howdy Doody trying to maintain calm, but man, I thought, this is difficult.

"How much do you charge to take pictures?" the mother asked me.

"Oh, well, I. . . I take. . . art. . . . .  I don't charge anything.  But I'll give you copies of the pictures.  They will be beautiful."

She looked at me as if I were a Jackalope.  O.K.  I'd have to get better at this.

Back in the studio, I loaded the Ilford HP5 negatives into the drum roller my camera guy had given to me and put it on the machine that would roll it back and forth, back and forth.  Fingers crossed, I thought.  Here we go.

Ten minutes later, I pulled the negatives out of the drum, and they were just as thin as could be.  I didn't think it was the developer.  They were just underexposed.  Still, I thought--IT WORKS!

Hours had passed.

I washed the negatives and hung them up to dry and went home to shower.  After going to the grocery store, I stopped by the studio.  The negatives were dry.  Excitedly, I brought them home to scan.

I put the negatives directly on the scanner glass and scanned them as pictures, then reversed them in Photoshop.  There was hardly anything there, hardly any silver on the clear gelatin backing, but still, I was able to coax out an image.  Something.  Better than nothing.  Awful, really.  Dust and scratches and what I take to be noise from the scanner.  And other things I couldn't identify, too.  Still. . . .

Later, after I'd worked for a couple more hours cooking the images up, I sat and thought about how hard this all was going to be.  Digital cameras were looking great.  But damn, I thought, there is nothing that looks like film, even if it is scanned film processed on a computer.  It is truly just too beautiful.

So four hours, a few pictures not ready for printing.

But the thrill of it.  Walking around the street with the Frankencamera, holding my breath when I see something I want, approaching someone knowing the chances of getting the photograph are small, the audacity of it, the danger.  Imagine yourself sitting at your favorite cafe swilling wine with your asshole friends on a Friday early evening.  Suddenly there is an odd looking stranger smiling at you like a terrified idiot trying to hide the fear saying, "Hello there. . . . "  Would you say, "Why sure, please. . . ."  And then wait the minute or so while he turned knobs and pulled levers and removed plates and finally pointed the big-ass radioactive lens at you and began cursing as he tried to pull you into focus in the dying light?

Truly, this is going to be some hard freaking fun.

Provided No Addendum: Addendum

The day was a bust.  It wasn't just mental.  I was ill.  Bad G.I. stuff, slight fever, dizziness, vertigo.  None of it devastating, just debilitating.  So a lovely day was spent mostly indoors.  Toward it's end, I ran some errands which let me know I wasn't exaggerating my sickness, and while out, I decided to buy a good bottle of wine, two steps up from the sort of stuff I usually put on my table.  That is just the thing to do for a bad stomach, I say.  Baby it with expensive things.  So I got a t-bone, too, a nice looking one.  I am preparing it with Brussels sprouts. The wine is good now, but I don't think all of this will stay with me long.  I'm "calming" my stomach, though, with aged Manchega cheese, preparing it for what is to come.  As I say, I have a mild, not a desperate, case.

Today there were little things to cheer me up.  Emails from the girl I shot with the other night and from the  makeup artist, too.  And there were some sweet private emails from readers of the blog that warmed me.  And there was this from Q:

I think it's great that you portray yourself as the overly melancholy batman of pornography.

I love this sort of thing because I know him and care for him, so don't take offense at this.  I am able to say things to him that would end relationships with almost any other person.  It is fun and funny and not to be taken as anything but that.  He is terrific company when things get boring.

John Minnicks, the creator of "The Liberator," has been emailing me about a new camera creation I want him to make.  He confuses me with all the technical things he asks me, but if anyone can figure this out, he can.  So there is something to look forward to there.

And getting emails from Bob Crowley over at New 55 Film has inspired me again.

Rhonda has begun a new blog and is posting almost every day, so there is that to look forward to.  And Frank Petronio has changed his website and is active there again.

Late today, I unexpectedly heard from the photographer Ed Ross whose work I am crazy for.  And 591 Photography Blog has been especially good lately showing works of some really great photographers.  I've especially fallen for the works of Gordon Chapman who I know nothing about, but you should look at his works here.

