Lucid Dreams and PTSD

Do you sleep well?  How long?  Do you need to take anything at night?  This photo is pretty much how my dreams looked last night.  Nightmares.  I woke several times to some real horror stories.  

I am always in my dreams.  Do you ever have dreams where you are not present?  That's curious, isn't it?  Do we only dream about ourselves?  

I just Googled it.  The average person has 4 dreams per night.  In most dreams, the dreamer is the protagonist.  There is a very small minority of dreams where the dreamer isn't present.  The dreams I had last night are referred to as "lucid dreams," dreams where you know you are dreaming while you are asleep.  Now here's the kicker.  Lucid dreams are thought to help people who have experienced traumatic experiences--PTSD.  

Curious, that.  

I had two last night.  In one, I ran over a pedestrian.  In the other, an ex-girlfriend was was threatening to take my house.  

I'm not making this up.  

O.K. Let's backtrack a bit.  

I've had two consecutive nights out, first with the across the street neighbor and then with two old friends I haven't seen in years.  One of the two is a longtime friend with whom I have had years of adventure.  We stopped hanging out, though, when I was with Ili.  The conversations we had at dinner opened some old doors.  The one I had the night before with my neighbor opened some new ones that look to the future.

 Last night, I had no engagements, but I wasn't feeling like staying home, so after I visited my mother, I decided to get an absinthe drink and then some dinner.  Three nights of eating out is a real rarity for me now, but I was kind of feeling new again. 

At the absinthe bar, the owner/bartender, the one who recognizes me, was not there.  The music, usually good, old stuff, pre-rocker era had been replaced with loud, bad stuff that was irritating me.  The place had been taken over, it seemed, by the typical shithead downtown crowd.  My bartender was cold as the seat I was sitting in. . . uncomfortably so.  I drank my drink, but that was all--without pleasure or mirth.  

When I departed, I went down the street to the fabulous bbq joint.  Ordered a pulled pork sandwich with black beans and jasmine rice, and a local IPA.  I sat at the bar/chef's table which is a cook's table, really.  A tall, pixie looking girl with strikingly good looks works there.  She could easily be a fashion model.  She had changed her hair color from the last time I was there to something vaguely metallic.  Short cropped bangs.  Tats and a septum ring.  Her friend came in.  It was her birthday.  I heard the two of them talk.  The would-be fashion model is younger than she looks, maybe twelve if their conversation is any indication.  It was painful.  

At the end of the bar, the owner sat.  He is a giant.  Science would say so.  When he saw me, he gave a little smile of recognition and said hello.  

"Hi," I smiled.  

"Where's your girl?" he asked.  

Ili and I used to go there when the place first opened oh so many years ago.  We went there for the last time just before I went to L.A.  We were broken up, but she showed at my door the night before I left.  We rode the Vespa to get bbq.  I asked her if she wanted to come with me to L.A.  I'd already booked everything.  All she would need was a flight.  We looked it up.  It was cheaper than the ticket I bought, same flight.  

She didn't go.  That was the last Vespa ride before the one where I was cracked.  

So his asking kind of opened up an old wound.  

He got up and walked through the kitchen through a door I assumed was an office.  My food came.  There was the clacking of plates, the patter of the servers.  And there was this. 

I'd forgotten how good the original song had been.  It had been transplanted by the Stones cover in my head  (link).  The Stones version is good, but it is not sweet. Of course.  The Temptations were a Berry Gordy product from his early Motown days.  He had chosen and invented those sounds, and by god so many of them were fantastic.  In the '80s, I dated a girl whose father owned part of Motown.  He and Gordy were in business together in other ways, too.  They owned some race horses together, or so my girlfriend reported.  They also owned a number of radio stations across the country.  

The sandwich was good.  My fingers, sticky from the bbq sauce, left prints all over my beer glass.  

When I finished dinner and got back to my car, I asked Siri to play the song again for me.  I hadn't been able to hear so well with the clanging and clacking of the kitchen.  I wanted to hear those strings in the song's opening better.  Chills ran down my arms.  I thought I might break down.  

Was it the absinthe, I wondered?

When I got home, the cat was waiting, talking.  I gave her some food, poured a scotch, lit a cheroot, and joined her.  

Early on when our old, kind of famous band started playing gigs, I think we may have done this song.  I know for sure we played "My Girl."  I sang without knowing all the words.  I kind of scatted some of it or made up parts, but I knew it in the main.  

When I got back into the house, I put it on to play.  The Stones had covered this one, too (link).  Our version sounded more like theirs, of course, a little coarser and harsher.

When that had finished playing, Youtube gave me this one.  

Yea. . . the Stones covered that one, too (link).  So did we.  

But none of it was as sweet and delicious as those Temptations songs.  I decided to send YouTube links of them to myself for later, but, as one will after absinthe, beer, and scotch, I sent them to my old bandmate/college roommate and his wife instead.  

"Having a little party at your house?" she responded.  

"Oops.  Didn't mean to sent those to you."

"Remember the time in college we went to play bball one afternoon and saw the Temptations band doing their sound check instead?" my old roomie wrote.  

"We saw everything," I replied.  

I turned off the music and poured another drink, then sat down to watch "Babylon Berlin."  I'm on season four, the last, and let me tell you, it gets weirder and weirder and weirder.  But it is terribly good.  

When I went to bed, I had a head full of memories and weirdness.  

