Only Me

The crew began preparing to replace the roofing on the apartment just before six o'clock this morning.  Lots of noise as they readied things.  They were on the roof before seven.  All of that is illegal here in my own hometown.  I have a persnickety neighbor who will be very upset, especially because she doesn't care for Mexicans.  The old roof is already off.  There are a good number of them and they are working fast.  I don't blame them as it will be 90 degrees this afternoon, eight degrees above the average here.  They are taking down a two story chimney that is crumbling, too.  I won't tell you what it is costing me, but. . . I did my taxes yesterday and owe more money than Trump.  Combining the two, I will pay out $16,000 today.  

The car still needs power steering work and door hinges.  Lucky for me, car tariffs went into effect yesterday.  

When the roof is done later today, I will be walking the foreman around to show him what else needs to be done around the apartment and house.  Woodwork.  Siding, stairs.  That's just the outside.  I need roof work done on the house, too.  And much else.  

My cousin is leaving to go back home this weekend.  My mother is a little freaked.  We'll see how this shakes out.  

I've had a sore throat and body aches for three days now.  Haven't left the house for two.  Passed on dinner with Tennessee.  Then last night, passed on Happy Hour with the boys.  They went to the Irish pub to see my friend the waitress.  It was her birthday.  They texted me enough pictures so that I felt that I was there.  Glad I wasn't.  Somewhere in the drunken night, she told.  

"You  fucktard she showed me her head shots."

Oops.  The cat is out of the bag now.  

A trainer at the Club Y is adamant that I photograph her.  I've not wanted to.  I think she's dangerous.  

My buddy who ran an art gallery in Gotham for years and who somehow is always landing grants and other things for art installations and writing--I'm not sure what all--invited me to his art opening at the Cafe Strange on Sunday.  It is a group show with his old girlfriend and two others.  I've met them all and like them.  I told him I would come early when they were hanging the show to make some portraits.  Why did I?  It makes me nervous.  I don't want to do it anymore.  

Still. 

I printed small photos for my friend's birthday yesterday on my shitty little printer.  I couldn't get the colors and exposures right.  I need to buy a new printer, but they are VERY expensive for me now.  

And yet.  

I just ordered a new lens.  It was cheap, but what am I thinking?  

There is a Buddhist temple a few miles from me.  I think I will go there to see if they have nightly meditation sessions.  I need something to slow my freaking mind.  It is like a Mexican Jumping Bean of horrible thoughts.  Meditation might be better than whiskey.  

I have waited until it has turned hot again to do my yearly chores.  I must pressure wash and paint the deck.  The big old driveway needs mulching.  I must rip out and replace my small garden.  The wooden fence between my house and the neighbor's is falling down and must be replaced.  

The house and apartment need to be pressure cleaned, calked, and painted.  

I wish I had something good to tell, but I haven't.  I'm in need of repairing what's inside me.  I am paralyzed by anxiety and doom.  Maybe I'm right, though.  Maybe I'm more prescient than others.  Perhaps nothing is going to get better.  

More than likely, though, it is only me.  

Retrospect

Read an article on David Hockney and his largest retrospective ever this morning in the Times (link).  It is a flattering portrait, of course, in which they compare him to Picasso.  Strange comparison, I think, unless they were measuring the wealth of the artist.  Hockney travels with his own medical team.  Now THAT'S art.  Imagine how much Hockney must be worth.  I like Hockney's work and would say I liked Hockney if I knew him, I suspect, at least from what I've garnered from the seemingly endless interviews over the years that are available on YouTube.  I watch them and think, "What's not to like?"  He's smart, at least about art, and has a good deal of talent.  I'd imagine Picasso to have much more which is why other artists feared to criticize him.  He was able to do what they did, only better.  Picasso did have someone with whom he could compete, however--Matisse.  They worked in opposite ways and fought over who would be Champion of the World.  They remained friends, though, in spite of this.  Line vs. Color.  I have seen major exhibits of each, but I missed the Picasso/Matisse exhibition of the two in NYC some years ago.  Q had bought me a ticket, but I couldn't make it.  My legs went weak and I had to sit several times when I viewed the individual shows.  I don't know if I would have survived the combined exhibit.  

I have seen Hockney's work without the same reaction.  I do not think he has his own version of Matisse to battle.  But I like Hockney's work as much as any contemporary artist's.  In small ways and large, he varied his work over time incorporating different forms and methods and mediums.  For many years now, he, like the aging Picasso, lives by and large in his studio working through his remaining days.  

They are polar opposites, I think, Picasso and Hockney, in both their art and sensibility.  The Faun and the Fawn, I suppose.  

But to have a large estate and a tremendous studio and the money to have live in doctors--now THAT'S something.  

I could use a live-in doctor today.  I have come down with some malaise that has put me on the couch.  I had to decline an invitation out by Tennessee and am going to miss a night out with the BBC tonight.  They will end up at a b-day celebration for my young waitress friend.  I'm afraid I'll have to miss that one.  

I hope to muster up enough energy, though, to do my taxes.  

Death and taxes, don't you know . 

Will

"A man can be broken and still be undefeated," said Ernest Hemingway.  

Later on, he shot himself in the head with a shotgun.  He was sixty-one.

Don't believe everything you read.  Then again, Hemingway wasn't speaking of himself when he wrote that.  It might have read, "Other men can be broken and still be undefeated."  But that just ain't such great literature.  

I had a moment yesterday when I felt almost happy, but it didn't last.  I hardly slept last night.  I can't figure out why everyone is so big on CBD as a pain medicine.  That shit does nothing for me.  It doesn't help me sleep, either.  

I can't keep up with all I need to do any longer.  The car, the house, my body. . . .  I'm certain my mind is going, too.  I'm just running out of road.  

My will to do a thing is gone.  What "thing"?  Just about anything.  Another bout of paralytic catatonia has overtaken me.  

If I was going on a trip to Japan with my neighbors in June, I needed to pay by Sunday night.  I couldn't commit to it.  My life is not my own.  

I pretend that if I had a studio, things would be fine.  But I won't have a studio, so yesterday I went to the art supply store.  I had an idea that was making me feel I might be productive.  I spent almost a hundred dollars on supplies. . . that I will probably never use.  When I got the material home, I didn't feel the fire anymore.  

I would like to go back to bed for the rest of the day, but the maids are coming.  I need to launder the sheets, but I am out of detergent.  I have much to pick up and put away.  The roofing company is asking what day I would like to have them come.  They want half their money.  I've not done my taxes yet.  I'll have to take time tomorrow for that.  The power steering is out on my Xterra and I need to take it in. That means I will be without a car for some time.  Something has died under the house again.  I could smell it while I slept.  

I shouldn't write, I know.  But I wanted to post the picture. I liked its ghostly ways.  

Just Another Bitch Session

The Greedheads are ruining everything.  Not for themselves, of course, nor for their ilk, but for most people.  "Greed is good," became a catchphrase before most of you had internet, before you'd even heard, "You've got mail."  After that, you know what happened.  MBAs took over health care with one motive--maximize profit.  

I won't go through a history of corporate takeovers, though.  I'll just skip ahead.  How many streaming services do you subscribe to?  Remember the Golden Age of television?  It's gone.  The days of needing only HBO and Netflix is hardly a memory.  If there is anything at all I want to watch, I now have to subscribe to a new streaming app--Hulu, Peacock, Disney, Apple, Max. . . the list is long.  

I cut my cable awhile back, so I have not been able to watch March Madness.  This has probably saved me a lot of time, of course and isn't all bad, but my alma mater has made a run into the Final Four, and I would have liked to see that.  

I want to see "White Lotus."  Every Sunday, I get updates on what I have missed, but I have to wait until the last episode before I watch it on a one week free trial of Max.  Those who have Max, though, are pissed that they have to wait a week to watch the next episode.  What happened to Binge T.V.?

