I Wish That I Could Be

Life is wearing me out, I suspect.  So far, 2025 has been a real motherfucker.  For me, anyway.  Some of you may be having the time of your life.  But I feel worn "to the bone" to use a tired phrase.  But it is pretty accurate.  I am just bone weary.  

It's not that everything is bad.  I know that things can be (and may get) a lot worse.  There are good things, I think, depending on how you define "good."  And maybe it is just me.  Perhaps my ability to bounce back has declined.  But fuck, man. . . I've been limping along this road alone carrying my own bags for a whole lotta miles now, and some other people's, too.  I could use a lap to lie in, even if only for a weekend.

As illustration of this growingly boring point, last night I fell asleep on the couch at eight.  I don't even remember what I was doing at that point.  It wasn't quite dark yet.  I'd eaten and had, fortunately, already cleaned the kitchen.  So when I woke at ten, I had few things to do before I fell into bed.  

And that is why, I guess, I am up at 4:30 this morning.  Morning?  It is not morning.  It's the middle of the fucking night.  

So what's the big friggin' deal?  

I think the thing that is breaking my back now is the rotted out floor joist the repairman found behind the wall in the kitchen.  This is nothing small that you can put a bandaid on.  This is going to be big--labor and money.  It is going to be big friggin' money.  

And I don't even know who to call to see about repairing it.  Fortunately, I've made some new friends in the past couple years who are rich as fuck builders and contractors.  They are cock of the walk kind of guys, you know, the way people who have "made their own fortunes" are.  Nobody "makes their own fortunes," of course, no matter what they say, but I won't get into my economic theories here.  

This narrative can't be told in chronological order, I think, so let's bounce a bit.  There are "good" things that have happened, again, depending on your take.  I'll need to back it up.  The visit to the surgeon went well, for instance.  He said my leg was healing.  Now I'll consider that a good thing, but, you know, I have huge, jagged, still quite red, stitched up flaps of flesh on my calf that makes grown men run away.  Women, not so much.  They rather relish looking at it, or so it seems. 

"Can you show it to me?" they ask.  Rather surprising, I think, but yea, I show it to them and they say, "Oh, that is going to be fine."  The boys shout, moan, and avert their eyes.  Rather funny.  

So, depending on how you feel about having your lower leg cut to pieces and stitched back up, yea--that is some good news.  

But it is not something to be desired.  

I took my car to the auto mechanic.  He fixed both the power steering and the air conditioning, and all of it for $375.  Now THAT is great news.  Unbelievable.  And yet, who wants their power steering and air conditioning to go out?  No one.  

See what I mean?  

Yesterday, I let the body shop have my car to fix my broken driver's side door.  I went at nine, but they weren't open . WTF?  I was a bit dubious after this.  They were, it seemed to me, going to Jimmy/Jerry rig the door to fix it.  Oh yes, I was skeptical from the start.  The night before, I'd asked the tenant if I could use her car for an hour.  Oh, no, she said, she had a ton of things she had to do in the morning.  You remember my bet, right--dollars to donuts?  

When I took my car in at ten, they were open, so I dropped it off.  I had to walk home.  The doc said I could do longer walks now, so I thought I'd be o.k. walking the couple of miles.  But I worried.  I certainly didn't want to rip any of the forty or so stitches.  

It was hot, and since I had to wear long pants, I was sweating like a drunk.  As I turned onto my street, I saw the builder of the house across the street getting into his truck.  I thought I might catch him, but the truck began to roll before I reached him.  But he pulled over when he saw me.  

"How's it going?"

"Bad.  Listen.  I don't know who to call about fixing the floor joist."  

I had already told him about it one day at the gym.

"Should I call Strickland?"

Strickland is a remodeling company in town.  I know the owner.  He lives a few streets away, and he and I have been friendly for decades.

"They certainly could do it," he said, "but they are going to rape you on the price."

He thought for a second.  

"I've got a framer who might be able to help you.  Let me give you his information.  Tell him I told you to call."

Good news, right?  Sure.  But. . . huge fucking job.  And I weep.  

When I got back to the house, it was quarter 'til eleven.  The tenant's car was still in the driveway and her blinds were still drawn.  Yup.  So I called her.  

"Hello."  I'd obviously woken her.  

"I thought you had a bunch of stuff to do this morning," I said disingenuously.  

"I stayed up late last night."

As I told you yesterday, she doesn't go to bed until the time I got up this morning.  Actually, when I looked out the windows at 4:30 today, her lights were on, and I don't think she was getting up early.  But you know. . . she needed the car.  

"Do you need a ride," she asked.  

"Well, yea, but I can Uber, I guess."

"Can you wait half an hour?  I can take you then."

"Sure."  I don't have choices, I didn't add.  

It wasn't half an hour, of course.  

When she dropped me off at the Y, she said I should call her if I needed a ride home.  Of course I was going to need a ride home.  And so, when I finished up, I did.  A couple times.  Of course, she didn't answer.  

I called an Uber and got my $15 transport home in a car with a ripped and falling headliner and a bad rear axel.  

I showered.  I ate some soup.  I took a nap.  

Late in the afternoon, I got a call.  My car was ready.  I looked out the window.  The tenant's car was there, but so was someone else's.  I didn't feel like walking the two miles back to the repair shop.  It was 94 degrees.  So I called her.  

"Can you wait half an hour?"

Was I willing to bet dollars to donuts again.  I mean I was up donuts, but. . . . 

When she dropped me off, I could feel a tingle in my cojones.  I was anxious to see how they butchered my door.  The father wasn't there, but the son said hello.  

"Let's go look at the car," he said.  He opened the door and showed me what they did.  They had welded something which was the point of my concern.  He closed the door.  It whispered shut.  Then I did it.  It was practically silent.  Holy moly--this was good news, right?

Then I paid him $350.  Such has been the adjutant to "luck" lately.  That is just the way it has gone.  

I got in the car and started it.  I was worried about the electronics that were in the door latch, but everything worked.  The door light didn't come on and the interior lights went off.  The car was cooling nicely and steered like a dream.   Oh, sure, something else will go wrong, but for the moment, I was happy.  

I drove straight to my mother's house to check on her.  She still hadn't eaten after vomiting sardines the day before.  She looked a little peaked.  Piqued?  Beats me, even after looking them up.  

We chatted.  She felt better, she said, and she had a menu for dinner.  For the first time since surgery, I was wearing shorts.  The doc said I could wear them now, but not to get sun on the wound.  Of course.  But that was good news, right?  So we sat looking at the ragged closure on my leg.  

"Don't let any bugs get in it," said my mother.  

"Now that's a capital idea!" I said.  

I had a couple stops to make on the way home.  I had given away the last of my Campari the night before.  I needed ingredients for the new dish I was attempting that night.  And I needed gas.  All of it once again in shorts, though, a sweet compliment to the unrelenting heat.  

When I got home, it was first things first.  I made a Campari and went to the deck.  Tennessee called.  I had asked him a question in text.  He was, of course, driving.  He is one of "those people."  We chatted a bit until he reached his beach house.  By then, my Campari was gone, so I went into the house and started prepping my meal.  It was going to be a strange one--ground beef and garbanzo beans fried with garlic, chili powder, and cumin.  Served over rice.  The meat and beans were fried on high for ten minutes until the garbanzos began to pop.  Then the liquid from the garbanzo beans was added and the pan was deglazed as it cooked.  