Lucid dreams and PTSD.  Yea, maybe that makes sense.  I'm going to have to do something to shake it all today.  

It is Friday.  I'm waiting to hear from my mountain friend who is in town to see his parents.  Brought the whole family.  He's been at the beach house this week with his filthy rich sister who married a fellow who basically invented online learning software, so I don't know if I'll hear from him or not, but it could be a 4th night out and I think I'm a Ready Teddy.  A little breakdown might be good for the soul.  

If you haven't had enough music for the day, I'll end with this.  It popped up on my YouTube feed when I was grooving to the oldies.  Gwyneth Paltrow is not a bad singer, but this taste like the 80s.  I can fairly smell her candle on this one (link).  

Don't listen to this one.  Just don't.  

And yes. . . Jung says everything in our dreams is us.  We are our dreams.  

Bland and Inane

Man. . . I just wrote a little freshman essay about my day.  The writing was bland.  Then I threw in some of the darkness of my being, just to add a little flavor, but the two ingredients didn't blend so well, so I tossed the whole thing as inedible.  

In truth, neither of them were any good, blended or on their own.  

I've just had a little revelation recently that has set me back on my heels a little.  It is going to take a bit of time to get over, I think. Meanwhile, I'm a boat that lost its anchor, adrift without sails, carried by the currents, tossed by the wind and the sea.  

That's sone pretty shitty writing, but that is all I got.  My mind is a riot of nothingness, streets peopled with ghosts and specters looting stores devoid of merchandise.  

Christ.  Really?  That's what I have?

I'll need to give it a rest for today.  No one need be subjected to this inane patter.  

And so. . . . 

  

Bend Low

I was sent a link to "The Fall of Minneapolis" yesterday.  I won't post a link here, but you can watch it on YouTube.  I did last night.  Provocative.  Later, I was sent a link to The NY Times story about Snoop Dogg carrying the Olympic Torch the last leg of its journey.  I can't remember at which sport he excelled, but I do remember "Gin and Juice" (link).  I'm not sure, but I have to believe Trump is behind this.  Both things, really.  They are certain to rile up his base.  For real?  I think that the U.S. Olympic team should march into the stadium playing the song, then.  

Two in the mornin and the party's still jumpin
cause my momma ain't home
I got bitches in the living room gettin it on
and, they ain't leavin til six in the mornin (six in the mornin)
So what you wanna do, sheeeit
I got a pocket full of rubbers and my homeboys do too
So turn off the lights and close the doors
But (but what) we don't love them hoes, yeah!
So we gonna smoke a ounce to this
G's up, hoes down, while you motherfuckers bounce to this

Tanqueray and chronic, yeah, I'm fucked up now
But it ain't no stoppin', I'm still poppin'
Dre got some bitches from the city of Compton
To serve me; not with a cherry on top
'Cause when I bust my nut I'm raising up off the cot
Don't get upset, girl, that's just how it goes
I don't love you, hoes, I'm out the door, and I'll be...

"'At's some real American hero shit, yo.  Teach your children well."  

I don't know.  I should just go back to watching Gunsmoke and The Lone Ranger.  But I do think it is all designed by MAGA to fire up their base.  

I know, I know. . . I'm becoming a conspiracy theorist.  

Now the irony in this all for me is, I ran into an old acquaintance at Whole Foods yesterday.  We were never friends but shared friends.  He's a real republican, a real Trumper.  He married into BIG money twice, had everything and even financed his own race team and one year won The Porsche Cup series championship.  But he was a real party boy, and as everyone guessed, he pissed it all away and went broke.  He's had a couple stints in the Betty Ford clinic, but I can tell you that he was real Gin and Juice character, prep-school style.  

That's how a lot of my conservative friends, are, however.  They get pissed off when somebody else is doing what they do unless it is one of their tribe.  

Yesterday, he looked like shit.  He's had some health problems these past few years, but when he looked at me and said, "We're getting old," I had the feeling he was talking about me.  Ho!

I went to dinner with one of my neighbors last night, a real liberal and a man my own age, who was instructing me on how to spend a million dollars a year in retirement.  I guess he's been doing just that.  He's divorced and a real party boy, too.  

Decadence isn't constrained by ideology.  I.E. priests, politicians, etc. 

Tonight, I'm having dinner with some old friends I never see.  It will be fun to poke the bear so to speak.  They will hate on Harris, of course, and I will piss them off making fun of their twisted morals.  It's not that I think I will change their minds.  People don't change their minds, or at least I don't think I have ever changed one, but I think I'm a likable character and believe, maybe naively, that I soften their stances somewhat.  I'm not much of an ideologue. 

I'm a hippie, you know. . . I like everyone.

We are meeting up early, so I will be home and on the couch before the light has faded into darkness. That's the kind of party boy I've become.

Birkenstock has a new sneaker, the Bend Low. It has the same cork sole as their sandals. I'm going on the Boulevard today to a shoe store that carries them to try them on.

I'm just wondering, though. . . will this make me look like the kind of guy who wears Sketchers? I used to know someone who would tell me. I'll have to go this one on my own.

I'll let you know.

Roll the Credits

Here's one for you to figure out.  I'll give you until the end of the post.  