Gone.  There was more money to be made with the other model.  I think I'm ready to cut out t.v. altogether and join the ADHD Age to simply watch Instagram clips.  

Well. . . I have already begun.  

So there's my rant.  It sucks.  

I ran across this photo scrounging around on the internet.  This is precisely what I've been wanting to do.  No, not precisely.  I think that person is too obvious to photograph.  But I want to set up a backdrop someplace and take portraits like Disfarmer did in his studio.  I would love to do it at the Cafe Strange, but I've been too timid to ask.  It would, however, be, in the vernacular of "the kids," awesome.  

Spring is racing toward summer, and I wish I could do a series called "Spring Adolescence," but we all know that is never going to happen in the current climate.  I'd be butt raped by repressed incels for sure.  

Remember the scene in "On the Road" where Dean is chased by a group of boys with baseball bats for flirting with a teenage girl in some obscure playground?  Most people don't.  It is very subtly written.  

I ramble.  I just needed to keep the posts going without writing about my current condition.  Still, this ended up being another bitch session, didn't it?  

If I can scare up a smidgen of joy. . . you'll be among the first to know.  

Not Today

I've tried, but it is impossible today.  Tomorrow, perhaps. 

Future Living

"Begin with an encapsulating statement, then proceed to descriptive detail."

"I can't."

"Well, what do you intend to do?"

"I don't know.  I'll just write and see what happens."

"That's not the way to do it." 

"We'll see."

The day went much as predicted.  Early on, I took my mother to the Ear, Nose, and Throat office to have her hearing tested.  That is what my mother said, anyway.  But there is no use in trying to tell people how to live their lives, and I've given up trying.  Who knows how another person should live?  All of life is simply a cosmic folly ending in the grave, regardless of eschewing animal fat and alcohol, drinking only water and eating your vegetables, meditating, doing yoga, and getting in your steps.  At some point, the Great Spiritual Leader will stick his tongue in a young boy's throat to the shock and awe of his minions.  

"It is an ancient greeting," they will say, "and great blessing."

People's minds simply tend to go.  

We got to the ENT on time, then sat in a great lobby as a women in uniforms entered through a door to call out patients' names.  My mother got up for all of them.  

"No. . . they are not calling you."

"What did she say?"

"Albert."

We were the last in the lobby when the woman opened the door and called out my mother's name.  She sat still.  

"That's you," I said. 

She was taken into a room for a hearing test.  I sat in a second lobby.  In a bit, my mother came out and sat with me.  I was looking at a poster that said people with hearing loss are three times as likely to fall.  I pointed this out to my mother.  

"Huh."

We were called into a room.  My mother sat in an exam chair.  I sat in the corner behind her.  

"Hi, I'm Priscilla," said a very pregnant woman.  "I'm the P.A." 

Of course, I thought.  

She went on to ask my mother some questions that my mother couldn't hear.  Priscilla repeated them with more emphasis.  

My mother's response was, "I don't know.  My son thinks I'm losing it."

Priscilla glanced at me then went through the results of my mother's hearing test.  She had moderate hearing loss in the low frequencies, moderate loss in the mid frequencies, and worse loss in the higher frequencies.  

"So. . . is that normal?" my mother queried.  

"You were tested last year and you show a predictable loss of hearing in each of the frequencies."

I could tell my mother was taking this as good news.  "Predictable."  

"I've had pains in my head, here and here," she ran her fingers around the right side of her skull as if playing a piano."

"Is it a sharp pain, a dull pain?"

"What?"

"What kind of pain do you have."

"Sometimes, you know. . . ."

My mother launched into a narrative that didn't really answer the question.  Priscilla glanced my way.  I sat stone faced.  I just shrugged and shook my head.  

"Do you have any ringing in your ears."

"Some, yes."

This does not align with what she tells me, of course which is that some nights she wakes with a terrible roaring sound in her head.  

"Well, your ear canals are nice and healthy and we ran a pressure test and your ears are fine, so the pain is not coming from your ears but from some other source.  Last year you saw Doctor Turner.  He prescribed some medicines for you, a gel to rub on your jaw.  Did you use that?"

"I don't remember." 

She hadn't.  

He also said you should get a mouthpiece for sleeping.  Most pain in the jaws and head come from grinding your teeth.  Did you try that?"

"Honey. . . I have partial plates. . . I don't have any teeth to grind."

"You can still be clenching your jaws in your sleep.  You might try the mouthguard."

My mother was silent.  

"As for the hearing loss, we can schedule an appointment with the audiology department where you can test different hearing aids to see how they work.  You can even try some for a few days at home.  Would you like us to schedule for you now."

Pause: "No."

"O.K. Well when you are ready, just call our office and they will set you up."

We were done.  I walked her to the car and drove her home.  I said nothing about the visit.  Her choice. When we got back to her house, my cousin asked, "How'd it go?"

"Alright," said my mother.  

I just shook my head.  "They said she has hearing loss and could use hearing aids, but she didn't want to try them."

"I thought that is why you were going?"

I just shrugged.  

"They try to trick you," my mother said with vitriol.  "When you walk in, everyone talks in low tones so you think you can't hear.  They just whisper. . . shshr shsh shrm. . . . "

"Yup," I said.  "It's all just a scam.  My mother can hear fine.  I'm going to the gym, home to shower and eat, then I'll be back in a bit to take mom to her therapy appointment.  

And that is what I did.  

When we got to the therapist's, there was not a chair for me in the therapy room, so I turned around to go back to the lobby.  A fellow I know from the gym, a poli sci prof, was sitting with his daughter who had a damaged knee, so I sat down and we began to chat.  In a little while, though, the therapist came out and said to come on back.  That is how she says it--"Come on back."  Not simply, "Come back," which is why I suspected incorrectly that she was from the midwest.  

"Your mother wants you there to tell me about her recent fall."

I've given up loving the therapist.  She talks too much about her husband while flirting with me.  She is not flirting with me, of course.  I'm not a fool. . . for very long. . . just a bit too long.

My mother tried to tell the therapist that something happens sometimes when she is walking.  It is like some force takes over her feet and they keep speeding up until she is going faster and faster until she can't keep up.  She illustrates this by swinging her arms and speeding up her rising voice in dramatic fashion.  

"It's a mysterious force," I say.  "It's called gravity.  The action is called falling."

The therapist chats with me, asks what "we" have been doing.  I tell her about Thursday night.  She wonders what I am going to do this night and the weekend.  I tell her I've had a very long day and I don't want to cook.  The Boulevard will be packed with Country Club College Alums, but I think I will try to sneak a seat at the sushi place.  

"You are such a foodie," she says.  

When therapy is finished I drive my mother home.  I had brought over the bath seat I had ordered from Amazon.  There were about thirty pieces that needed to be put together, and my cousin said she would do it while we were gone.  When we got back, the thing was sitting half done.  The smell of ganja hung in the air.  

"I put it together about halfway and had it backwards.  I had to take it apart and start over again."

"Yea. . . that is how it always goes."

So we sat down with the pieces and instructions and I helped to assemble it.  And when we were done, something was wrong.  The arms and the tubes they fit into did not align.  Shit.  We had to take it all apart again.  My forearms were starting to wear out from all the turning of screws.  When we finished, we only had to the back support to attach.  And. . . you guessed it.  We had to take it all apart and start over.  It was a true comedy of errors.  

"I should know better than to try this with a pothead," I said.  The across the street neighbor was there and getting a big kick out of it.  She must have been smoking pot with my cousin because she couldn't keep her hands off me.  She kept rubbing my shoulders and rubbing my back.  

"I've got a question to ask you.  It is for you.  I'm making fried chicken on Sunday and you all are coming over.  What time do you want to eat."

"Five," I said.  