It was a surprising meal.  The cumin.  I'd never cooked with cumin before, not that I knew, but maybe it had been in the taco seasoning I made from scratch once.  I couldn't remember.  But, I thought, this meal might be better if I made that taco seasoning from scratch and used it to season the meat and beans instead.  Still, the meal was good as was.  And healthy.

When I woke at ten, I was glad I had already cleaned the kitchen.  

So backing up now, yea--2025 hasn't been so good.  I was living with my mother through January and part of February.  There were doctor's appointments and lots of therapy sessions I took her to.  There were meals to be cooked and cleaning to do.  And when I got home, my own shit had begun.  Infections.  Antibiotics.  Allergic reactions, illness and hallucinations, hospital, surgery. . . a month in beds and chairs.  Last night, my legs were getting sore from the two mile walk I had taken that morning.  Holy shit.  They hadn't been used in over a month.  

But. . . my bloodwork was super.  It's been a mixed bag.  What was it that moron said--life is like a box of chocolates?  That line was a huge hit with everyday America.  It struck home.  

I just want to get this all behind me.  But who knows what is up ahead, eh?  I'd like to have a little fun.  I'd like lunches again and dinners with friends.  And you know what I'd really like, but that is asking too much, perhaps, like asking for the moon.  

But here I am, drinking coffee, writing on my laptop, and ready to go back to bed if I feel like it.  As I said, many people have it worse.  But really. . . that never succors a person all that much.  I mean  Richard Cory, wealthy, tall, and imperially slim, one calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his head.  

"Oh I wish that I could be, oh I wish that I could be, oh I wish that I could be. . . ."

Well, shoot.  Seems you'd have to go to YouTube to watch this.  I don't think most of you watch or listen to the videos anyway, but for those of you who simply want to hit the start button. . . . here.  

A Small Moment of Bliss

I was happy for a moment yesterday. A little bit of a reprieve. It was a moment, though, and that is all. We live in moments, however, remember in moments, little blocks of time that hang together, events that make meaning. We have those, good and bad. The rest of life is simply dross, uneventful, forgotten.  It is through moments, bracketed and fixed, that we live through and remember time.

I went to the doc in the morning.  He took a look at the surgical wound, stared for a moment, leaned in and looked at something closely, and then said it looked good.  He had looked at it with enough concentration, though, that I was a bit doubtful.  

"Good enough," is the hillbilly way.  I grew up with "good enough."  I've been trying to run away from it my entire adult life.  

Then the PA who was looking at a computer screen laughed.  

"What is this?  I don't know what they are saying."

The doc went over to take a gander.  

"I've never heard this before," the PA said.  

The doc read through it, forehead wrinkled.  He looked at me.

"Have you ever broken that leg?"

"No."

"Did you ever have a cat bite and maybe it lost its tooth?"

"No."

"That's odd.  It doesn't matter.  It's out now and it isn't cancer, so. . . ."

The report said there was bone in the cyst.  That was just a bit more than a little freaky.  

"Do you have any questions for me?" he asked.  

"Can I start taking long walks now?"

He thought for a minute.  "Yes, just put on good shoes."

"Can I ride an exercise bike?"

Again he thought.  "Yes."

That was it.  

"Come back in two weeks and I'll take the stitches out."

As I was walking out, I thought of one more thing.

"Can I wear shorts now or do I still need to keep this covered."

"You don't want to get that in the sun."

"O.K.  But what about going to dinner or to the grocers."

"Yea. . . yea.  But if you are going to be in the sun, put some sun screen on it.  Use the kind with zinc."

Oh, hell, I thought, I'm not going to be putting anything on it.  Uh-uh.  

When I left, I drove to my mother's house and told her the news.  We chatted for awhile, then I said, "I think I'll go up to the Mazda dealer and look at the cars.  Do you want to come?"

She laughed.  "No."

I just wanted to sit in one of them to see how they felt, but that is impossible.  The sales guy showed me cars in the showroom then drove them up from the lot.  Then he talked me into taking one for a spin.  As we pulled off the lot, I said, "I'm sure glad I took my pain meds at my mom's.  They are just starting to kick in."

He looked over at me bug eyed.  When the traffic cleared, I hit the gas and gave a little shout.  "Here we go!"

The car drove like a small 4 cylinder SUV drives.  Nothing surprising.  But the windows were small.  There would be no sightseeing in this one.  It was o.k., the best of its class all the car things agreed.  And it was fairly reasonably priced. . . comparatively.  

When we got back to the lot, I was ready to go, but he insisted on getting a price for a trade-in.  I said no, my car isn't going to be worth much, but he insisted it wouldn't take long.  He was a liar, and in the end, I was right.  They'd give me a grand.  

When I got back into my Xterra, the size, the 6 cylinders, the heft and better build of the car convinced me that I didn't want that small SUV.  I love my car, even at 15 miles per gallon.  And now the a.c. was working and the power steering was excellent.  I decided to go somewhere for lunch.  

I went to my favorite Spanish restaurant.  The day wasn't so hot as it had been.  As I walked up, I heard someone say hello.  It was a woman who'd been in charge of IT at the factory.  We hugged and said our greetings.  

"You're not there anymore," I asked her?

"No, but I am doing a little bit of consultation work.  What about you?"

"I just do lunches," I laughed. It wasn't true, of course.  I didn't think I"d been out to lunch since before Christmas.  I was pretty sure.  

When I walked into the restaurant, a couple was sitting at the corner of the bar I like.  A woman was sitting at the other corner on that side of the square that surrounded the bar well.  

"Hey," grinned the barmaid.  "How are you?"

"Hey," I said back.  "Fine."

She handed me the menu.  

"I don't need that," I said.  

"White sangria?  Ceviche?"

I was stunned.  "You just keep getting smarter and more beautiful every time I see you," I giggled.  "How do you do that?  I want a gazpacho, too." 

And that was how I celebrated. . . what?  I didn't care.  Oh man, it just felt good to be out.  I was on a high.  The couple on my left struck up a conversation for a bit.  I was out and among the throng, I thought, and I was doing well.  I could still carry on a conversation and be charming to strangers and barmaids alike.  The day was nice, the food was good, and I felt fine.  

After lunch, I decided to take my car to the recommended body shop to see how much it would cost to replace the door hinge on the driver's side.  I'd watched a YouTube video on it, and it was a whole lot of work.  But when I pulled up and told the fellow what I needed, he walked off then came back with a block of wood and a jack.  He opened the car door and started jacking it up.  

"I'm just going to bend the arms back a bit."

WTF?!  I watched him with a mixture of fascination and horror.  What if it worked?

He let the jack down and tried closing the door.  Nope.  He put the lift back in place and tried again.  Nope.  So he went to get his father.  He walked out and looked and said they'd have to take the door off and take the latching part out and weld it and blah blah blah.  This was nothing like what I had seen in the video.  

"How much?"

He looked at me like a pirate.  "$350."

I didn't know what to say.  

"When?"

"Bring it in the morning.  You can pick it up in the afternoon."