I'm shooting blanks today.  I'm hurt, hollow, and empty, and I poured it all out in my journal yesterday.  The bidding war for those will begin soon.  It is stuff I'm definitely not posting here.  C.S. may not be a high profile happy guy, but he is not my doppelgänger, either.  He's a buffoon, more or less, a marionette in a Punch and Judy show.  An entertainer, if you will.  

I may be sick.  It is too early to tell, but I think so.  I've felt better.  I went to Walgreen's the other day to pick up a prescription and had to wait with three people wanting Covid tests.  It's going around pretty well, I've read.  I've taken no precautions other than being a basic hermit.  

But my head is empty of entertainment, cleverness, and/or profundity.  Just a sad, worried hum.  

Maybe it's anxiety.  The smallest of things now seem to work me up.  The maids are coming early today, and I have much to do to prepare for their arrival.  I went to bed with that in my brain.  Woke up several times thinking about it.  That's just not normal.  

But I have much bigger things on my mind, too.  I'll spare you the details.  

O.K.  The photo.  I shot it through the windshield with the rearview mirror in frame.  The blue in the sky is from the window tinting.  It's an ugly picture, but I haven't anything else.  It could have been better.  I should try harder.  

No thoughts, no music in my soul.  Today seems one to be gotten through.  

Roll the credits.  

Dog Days

I can't wait to hear how those who say that they didn't approve of Trump but couldn't vote for Biden will bend themselves into pretzels today.  They have been lying, by and large, to me but I think to themselves, too.  Now they will have to face themselves in the mirror and out themselves to themselves.  I want to hear their reasons for being anti-Harris. 

Not that Harris is a great candidate.  I think in the general election, odds are against her for a lot of reasons.  But she sure has a hell of a lot better chance of beating Trump than Biden did.  She needs to be calling on Trump to do the right thing.  His cognitive health is an issue.  He has made as many gaffs as Biden in the past year.  The only difference in the two, really, is Trump's use of TRT--testosterone replacement therapy.  I guarantee it.  His White House doctor, Ronny Jackson, was using it, too.  Trust me on this.  That's what gives Trump his greater energy.  But. . . it ain't doing shit for his brain.  

I voted against Trump last time.  I'll do it again.  

My reasons are purely ideological.  

And that is all I am going to say about it.  I am still sick of the entire affair.  I don't want to talk about politics.  But. . . I told you the day of the Full Buck Moon was sure to be a strange one, and it certainly was.  Biden couldn't have chosen a more apropos day to quit the presidential race.  

I received a postcard this week.  It is the third one this summer, one from C.C. and two from my friend who moved to the midwest.  It is so surprising, truly, to get handwritten things in the mail now, a throwback to "simpler" times.  They weren't actually "simpler."  It is much easier to send a text than it is to buy a postcard, sit someplace to write without the ability to digitally edit, buy a stamp, and find a mailbox.  But a postcard today is something special, so distinctive with the color of ink, the individual curve of letters, the permanency.  It is more a product of the people themselves.  

It is so oo-la-la.  

And, of course, no one expects an immediate response, nor even a response at all.  You don't have to ❤️ it.  A postcard makes you realize how truly impersonal texts can be.  

Can you imagine a handwritten letter?  OMG, as the kids used to say.  I have drawers full of old letters and even notes written on scraps of paper people have sent or left for me over the years.  Finding one in an old book I haven't looked at for years is always a thrill. 

Having said that, I confess that I was eager to send emails when that became a thing, for I have the most illegible, childish scrawl of anyone I have ever seen.  My handwriting shames me.  It is for the same reason as my inability to color well.  I am always rushing.  Same reason I do sloppy work on house projects.  

I should take my time, develop better penmanship (when was the last time you saw that word), and send letters to. . . .

To whom?  That's the real question.  I've become such an isolato.  

But this week my social life will be ticking up.  My mountain buddy from Yosemite is coming to town with his family.  They always come to see his parents for a week each July.  And I am going out with my old friend who got in contact this week about the waitress/diner pic and another friend I usually see once a year.  It will be good to re-establish contact with people from my past.  

And there may be a few other surprises, too.  Fingers crossed.  Some I can tell you about and some I won't.  But let's not put the cart before the horse here.  I simply have my fingers crossed.  

I ate dinner with my mother last night.  She cooked.  And I have to say the old gal did a hell of a job.  She is not always the best cook, but she has been learning a bit from her son, I think.  Once again, I'd been in the house all the live long day.  It was five when I took my first step outside.  

It is a good thing I have a social venue upcoming this week.

The Dog Days continue.  Sirius won't be budged.  

What we need is a snappy little tune.  I'm picking this one just for that reason.  I love the horn section.  

Under a Full Buck Moon

O.K.  People liked yesterday's photo as much as I did.  The trouble is, I'm not sure I can do it again.  Bummer.  I'm going to try, but I kind of work intuitively on things, and I'm lazy, I guess.  I don't write anything down.  Besides, who knew the photo was going to end up being so good?  I've done it many times before, come up with a way of working with photographs that I can't remember later on.  I had a whole series of China photographs that I thought great.  I have no idea now what I did or how.  Were that I was different.  

Were different.  Grammar is a terrible thing.  

Here is another treasure I found looking through old files.  No post-production magic here.  I took this with a film camera and Tri-X film.  This is pretty much just what you get.  That's the look.  It's a good look, just like in the old days.  This photo is almost from the "old days."  Don't know why I never worked this one up.  She was a nice girl.  She moved shortly after this to go to Seattle with her boyfriend.  She used to write me for awhile after she left, but you know how that eventually goes. 