"You're coming, right?"

"O.K."

"What else do you want?"

"Watermelon?"

This went on far too long.  Finally, however, the chair was finished, so I took it to my mother's bathroom and set it in the shower stall.  When I came out, the neighbor was gone.  

"Jesus. . . she was loopy." 

We chatted for a bit, but it was getting late, so I said, "I need to go try to find dinner."

My cousin had told me she needed to be back home to take her husband to the doctor by April 8th, so this was on my mind.  I had about a week before she left.  I'd put off thinking about it, but now it was sitting on my head like a weight.  

I found parking off the Boulevard and got a seat at the sushi bar.  The crowd from the night before was nowhere around.  Of course, I thought, they are having an event on campus.  The parade wouldn't start until later that night.  

At the bar, I could see myself in reflection.  I didn't like it.  My hair is long now, just beginning to touch my shoulders.  This was not my intention, only the result of not getting an appointment with my beautician.  But tonight was the end of it.  She was seeing me Saturday afternoon.  It wasn't simply the hair, however.  I didn't look right.  Somehow I was losing the fight with time and gravity.  It was inevitable, of course, if not comical, but comedy is not necessarily funny.  I wasn't laughing.  And so I tried not to look as I drank my sake and ate my meal and then decided to order another batch of sake and another meal.  It had been a two sake carafe and two dinner meal day.  Week.  Month.  Months.  

I don't know what I will do in a week when my cousin leaves.  I'm not sure that moving in with my mother is the answer, but I'd better find one quickly.  

Sitting at home with the first worm killer after dinner, I realized what I had seen in the mirror, realized what was wrong.  All joy had left my face, it seems.  I was looking at the face of a corpse, deadpan, void of animation.  There was no joy left in the body, nor, if it exists, in my soul.  There was simply a long, dark tunnel stretching far into the distance, and I had shriveled in the darkness.  "Find the way of the Buddha," I thought.  "You must forget about desire.  Desire is the root of unhappiness.  Accept the void.  Embrace the nothingness.  Listen to your breath and empty your mind.  Rejoice in mere existence.  Everything is transitory.  Let go.  Ommmmm." 

But I haven't told you my suicide story yet, have I?  Oh. . . maybe another time.  I have droned on here too long now.  Who knows what the future holds anyway?  

And yet, we have all lived through the future, haven't we?  It is mostly in the past.

A Bittersweet Reprieve

This is probably the most famous book cover of all time.  And why not?  These are not the eyes of T.J. Ecklburg but of some ghostly, haunting reminder of one's squandered, allusive youth and beauty and the failures of romantic love in a cripplingly materialistic world.  Everyone has read the novel, I suppose, if they went to school.  It is, perhaps, the the most read novel ever published.  And yet, when Fitzgerald died, the book was not even in print.  Indeed none of his works were.  

I wasn't aware until this morning that "The Great Gatsby" had turned 100 years old. Oddly enough, only yesterday I was on Amazon looking for the book of his letters.  "Gatsby" is a great novel, maybe perfect in many ways, but it is not the sole creation of a desperate writer.  The novel was ordered and polished by Fitzgerald's friend Edmund "Bunny" Wilson and the editors at Scribners.  Fitzgerald had a terrible time with organization.  Perhaps it was the result of his drinking.  Ha!  

"Many must have it."  

I think that cover art certainly added to the novel's allure, too.  The sad, beautiful eyes of everything we long for and can never achieve or hold on to.  

But Christ, she has a small mouth.  

Last night, I had a moment of reprieve.  Of a sort.  Like everything else in life, it seems, it was bittersweet.  I felt myself the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg, a melancholy symbol of a ruptured past, present and fading, a symbol of some imaginable but forgotten glory still--but barely--visible on a long abandoned billboard.  

I'd visited my mother.  She was doing better.  The day before was over, she seemed to say.  Everything was "Go."  Yea, sure. . . nothing but blue skies and daffodils ahead, all trouble behind.  So, letting myself be fooled by the present, when I left her house, I decided I would join the Billionaire Boys Club for a drink.  

It had been a spectacular day and the coming night promised to be soft and elegant.  It was Alumni weekend at Country Club College.  Wealth and success were coming to town in an effort to revive those ardent days of future glory, desperate not to lose what was sure to fade. . . in memoriam.  

The BBC was reduced for the evening, but we picked up a famous judge (retired) who made his fortune as a successful attorney before donning his robes.  He is a man my own age as he is quite fond of mentioning.  

"Really!  You don't look as old as old C.S. here."

"Well. . . I think he lived a more exciting life."

It was just the usual beating, but the judge spoke up in my defense.  

"I haven't really gotten to know him until recently, but I used to see him come to the gym years ago and I remember thinking he always looked impressive."

"What happened?"

"I got broken into pieces," I said.  "Aging is a disappointing achievement."

One of the fellows quietly paid the tab, but when the judge found out, he tried to give him money.  Twice he spilled metal credit cards all over the floor.  A wiry island boy (the accent gave him away) was there to pick them up right away.

"I could feel those things hitting the ground all the way over there, mon."  

There sure were a lot of them.  The judge had to leave to meet his son, so he excused himself with a promise he would meet us at the next bar.  

As the rest of us got up to go, the waitress handed me a credit card.  

"Your friend forgot one," she said.  

"We'll be using this at the next spot for sure," one of the boys trilled.  

The next spot was a new, upscale place on the Boulevard.  I had not yet been.  The famous d.j. who always Ubers because he's always drunk hitched a ride with me.  

"Jesus. . . we could have just walked here faster," he said as I parked behind City Hall.

"Yea, but I have a bunch of expensive cameras in the car and didn't want to leave on the street over there."

"Are you insane?  Have you not learned your lesson?"

The sky was turning a velvet purple as we approached the restaurant.  Our buddies had impossibly gotten  prime seating at a low table half inside the lounge, halfway on the sidewalk.  The bar was full and the parade of fabulous people was underway.  It was a fashion show past and present, sharp couples and trios of girls in a constant stream.  The waitresses were quite attentive, of course, and everything was grand.  The booze was flowing and the boys were eating low dose gummies every hour or so.  Creamy lobster hors-d'ouvres, crab cakes, tequila, vodka, and beers.  

"Holy shit," I mewed. 

"Yea. . . this is the new must-be place.  See and be seen."  

The dj is a character and apparently well-known.  He would address people passing by and they would smile in recognition as he said something borderline appropriate but witty.  

"Oh. . . I thought you were a friend of my daughters," he would grin.  "Sorry."

"No. . . don't worry, I'm married,"he'd say to giggling women.

He does it for a living and he is good at it.  

"You are on the radio.  How do all these people know who you are?"

"Social media, dude.  The station promotes the show.  I'm all over the place."

A couple sat down at the table next to us.  They had a huge assed dog.  Half-standard poodle, half St. Bernard.  The thing was fluffy and as friendly as a dog could be, and the couple was quickly a part of the group, but in a bit they left another couple took their place.  The woman was blonde, dressed in a brilliant red dress with lips to match.  When the man left, the boys noticed she was listening in on their discussion--couples with separate bedrooms.  She was a therapist, she said, and she was going to a conference in Atlanta next week on just that topic.  She was fascinated by the boys, I could tell, as they began to grill her.  She trotted out her credentials.  Her father was an Ivy League doctor, she said, and she'd grown up in Westbury and Rye.  She was interviewed on a radio show the night before.  The dj snapped a photo and sent it to the hosts who texted him right back.  Yup.  That was her.  She had two reality t.v. shows in the works at the moment, she said.  What were they?  One was about how people in their 40's and 50's handled dating.  She was perimenopausal herself, and she knew something about how shifting hormones change you.  

"We're heading to the Irish pub in a minute.  You come with us."