And if you have been watching the blog for awhile, you will remember the little boy who was pictured in so many posts.  He came over just to chat last night, and he has grown too much.  When I asked him what he had been doing, he said he had been at church getting ready for his conformation.  I gave him a wry smile and said, "Well. . . I bet that was fun," to which he gave back an ironic chuckle and said, "Yeah."  Then he looked at me seriously and said, "You used to tell me that nature was your church.  Was that true?"  "Sure," I said, "sure it was true."  Then he asked, "Do you believe in God?"    "Remember?" I said,  "God is Everything, and Everything is God.  Remember that?"  He nodded.  "That means what you do and what I do, too.  It is all part of that thing we call God.  We are little Godheads, you see?  I'll explain that to you when you are ready.  It won't make sense now, but maybe later it will."

His eyes were lit.  I know it doesn't make any sense to him presently, but it makes an impression, and he trusts me to tell him what I think.  I know he doesn't get much like this elsewhere.  When he was little, we used to do math every morning, and he was eager to learn it, and leaped grade levels above his class just by playing for half an hour in the mornings.  Maybe soon he can skip ahead in some other things as well.  That is what I thought when he hugged me goodbye, taking a little bit of me with him.

And maybe that is why I got sick.  Not because he left, but because he came.  He had stayed home from school that day with some illness.  And maybe that is why today all incoming messages were so well received and appreciated.  I had been exposed/tenderized.

As a bachelor is wont to due, I have eaten my meal while making this entry.  The wine was good and the Brussels sprouts delicious, but the steak was a bit tough for what I spent.  I overcooked it, though, as I was writing and not paying enough attention.  Now the cat waits for scraps as my dog Wiley used to do.  I spoil creatures so.

As I suspected, I feel better now, not worse.  I am like a homeopath, like Rasputin.  Don't take antibodies, take the antigens.  Make the body work to live.  By tomorrow I will be tip-top and harder than nails.  But tonight, slightly weepy, I have offered this.

Provided that there is no addendum in the morning.

*     *     *     *     *     

Addendum:  Sore throat.

Quick Reversal

This is from my shoot the other night.  It was the first shot of the evening, and somehow, I realized early on. . . oh. . . I can't tell you. . . it's my secret process.  Anyway, I did something that would make it impossible to turn this into one of the series images.  I had skipped a step.  Tonight, though, I kept looking at the picture and bemoaning the fact, so I decided to bend my particular genius toward the problem and see if I couldn't make it look something like the others.  And after hours of working on it, it sort of did.  And I do like the image much.  I saved it from a sort of artistic death.  I think I, like Thompson, should have an honorary "Dr." in front of my name.

The image is part of the whorehouse musical series I have started.  I'm looking for anything--tubas, bassoons, kettle drums, trombones, cellos, vibes. . . anything at all.  Perhaps in the end, I'll actually record some whorehouse music.  You will be surprised.

I feel the genius more every day that I am not working.  I am not like work.  I am something different than that.  I thought today to tell the people I work with at the factory that I am not like them because I have not lived the life they've lived, that I have done things that they probably wouldn't believe.  You would, but I don't tell them so much of what I tell you which is the value of the invisibility that sometimes pisses Q off so much.  But even he does not know it all.  We veil ourselves from people all the time, do we not?  We are honest to a point, but everybody wants to don the mask, even with those we are most intimate.  The clown mask I wear at work hides almost everything.

Though I've done nothing of any consequence this week, I am beginning to feel happier.  I am happy tonight though the evening slips away from me without note.  It is simply a slow attrition of time.  But an owl calls out and the evening is still and supper still lays before me.  I will eat and work on more pictures and then I'll read.  And then late, I will fall asleep without feeling much emptiness or loneliness.  Tomorrow may be brilliant.  There are many things to do.

*     *     *     *    *     

That is not how it worked out, though.  I slept fitfully, waking first at one o'clock thinking it was morning and then every hour after.  Now I am awake, and I feel irritable.  Poor cat.  She is the only one around to feel it.  She wants love and I want her to leave me alone.  But she won't, and I could scream. What might make me happy today? I don't know if that will be possible.  Such a quick turnaround.  