I like the photo.  It raises questions that it doesn't answer.  I think it makes you want to know more.  

I started writing this post just as the full moon "rises." 

The full moon — nicknamed the buck moon — will peak at 6:17 a.m. ET Sunday, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac. It’s called the buck moon because male deer, or bucks, fully grow their antlers at this time of year, the almanac says.

 I'm not certain what they mean by "peak."  

I'm sure it looked full when it came up last night.  I should have seen it.  I had a surprise visit.  I'll need to go back a bit, though, and narrate up to that point.  

I hadn't left the house again for a second day but to get food and drink.  I did go for breakfast EARLY in the morning.  And by gosh, a brand new waitress was working the counter.  She wore a red head scarf that exactly matched the color of her lipstick.  It was startling, really.  She was a nice girl, too, friendly in a natural way.  But it was early and I was fat-headed and it wasn't until much later in the day that I thought, "Holy shit, you meathead!  A diner!  A waitress!  A perfect picture!"

And, indeed, I had a couple cameras in the car.  I told myself I'd go back one day, of course, but she will probably never look that way again.  I don't know.  I fantasize that I will go back and make arrangements for the photograph. . . tell the waitress what I want to do. . . get permission from the manager to make the photo. . . .  

Any bets?  

After breakfast, I came home and was at the computer searching again all day for old photos I never found.  I went through every big hard drive that I have.  Are the old photos gone?  How?  It seems like I have fewer hard drives than I used to.  I'm rather in a panic about this.  

By three, though, I thought I needed to move.  I smelled like yesterday's pizza, so I thought I'd go to the gym for a bit of cardio just to get the old blood moving.  I did a good job, and by the time I went to my mother's I was a truly gross human.  

I got back to the house and dropped into an Epsom salts bath.  The water was almost too hot.  It was wonderful.  Then a shower.  Washed my hair.  Trimmed my scruffy beard.  And then. . . .

Boom!  Boom!

Something outside was banging on the bathroom wall.  Naked, I stopped dead and waited.  Nothing.  But as I finished my ablutions--Boom!  Boom!

I threw on a pair of short and ran outside.  I look down the alleyway behind the house.  Nothing.  WTF?  Just then, Tennessee came running from the other side yelling and laughing.  

"Man, I've been knocking on your door for twenty minutes.  I looked in the window and saw your chair overturned on the floor.  I saw your keys and phone in the kitchen.  I told my wife and she said I needed to go inside and check.  Man. . . I thought you might be dead."

"Half.  Just half."

I told him to go around to the front.  I needed to get dressed.  

He was with his wife.  They had just come from dinner, so I offered them drinks.  

"Do you want to come in or sit out here?"

His wife chose the deck.  I grabbed my fancy glasses and brought bottles to the table.  It was about seven.  We sat and drank until nine or so, but I never thought to look to the moon.  

When they left, I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and we'd gone through a lot of  liquor sitting around the table as dusk fell. What to do?  A bowl of soup, a piece of bread, and a little t.v.  

I watched the last episode of "Normal People," season one.  I didn't know there was no season two, but I think I was a bit relieved.  I'd been wallowing in that Emo Wasteland for weeks.  Good show, but man, it was starting to drag me down.  

The show ended with the song my friend sent me a few weeks ago which led me to the show in the first place, and I wondered if she had been watching the show all along.  It would make sense.  

I turned off the television and closed my eyes for a moment.  I just needed to think a bit before bed.  When I woke up, it was heading toward midnight.  

This morning I checked texts and emails.  Alain had gone to Japan with his family.  They were leaving for home the day the computer systems shut down all the airlines.  A few days later, they made it to Atlanta.  He wrote to say that he and his family were stuck there until Monday.  No flights out, no rental cars available.  When I opened the CNN page this morning, I saw a story on people being stranded in Atlanta.  

It was a group text to the gymroids, and one of them replied, "Go to the Cheetah Lounge."

This morning, I wrote back, "That would be dumb.  Go to the Gold Club."  

I just got a reply saying, "Funny thing--our Uber driver took us by the Gold Club on the way to the hotel.  Irony."

I wasn't even sure the Gold Club still existed.  

I got another text from an old friend saying he liked the photo from yesterday's post.  I have no idea who reads my blog, but I thought, "Holy shit!  I probably need to be editing my posts."  When I go back and read any of them, I often cringe at the repeated words or dumb errors that I blame on auto correct.  If I wrote them at night and then edited them in the morning. . . . 

But. . . whatever.  You will all just have to accept my fantasy that if I were editing, I would be a great writer.  

I have a lot of fantasies, actually.  It is probably a malady of some sort.  Oh. . . about that, I almost forgot.  

Do you want to be happier? Here are 5 habits to adopt

"Some people are just happier than others. They don’t have to work at it, right? They just are,” social psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky recently told CNN Chief Medical Correspondent Dr. Sanjay Gupta on his podcast Chasing Life. “(They’re) kind of like people who are thin naturally, and they don’t have to work hard at it.”

Which habits can you adopt to increase your level of happiness? Lyubomirsky has these five tips.

1. Go with the ‘flow’

2. Practice random acts of kindness

3. Nurture your relationships

4. Express gratitude

5. Celebrate good news

This comes from the

people.  