She hesitated.  The crowd would be young, her daughters' age.  But the boys would not relent, so she texted her husband out of courtesy to tell him she was going and he could meet up with her there if he wanted to.

"He won't," she said.  "But, you know. . . I don't want him to feel left out."

It was her second husband, not the father of her daughters.  We got to hear about that.  

"Text your daughters and tell them to come," I said.  

The boys gave me the eye.

"I mean. . . we don't want them to feel left out."

But I was done.  I wasn't going to the next bar.  And so we all got up and wandered to the parking lot.  As we parted, the dj, now well in his cups, said, "You and me, we're alike, aren't we."

"What do you mean?"

"The women like us.  You know I admire you, right?  I talk about you on the show all the time.  I don't use your real name, of course, but. . . the women like you."

I looked up in wonder at the swirling stars in the cloudless sky.  

"Ha!  I have no immediate evidence of that, my friend."

"Come here," he said, and he gripped me in a bear hug.  "Alright, brother. . . be careful driving home.  And take the fucking cameras out of the car for Christ's sake."

"Yea, yea. . . "

They boys had been to the pub last year during alumni week.  They said it was outrageous.  Alumni showed up to relive their college days.  

"Send photos," I said.  

As I sat with my last drink of the night just before bed, I got a text.  It wasn't from the boys.  It was from a young friend.  It was a picture of her and one of the BBC.  

"Why aren't you here?"

Because I have to get up early and take my mother to a doctor's appointment, I thought but did not respond.  

And that is what I must do now.  Early morning doctor, afternoon therapy.  That is my Friday.  But the cosmos last night allowed me a moment of reprieve, sitting on the Boulevard watching the parading progeny, the results born of generational marriages between beauty and wealth.  Fitzgerald's Golden Girls.  Those people, James Salter remarked, who'd had random behavior bred out of them.

I presented a paper at Princeton long ago, visited the eating clubs and went through some of the collection of Fitzgerald papers in the Princeton collection.  I wish I had the photos at my fingertips right now to show you, ones sent to me by great scholars from around the country.  I was in my forties, and I think I was beautiful then as my mother had been in her youth.  Maybe one never gets over it.  Maybe we simply look back into a memory, the fading eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg on some rotten billboard of life.  

When Fitzgerald died in his 40's, he was all but forgotten, living in a garage apartment and dating Sheila Graham, a well-known newspaper columnist.  Zelda was living in a mental institute where she would later die in a terrible fire.  

Such is life, I guess, a passing parade of success and youth and beauty.  

O.K.  The old clock on the wall keeps ticking.  We do not have forever.  It is time for me to go.  

Done

I got a call yesterday just as I was preparing for the gym.  It was my cousin.  My mother had fallen again on her walk around the block.  She called a neighbor to come and help her up off the ground.  My cousin said my mother wanted to go to some doc-in-the-box.  

"I'll be over," I said.  

Last time she fell, she went to the nearest hospital.  It was a disaster.  They didn't have orthopedic doctors there.  No orthopedics.  None.  

When I got to my mother's house, she was sitting in a chair holding her swollen and bruised wrist.  The other one, not the one she just broke.  

"What happened?"

"There was no tree or anything to grab hold of, so I grabbed a bush, but that didn't help."

I loaded my mother into the car and took her to the main hospital on the other side of town from her house.  I dropped my mother off at the E.R. entrance.  

"Where can I park?" I asked the valet.  

"I can park your car or you can park in the garage over there above the second floor."

I now was confronted with my sad life.  I couldn't give my car to the valet.  The power steering is gone and the little guy would never be able to turn the wheel.  Plus. . . the hinges on the driver's side door are bent and you have to work to get the door to close.  My life is ramshackle.  

"I'll be right back," I told my mother.  It wasn't true, though.  I drove the six stories plus the rooftop parking over and over and over again without finding a space.  WTF?  This was a nightmare.  I had been driving in the parking garage at least half an hour when I decided to just park illegally in front of the ER.  Fuck it.  

When I exited the garage, however, I saw a spot of street parking.  

When I walked into the ER, my mother was sitting in a chair in the main lobby.  

"Did you check in?"

"No. . . let's get out of here."

"Why didn't you check in?"

She was staring at me with blank eyes.  

"Are you lost?"

"Yes."

Shit was getting bad.  I walked her over to the check in station.  All they needed was her phone number to look her up in the system.  I guess my mother couldn't remember it.  

Then we sat.  And waited.  And waited until her name was called.  They asked her some questions, took her temperature, and led her back into a room.  I started to follow but the guard called me back.  

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going with my mother."

"Wait.  I need to check you in."

He scanned my driver's license and took my photo, then gave me a sticker with my photo on it.  

"Where am I going?" I asked.  

"S1."  

I started to go through the door they had taken my mother through, but was directed toward another set of doors.  I wandered through a maze of hallways and rooms looking for S1.  When I got there, I pulled back the curtain, but it wasn't my mother.  I looked around.  A woman in those sort of scrubs everyone from the doc to the janitor wears asked me if I needed help.  I showed her my sticker that said "S1."  She told me this was H and sent me through another set of doors.  I was back in the lobby.  

"Where in the hell is S1?"

A woman at the desk, not the guard, said, "She's not in S1.  She's in S20."

I just looked around, shook my head, and started to go back through the doors they had taken my mother.  A man came over and said, "Here. . . let me. . . . " and he took a pass key and let me in, then walked me back.  My mother was sitting in a chair behind a curtain.  The room was tiny and there was no other chair.  A woman in hospital attire walked by.  

"Is there a chair?" I asked.  

She looked around.  "I don't see any."

I stood with my back against a pole for about five minutes, then the lady showed up with a chair.  

"I got this from another room."

I sat.  And we waited.  The woman in the unit next to us kept crying out for things.  She wasn't comfortable.  She wasn't happy.  She needed crackers, a drink.  She coughed and moaned and farted and burped.  

And we waited.  

Eventually someone came to take my mother to X-ray.  She was gone quite awhile.  

When she came back, we waited.  Eventually a woman in a white lab coat came in with a "scribe."  She said she was a P.A.  She asked my mother some questions that she couldn't hear.  I answered some for her.  My mother stared through her glasses and breathed through an open mouth, befuddled.  

"I'm going to take a look at those X-rays and then I'll be right back."

But she never came back.  Maybe an hour went by.  My mother stood up and walked to a nurses station.  

"Am I free to go?"

"We need to get you checked out first.  Just hold on."

And we held on for quite a long time.  The nurses hung around the nurses' station chatting about their lives.  A fellow in a uniform and badge walked in with a dog.  K-9, it said.  All the nurses came over to pet it.  Dog hair and dander in the air.  WTF?  I took a phone pic.

And we waited.  

Some hours later, we left with the knowledge that my mother had not broken any bones.  

Somewhere in this time, I'd asked my mother if she had considered assisted living facilities.  I just can't do this anymore.  She can't take care of herself any longer.  She's had 24/7 care for three months now and still falls and hurts herself.  

"They cost $100,000 a year," she said.  

"Well. . . you could stay a year."

When we got back to her house, my cousin wanted to know how it went.  The first thing out of my mother's mouth was, "He wants to put me away."  

That, my friends, has put the nail in the emotional coffin.  I tried to have the most difficult conversation with my mother.  It is not a conversation I want to have.  I've spent the last five years sticking around so that I could keep an eye on my mother.  I've been out of town a total of six days since 2020.  But now I'm the bad guy who needs to be rebuffed as she cries out for help to a relative.  

I'd not eaten all day, nor had a sip of anything but the morning coffee.  After spending the day sitting in a chair in the ER, I was out of gas.  It was too early to eat, or, perhaps, too late.  I poured a drink and lit a cheroot.  A 5th of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes, I thought.  I sat in the late afternoon air and thought through the conversation with my mother.  I was angry.  I was lost in my own way.  I was sure I didn't know what to do.  Mostly I was riddled with anxiety about the future, both hers and mine.  