When I drove away, the car door didn't close all the way and the interior light stayed on.  WTF?  I think there is a sensor in the part they are going to weld.  Did they know that?  I was feeling I'd made a mistake.  Actually, I didn't.  They did.  Maybe.  

My bliss was draining away.  I felt tired.  I needed a nap.  

When I got home, the repairman were nowhere to be seen.  They had not shown up again.  I think they have just given up.  So I lay down and went to sleep.  

I got up at four and drove to my mother's.  

"How are you doing?" I asked her.  She wasn't good.  She'd been vomiting.  She'd eaten a can of sardines and then in about an hour, she didn't feel well.  She'd thrown up twice.  Holy shit!  I sat with her helplessly.  What could I do?  I looked up "botulism" to see the symptoms.  She didn't have them.  She was just getting rid of the food.  

I didn't feel very good about leaving her, but what could I do? 

"I'll call you later to check on you," I said.  

Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  

I had been excited about what I was going to make for dinner.  Now I just wanted a drink.  I made a Campari and took it to the deck to sit and think.  This was life.  One moment you're up, then three moments you're down.  Bliss doesn't last.  

I was making Hoisin Garlic Noodles from a NY Times recipe.  Boil angel hair pasta.  Finely cut six cloves of garlic and six scallions.  Mix hoisin sauce, soy sauce, toasted sesame seed oil, and maple syrup.  On medium high heat, sauté the garlic and onions for 30 seconds, then put in the mix and noodles.  Toss until the noodles are coated, then leave them to cook for 3 minutes without disturbing until they begin to stick to the pan.  My addition was cubed teriyaki chicken I had left over from the night before.  

Oh, man. . . that was really good.  I'm getting away from the basic healthy meals I've been fixing over and over again. They are good, but something like this is fun.  I'm expanding my cooking horizons.  Yup.  

Still, they are dinners for one.  

I'd called the tenant.  I had an idea.  I would drop my car off at the body shop and walk the two miles home now that I can.  But then I'd be stuck at home, and I wanted to go to the gym.  She is not an early riser.  She gets up around noon.  So. .  "Hey. . . if you aren't going to be needing your car in the morning, could I borrow it for an hour?"

When she leaves for the summer, I often drive it so that the battery doesn't die and the tires don't go square, so this didn't seem unreasonable to me.  But I know her well enough. . . 

"Oh, no, I have a lot of things I need to do in the morning," she said.  "But if I can, I'll take you to the gym."

Sure.  Alright.  I'll call her at ten today, and I will bet dollars to donuts she won't be up.  She stays up all night long and goes to bed in the wee hours.  Whatever.  Such is life.  

All I can do is cross my fingers about the car door.  It makes me very nervous.  My life certainly doesn't rise to the level of tragedy, but it certainly qualifies for pathos, the fall of someone who is not a hero, the impact of which will affect nobody.  That is what it means to be pathetic.  It is like a meteorite falling on a homeless person sleeping in the woods.  It is awful, but it isn't tragic.  It is simply pathetic.  

And so it goes.  As I say, the worst is always yet to come.  But man, for a few hours yesterday, I was feeling good.  I want to get out again.  I want to have fun.  I can be fun.  Ask anyone.  

O.K.  Not "anyone."  Not everyone, either.  

But as yesterday's song "Wicked Game"goes, the last line, the version with lyrics, "Nobody loves no one."  It is almost an e.e cummings poem.  You know the one.  

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
 

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain


children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more


when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone’s any was all to her


someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream


stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)


one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was


all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.


Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

Damn, I love that poem.   

No song today.  Can't think of one, and really. . . I gotta go.  

It's Only Going to Break Your Heart

Maybe you've noticed.  I've been in a dark place lately.  Life seems unrelenting by and large.  Yesterday, I was a mental case.  My entire being just felt like lying down and never getting up.  Nothing seems to be going right in the least and the darkness descends.  

I have to agree with the anti-birther movement in part.  Not a small part, either.  Life is suffering.  There is no denying that.  All religions are based around that premise, then they try explain why and what you need to do to escape it.  I'm not saying that there are not great moments of joy.  There are.  I've had more than my share.  More than I deserve, I'm sure.  But the higher you soar, the harder the fall.  Yes--that's called tragedy, a mainstay of literature.  That is why I like the first part of films much more than the second half.  I like the soaring.  It is also why most people prefer a comedy.  They always have a happy ending.  People can't get enough of the rom-com.  But the old Greek formula of three tragedies to one comedy was a good reflection of life.  

But here's the more controversial part, and I'm sure to piss people off with it.  But people have babies for selfish reasons.  Either that, or by accident.  

"Don't worry. . . you'll learn to love it."

I think that's what they tell them.  

But happy, loving couples decide to have a baby for their own sake.  "We can be just like all our friends.  Our kids can play together like Jane and Alex."

Or they watch a movie like "Parenthood" and think that it will be like that.  

And maybe they think that the kid will be glad they had it.  They will protect it from evil and give it the good life.  

But no kid is consulted in the conversation.  No child has ever asked to be born and no one has ever regretted not being born.  I can't prove that, of course.  I take it on faith.  

That's not saying I don't like children.  I usually prefer them to adults.  I'm like Samual Clemens and Charles Dodgson that way.  Well, more like Dodgson.  He was childless.  

But. . . and here is the thing. . . if anti-birthers want to end humanity, they should start with themselves.  Let everyone else decide how they wish to proceed.  I'm definitely not in favor of murder.  And like a good saint, I wish to palliate people's loneliness and suffering.  I'm a VERY loving person.  I just have strong opinions.  

That I should probably keep to myself.  

AND YET, there are moments when the misery gets some relief.  And there are other times when the pressure increases.  I had a bit of both yesterday.  

I was lost yesterday, really, buried in trouble and worries, and I barely knew how to proceed.  But a sliver of an idea came to me, so I put on my gym clothes and drove to the auto repair place that never called me back about fixing my power steering.  I just wanted to see why, I guess.  

"Hey. . . I tried to call you, but I must have had the wrong number.  It kept going to voicemail in Spanish."

"Definitely not me," I said.  

He took me inside and got on his computer.  "Let me see what the schedule is.  What's your last name." 

I told him, then told him again. . . and again.  He either can't hear or can't spell.  Then he asked for my phone number.  Same thing.  Watching him on the keyboards of his ancient computer was something.  Finally, he had it all right.  

"Can you leave it today?"

I hadn't planned on that.  

"I need my car tomorrow. I have an appointment I can't miss."

I told him about the a.c.  

"Let's go take a look."

The problem was a weird one.  There are four fan settings.  On the first three, the compressor kicked in but the fan didn't blow.  On the highest setting, however, the fan blew but the compressor shut off.  

"Yea," he said.  "I can take a look at it."

I made a quick decision.

"O.K.  I'll leave it with you.  I'll just call an Uber."

I decided to have the Uber take me to the gym.  When I got into the car, it smelled like somebody's butt.  It  was enough to make one gag.  Just as we pulled away from the auto shop, my phone rang.  It was the house repair guy who hadn't come on Monday as he said he would.  Nor Tuesday.  But he was at the house now.