I should probably give it a try, but I think it might better be called "Mindlessness."  It would sound like a Buddhist concept, at least.

And just as I think I am finishing this entry, I see an armadillo walk across the deck.  I go out and follow it.  It has burrowed under the house.  I can't get rid of these creatures no matter what I do.  

But of course, it is a full moon.  The day is sure to be strange. 

She Used to Work in a Diner

Here's one for posterity.  I was looking through old digital files yesterday trying to find something when I came across this.  I took the photo in 2003 in San Diego with my first digital SLR camera, the Nikon 700.  It had an at the time amazing 12 megapixel files.  The image had been sitting untouched since then.  When I saw it, I wondered why.  I cropped it a bit and added some texture and did some other post-production magic to it and voila!  I had one of my favorite images in a very long while--maybe ever.  I can't quit looking at it.  I want to do more.  

But, you know. . . times were different, and so was I.  

What I was looking for was evidence of me.  Pictures.  The other night, I looked in the mirror and thought, "holy shit, dude--you don't look bad at all," and then I did what I've been doing since before you were born.  I took a selfie.  I was influenced in that by photographers from the '50s and '60s, Lee Friedlander, Diane Arbus, and others.  When I looked at the photos I took that night, I wanted to put them beside other photos through the decades.  My digital files on far too many hard drives are chaotic, however.  I've never organized anything, or hardly at all.  I didn't find what I was looking for, but I found lots of other gems.  Holy mother, I've taken some pictures over the years.  They leave quite a record.  

Now, I'm up at five again this morning, and since I'm eschewing political news, and since the papers don't update until six, I didn't read much.  I sit in the dark, head still muzzy from the muscle relaxer and anxiety pill I took last night before bed.  My back seems to be getting better until four or five in the morning, then the pain starts to build until I can't lie in bed any longer.  I've been hitting the sack earlier, though, so I am not completely sleep deprived.  But I have not been making any new photographs nor doing much else to stimulate me.  Pain is a great deterrent.  I was content to sit at home looking through the digital files most of the day as I avoided the heat of city streets.  

Late, though, I remembered I had some developed film sitting at the photo store.  I'd not showered.  I was in clothes I'd worn the day before.  My hair needed to be washed.  My beard needed trimming.  And I, having sat all day, felt my movements were off, uncoordinated and awkward.  But I wanted that roll of film, so. . . what the hell. . . I left the house looking disheveled and homeless.  

So, of course, I saw people I knew at the photo store.  I tried to talk, but my voice, having not been used much at all in the past few days, was froggy, vacillating in tone and pitch no matter how many times I tried to clear it.  I sounded like a wounded teenage frog. . . felt more the fool for it.  

It was three and the streets were hotter than I could stand.  I decided to have something cool to drink at the cafe before going to my mother's.  

When I walked inside, I was immediately greeted by the owner.  I've known him since he opened the place decades ago, but I rarely see him now, maybe once or twice a year.  But he was fairly manic with happiness at seeing me, eyes wide, a giant smile. . . . 

"Hey, now. . . look who it is!"  

"Hey yourself.  How's it going?"

General greeting talk.  I was surprised but happy with the reception.  He said something about a drinking game which confused me slightly, but I wondered if it wasn't something we'd talked about long ago.  

"Do you want your regular?" the counter girl asked.  This is the one who serves me cafe con leche.  I see her maybe once every two or three weeks, but I am probably the only one who ever orders that.  

"You know what this guy drinks?" the owner asked.  "So," he continued, "my daughter just graduated college." We chatted about that for a minute, then he mentioned the drinking game again.  I was lost.  

"What was the movie you were in where you played the teacher?"

What?  The ground shifted a bit.  I was lost, wracking my brain, trying to make sense.  Teacher, sure. . . and movies, sure. . . but what?  

Ohhhhhh.  This was going to be weird.

"You're thinking of Tom," I said.  Tom's an actor who has appeared in a lot of t.v. shows and movies.  He and I have been acquaintances if not friends for many, many years.  He once asked me to work on a film he was making, but I didn't like the director and so after a few meetings told him I couldn't do it.  I got Q an apprenticeship on the film, though.  Funny thing, I can never remember the name of the movie.  I asked Q once, and he couldn't remember either.  It was something like "The Last Wave" or "The Last Surfer" or something similar.  Over the years, though, he has become quite the known if not the famous actor.  His success has been nothing but exponential.  

The last time I saw Tom a few months ago, he looked like a homeless man, long hair, scruffy beard, baggy clothes--like me.  There is an actress who appears in a lot of commercials and Hallmark series at the gym who thought I was Tom just weeks ago.  

So, when I mentioned Tom, the owners eyes began doing a tap dance.  He was realizing his mistake and trying to reconcile it in nanoseconds.  

The happiness I felt at his greeting was rapidly turning into an awkward embarrassment.  

"Here's your coffee, " the counter girl said.  

"I've been getting that a lot lately," I said trying to console the situation, and it was true.  Indeed, I had.  

When I asked him what he was doing here in the middle of the day, he said the Photo Booth had run out of paper and he needed to change it.  

"Oh, man. . . that has to be a little gold mine.  Gangs of girls come and stand in line in costumes to get their pictures. "

He grinned and nodded.  "That's why I'm here."

After a bit, I said it was nice to see him and walked through the small hallway to take a table.  The whole exchange was weird.  And I hadn't wanted a cafe con leche, either.  I needed something hydrating.  