What pleasure are there in life anymore?  I wondered.  I couldn't think of any.  I don't want to simply endure.  It has no appeal for me.  I'm at the bottom of a great hole.  Things look perilous.  

You all can have it.  This world.  

I think I am done.  

Tautologies

Everyone is clever these days.  Witty is the new intelligence.  Nobody wants to be told anything now, and as the Postmodern Age taught us, one opinion is as good as another.  So, with a wave of his hand, the Grand Umpah, the CEO of the country, can simplydismiss grand failure as a mere blip.  

"Nothing to see here.  Move along."

People who voted for him three times will quickly turn the conversation to President Magoo, The Giggler, and Tampon Tim.  

"We'd really be fucked if. . . ."

People want to be invited to the party.  I'd be a hypocrite if I said. . . . 

I read an article today that reported retirement often brings about cognitive decline and psychological depression.  It offered strategies to counter this.  Volunteering was one.  Taking up an art was another.  I'm pretty sure they are talking about wood carving and doily making and not what I might have in mind.  

But who knows?  They weren't specific.  

Socializing was a top priority.  Watching t.v. or listening to the radio, it said, was not the same.  One needs to mingle.  I'm invited out this week, but I'm pretty sure this is not the kind of socializing they were speaking of.  

Again, however, they weren't specific.  

Maybe I should volunteer for some political party or movement and make portraits for the candidates.  

Huh. Two birds, one stone.  

The article didn't recommend alcoholism though.  

I used to be part of a semi-intellectual realm where predigested and half-baked ideas were tossed about like worn tennis balls.  Now I run with people who think that money makes them smart.  

Money will never make you smart, and happy will never make you money.  Something like that.  

I went to the cafe yesterday to write down some ideas in my journal.  They were questions, really, things that needed researching before I can come up with some clever-ish thing to say about them, before I can opine.  

The day was disappointing and grey, but the young punk rocker looking kid who plays in the all girl band was working the counter.  I ordered a latte, and when I paid she said thank you.  Thank you for the music, I said.  Do you like it?  Yes, I said, it is perfect.  She had selected the moodiest of jazz recordings for the day.  

And just like that, the afternoon became more palatable.  

Forgive Me This

Melancholy, Coleridge [argues], is more dignified than happiness. I suspect this is a sense that most people have – that joy is, at root, a kind of idiot pleasure, the idiom of the lobotomy, a balloon just waiting to be popped (link).

This is the sense of a certain type of person, I suspect, and not really common among a certain class of others.  There are many differences between people that are, to me, inexplicable.  But we'll get to that.  

I had a busy day.  I won't say it was productive, but it was full of actions.  I had an injection of hyuralonic acid gel in my right knee early in the morning.  It hurt.  The assistant took me to a room and in a minute returned with a silver tray holding what I assumed was lidocaine and what was certainly a syringe and needle full of the product to be injected.  I've had it before.  I wasn't nervous.  

Within minutes the doc came in.  

"So. . . it's been seven months since the last injection," he said.  "Does it help?"

"I wouldn't come back if it didn't," I said.  

He rubbed the lidocaine on the front of my knee.  What?  Every other time, he has done the injection from the side.  

"O.K.  A little pinch."

He pushed the needle in.  WTF?  Did he hit bone?  He pushed harder and I could feel it going deep, then the substance being injected.  It was everything I could do not to cry out.  

"There you go," he said.  

"You usually go in from the side of the knee," I said.  

"It doesn't matter where you go in as long as the gel gets into the joint.  If I push and the needle doesn't move, I know I'm hitting bone.  O.K.  I'll see you in a few months."

And he was gone.  I stood up.  My knee felt stiff and puffy.  I hoped it all went right.  I limped out to my car.  I was headed to the gym.  

First, though, I texted my dentist that my crown had cracked and part of the enamel was gone.  I was half way to the gym when I got a text.  

"come now."  

O.K.  Ten minutes later I was sitting in the dental chair.  The dentist came in and looked.  

"Did you put it back on?" he quizzed.  

"No. . . the crown didn't come off.  It must have been cracked.  I don't know, but part of the enamel came off."

He looked in my mouth again.

"Oh. . . I thought the crown had come off.  I saw that it had a crack, but I was hoping it would hold.  The metal is still in place."

"Can you do a filling or a veneer or something."

"No. . . it wouldn't hold.  It isn't worth it.  I wouldn't do anything," he said brusquely.  "It should be fine."

Bewildered, I walked to my car, my tongue exploring the broken crown.  WTF?  I am sure the dentist hates me.  

I determined two things.  First, I would get dental insurance.  Second, after I did, I would get a new dentist.  

At the gym, I limped from my car to the door.  My knee was stiff and swollen.  The doc had probably fucked up, I thought.  This hasn't been my day.  

The gym was all new.  They'd replaced equipment over the weekend.  People wandered around trying to figure out what different they would have to do.  I tried some of the new equipment.  It wasn't as good as what they replaced.  That, by and large, was the consensus.  

"What happened to your knee," one of the gymroids queried, pointing to the big bandaid.

"I just got an injection from the ortho."  

"Oh.  How does it feel?"

"It hurts."

"I would imagine."

"It usually doesn't."  

When I left the gym, it was past time for lunch.  Back home, I opened a can of sardines, put some crackers on a plate, and sliced up an apple.  

I looked at messages.  I dropped into an Epsom soak, then showered.  I looked at the clock.  Did I have time for tea?  I hurried, got my things together, and headed toward the cafe.  Halfway there, though, I thought I was being stupid.  I would have to hurry.  I had to take my mother to her therapy appointment.  It wasn't worth the effort, so I turned around and went back home.  I read for half an hour and then went to my mother's.  

The therapist was chatty.  

"What did you all do this weekend?" she asked.  

My mother looked into the distance trying to recall.  "Nothing," she said.

The therapist looked at me.  I, too, looked into the distance.  

"Oh.  I walked to the Art Festival on Saturday and Sunday."

"How was that?" 

What could I say?  The weather was nice.  It wasn't too crowded.  I got breakfast with the townies.  Everyone was drinking cocktails.  I ordered The Old Man Special Breakfast.  

I asked about her weekend.  Brisket smoked for 24 hours.  She showed me a phone pic of it.  I'm not a fan of brisket.  Too much fat.  

"Yea. . . my stomach didn't feel so good after that.  We have a big piece in the fridge, but I don't think I'll eat it.  The next day my husband's mother made hamburgers and her homemade sourdough buns.  I think I just need to eat salads for a few days."

I asked her if she wanted kids.

"Oh, sure," she said gleefully.  "My husband wants them last year.  He's ready.  He wants three.  I want four.  We both want one more than we grew up with."

"What?  Are you nuts?  Are you just having too much fun and thought, 'how can we turn this down a bit?'"

I went into my rant about dogs and kids at he art festival, misery loving company, etc.  She was looking at me with eyes a-popping.  

"You just went on a European vacation.  You have been partying, eating brisket, hamburgers.  You are having fun, doing what you want.  I don't get it.  What you really want to do is go to kids parties and soccer practice and talk about your children with other parents because nobody else is going to want to hear about how good little Sally is in dance class.  I don't get it."

I don't think I was making much of an impression on her, though, and I was certain at that moment she was a devout Christian and had done missionary work with her parents as a child.  Her husband was in nursing school, she said, and when he graduated. . . . 

I pictured the lives they aspired to and just went numb.  And now. . . to my point.  I'm sure she is a happier person than I am.  I have no doubt.  I do not doubt, either, that she will be happy and content as a mom schlepping kids to and fro, sharing family moments with her husband.  That's what people do, and I don't know if it is culturally inculcated in them or if there is a real biological desire. . . or if it is "at root, a kind of idiot pleasure, the idiom of the lobotomy, a balloon just waiting to be popped."  