"Hey, we have a problem.  You know that siding on the back of the house by the kitchen.  I can't replace the boards.  When I opened it up, the joists were rotten.  I don't have anything I can nail the boards to."

Fuck me.  

"The floor joists?"

"Yea."

He was silent.  I was silent.  

"I don't know what to do," I said.  

"I'd have to take out half the wall to get to it.  It would cost a lot more.  I'd have to have Jason make up a new estimate."

"O.K.  I guess just do the other repairs and we can talk about this later.  I'll be home in a couple hours."

"O.K." he said.  

I was feeling pretty sick then.  

I did a light, easy workout.  The dj gymroid who told me about the car repair place was there.  I told him my car was in the shop.  Then I told him about the floor joists.  Then I did an exercise and split my cheap Chinese pants in two.  

"Ain't my day," I said.  

After that, I Ubered home.  When I got out of the car, my bad knee popped and gave out.  Perfect.  The workman was there and called out.  

"How's it going?"

"Bad," I said and walked to the house.  

And that was the last I saw of the repairman.  He was redoing some of the work he had already done on the apartment.  Weird, I thought.  I heated some soup then lay down on the couch waiting for him.  I felt like I never wanted to get up.  I thought abut Xanax.  

When I got up a bit later, I looked out the window, but the workmen were all gone.  WTF?  I was flummoxed.  O.K.  Whatever.  I undressed and took a shower.  My surgical wound had been stinging a bit more than it had like I was pulling at the many, many stitches, but it looked fine.  I didn't really want to look too closely, though, for there was nothing I could do.  

It was three-thirty.  I decided to call the garage.  

"We have it up on the lift.  I got the air conditioner working.  Now we're' trying to find the leak in the steering.  We can't see anyplace where it is leaking out quickly.  The air conditioner is blocking part of it, so it is hard to see, but we are looking at the hoses and tightening them.  Man. . . hold on. . . my phone has been blowing up all day."

It took awhile before he came back on.

"O.K.," I said.  "I'll wait for you to call."

Fuck.  I wasn't going to drink at home anymore.  That went out the window.  I fixed a Campari cocktail and took it to the deck.  I called my mother.

"I don't think I'm going to make it over today.  My car is still in the shop.  I hope it will be ready before they close at six, but I don't know.  All I can do is wait for him to call."

"O.K.  Don't worry about it.  I'm fine."

I asked her what she had eaten that day, but she couldn't remember.  "I'm really not hungry," she said.  It worries me of course.  

It was 92 degrees in the shade.  That is where I sat as I drank my Campari.  But the air was fairly dry and there was just the hint of a breeze, so I thought it felt fine.  And when my cocktail was gone, I decided to make another.  

Just then, the tenant came by.  I told her about my car and the repair mess.  She was going to a film event in a little while at the art house film theater.  The auto repair shop was on the way there, I said.  She had to be at the theater by six, so she said she could give me a ride.  

I waited for the repair shop call, but it never came.  The tenant would be leaving in a few minutes, so I decided to call them again.  He mumbled a bit but said I could pick the car up.  

"I think the power steering is good, but if the fluid leaks out again, you will have to bring it back in and we'll have to take off the a.c. unit and look at the pump."

"O.K. I'll be there in a few minutes."

My car was sitting in the lot when the tenant dropped me off.  The mechanic is a bit squirrely, it seems.  He talks in an uncertain manner almost to himself.  He is probably sixty or a bit older and had been doing this all his life.  He is a very nice man, but following his conversation is a little odd.  Finally, he gave me the bill.  My knees went weak.  

$375!

I couldn't believe it.  I was rather embarrassed.  Anywhere else, this would have been closer to a thousand dollars, I was sure.  I gave him my card and we talked some more.  

"I'll tell my friends," I said, but from the look of it, he didn't really need the business.  

I was a little anxious when I started the car.  The a.c. came on and blew cold air better than it had before.  I put the car in reverse and backed out.  Holy shit!  I oversteered.  I'd been fighting the steering wheel for so long, I'd forgotten what power steering felt like.  I could turn the car with one finger.  I barely remembered that.  It was, for a moment, a little scary.  I felt like I was floating on a cloud as I drove to the grocers.  This was a moment of reprieve.  

When I got home, though, the house thing was on my mind.  

"Honey, what do you think we should do?"

But there was no Honey.  Maybe I should call up one of the kids.  They could surely help me out.  

No kids. . 

That's o.k.  From what I've seen, kids don't pay back.  

"We just gave our son, Bobby, and his wife a down payment on a house they wanted to buy."

They'll never get the money back, and statistically, Bobby and his wife will get divorced and the kids will bounce back and forth between the two households like schizophrenics until they are old enough to move out, get a job or go to college or go to jail.  And cycle continues.  

At the grocery store, I ran into the fellow who was my boss at Country Club College when I was teaching there.  He didn't get tenure, however, after seven years and, at that point, applied for a job with me at the factory.  The hiring committee didn't like him, though, thought him too prep school, etc.  He didn't even get a second interview and I always felt bad about that.  

He called out my name and I looked down the aisle toward him.  

"Sean," he said.  "We used to be colleagues."

"Of course,  How are you doing?"

He is working as an Educational Designer now for one of the big companies.  I won't go into how I feel about that.  He had been married to one of the English department's profs daughter, so there was always a feeling of nepotism in his working there.  I asked about his wife and kids.

"Well. . . we're not together anymore," he said with a touch of sadness," but we are good and we share the children."

I felt I shouldn't have asked.  "Modern family," I said. 

"Yes," he nodded, "modern family."  

We wished one another the best and went our separate ways.  

I include this here only as an illustration.  

There is a flip side, too.  Me, sitting alone in my ramshackle house living inside my skull thinking about the dire consequences that were surely facing me, should illustrate the consequences of the other thing, too.  All to my point, however.  Life is suffering.  

I should try religion.  I think I like the Catholics best, so full of modern and historical corruption. 

I go to see the surgeon in a bit, and I'll get the update on my condition.  I'm a little nervous, of course.  

"Honey, I'll go with you.  I want to hear what he has to say."

Uh-uh.  It's on me.  

Listen, moms and dads, husbands and wives, divorced couples with kids, and whomever.  I'm not saying my life is better than yours, that I made the better decisions in life, that I am happier or freer.  That certainly isn't true.  We all have to decide how we are going to cope with this life.  Will I exercise moderately, drink only pure water and be a vegan?  Will I be a rowdy, intellectual adventurer?  

It doesn't matter.  In the end, it just won't.  When you hear them say, "Next," and you are at the head of the line. . . well, we'll see, won't we.  

Yes, yes, I've confessed I'm in a really dark place.  I did take that Xanax last night and it brought me a little peace so that I slept without moving through the night.  I woke with no nightmares.  Now in a bit, I will get into my car and see if the a.c. is still working and if I still have power steering.  I spent yesterday looking up car ratings and prices online.  I can't afford what I would like.  I can barely afford what I could possibly stomach.  So I'm hoping to get some more mileage out of the old Xterra.  I guess, for the first time in my life, I'll start playing the lotto.  

But don't cry for me (I know you aren't).  There are many who have it worse.  Not many.  A majority.  I won't be sleeping under a bridge anytime soon.  But I won't be making any expensive vacations or buying anymore cameras soon, either.  Not unless I start selling photos for thousands of dollars.  