Just as I sat down, two young girls in knee socks, short poofy skirts, and tight midriff tops walked in.  They looked around self-consciously for a moment, then one of them exclaimed excitedly, "Look. . . there it is." 

This must be some social media thing, I thought.  They went through the usual ballet, one girl entering the booth, four flashes, her friend photographing her having the Photo Booth pictures taken.  They must all be posting similar versions of the same thing.  I watched them for a minute, but I am getting numb to it now.  I wrote a bit and drank the coffee, and then it was time to go to my mother's.  

It was terribly hot, so we sat inside.  I tried to tell her about the incident at the cafe, but even when I talk in a loud voice, she only hears some of the words.  I can tell.  She smiles that smile of the uncomprehending and nods slightly.  When I finished, she paused and said, "It's nice people know you."  

Whatever.  

I spent the usual hour talking about the day, exercise, meals. . . anything we can think of, then said it was Friday and I needed to go  clean up before I go out.  We both laughed at that.  I smelled my armpits.  

"Jesus. . . I stink.  I really do," I said wrinkling my nose.  My mother got up and we hugged and I massaged her upper back and neck for her.  

"Oh. . . yea. . . right there. . . yea. . . ."

"You should go have a massage," I told her again for the manyeth time.  

"Would they do that?"

"Maybe, maybe not.  Some just kind of rub and shake you.  It's a 50/50 chance.  I've had some really bad massages."

I was, though, an unreliable narrator.  I rarely go for massages.  

When I got home, I did think about going up the street and having a beer and a mahi sandwich, but it was hot and I was feeling cheap, and besides, I'd have to shower.  I made the usual cocktail instead and gave the cat part of a leftover chicken.  I put it beside her bowl of food.  She didn't touch the cat food.  It makes you wonder.  

The heat of the day was done and a breeze from distant storm was shaking the leaves.  My back felt better, I thought.  Maybe I'd be o.k. tomorrow.  I pulled out my phone and looked at the selfies I'd taken the night before.  Huh.  Sure.  "I could be a movie star," I laughed.  "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."  Then I looked at the photo of the waitress.  Jesus, it was so good.  I was crazy for it.  I knew I would post it on the blog in the morning.  And I knew I would post it with this song.  It had come to mind right away.

I took that photo over twenty years ago.  I wonder what her life is like now.  She used to work in a diner.  

Highly Functioning Emotional Retard

Diane Arbus

But Hogan’s speech might have been one of the most memorable moments of the entire convention — in part because it so perfectly embodied the story Trump has long sold. Hogan briefly broke character to tell the crowd his real name (Terry Bollea) and, much like Trump, described himself as a professional entertainer who couldn’t stay on the political sidelines.

“I’ve known that man for over 35 years, and he’s always been the biggest patriot, and he still is,” he said of Trump. “He’s always told you exactly what he thought, and he still does, brother.” 

Then, back into his Hogan character, he finished with a characteristic flourish.

“All you criminals, all you lowlifes, all you scumbags, all you drug dealers and all you crooked politicians need to answer one question, brother,” he said. “What you gonna do when Donald Trump and all the Trumpamaniacs run wild on you, brother?”

Red Meat Convention.  Trump, Trump, Trump.  

 I know I said I wouldn't, but how can one not?  I just took the tiniest of peaks.  I know I say the world is full of jokers and idiots, but that doesn't mean it hasn't always been.  

This was the sort of thing people used to watch for big entertainment.  

As a kid, I couldn't understand it.  "People," I thought, "must have been idiots."

But, of course, there was Charlie Chaplin, too, where slapstick met emotional and ethical intelligence.  There have always been "the crowd."

So Trump and the RNC bring out Hulk Hogan and Dana White, the president of the UFC.  

Biden better drop out this weekend, but I'm not confident even that will change things.  Too much damage has been done, I think.  As smart as Harris is, I'm not sure that smart will win the day.  Trumpmaniacs are running wild.  

Maybe that is what has been wrong with my back.  I was able to sleep better last night, though, about five hours before the pain set in.  That's at least double what I've had for the previous week.  I'm feeling rather fresher today (I mean, for five o'clock in the morning).  And I've been eating well again, fresh fruits and vegetables and nuts and smatterings of chicken and tofu.  

But. . . I think I am going through some kind of emotional crises.  Not "some kind."  The kind most people go through in their 20s, I believe.  I think I am developmentally retarded in some ways.  We all are, I am pretty sure, but most people never cone to grips with that, especially people who are high functioning and successful.  No. . . not "especially."  Vance's "Hillbilly Elegy" crowd don't either.  But for the past few years, I've had plenty of time for navel gazing and I've come to the conclusion that I am just leaving my emotional teen years.  

"Now what am I going to do with my life?"

In 2003, I went to a little art theater and saw "Lost in Translation."  It wasn't like other movies of the time.  It was a genre unto itself, I thought, a tone poem of a movie, a lyric.  The film, however, did not do well at the box office and was pulled from distribution after a run of a few weeks.  Typical, of course, I thought.  

I was teaching a film course at the time, and I ordered the DVD from Blockbuster knowing the day of its release.  I picked the film up on the way to campus the day of my film class.  I didn't know what they would think, but they loved it.  