I read a report of a study that asked parents of grown children if they had it all to do over again, would they have children.  The overwhelming response was an emphatic "no."  Not a 50/50 thing.  Not 60/40 or even 70/30.  It was overwhelming.  Kids grow up and move away from their parents.  They come to visit, maybe, a couple times a year.  They have the occasional phone calls.  Parents never mean to children what children mean to parents no matter how much they try to infuse themselves into their lives.  Children always talk about the faults of their parents.  There is a lot of blaming there.  

"Are you glad you had children?" the therapist asked my mother.  

"Oh, yes.  I wish I'd had two, but his father didn't want a second child."

"You're an only child?" the therapist asked.

"Sure.  That's why I'm so sweet.  Spoiled."

"Did you spoil him," she asked my mother.

"I don't think he's spoiled."

"Rotten," I said with a shitty grin.

"Aren't you glad she had you?" she asked, but it was more of a statement.  

"Are you kidding me?  No.  It is a life of toil and suffering punctuated, if we live right and get lucky, by moments of great happiness and pleasure.  But those things don't last, and in the end. . . ."

"But your mother is glad to have you."

"Sure she is.  I'm a man slave.  She's lucky."

My mother chuckled and shook her head.  Her friends don't have kids that do what I do.  I may piss and bitch and moan, but I am a noble motherfucker by and large.  

Duty bound. . . much to my chagrin.  

Last night, my knee felt worse.  It was hot.  "That can't be good," I thought.  I went to bed but was up an hour later.  My knee was throbbing, so I took some pain relievers.  

Knee and tooth and roof and rot. . . I'm trying to get things straight but they don't want to go.  Something stinky is living under my house again.  The phone is silent.  There is no knock at the door.  

That may not be bad, though.  The call, the knock. . . they don't usually bode well.  

The day is gray and wet.  What can I do that is productive now?  

Because it has some of the colouring of nobility, sadness is also, perhaps, more beautiful than happiness. Philip Larkin’s ‘Money’ (1973) ends:

I listen to money singing. It’s like looking down
From long French windows at a provincial town,
The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad
In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

Larkin may not be the company most people wish to keep.  And so it goes.  I've read too much, perhaps.  I'm certain that the therapist reads only what is required. . . as so many people do.  

"You'll end up in therapy," I told the therapist, "and you will speak in therapist jargon to other people who undergo therapy.  Oh, you will say, my husband and I are working through some issues.  It is important, though. . . blah blah blah blah blah."

It's O.K. though.  My sweet and lovely melancholy has turned toward bitterness of late.  I may have become spiteful to anyone who (pretends to be) is happy.  Our souls are dark deep down.  

But what they want most of all is love.  

Yup.  My mother is lucky.  

I could use a little luck.  

Out

Do I have time to tell a tale?  I have an early appointment with the ortho to get a gel injection into my knee.  I don't know.  I'm liable to rush.  

"Breathe, buddy.  Just state the facts."

I can do that.  I was feeling down again yesterday morning, and knowing I needed to move, I walked back down to the Boulevard Festival.  It was a nice day and I was early-ish, so the crowd had not swollen to what it might be later.  I had breakfast in mind at a little French cafe on a side street.  Of course, there was a line I had to wait through only to be told they were serving only pastries that day.  

O.K.  Walk on.  

I decided to get breakfast at the end of the Boulevard if they had room at the bar.  Just before I got there, though, my buddy who owns the Boulevard Hippie Shop stopped me on the street outside.  He's a wild man.  Travels incessantly.  Just back from a month in India.  Going to Brazil for two weeks today.   We kibitzed for a long while, but I was getting nervous.  We were two doors down from my breakfast and the place was filling up.  

And so. . . 

I did get a seat right away.  It was good to be alone and to eat at the bar on a crowded festival day.  Otherwise, the place was packed with locals.  Townies.  I recognized some, but you could tell by the number of expensive, fancy assed cocktails being ordered.  The woman next to me got something that had what I guessed to be an albumen bubble covering the glass.  When she popped it, smoke filled the air.  Elsewhere, chocolate martinis and other morning cocktails.  

When my breakfast came, the woman next to me said, "That looks good."

Two eggs, potatoes, bacon, sausage, and toast.  

"It's appropriately named, too," I laughed.  "The Old Man Special."

She looked at me and giggled, then went back to her exotic brew.  

I watched the rest of the bar and the tables surrounding me.  Across from me, two separate couples ate, drank, and laughed. the men each looking like rich sports fishermen, the women younger and appreciative.  The crowd, I'd say, was absolutely jubilant.  

As I was finishing up, in walked my comedian nemesis.  And I'm not going to exaggerate or lie--he looked worse than I did.  He looked like shit.  His face was creased, his beard spotty.  His hair was longer than mine and ratted into a faux-rasta look.  He'd died it different colors so that it was difficult to see the old Carrothead anymore.  The fucker is twelve years younger than I, but I am pretty sure you couldn't tell.  The steroid pump had deflated.  Maybe it had made him sick.  I don't know.  But man, he looked like a wilted vegetable. 

I'd finished my meal and had enough of looking at him, so I rose gingerly on my stiff bad knee and shuffle-limped past him to the street.  

The crowd looked good.  The cruise ship had not yet docked, I guessed.  I staggered around for a bit enjoying the day before I limped along the lakeshore home.  

I had a text from another redhead.  

You’ve been in my dreams every night for the past like 5 nights. 

Just 5?!??   😂

Bahahahaha. More than that, but specifically have been recently. 

Things happen when you leave the house sometimes.  Life seems to open up.  There are adventures everywhere.  But it was time to go to my mother's.  I would pick up a big hippie pizza for my mother and cousin.  I'd start my diet on Monday, I said.  

Oh. . . it is time for me to hustle.  The clock be ticking.  

Last night, I didn't turn on the t.v.  I read for awhile, then took a walk in the dark down to the lake's edge and sat a bit before returning home.  It was a nice night, the lights of Country Club College reflecting in the calm waters, stars above, a little breeze caressing my face.  

Back home, I read until bedtime.  I did a little stretching and a little meditating in preparation for what I hoped would become my new routine.  My depression had lifted a bit.  Just a bit, but some.  I was determined to begin to live again. . . somehow.  There was much to do before I'd feel good, but getting started was better than fretting.  

And it all begins now with an injection in my knee.  Then I must call the dentist about my cracked crown.  I need to do my taxes.  

And so much more.  But now. . . I must fly.  

 

I Forgot to Explain the Picture

O.K.  I think I've been suffering from depression.  Duh.  Things have been stressful.  Understatement.  I have been sitting in the house unable to move for far too many wonderful days.  Living in Catatonia.  Paralyzed and Fearing.  

And who do I have to tell?  Who's telling me, "Oh, baby, baby, baby"?

Whatever.  

So after sitting inside for most of a gorgeous day, gripped by something bad, I forced myself to put on some clothes and walk down to the ostensible Art Fest.  I hadn't bathed for days, but I couldn't even bring myself to splash water on my face.  I just put on some walking shoes and left the house.  

If you know anyone who is depressed, get them to move.  It helps.  

And then I was in the crowd.  I walked slowly, observing the art and the people.  The art was mostly schlock, but they gave away a lot of prizes this year as about half the booths had a ribbon that said "Winner" on them.  The better stuff, of course, seemed to go unnoticed.  

Surprisingly, people think that a crowded art festival is a good place to bring a dog.  I can't imagine.  Some thought it best to bring a baby stroller AND a dog.  No envy.  Neither the kids nor the dogs seemed to be having a good time.  But you know, parents being parents and misery loving company. . .  .