The Look

I'm working for a "look" with John Minnicks' Liberator camera, the Graflex 4x5 SLR with the Aero Ektar f2.5 lens attached.  It is a beast to work with, all mechanical.  There are a series of steps that I have to learn to do automatically so that I am not floundering around.  Take a light reading with the meter, slip in the film holder, set the mirror, set the f stop, set the tension for the shutter with a crank, set the shutter speed with a crank, focus, play with the tilt/shift lens, refocus, then shoot.  Once that enters into my nerve endings, it should not be too cumbersome.

So two days ago in the late dusk, I stepped out the front door of my studio to try the Fuji Instant 3000 B&W film.  No one was around, so I shot this shopping cart just to practice.  When I got home and played with the image--BAM!--I was knocked out.  I can live with this look, so nice and moody.  I overdid the shift on this, but I will learn.  Now it is just a matter of getting out and shooting.

Over at 591 Photography, they posted the picture, too (link).  Great privilege to be shown there again.  Thank you!

Last night, I shot with a model I shot with some time ago.  She contacted me and asked "When?"  She brought a make up artist with her.  They spent an hour getting ready which for me was. . . well, I'm not shooting like that.  The MUA was a real nice girl, though, and we drank wine and chatted, me lying on the famous red couch falling into shallow sleep listening to the music.  The MUA kept telling me how much she loved my pictures (there are many 32"x 25.5" framed images sitting around the studio now) and how much she had looked forward to working with me.  The model, too, raved about my work and the photo of her that was used in the "Lonesomeville" show.  Her friends all loved it, too, and love my work. I don't take compliments well at all, so I tried to deflect them, make light of them without seeming mean, but what interested me about this most of all was that she is a lesbian and her friends are lesbians and she is very much part of the lesbian culture.  It made me very happy to think that my work was popular there for you know what sort of criticisms I face with that project.

"You're the only photographer I've ever shot nude with," she told me.  "I don't think I would do it with another photographer.  I've had lots of offers, but it just doesn't feel right."

"Really?  Well,  everyone wants to make naked pictures, especially when they are young and beautiful.  And you couldn't ask for a better fellow," I demurred.

I'm not bragging (maybe I am a little), just reporting (I like to think).  But the conversation got me to thinking, and I couldn't help but ask questions later on.

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?"

"In high school."

"When did you know you were gay?"

"Oh, I always knew.  I came out in the seventh grade.  Had a girlfriend.  But in high school, I started dating a guy and we went out for two years.  He was the last guy I dated.  That was five years ago.  We're still best friends."

"Are you dating now?"

"I just met a girl over on the coast.  I met her online.  Crazy, embarrassing.  We met for dinner last week."

"How was that?"

"It was odd.  I mean, we'd been chatting online and knew all about one another.  We went to dinner and then to a little dive of a club."

"Did you hold hands on the first date," I asked cryptically?

"No.  I stayed over at her house, but nothing happened.  I woke up in the morning and thought, 'Oh, no. . . what did I do?'  I liked her. . . like her, I guess. . . but I don't think it's going to work out.  She's got her life and we live in different towns, so. . . I don't know.  I would like to see her again."

She had told me before about the relationship she had ended.  She was fourteen years younger than the woman she lived with.  The woman was very critical of her, she said, and it got to be such an energy suck that she finally had to end it.

"I was young, you know, and instead of going out and exploring my craziness, I was married.  My friends kept telling me to ditch her."

The shoot was over and we were just sitting and chatting and drinking up the last of the wine.  I was staring at her the way I tend to do after a shoot.  I'd just spent two hours looking at her, but it is completely different.  I don't see a person when I'm shooting, just a shape, just geometry and light.  That sounds awful and isn't quite right, but it is different than looking at a person at ease.  And the crazy thing is that sitting across from her where she sat upon the couch talking, staring inward and outward as she told me her life, drinking wine and moving about, I was looking at the curve of her leg and the slight swell of her breast inside her silk chemise with that sort of want you experience when looking at someone desirable.

Then the unexpected.