Those boys in the photo were serenading Ili with Morro Castle in the background at sunset.  Fuck me--I've had a really good time.  

But life and love, as the song goes, is only gonna break your heart.  

Exploiters/Exploited

It was 94 degrees at five o'clock yesterday when I left my mother's house.  I got into the car to go to the grocery store.  No a.c.  It just quit working.  2005 Xterra.  I love the thing, but the power steering has quit working, the door hinge needs replacing, and now the a.c.  What to do?  Everyone else seems to know what I should do.  I don't know, man. . . I really don't know.  

What I DO know is that I don't want to drive the rest of this summer without a.c.  That is what I know.  

I am just fucking worn out with things.  The house repair guy was supposed to show up on Monday.  Haven't heard from him.  I bit my tongue yesterday so hard and at such an angle that it swelled up like a ping pong ball in my mouth.  I couldn't talk right.  Of course, my imagination. . . "what if they have to remove part of my tongue?  

After eating a steak the night before, I made a brown jasmine rice/lentil/tofu dinner.  Then I did something I've never done before--I made Toll House chocolate chip cookies.  Almost.  The tenant just got back from visiting her mother and came down to the house to see how I was doing since the last time she saw me, I was in the hospital.  So I kinda made them.  Holy shit, they were good.  

Trump signed into law an order to prosecute anyone who makes an explicit deep fake of someone else.  It also included non-consensual explicit photos of someone.  I think they should just make it non-consensual photographs period.  Basically, photography should be outlawed as should all representative art, really.  Everyone who came to my studio signed a model release.  Consensual.  But the lady in the photo above didn't.  Apparently I did ask her if I could take her picture.  I mean, it looks like it.  But there is no documentation of that.  Looking back at photography since its inception, there are a lot of pictures of people in parks, National Monuments, in cars, at work, in the streets. . . .  We might like having this visual documentation of the world as it was. . . but it is just wrong.  Really, they just need to make a law against photography.  But drawing and painting of people is too much like AI.  They are "deep fakes," too.  Outlaw them.  We need to be zealous in this.  

What the fuck is a non-consensual explicit photo?  It sounds like rape.  

"Don't!  Stop!  Help!  No!!!!"

That seems pretty unlikely.  It sounds a whole lot like the testimony of P. Diddy's girlfriend.  You know, he manipulated her into thinking he loved her as he brought boys in to do sex to her--for many years.  And the drugs?  Oh, sure. . . she took them, but. . . . 

Everybody is exploited.  Like Trump.  Nobody's responsible for anything.  Everything is done to them.  

"They made me go to church.  I was brainwashed by that crazy shit.  I was a victim.  I was helpless."

"They made me go to school.  It was o.k. at first, but, you know. . . they started filling me up with these ideas. . . ."

"It was fun eating all that junk food, but then I couldn't stop."

"Smoking.  Drinking."

You might as well face it. . . you're addicted to love!

I think we need a law making everything illegal.  Everybody needs to go to jail.  

Stupid rant.  O.K. O.K.  I am just in a state this morning.  I think I'll quit drinking again.  Maybe I need a Xanax.  I'm a victim, too.  I didn't consent to global warming, but now I am suffering through unrelenting heat.  I didn't vote for Trump.  My electric bill is too high.  I am spending tens of thousands of dollars on house repairs.  And now I need to buy a new car.  

Yea. . . I need a Xanax.  

I'll take my car someplace today to see how much fixing the a.c. will cost.  But I need my car tomorrow to go see the doc about my leg.  That, of course, is adding to my. . . to my what?  What do I call it?  Depression?  Anxiety?  Just mere madness?  

There is the realization, of course, that the worst is yet to come.  

Yes. . . I think I need that Xanax.  

Good picture though, huh?  

"But why did you take it?  What is it supposed to mean?"

"Just another example of First World Voyeurism, I guess."

Right?

Among the First

I've got a lot of "fuck you"s today, so. . . . 

Fuck Paramount and CBS.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, look it up.  Fuck Comey.  He got Trump elected the first time, so I could give two shits about his problems.  Fuck my local dominant grocery store chain.  They just raised prices on domestic wines?  Why?  There are no tariffs on domestic wines.  You know why--they did it because they could.  Fuck billionaires.  All of them, even the "benevolent" ones.  And fuck everybody who gets starry-eyed over them.  And fuck Trump and his entire administration.    

I probably left out a lot there.  

Oh, yea. . . fuck the pansy-assed Woke crowd, too.  Where in the hell are the good, nice, sensible people?  

Here's one.

"Anti-natalism refers to the belief that life inevitably involves suffering and, therefore, it is morally indefensible to bring new life into existence. "

I guess I can agree with the first part of the premise and still disagree with everything else.  

I'm also sick of human ignorance.  

"The LLMs’ use of the personal information was subtle but effective. In arguing for government-backed universal basic income, the LLM emphasized economic growth and hard work when debating a White male Republican between the ages of 35 and 44. But when debating a Black female Democrat between the ages of 45 and 54 on that same topic, the LLM talked about the wealth gap disproportionately affecting minority communities and argued that universal basic income could aid in the promotion of equality."

Obviously, AI has learned to "read the room."  I should probably get some AI friends.  

There.  Got that out of my system.  Now we'll see what Big Brother has to say about that.  

I should just quit reading the news, but that is impossible.  I need to keep my finger on the pulse of the nation.  People are counting on me.  

I finally finished the culling of the Cuba photos.  I'm tempted just to make the website with the NYC, SF, and Cuba photos and leave the rest for later.  Those and a few of the more temperate "Lonesomeville" pics and a selection of the surf pics from "A Few Days One Summer."  Oh. . . and China.  There are some good China pics, too.  If I limit it to these, I won't have to deal with going back and working with the old film photos.  That could take a long, long while.  

There will not be any photos of the photographer on the website, of course.  This is really reaching back.  I wonder if these fellows are still alive.  

It is brutally hot here in the sunny south.  It does not bode well for the imminent future.  I might be able to ignore the news, but not the weather.  You can't ignore weather, especially now.  Oh for those bygone Dick and Jane days where the seasons were predictable and something to look forward to with enthusiasm.  Now, it seems, there are only two seasons, the terrible ones and the disastrous ones.  

First World problems: my buddy is going to his beach house and invited me up.  I told him I had a doctor's appointment on Thursday and would have to wait and see what I need to do afterwards.  He moaned, "Man, I'm all alone up there.  There's nothing to do."

"I thought your wife was going?"

"She is. . . ."

Ho!  I guess that is what 25 years of marriage can do.  

One of my old faculty wrote to me last night.  He just got a promotion to be academic VP of his college.  He wanted me to know how much he learned from me, and how much of it he uses every day.  That was sure a pick-me-up. You never know what your influence might be on others.  I can never believe anyone is thinking of me when I'm not standing right in front of them.  It is a weird thought, isn't it, that you can be sitting alone in your own home and someone is conjuring you up in their thoughts.  Maybe more than one person.  Maybe there is a room of people talking about you just then.  No. . . that is a weird idea, nearly unimaginable.  