Just fun loving Americans.  

I stopped at a booth of photographs that were hand painted and housed in elaborate frames.  It was the framing that caught my eye, all old wood, battered with peeling paint.  The woman in the booth began talking to me.  I guess she assumed I was a "fellow artist" from the conversation.  I look like a version of an artist, I think, or something opposite of a version of a corporate type.  Maybe "homeless."  It depends upon who's looking, I guess.  

I saw a few people I knew, but I didn't engage.  I stood outside my buddy's new bar for awhile, leaning against the exterior, watching the crowd pass by.  Then I made my way home. 

It was three.  I opened a beer.  It was a cold beer, a good beer, and since I hadn't eaten, it went to my head.  

Just the place for it, I thought.  

And then I went to my mother's.  I told her about my cracked crown but not the rest of it.  The rest was just the usual talk, and when I left, I said, "I want to go have sushi on the Boulevard, but I don't think it will be possible to park anywhere around there."

Still unwashed, looking like a homeless hippie, perhaps, I thought I would just go home.  I was really not wanting to cook, however, and I was craving me some sushi, so I decided to give parking a shot. . . and BAM!  I found a spot first thing.  

Victory!

I limped up the Boulevard to the sushi place and sat at the bar.  Miso, edamame, some sort of spicy fancy tuna roll, and sake.  I looked through the big plate glass window at the passing crowd.  The seated crowd was different than the passing crowd, by and large, as the hoi-polloi headed to their Hyundais and Kias, then back their apartments and houses on the outskirts.  I'm being an elitist asshole, of course, but I looked like I should be getting into a 2005 piece of shit Xterra driving back to the commune or ashram, so don't jump to judgement.  I REALLY need to see my beautician, but she keeps putting me off.  Still, the waitresses came over to say hello and the owner took my order rather than kicking me to the curb, so there was that.  

I was back home before dark and sitting on the deck with a worm killer reading texts that I had not gotten to all afternoon.  I didn't take my phone with me when I left the house.  I try not to live with my phone.  All day, I'd watched people walking the art festival while looking at their phones.  The Country Club College kids are beautiful but man, they never look up.  They always walk phone in hand.  Maybe not having a phone makes me look more homeless, too.  

I hadn't missed much.  Nothing, really, other than a kid sending me pictures of her and her friends at some sort of festival in Miami.  They looked like they were having fun, but they all know how to do that now.  Everything is IG-able and no generation has ever in the history of the world been so perfect and beautiful.  

"Too bad she won't live!" (link)

Yea. . . replicants.  

There was nothing really to respond to, so I didn't.  What I did do was go to the liquor store to get more worm killer and some little cheroots.  Across the street at the Cafe Strange, the evening was getting started.  I don't know what goes on there at night, but it looked about the same as the crowds did when I was playing with the band in small clubs long ago, disaffected people in costume clothing coming together for whatever kind of fun was to be had.  The sun was setting, and just down the street, the Art Party would be starting, a completely different crowd of people with much the same intentions and, to me, much better music.  But I didn't fit in with the young crowd and hadn't been invited to party with the oldsters, so I took my bounty home for a hi ball and a smoke.  

Once again I was alone on a Saturday night when people are out having fun.  It is going to need to come to an end.  

One way or another.  

I'll try one way first and see how that goes.  

In certain communities, there were two types of music.  There was Saturday night and then there was Sunday morning.  The nightclub and the church.  

Here, Saturday night runs into Sunday morning without notice.  It is all a big hum.  

I think I'll walk up to the Boulevard now and try to get breakfast.  Maybe I'll get lucky.  

I could use a little luck.  

"But then again. . . who does?"

Sprung

Spring erupts like a three-petered goat here in the Sunshine State.  I found these things protruding from my mulched driveway yesterday.  I didn't dare dig to see what was lying underneath.  Rather, I grabbed my big old medium format Fuji and an adapted lens I didn't even remember I had and made a few remarkable photos.  I think they are remarkable, anyway, as the lens and camera combo emulates the sort of image I get with the giant Black Cat AeroEktar Liberator camera and lens.  And my god. . . the Fuji is a million times easier to use.  I am head over heels in love with it.  

But spring has not been easy on me mentally or physically.  It is jerking me around like a chihuahua on a leash.  I wake mornings with a nose full of snot and sneeze my way through the early morning.  But that is the least of it.  Want to hear me whine?  If not, you will have to turn a page or two.  I mean. . . you can simply wait until tomorrow to see if things have gone right.  

I called the dentist.  I got a message.  It said send a text, so I did.  

" I had a crown come off last night and need to get in to see if Dr. Painman can reattach it.  

A bit later, I got a text back.  

"can you txt me a picture of the crown that came out please, thanks. is this the crown that was just done?"

After a few more text, I was asked if I could come in at noon.  Sure.  

It went great.  The dentist was able to cement the crown back on.  I was happy.  

For awhile.  

Last night, and I don't know what happened, my tongue was running around the tooth and part of it was gone.  It beats me, but I think the enamel must have cracked.  I don't know where it went.  It's just not there.  

God knows what horrors fixing this problem will be demanded.  I will have to call Dr. Painman on Monday.  Right after I get the gel injection in my knee.  

I woke early this morning with the horrors again.  I have problems I don't want to tell.  Every day, I am more done with it all.  

"What would make you happy?"

Last night, going to bed, I took another fall.  Tripped over a light stand in the bedroom in the dark.  I forgot I had pulled it out.  Went down to the ground and laid there awhile taking inventory.  Everything seems fine, but I feel as if I am emulating my mother.  

However. . . spring is here, a time of fertility and rebirth, etc.  The sap is flowing and the creeks are rising, so grab your partner and do-si-do.  

I'll be watching from the sideline swelling the crowd.  

Bare Bulb

Status report.  

My mother texted me yesterday morning to let me know my cousin had left to stay with the other cousin on the coast.  It is all on me again.  I called and asked if she wanted me to make dinner, but she said no,  "Tomorrow," she said.  When I went to see her, I asked if she would be o.k. in the house alone that night . She said yes.  It will be a test.  Today I will strip her bedsheets and put them in the washer, take her to physical therapy, go to the grocers, put the sheets in the dryer, make dinner, clean the kitchen, and put her bed back together.  That's my Friday night.  I'll see if she was o.k. overnight.  If not, I'll have to pack up my things again and stay with her.  

When I went to bed last night, I was chewing a CBD gummy and another crown came off.  I will have to call the dentist today.  Cha-ching.  

It is time for my annual physical to find out what else has gone wrong with me.  

On Monday at 8:30, I get another injection in my knee.  

I woke at three last night.  Terrible things going on in my head.  I have so many house repairs to be done.  The fence is falling down.  I have things I can't even explain.  As I lay in half-sleep, I felt my soul leave my body, just start to leave it, tired of the physical world.  "What is there to look forward to," it asked?  It just wanted out.  

Soul?  WTF?  

That is just the beginning of the shit.  

I think I need to quit drinking again.  I was reading every night rather than nodding off on the couch.  I'd lost much of my chunky belly.  I had fewer nightmares.  

A little flash can reveal the horror of the world.  Nothing looks good under a bright, naked bulb.  But that's the way the world looks to me right now.  Hence the photo.  That's just how things appear once the romance is gone.  

That's all I have.  

The Last Day of Winter

It's spring. . . and you know what that means.  The world will be mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful and that goat-footed old balloonman will be whistling far and wee.  

[in-Just-]

The sap begins to flow and the creek begins to rise.  That's how it used to work, anyway.  Who knows now?  All we can do is pretend and try either to a) avoid the news or b) do something about it.  For people living on what some refer to as "Earth One," though, I'm afraid we are still far outnumbered.  

That's how democracy works.  You get the votes, you get the office.  