"It's crazy, but I have a crush on a guy I just met.  I can't believe it, but he's really cute.  I'm not like a lot of lesbians I know who hate just everything about men.  I'm not afraid to say he's cute."

"You mean you felt something like desire?"

"Yes.  It's crazy.  I told my friends 'I think I have a crush on a boy,' and they were all like 'What?'"

"You think you like him physically?" I asked, always ready to dive into someone else's psyche.

She looked me in the eye and laughed.  "Well, that's the problem.  I don't know if I could do that again.  I think about it and. . . I don't know if it would be any good, and I don't want to do that to him, so. . . I don't know."

"It wouldn't be any good," I pronounced.  "I'm sure it wouldn't.  It would be awful."

She laughed.  "I know.  That's what I think, too."

"So what do you see yourself doing ten years from now.  I mean emotionally, you know, with someone."

She just shook her head back and forth, back and forth.  "I don't know, really."

The wine bottle was empty now, and so were our wine glasses.  It was late and she had to work in the morning.  We had followed the natural arc of a good conversation to its denouement.  And so we made our emotional adjustments, changed our intonations, stood up, moved around, and prepared for the leaving.  When we were sure we had everything, I carried her bag to the car, put it into the back seat, and we stood for a while in the darkness.

"It's cool tonight," she said with a little shudder.

"Yes, it is cool," I said.

"It was great to see you again.  I can't wait to see the pictures."

"Oh, yes, there will be many."

Then we hugged for longer than was necessary.  Perhaps she was taking warmth, shielding herself from the night's air.  Her frame was small and light against my tired heaviness.  Then ending the embrace, we said goodbye.

It doesn't matter who you are or what you are.  The world is just a jumble for everyone.  And then I thought, no, maybe it is not.  I considered my friends who had married, had two children, carried on up the ladder, and lived traditional lives.  I remembered the birthday party from Saturday night, remembered all those couples chatting away about children and vacations.  I thought about them and not about me.  There would be plenty of time for that later, I knew.  And maybe I could put that off, too.  I could put that off if I held onto this.  And in the morning, with the light, I could write it.

Upanddownandupanddown. . .

Days off are incredible.  I mean. . . things happen.  It is not at all like the deadly dull world of work and terror.  Nope.

I got up this morning and walked two miles to the track.  I haven't done this in a very long time.  I stretched and did calisthenics before I ran.  Walked home, got in the car and went to the gym.  Worked out hard and was ready for lunch, but someone had taken my keys.  A call to AAA and an hour later the locksmith was at the car.  I was pissed but it was fascinating.  He put a blank key in the lock and then jimmied it with something that looked like an Allen wrench on one side, then the other, and finally on both sides.  Said it read something.  Back to the truck and he made the key.  Opened the car door and put it in the ignition.  It cranked but wouldn't start.  The key had a microchip in the head, he said.  So he made another and programmed the key/car.  $190.  Another $100 for the remote key lock if I want it.  Hours later, I was home.  My tenant called, said I needed to call the exterminator to get the dead rat out of the attic.  Fleas in the basement.  I call, make appointments.  Then I called the a.c. guys from Old Dixie (real name) to come service the heating and air units.  I've already talked to a landscaper.  Went to the studio to get ready for tomorrow's shoot.  Arranged for a violin.  Took out the Liberator and decided to begin shooting with it.  It is such a throwback, all mechanical, everything.  I have to set the tension on the shutter, then set the size of the shutter leaf.  Then the speed.  Put the film in the back.  Take a meter reading.  Flip the mirror.  Then, shoot.

I was fooling around taking nonsense photos getting used to it all when I spied a fellow taking a picture of a car.  He looked like he was working.  When he was done, I asked him for a portrait.  He said sure.  First I used some Polaroid BW film type 51, but it was dried out.  Tried some old Polaroid 59 color, but it was no good, either.  So I asked the fellow to hold on and went in to get the nee Fuji.  He loved the photo when I pealed apart the halves.  "What do you do for work besides take pictures," I asked him?  "I drive an eighteen wheeler," he said, "but I'm going to school to be a policeman."  I took him into the studio to show him my setup.  He asked me if I would rent it out, and I said sure.  He asked how much, but I didn't know.  He said $150 for a couple hours.  I said yes.  I'd love to do that a few times a month.  I gave him my number and he gave me his website.  Cars.