That night, I had a date with an old girlfriend who I hadn't seen for awhile.  She was on the cusp of her own life choices just prior to making the decisions that would shape her life to come.  I told my class that I was going to dinner with an old flame, and they, went wide-eyed, then guffawed.

"Are you crazy?  That never works out!" they chanted in unison.  That is how I remember it, at least.  

They were right, of course.  I didn't know it at the time, but it was a sort of long goodbye.  

"Lost in Translation" surprisingly got four Academy Award nominations and was re-released into theaters.  It was crazy.  The DVD had already come out.  And then Sophia Coppola won.  

"I told you. . . I TOLD you!"

The girl, however, never liked the movie.  I could never figure out why.  

Last night, this came up on my YouTube feed.  

Yea. . . I am an emotional late bloomer.  Retarded, if you will.  

So I watched more "Normal People" and was certain of it.  

Hemingway was.  Fitzgerald was.  Woolf was.  

Then more "Babylon Berlin."

Faulkner and Joyce.  And of course, Dostoyevski and Kafka.  

Everyone is fucked up.  It's just a matter of coming to terms with it.  

Or not.  I mean, what are "the terms"?  

I believe my conservative friends still think The Three Stooges are funny and they are about to come to power.  

My friends on the left think have lost their sense of humor.  

Selavy.  

There is hope in art, I think.  Sometimes.  Maybe.  

Somewhere, somehow. . . this post got lost. . . in translation. 

Selah.

Monsters in My Head

What I think at night, before bed, is often not what I think in the morning.  Last night, I watched something on YouTube that made me cry tears of. . . ?  I decided that I was very Irish.  I watched an hour, or maybe more, of films made of Irish singers and groups all pulling at the old heart strings.  "Oh, Christ, I will post these on the blog in the morning," and I thought I knew what I would say.  But nights being what they are, things change.  I didn't sleep much.  Shooting pains in hips and back all night long.  When I listened to the song I was going to post this morning. . . I was not in the same mood at all.  And the words I thought I'd write have vanished like last night's sleep.  

Up in the dark, I scanned the headlines.  Habits are hard to break. . . but the only stories I read were about tunnels and caves on the moon and which sandals were the best to spend the day in.  Curiously, Birkenstock has come out with a pair of sneakers that have the same cork sole as their sandals.  I bought a new pair of running shoes yesterday at REI and asked if they had those Birks in the store.  Not yet, the hippie girl with the pink hair and septum ring told me, but she was intrigued.  

Oh. . . and I read an article on no-jump HIT workouts.  

I avoided everything but headlines on anything to do with the presidential race and politics in genera.  I just can't.  

So what am I thinking about this morning instead of the pulling of the heartstrings?  An adjustable bed.  I've thought about it for awhile now, but I put off buying one because I think it will be another anchor.  I mean, how would I sleep when I was not at home?

Cue the laugh track. 

And, of course, if I got a King to replace the one in my bedroom, I'd have to get the split mattress thing so that when someone spent the night. . . . 

I'm giving up reading the "Wellness" stories, too.  Everything is killing me, apparently.  Snoring will give me brain cancer and affect my penis, and according to one source, "The penis can be seen as a barometer for the whole health of the person." This according to Dr. Rachel Rubin, a urologist and sex medicine specialist in Maryland.  The only good life is one devoid of food and drink and electronic devices.  And if I want to be happy, it seems, I will need to move to Scandinavia.  I need to be practicing sex, but only if it is safe, and unsurprisingly, one shouldn't grip too tightly when masturbating.  Really.  I read that, too.  

I'm doing everything wrong.  

I still haven't gotten to the self-help books yet, though, nor the guided meditations.  But Dickens' "Bleak House" is apparently something I must read since I haven't.  It is, by many accounts, his unheralded masterpiece.  

It is impossible to go out to take photos here in the afternoon now.  The roads are melting with the heat, and now the humidity is unbearable.  Perhaps I should get out early in the day and write my blog posts when it is too hot to go outside.  But habit. . . . 

I would be a different person in the afternoon, maybe, if my journal writing at the cafe is any indication.  

Last night's thoughts are coming back to me.  Oh, yes. . . I'm a completely different person this morning.  Last night, all thoughts were confessional.  Nope.  Not this morning.  Sorry, but there is too much fuel and fire there.  It would be foolish if not self-destructive.  Self-immolation has no appeal to me now.  

Summers are like this I remember.  Summer here in the sultry south were most dangerous for romantic relationships.  Summer's alone are just as bad.  I spent one summer alone with an ice cream maker pretending I was having fun.  I probably should start buying but flowers again, though.  Flowers and frangipani might improve my mood.  

As for my back. . . if they could fix those, Larry Bird and Charles Barkley would still be playing basketball.  

I know. . . I've posted this before.  No matter.  I don't think anyone ever listens to what I post anyway.  

A Life (in Pictures)

Film is fun.  I love shooting it.  It is not nearly as much fun to shoot with digital cameras.  Maybe it's haptics.  Digital cameras, even Leicas, feel different in the hand.  And taking photos and not seeing them for a while after is pretty mysterious.  Yup.  Itis fun.  

But then there is the processing, where everything can go wrong, and scanning, which takes a lot of time.  And then there is the post production, too.  

I took this photo with a digital camera, my Leica M9 Monochrom.  No processing and scanning.  All I do is drop the files into the computer, make a few tweaks, and boom!  And the photos are pretty.  After the cost of the camera and card, the photos are free.  