And yet, I am thinking about people all the time.  I even write about them.  

"The one who writes it keeps it."

James Salter.  I asked Q not long ago if he misses writing his blog.  

"I guess not," he said.  I understand, of course, but I don't know how to do it.  Last night I spied an old hardback notebook on the bookshelf and picked it up.  I read the first page.  1992.  Holy smokes. . . I'd forgotten.  It was a powerful first paragraph.  My knees went weak.  Maybe I'll transcribe it here for you later.  

Yea. . . I've always written my life.  Maybe it is an illness.  But when I go back from time to time, I realize I've lived a number of different lives, and yet, you know. . . I seem to be the same person.  Maybe just not as talented.  

I cooked up that Cuba picture of the bike and sidecar yesterday.  The raw file had been sitting untouched since I took it.  I know many of my friends saw Castro as a revolutionary hero, but man, he fucked that country's economy up.  In communist Cuba, there were still the rich and the poor.  Mostly poor.  But elites had big, beautiful mansions and luxury gardens and were eating and drinking while the masses went hungry.  When I was last in Cuba, though, there was a boom in tourism and the economy had loosened up. People were becoming more prosperous.  Now, things have once again taken a turn for the worse.  

It is such a beautiful country ruined by politics.  Like most places, I guess.  

My surgical wound seems to be doing well.  I'll know more in a couple of days when I go to see the doc.  And my body is recovering from the antibiotics, the hospital, etc.  Not quite right yet, but moving in the right direction.  I'm eating healthy and meditating before bed.  I sleep well enough by and large and look forward to the day.  I decided to forego the fish tacos last night.  I felt I needed a steak.  And for the first time, I cooked it well without using the grill.  I let the meat sit until it was room temperature, then I patted it dry and put a thin layer of olive oil over it.  Salt and pepper.  In the cast iron pot, I seared it on one side at high heat for three minutes, then I flipped it over and put it in the oven on broil for seven minutes.  I flipped it back and let it cook another three minutes.  Then, as I had read, I let the steak sit for three minutes before I cut into it.  

Oh, my. . . yes.  Asparagus and potato sides.  Later I ate some ripe cherries that were juicy and sweet.  

And that, my peeps, is one of the great pleasures in life.  Good food well done.  

Oh, yea. . . and fuck restaurants, too.  Ha!

My trekking partners at the end of our three day hike of the Inca trail.  There were not many people hiking the trail that year.  Bandits, probably the Shining Path, had robbed and murdered many.  Peru was the most dangerous terrorist country in the world that year according to the U.S. government, even more so than Libya.  We spaced our tents out at night thinking that if they attacked one, the rest would know.  We had knives and clubs and whistles, as if that would do us any good.  Luckily, we had no trouble on the trail though terrorists had blown up the train my traveling companions were on the week before.  Here, though, we are at a construction site above Machu Picchu "hydrating."  We hydrated ourselves at nine thousand feet to our hearts content and the next day descended to Machu Picchu.  We had to make sure we caught the only train out in the afternoon, for if we missed it, we would be stuck in a shithole town of Aguas Calientes in a primitive hotel that was well-known for treachery and violence.  

I miss the world before cell phones and computers.  Old Peru, Old Mexico. . . places to which you could run away and get lost.  There doesn't seem to be as much adventure any longer.  Adventure is bad now as it constitutes "otherness" in a negative way.  So they say.  

Oh, well. . . you know what they say. 

"You should have been there.  Then good.  Now, not so good."

That's bullshit, of course, but yea.  We were among the first to ruin it.  

Until That Time

It was hot.  I am in recovery.  I thought to go out, but I didn't.  I stayed inside all the live-long day.  I am antsy and want to walk, but I don't want to take any chances with the surgical wound.  I want it to heal as best it can, so I have decided to bite the bullet, so to speak, and wait until I see the doc again before trying to do much.  

Rather, I sat inside and worked on pictures.  I can't seem to get out of the Cuba file.  I've been there three times, but none of them were photo trips.  The first time was in the 1990s before Americans were allowed to go.  I had a permit from the U.S Government to attend an International Hemingway Conference.  If you are a longtime reader here, you know how I got to be King of Cuba for awhile.  But I was in the conference and on the hotel grounds most of the time.  There was only one afternoon for only an hour or two where I got to go anywhere with my camera.  

The second time was an impromptu trip with Ili.  She hated for me to carry a camera.  She hated my taking photographs.  She was adamantly and virulently against it.  Still, I'm amazed at what I got from those few days there.  

The third time, I took a group of students.  I had chaperone responsibilities and not so much of a chance to explore with my camera.  

One day, I need to go with only one thing in mind.  

Somehow, I've "lost" the photos that I had worked on before.  I can't find them in any of the folders.  As I go through them all, searching, I find pictures that I never worked on before, like the one above, so I set about taking the raw digital files to finished product.  The music plays.  I make keystroke after keystroke after keystroke.  It is repetitious, but each photo requires its own corrections so I can't just drop a LUT onto them.  It is all tweaking and tweaking and tweaking.  

And sometimes it goes awry.  

I still have a long way to go, but I get a thrill at seeing the images emerge.  Damn, I think, I used to be able to take pictures.  It makes my heart yearn.  

That is pretty much, by and large, as interesting as my life has been for awhile.  Oh, there were some texted photos that a friends sent me from their journeys on the road.  Those, however, are of little interest to you, I think.  In fact, I find that my reports on "friends"gets under some people's skin.  It's o.k.  Often enough, the thing itself is both its own punishment and its own reward.  

I used to ask students if they thought there was more happiness or unhappiness in life and in the cosmos.  You'd think that an assemblage of people would say it was 50/50 on the average, but the answer coming back time and time again was overwhelmingly on the negative side of the ledger.  There is more suffering, they would say, than happiness.  

So. . . I am not alone.  Maybe it succors us to think there is no escaping the downside of things.  

I have photos from many other countries to cull, but much of that was taken in the pre-digital era, shot on film, and much of it was later scanned poorly, so I don't know how much of it I will use.  I may be tempted to re-scan some of it, but that takes a LONG time and the results may not be much different.  How much do I need for a website, anyway?  I only want to be able to show people that I am a "real photographer" when I ask them if I can photograph them.  You can't be a "real photographer," it seems, without some social media or other online platform now.  It is that kind of world now.  

"Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada."

Yesterday, my phone informed me that it had made some videos for me.  Crazy.  One of those was very, very long.  AI, I guess, had taken video I had shot with the iPhone and edited it in some crazy but fascinating ways.  I was fascinated for a bit.  There were things I hadn't seen in a long time, video I had forgot taking.  But after watching my life in digital time for quite awhile, fascinated by my movie self, I thought, "Holy shit!  Where else does this go?"

I mean Apple might own it for all I know.  It may be part of the permanent digital cosmos.  

It made videos from my photographs as well, mostly from the time of Ili.  

I think I am much more handsome now!  It is true.  

But that isn't saying much.  

Who said, "90% of life is just showing up?"  I think it was Woody Allen who makes a film every year.  That is more than just showing up.  Whatever the other 10% is, I need to do more of it.  When my surgical wound has healed, I will hit the road a little in an attempt to make stories and art.  Stick with me.  You will see.  I can sometimes be fascinating.  