I talked to my buddy who makes his living as an artist for a long while, then went to the grocery store.  When I got home, I looked at my email and my web stats for the blog.  People were coming over from The New 55 Project blog.  I went to see why.  They had linked me in an article (here).  I was and am overwhelmed.  The fellow up in Massachusetts are doing unbelievable things including inventing a new peel apart instant film akin to the old Polaroid 55.  And they've done it, really, and are now looking for money to produce it.  I can't believe what they have accomplished.

That they included me on the same page with the photographer Albert Kahn, though. . . well. . . just look at this site (here).  These are the images I truly want to make.

And so it goes.  Upanddownandupanddown. . . goodandbadandgood. . . .

I'm thinking of a short road trip, hoping that domestic things won't hold me back.  We'll see.  I'll take the Liberator and set off for "parts unknown."

When They Said Repent. . . .

Listen to Cohen's "The Future" while looking at the photograph.  That is what I did while working on it.

I stayed in the house the entire day yesterday.  Worked on images.  I kept thinking of all the wonderful things I would do in just a little while, but none of that happened.  The sun shined wildly in the cool air, but I sat inside listening to a cable jazz station on and on and on.

I tell myself it is a reaction to the past week, that I will begin an active life today.  I will begin a lot today, I say.  I will.  If only I can get out the door.  Too many expectations, I say to myself.  Don't do anything.  Just do something.  Yes, anything.

All about the azaleas are in bloom.  Times are festive.  I just have to get myself out the door.

When they said repent,
     I wonder what they meant.

 (Leonard Cohen, "The Future")

Mid-Life Crisis

I went to a party last night, a "mid-life crisis" party I was told, but it turned out to be a birthday party for a fellow I've known for a long time.  He has done well, has two beautiful children and is still married to their mother.  He's a good looking kid with a subtle and wry sense of humor.  I've known his wife as long as he has, and she is successful and nice and funny, too.  I don't see them very much any more, so I was looking forward to the evening.

When I walked in the door, his wife was standing with another woman, one of "those" women that I used to put up with on a daily basis.

"Darling, do you know C.S.?  He's one of Connor's crazy friends."

I had to be qualified, I thought.  She said something about my hair because part of Connor's "crisis," I guess, is that he has grown it out a bit.

"Oh. . . I like your hair," Darling said.  "It's like my daughter's.  Easy to take care of."

The party got no better than this.  I found the fellow with whom I went to Sundance, one of Connor's relatives, and tried to avoid conversing with the crowd.  But we were sitting in a room full of couples, and I had to hear.  A condo in the mountains, a condo at the beach, skiing, fishing, playing golf at someplace/everyplace, a wicked bottle of Merlot, a microbrewery, the kids private schools and all the travails. . . delivered in those careful melodic tones through lips forming perfect perma-smiles.  The women were all pretty and well-dressed in that conservatively hip way, subtle, expensive jewelry dangling from ears and necks and wrists.  Later, in the men's group, the talk was of business.  These were not men who worked for others by and large, but who were developers or who owned contracting companies of one sort or another and who had names like Jimbo and Billy, local boys who had grown up in southern iconic families that had owned much of the businesses and land before everyone else came.

On my way out, I stood at the door talking to Connor and my friend and his brother about the wild times they used to have.  They were laughing about Dancin' Charlie, the mid-level coke dealer, and all his foibles.  We were laughing and suddenly Connor looked over his shoulder to the room behind us and gave the conversation the nix.  These were decent folk, church people with children in Hebrew school and Christian camps.  He didn't want to break the china.

Outside I remarked the horror show.

"I haven't been around that for a while," I said shaking my head.  "I'm not in shape to take it any more."

I was home relatively early and glad to be there.  I pulled up some scans and began to work.  I hit iTunes and Billy Holliday came up.  Slowly, the horror began to recede. . . the Fear.  I spent too many years among that crowd.  I think they are as glad as I that I'm gone.