"Fucking Trump is a lunatic."

"They all are."

"No. . . no. . . you can't just say 'they all are' and eschew responsibility.  That's just a bullshit copout.  Your boy is a danger to the world.  Thanks."

But hey--what about Biden, huh?  

Oscar Wilde said, "Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination."  I've never lived within my means, of course, but now, I think, even people suffering from the disease will be doing so in order to eat and pay rent . 

But it is the first day of spring.  I don't want to bring everybody down.  Let's have a laugh at my expense.  

Yesterday I was sitting in the cafe on a bright and beautiful and wondrous afternoon failing to write anything meaningful (as has been my habit of late) when I heard a voice say, "What are you doing you dirty little hippie, writing your novel?"  It my writer/artist/traveller buddy who succeeds at an alarming rate standing over my table looking a bit like Bukowski.  

"No. . . just writing."

"I'm meeting a friend of mine who owns the only English language bookshop in Mexico City," he said.  He looked around and stepped into the other room, then came back with his friend.  He introduced us.  

"Grant just got accepted into an MFA writing program."

"Congratulations," I said.  

I was introduced as the guy who used to teach English at the factory.  

"What courses did you teach?"

I named them off including the Art of the Personal Essay course I instructed at Country Club College.  That shook the obvious arrogance pride a bit.  That and my apparent nonchalance about it all.  I mean, who cares?  Those who can't, teach. . . .  You know the old saying.  I've never felt any confidence about anything except sometimes my ability to entertain.  But there are a million people who teach literature and writing and a thousand times as many people who go to school to study it.  But I'll admit that often when I tell people what I did for a living they most often say, "Oh. . . English was my favorite subject in school.  I had the best teacher. . ." to which I say, "If you can't be good teaching the greatest stories in the world. . . ."  

I mean really. . . who doesn't like a good story.  We love them as children.  We love them as adults.  I've always asked lovers to "tell me a good story."  And boy, don't they.  I've lived through them, too, but so far, they've all had the same ending

Selavy.  

I'd like another story. . . if you please.  

We chatted about writing and movies and the fact that they both loved Denis Johnson's books and that I didn't care for them, much to their dismay.  

"What can I say?  I tried.  I just couldn't connect.  Don't judge me!"

Then my buddy said, "Remember the people I was sitting with last time I saw you here?"

"Sure.  They were really nice."

"The four of us have an art show here next month.  I'll text you to remind you."

Well. . . fuck.  

"What medium?"

"Paintings and drawings, pen and ink, and some 3D stuff."

He pulled up a picture on his phone to show me.  

"Yea, let me know."

Why in the fuck don't I do such things I wondered?  Because I'm a lazy simpleton.  No, that's not it.  It is a lack of confidence and the fear of rejection.  It has always been.  Maybe a shrink could help me.  Maybe if I went in for some therapy.  But it's too late now, I think.  I remembered a scene from a Woody Allen movie (link).  It is a wonderful scene about the joyful despair of a nihilistic nature.  And it reminded me of the difference between my buddy's attitudes and mine.  

"What are you doing Saturday?"

"Committing suicide."

"What about Friday?"

I could never do it.  

"What are you doing Wednesday.  I have tickets to the ballet if you are free."

"No, I can't go.  I'm going to dinner with my friends."

"Well, here's my number if you change your mind."

They'd find me hanging by the neck from the rafters.  Still. . . I was pissed and full of the green-eyed monster hearing of this coming show.  

I wasn't proud of that.  It is just another shortcoming.  I have many.  

After a fun afternoon at the cafe, I went to see my mother.  My cousin said she was going to leave for the coast in a few days.  Now what, I wondered?  

"Mom, are you o.k. to stay alone at night now?"

"I don't know."  

Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  I knew this was coming, but I had been pretending that it wouldn't.  So. . . I will be back to elder care in a moment or two, I guess.  My beautifully insane contemplative life will once again be sidelined.  I'll have my duties to see to, and that will give my life meaning.  

So there's a cheery note at the equinox.  Feel the balance.  

At day's end, I sat out on the deck and drank a Campari on the last day of winter and pulled up the best of R.E.M. on my Apple Music app. . . and you know what?  They WERE pop music.  Poppy.  Totally.  Sometimes with an attitude, but total radio stuff.  

And this one. . . yea. . . I am Superman.  I know what's happening.  

Trust me.  I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend.  

Happy People Laughing

I read today that iguanas rafted 5,000 miles from the Americas to Fiji on vegetable rafts.  Blue is the rarest color in iguanas.  They are found only in The Grand Cayman Islands.  I found one in a front yard on a walk one day.  Rare sighting.  

I'm feeling a little giddy, but I don't know why.  I could complain a lot, but. . . sometimes a small thing will happen that lightens the load.  

Two things.  Silly things.  

I took my bed cover--not a duvet, not a quilt--to the dry cleaner yesterday.  Dry cleaners?  Dry cleaner's?  I don't take anything to the dry whatever anymore, not since I left my job at the factory.  I rarely did then.  But for years now, none of my t-shirts or shorts have needed it.  So. . . 

I walked in with the big green thing--comforter, I guess--and lay it on the counter.  

"Hello," said the pretty Asian lady.  "Tell me your first name again," she smiled.  I was caught off guard by this.  First name?  She did something in the computer.  "Remind me of your last name. . . ."

Ah.  I see.  Smart.  Seemed intimate, but she was simply fishing.  

"You're not in our system, it seems."

I gave her the requested phone number.  She did some key strokes, then looked up at me and smiled once again.  

"Didn't you bring in a red one last time?" she asked.  

I was stunned.  I remembered her and the conversation we had then.  They had just bought the dry cleaning place (got around that one) from the family who had owned it for a long time.  We kibitzed about any damage to the comforter.  

"Hey. . . wait a minute," I said.  

"Oh. . . it's o.k.  We own the WP Cleaners, too.  We've done this before."

I said something clever and left.  Of course I remembered the conversation.  She is pretty and I don't have a lot of dry cleaning conversations to remember, but that she remembered what color comforter I brought!?!?  Holy smokes!!!  

"Yea," I explained.  "I have two, one burgundy and this one.  I put the red one on for fall and winter then put the green one on for spring and summer."  I grinned foolishly.  

"Ah. . . that makes sense.  It will be ready on Thursday.  Is that O.K.?"

"Perfect.  Thursday is the first day of spring."

I had helium in my shoes walking out.  Yea, man. . . that was super weird and cool.  She had taken years off my biological age.  

Teeny tiny thing writ large.  

Later when I was in the grocery store, I heard R.E.M.'s "Shiny Happy People" playing through the store and I felt like dancing.  It is a wonderful song, I think, with a "Love Shack" vibe lent by singer Kate Pearson of the B-52s.  Now serious people hate the song's pop melody and "childish" lyrics preferring R.E.M.'s more "complicated" offerings.  But I think that is silly.  Michael Stipe was a talented song writer, but he was quite a glum person whose songs inspired the Grunge Era and bands across the country.  Listen to enough Grunge and you'll start to do heroin, I think, to ease your psychological pain.  

But I don't care.  I like the B-52s and the Monkees version of Carol King's "Pleasant Valley Sunday."  I mean. . . it's nearly spring and I wouldn't mind being happy for a minute.  Stupid Beach Boys happy.  

Gleeful.  

So that's it.  Two small things.  Everything else is shit right now. . . but hey! . . . how in the hell could she remember the color of a comforter from six months ago?

So, I say. . . get up and dance.  Silly dancing.  Happy hippie dancing.  Peace and love dancing.  Fuck Trump dancing!!!!!

Yea. . . that's it.  Fuck Trump!!!!!

Join me at the Blue Iguana for a margarita.  I'll put money in the juke box.  We can dance the day and night away.