Ho!

Until that time. . . there is this.  Enjoy. 

Revealing the Wound

I DID it.  I unwound the bandages from my leg without passing out.  Then, of course, I took a photo and sent it to SOME of my friends, the ones I didn't think would mind seeing something awful and kind of gross.  I was looking for sympathy, of course, or something akin.  Then, after messaging, with the greatest of trepidation, I stepped into the shower.  Surprising, really.  The thing didn't sting or have any strange sensations.  And though I couldn't believe I was supposed to get the thing wet, it seemed quite alright.

Once I had finished my shower and the required after-shower ablutions, I checked my phone with some anticipation.  I had gathered no great sympathies, however, only some rather matter of fact stuff, and then only a very few.  

So much for drama.

Then I remembered a saying from my childhood in the ghetto--"If you want sympathy, you can look it up in the dictionary between. . . ."

So, being bereft of the emotional support I was so desiring, I decided that I needed medicine.  

Walking was more difficult without the support of the Ace bandage than it was before, and it was a bit of a struggle across the burning parking lot and into the bar.  Sounds like a Hemingway title.  

I looked even more goofy than usual as the doctor told me to keep the thing loosely covered "so the dogs don't lick it."  The wound was much bigger than I had imagined and I hadn't any bandages--even the largest stick on ones you can buy that are larger than your hand--that would cover it, so I put on a pair of my loose long China pants.  They looked like the kind surgeons so often wear.  But I didn't care, really.  Most people wear unstylish things, especially in this heat.  Shorts and old logo t-shirts and sandals are de rigueur.  

A skinny, spicy margarita with tajin was just the thing.  

But man, it has gotten hot.  The thermometer won't leave 95 for days now as we struggle under a "heat dome."  It is still spring and I am certain these are End Times.  It boggles my mind that people voted for Trump, but he won my state in the last election.  

"Drill, baby, drill!"

You can only conclude that most people are mentally impaired.  

I ordered some street tacos to go with the marg, but they were pork and all wrong.  And it was just then as I was taking my first bites that I determined how I would live out the next six months of Global Warming Heat.  I would live on fish tacos, beer, skinny spicy margaritas, and mango ice cream.  It seemed, really, the only thing to do.  I would need linen shirts and pants and a good pair of huaraches, some beaded necklaces and colorful string bracelets.  Hell, I'd probably want an ankle bracelet as well.  This was only evening wear, of course.  Everything now must be done in the mornings.  By two o'clock, it will be time for siesta.  Close the blinds, take off your clothes, turn on the fan, and lie on top of the covers.  The margarita will help you sleep until four.  By five, perhaps, the sun will be low enough to allow you to go out.  Fish tacos and beer await you as the sun goes down.  And later on, the ice cream.  

I will make all of this at home.  I've decided to boycott restaurants with their cheap ingredients and high prices.  They are not a good value.  I do not get my money's worth.  Fish tacos require little--shredded cabbage, grated white cheese, jalapenos, and cilantro.  Skinny spicy margs need only lime juice, orange juice, and sliced jalapeños (though I've gotten wind of the idea of using a spicy hot asian sauce instead), and a little honey.  I'm thinking I will buy an ice cream maker.  That should bring the women running.  

I suggested to the woman who almost never asked me out that sitting in the sprinkler was the only way to truly beat the heat.  

"I'm a hillbilly, so I'm down," she said.  

I've done it before.  It is called adiabatic cooling.  The evaporation of the water off the skin draws heat from inside the body.  You can freeze to death like that.  A sprinkler and an inflatable kiddie pool with cold drinks will see you through the hottest of summers.  

Bereft of love and sympathy, after lunch, I took the required nap.  At five, I went to see my mother to show her my wound.  We decided to sit inside in the air conditioning rather than outside in the heat, but sitting inside staring at one another gets just a little tedious.  She gave me no real advice on the leg.  She is just happy that the cyst is gone.  

When I got home around six-thirty, the afternoon heat had subsided.  It was time for a Campari.  I sent a text to C..C.  I had introduced him to the pleasures of Pusser's Rum, the official drink of the British Royal Navy.  

In the Royal Navy, sailors were historically afforded a daily ration of rum, known as a "tot." This ration was initially one pint of rum, but it was later reduced to half a pint. This daily ration was part of their daily sustenance and became a staple of their life at sea. The daily rum ration was abolished in 1970.

C.C. makes a variety of drinks using Pusser's, but last night he was drinking Pusser's Old Fashioned, so I sent him this.  

I've owned several of these enameled cups since I went to the America's Cup race in Newport in 1983.  Saturday's toast: "Sweethearts and wives, may they never meet."

Oh, those Royal Navy sailors were drunken sots and not the kind you would bring home to mother.  

Halfway through my Campari, Tennessee and his wife rolled up on their Vespa.  They'd been to a reggae festival in town.  I got them drinks and we chatted on the deck amid the bites of tiny, invisible mosquitoes.  

"We're going to the beach house next week if you want to come."

I pointed to my leg at which T's wife had looked while he stood at a distance cringing.  

"Not next week," I said, "but thanks."

It was nice to have a bit of company.

It was too hot to cook.  My appetite was suppressed, so I decided on salad for dinner--a spring mix with sliced Campari tomatoes, avocado, and garbanzo beans, olive oil and Balsamic vinegar.   I wished I had some cheese to grate on top.  It would go on the list.  

"Do girls still like "Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"Oh, yes.  I love that movie."

I like girls who like "Breakfast at Tiffany's" rather than "Pretty Woman."  That's me.  Just saying.  Different souls, I think.  Rather so.  

Here's a scene that was deleted from the final version of the film.  Hmm.  

Removing the Bandage

Marelene Dumas' "Miss January" set a record for a painting sold by a living female artists—$13.8 million.

Today, Dumas is known as one of the most influential painters in the world, according to Christie’s, which said she “is known for her emotionally charged, psychologically complex portraits — often based on found photographs — which explore themes of sexuality, race, grief, motherhood, and the body.”

Free the Nipple.  Nude dresses banned in Cannes.  Sally Mann's work confiscated by state police from a Texas art gallery.  

I don't think we, as a nation, are united on how we feel about the naked form, but when I read that there is an epidemic of pedophiles online, that the most searched for thing on Porn Hub is for underaged girls, I think maybe we are a not getting the point.  

As well as sociable, mildly depressive, vengeful, and superstitious, Twain was also surprisingly sophisticated.

Once he married Livy, Twain quickly took to the lifestyle of the era’s one percent. His millionaire father-in-law, who had made a fortune in coal, bought the young couple a mansion, with suitable staff, as their starter home. For the rest of their lives, the Clemenses and their three daughters never lacked or denied themselves any pleasure or purchase. For 11 years, the family lived in hotel suites and villas in various parts of Europe, particularly England and Vienna (where Freud, Gustav Mahler and Theodor Herzl came to see Twain perform). At one point, Livy complained that they were as “poor as church mice,” when the family was residing in Venice in a 28-room villa with a team of servants.

As he enters his 70s, the lonely writer begins to seek out the companionship of young girls between the ages of 10 and 16. While no sexual overtures accompany these relationships, Twain’s letters to his many “angelfish” are distinctly flirtatious, and the whole business feels more than a little creepy. Once the girls reach 16, he drops them.