Leave the Red Shoes Behind

Q often writes about a good glass of wine in the morning.  I try to put off drinking until evening.  But opening the refrigerator door to get cream for my coffee this morning, I spied the Guinness sitting on the shelf, and it looked especially tempting.  I am off for a few days, and after the stress of the past week, I figured, "What the hell.  I deserve it.  What is one lost day?"  But I dutifully grabbed the cream instead.  I will try to hold off until lunch.

I am beat and look it.  I will spend the days trying to get healthy again, exercising, reading, sitting in cafes, and catching a little sun.  And once I'm beautiful again, the world will be right.

I told myself that I would spend my time fixing up my place, but when my eyes opened this morning in the dark, it was with dread, and I knew that the "fixing up" was a lie.  What I might do is call someone and get an estimate on a thing or two.  I mean hell, since I still have a job. . . .  Perhaps I'll shop for something new to wear.  Etc.

Just now a parade of runners streams by my house.  They are dressed in green.  St. Patrick's Day must be around the corner.  Surely they will finish with a Guinness.  Some of them look like they drink plenty.

Q wrote a funny piece about my trials and tribulations yesterday.  I like his writing best when it is antagonistic and gonzo.  I care more for truths slid from the corner of a mouth than the preacher's truth delivered in heavy blows.  We often see more of the essence of things with a sideways glance than from staring directly at the thing itself.  As I've said before, what matters most is wit.  Having said that, though, I must admit that I can't stomach Dryden, Swift, and Pope.  It is me, not them.  They just don't make me laugh.

I am trying to give you more of what you want in photos.  I shoot with a couple models this week.  I've asked them to bring instruments.  I've decided that a brothel needs good music.  Perhaps it will be more than that.  We will call it "Gowns and Gizmos."  We will try to leave these tattooed girls and their red shoes behind.  Or at least you will.  I will just keep them out of your sight.

But perhaps I'll leave exercising for tomorrow.  Working, too.  A big breakfast of eggs and sausage and a cold beer sounds like the thing after all.  I mean really, there is nobody here to tell me, "No."

*     *     *     *     *     

Some goddamned time, a man's due to stop arguin' with hisself, feelin' he's twice the goddamned fool he knows he is, because he can't be something he tries to be every goddamned day without once getting to dinnertime and not fucking it up. I don't wanna fight it no more. Understand me Charlie? And I don't want you pissing in my ear about it. Can you let me go to hell the way I want to?  (source)

No End to Worry

I called Q to let him know that things turned out O.K. for the moment.  He was beside himself.  I guess.  Compared me to the little boy who cried wolf, among other things.  I reminded him of a story I've told him before.  I once bought a house that was above my station, as they say, but it was the best house in the world.  It sat between two lakes on a small canal.  The property swooped down to the water so that my house was situated below the road and above the canal in the most lovely way.  The house had one previous owner, a single woman who had quite a life (for another time).  She'd moved to the south from Boston.  When she bought the house, she had wall to wall carpet put in, and the hardwood had never been stepped on.  She's never had a fire in the fireplace saying that once she left Boston, she was done with that.  Built in 1952, the house was solid as a. . . choose any cliche you want.

I worried about having bought this house all the time.  It is what I do.  I don't know if it is genetic or learned, but my father was a worrier, too.  This house, though, was truly fantastic with big screened porches that looked out across the lake and to the highway and the distant downtown skyline.  All you could hear, though, was frogs and crickets.  The back end of the property was a seawall about five feet above the water.  You could stand there and watch the most incredible things swim through the canal.  The most remarkable things I saw in the first couple weeks were a dog who looked a bit panicked, and a six foot Russian carp that looked like a tarpon.  That one almost caused me to fall in.

But I worried all the time that I had made a mistake buying the house, of taking on so much debt, etc.  One day, however, I decided to stop.  I had the most lovely and enviable of houses, I told myself, and I should start enjoying it, and with that, I decided to blow off the gym, buy a six pack of beer, and go sit on the wall above the canal for awhile.  Damn, man, I told myself, enjoy the mo'fo'.  Relax.