While knowledge of Twain’s life can enhance our understanding of his writing, the man himself turns out to have been self-centered, loving but neglectful of his daughters, foolishly gullible, something of a money-hungry arriviste and vindictive to a Trumpian degree. Of course, he was also a genius — at least in a small handful of books, perhaps only one really. Were it not for “Huckleberry Finn,” would we really think of Mark Twain as one of America’s greatest writers? I wonder.

That's from a book review by Michael Dirda in the WaPo.  I've never been a Twain fan outside of "Huckleberry Finn," so that rather thrilled me.  

One of my friends responded, "Showing any kind of interest in anything is “kind of creepy."  Name withheld to protect the deviant.  He's the same person, however, who tells his outraged friends, "Sure, in the animal kingdom the males always fight over the right to breed with the older females in the group."  

Nature has its ways.  

I guess this will bring me to what I really want to talk about, will bring me to the buried lede.  

Today I am to take the bandages off my surgical wound and take a shower.  I am terrified.  I don't want to look at it.  I really don't.  I live alone.  There is no one to do this for me.  What if I pass out?  

I am sure my leg will be forever deformed.  My gut is heavy and my shoulders have narrowed.  Which females in the pack will fight over me?  Body issues.  And yet. . . several women at the gym who I know only from seeing them there, surprising me with their concern, offered to come help me take off the bandages and shower.  Some insisted that I take their numbers.  And I swear I think the nurses at the hospital and the doctor's office were flirting with me.  

Girls still send me pictures, some of which I can post here.  

Some who have almost forgotten me send me ancient gifts.  I got a Christmas present yesterday, a book with last year's inscription evincing the feelings of the time.  

But I feel postdated.  I mean, for all of it, I am alone and will have to deal with my physical disabilities without the help of a True Love.  I am both terrified and sad.  

Last night, I decided to try and get back to a normal life, to shake the inherent gloom, so after visiting my  mother, I decided to get sushi on the Boulevard.  It was early, but in the good months, you need to get there early if you want a good table.  

But last night, that was no problem.  There wasn't a soul to be found.  I sat alone for a good long while in the six o'clock 93 degree afternoon.  Eventually, an irritating middle eastern hillbilly family sat at a table near me.  They were loud, obnoxious, and hideous.  

But the food was alright.  This is a mid-level sushi place with decent but not spectacular food.  There are two Michelin star sushi restaurants in town, but dinner is around $400/person at a seating for nine.  Some of my friends go.  I never will unless someone is sporting me.  Maybe, you know. . . my next true love.  

The workers came to do house repairs yesterday.  They finished the apartment and will come back on Monday to do the house.  It is expensive, but I will feel better when it is done.  Money.  I let things go too long with some fantasy that I will get out and fix things myself.  I am not a skilled handyman.  I am something far worse.  I can pitch mulch and haul things to the curb, but don't let me around power tools.  

Though I have built a couple of decks.  No real skill there, though.  

Miami sent me a song as I was working on culling photos for my proposed website.  I am going to build a website with photos that the average person who knows nothing about photography other than the commercial images they see can appreciate.  Anything that would appeal to a person with a critical eye will remain in the vault.  I just need the website so that when I ask people to be in a project and they say, "Do you have a website?" I can show them this.  Don't get me wrong, I like the images.  They are good images and don't embarrass me, but they are not weird or dangerous nor a challenge to the average sensibilities.  

I ran into "The Artist" who had the studio behind mine in those studio years.  He was a full-time artist who made his living selling art.  Some of his very large encaustic pieces sold for $10,000.  He is living in Canada now and was only here on business.  So, in the parking lot at Whole Foods, we stopped to chat and catch up.  

"Are you still doing photography," he asked.  

Embarrassed, I thought for a minute and said, "No. . . I haven't latched on to a project I could run with, really."

It sounded terrible,  It sounded like defeat.  

The song Miami sent was a lively Latin tune, and just at that moment, I was working on this. 

It seemed a fortuitous synchronicity.  Just maybe, I thought, this thing is going to get me going.  Maybe this thing is going to work.  

But I need to quit finding photos that I haven't processed before and just go with what I have got or I'll never get a website up.  

But I am putting off the inevitable here which is dealing with my surgical bandaging and wound.  I will go to the gym and do a little more light exercise, and then come home and deal with the dressing.  My nether regions begin to tingle in an uncomfortable way just thinking about it.  I'm a real scaredy cat when it comes to this shit.  I was fortunate to have someone who loved me after my accident.  I could not have done that on my own.  

This is nothing of the kind, but still. . . oh, love. . . oh love. . . . 

The Cuba pictures are good, I think.  I need to get out and do more.  

Maybe I'll sport a camera when I go out today.  But I don't have a website to show, and really, there is nothing for me here.  I'll read.  I'll write.  I'll cull more photographs.  I'll cook healthy food and sit on the deck with a late afternoon drink.  I'll remember my life and pretend to still be living it.  

But, of course, there is always the music.  

Wonderful News

I just spent the morning writing badly about yesterday.  I'm trashing that one, but now I am worn out with it and feel the need for brevity.  And so. . . . 

Yesterday I went back to the surgeon.  Oh. . . I had some descriptive, flowery descriptions that I've now deleted.  I was nervous.  The doc wasn't.  He unwrapped the wound.  I didn't look.  He said it looked great, put some salve on it, and wrapped it back up.  

"You can remove the bandages on Saturday and take a shower.  You don't need to wrap it up again.  Just cover it up with something so the dogs don't lick it.  I'll see you in a week."

What?!  This was great news, except for the part where I have to deal with it on Saturday.  I couldn't believe that I was going to be o.k. to shower then, and I certainly wasn't looking forward to seeing the thing itself.  Still. . . . 

He told me that I shouldn't run or jump or. . . surf.  He had a sense of humor it seemed, for his P.A. had asked me if I was a surfer when they came into the room.  Maybe he was human after all.  

"I had to cut two flaps to fold over to cover it, so I don't want you putting any pressure on it.  Otherwise, you can do normal things."

Jesus--cut two flaps. . . .  I was certain I didn't want to look at it on Saturday.  

Still, I was fairly elated as I crossed the parking lot to the car.  

Home, I decided I needed to start exercising.  Three weeks in chairs and beds and quiet rooms had turned me into a lumpfish, soft and gelatinous.  I got dressed and drove to the gym.  

Oy!  I had what amounted to fetal strength.  The gymroids had spread the word that I was out with some vicious STD but that I was still gay and the prognosis was good, so people had to come tell me.  All the motion after so long, though, was making me dizzy.  I stayed for about half an hour.  I didn't want to do too much.  

A tub bath, lunch, and a nap.  Life as I have known it was returning.  

In the late afternoon, I poured a Campari, and of course, I took a photo to send to my friends with the good news.  

"A Campari and the kabob I’m about to cook.  Coming back to the world."

There is much more to tell, but I told it poorly once and have no confidence I can do it better again, so I'll leave it at that.  As bad as things have seemed, it is all turning out as well as it could, I think.  

And so. . . there it is.  Selavy.