When I walked into the backyard.  Something was wrong.  The wall was gone.  It had simply collapsed into the canal.  It was terrible.

Q didn't have much time, and when I finished he said, "Yea, what's your point?"  I told him that it was always the same.  If I quit worrying, the world just falls apart.  Worry prepares you.

Q was glad that we would still have my retirement home, he said.  But I knew what he meant.

My day at the factory was truly horrible, but it ended O.K.  I am not out of the fire yet, but help is coming from unsuspected places.  Life among people is truly a marvel of complexities.  But I have, at least, a reprieve from the intensity of things.  I get to take some breaths.

I am taking next week to catch up on all the things I have let go to hell.  It will be a busy week at home.  I must straighten out debts, landscape, mulch driveways, and many other mundane things.  But I will have cafe lunches, too, and will read and see some films.  In short, I'll try to regather some of who I am.

I found the photo at the top on the internet.  Quick!  Who is the painter?  I find the photo uncomfortable.  You can tell me why.

Oh, yes. . . and I love all of you who have sent me wishes.  Truly.

Spiritus Victus

My troubles mount, and I, a hero, am crumbling at an exponential rate.  Today may be a watershed as I am summoned by the boss for an annual evaluation.  Whatever.  I don't wish to make my troubles yours.  It is only entertainment for you to observe from afar.  There is nothing else to do.  And you have all been there/here, have all had terrible times and hard times when you can feel every day age you by years, nights when you fall asleep early exhausted by tension only to wake in the darkness to face the void.  And we all assume it will be worse at the end.  Neil Young said that only love can break your heart.  Right now, I'm not sure that's true.  But the body can be broken in many ways, some of them psychological.  The spirit is more enduring.  The spirit.  What a concept.  It is what has kept me in eternal trouble.

But my troubles are costing us all.  I am not paying attention to what we need reminding of.  Yesterday was February 29, the last day, as Daniel Tosh pointed out, of the longest Black History Month.  Leap year.  I read on another blog that yesterday was Balthus' birthday.  He was a leap year baby, so that would make him twenty-six years old.  His life was charmed from birth.  From Wikipedia:

In his formative years his art was sponsored by Rainer Maria Rilke, Maurice Denis, Pierre Bonnard and Henri Matisse. His father, Erich Klossowski, a noted art historian who wrote a monograph on Daumier, and his mother Elisabeth Dorothea Spiro (known as the painter Baladine Klossowska) were part of the cultural elite in Paris. Balthus's older brother, Pierre Klossowski, was a philosopher and writer influenced by theology and the works of the Marquis de Sade. Among the visitors and friends of the Klossowskis were famous writers such as André Gide and Jean Cocteau, who found some inspiration for his novel Les Enfants Terribles (1929) in his visits to the family.
In 1921 Mitsou, a book which included forty drawings by Balthus, was published. It depicted the story of a young boy and his cat, with a preface by Balthus's mentor, Rilke. The theme of the story foreshadowed his life-long fascination with cats, which resurfaced with his self-portrait as The King of Cats (1935). In 1926 he visited Florence, copying frescos by Piero della Francesca, which inspired another early ambitious work by the young painter: the tempera wall paintings of the Protestant church of the Swiss village of Beatenberg (1927). From 1930 to 1932 he lived in Morocco, was drafted into the Moroccan infantry in Kenitraand Fes, worked as a secretary, and sketched his painting La Caserne (1933).

I have to laugh that Wiki tells us his "life-long fascination" was with cats.  Perhaps mine is with a red couch.

Today is the first of March.  Is that a day?  I mean of significance?  Normally, it is the 60th day of the year.  This year it is the 61st.

So, in the spirit (there's that word again) of tributes. . . today's picture.  She brought the Hank Williams marker with her.  Said she found it on the side of the road.  "Fuck yea, Hank," she screamed.  Sr. of course.

Go It Alone

It all goes to shit.  I did the right thing, but I've been played by all sides.  There ain't no winning this one.  But it's good.  Y'all go ahead and tell yourself it's the best thing.  

*     *     *     *     *     

Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful (Albert Camus)