And yet. . . film, you know?  

I go to the photo store to pick up some color film I had them develop today.  I don't have a clue what is on the roll.  It will be a surprise one way or another.  

Oh. . . yea. . . that's a lot of Leicas.  Five M cameras including the one I was shooting with.  I have three other Leicas that are not shown here.  WTF?  Well, that kind of happened by accident after I had mine stolen.  I replaced them, then got the old ones back--at a price.  There's a good portion of the cost of a new car in there somewhere.  

I'm hillbilly rich.  Not like J.D., though.  

"So many cameras and so few pictures."

Yea, yea, yea. . . I know.  Cameras don't make photographs, people do.  Those little girls at the cafe with their shoe phone pics are doing a great job.  You don't need to go out and buy an expensive camera.  I was there yesterday.  Half the crowd were Asian girls.  They weren't together.  It's not like a bus full of them pulled in and let them off.  But they, individually or in pairs, were there for the Photo Booth.  And they cheat.  When their friend sits in the booth, they snap away with their phones.  I was watching a petite girl in a poofy white baby doll dress and white bows in her very dark hair hit IG poses for her phone photog friend.  

A fellow I used to know from the gym years past was at the cafe.  I see him there sometimes and we say hi.  He came up to where I was sitting and asked me how I was doing.  I said the thing that people say, but he was more curious.  I told him I come here to get away from the house and write.  I said that this was a good place, the visuals and all, that there was no place like it in town.  He agreed.  For some reason, I got the feeling that he was hitting on me.  

Later, I changed my mind.  They weren't all Asians.  I think that two of the girls were from the South Pacific.  Polynesian, maybe.  

When I stopped at the liquor store, the two hipster kids were working alone.  One, a very tall Black girl with sleepy eyes and funky stuff woven into her hair was being rather loose and flippant.  I said, "Hey. . . don't mess with me," and she said it didn't matter, this was her last night.  

"Mine, too," said the heavily tatted boy with a full neck sleeve and large gauge earlobe spreaders.  "We were asked to quit or we'd be fired."

"Really?  Wow.  Why?"

"She's a filmmaker and I'm an actor," he said.  "We asked for the week off to shoot a film and they told us to quit.  Really?  They'd rather hire new people and train them than give us a week off?"

I looked at them.  "Well, man. . . I always looked forward to hipster night at the liquor store.  They'll hire some squarepants to take your place.  That's the corporate world.  I'll miss you." 

And that, I guess, is the last we'll see of the crazy hipster duo working at the largest liquor store chain in the nation.  

My mother and I sat outside and talked about our aches and pains and about the weather.  

You see what I'm getting at?  

C.C. sent me a photo of his meal, a squid ink pasta with puttanesca sauce, he said.  

"Highbrow hillbilly, mofo.  Looks good. . . I think.  Never had squid ink."  

I send him a little dinner music I am listening to.  I'm in that kind of mood, an old fashioned lover kind of thing.

He writes back and says it is one of his favorites.  He's acted in the play it is from, "Too Many Girls."  Of course. 

I fed the cat, poured a drink, made the same dinner I had the night before.  I had taken no photos all day.  I blamed it on back pain and a lack of sleep.  But I came to the conclusion that the pictures I make at home are as valuable as any I make elsewhere.  It's all just a document of the times.  

Texts come in.  Q is on his honeymoon, I think.  He sends photos of rocks and water in Yosemite Valley.  No words.  Too busy sporting his new bride, I'd assume.  Eating, drinking, and honeymooning.  

I eat pain pills and turn on t.v.  I watch one episode of "Babylon Berlin" and one of "Normal People."  They are each marvelous.  I watch "Berlin" first because I don't want to go to bed after watching weird shit.  But "Normal People" is like heroin for emos.  If you are not driven by emotions, I wouldn't recommend the show to you.  If you are, though, it is like constantly being in estrous.  

It is not late when I've finished, so I cook up a few digital pictures before turning in.  As I do, I listen to music and this song plays.  

I don't know.  Maybe it was just the pain meds.  

No Politics Anymore

I thought to write an irreverent piece on this week in politics, but I just can't.  I'm not up for it.  As a matter of fact, I'm putting my head in the sand.  I can't change anything.  In fact, I'd probably make things worse.  My "smart" friends have created this environment.  The well-read ones who like cultural events and liberal politics.  They just didn't "read the room."  We live in a world of jokers and idiots, but you can't tell them that they are jokers and idiots.  There are just too many of them.  It's like walking into a biker bar and calling them all out.  

"You guys think you're tough?  You're just a bunch of pussies who want to be cartoon characters. Fuck you."

Sure, you'd be right, but how's that going to work out?   It's best to keep your "smart" talk for Bohemian parties.  

"You haven't read Judith Butler's critique of Julia Kristeva?  Oh. . . well. . . . "

I mean, by and large, it is a party game played in graduate schools.  

"I'm writing an article on the treatment of animals in Europe during the Middle Ages based on feminist theories of patriarchy.  Yea. . . wild, right?"

Then comes along someone like Vance who writes a book "the people" understand.  As C.C. says, he's a cosplay hillbilly.  What are you going to do, though?  It is a Horatio Alger story, rags to riches.  The Hallmark crowd eats it up. 

So. . . instead of reading the news in the morning, I'm switching to something--anything--else.  Probably self-help books.  That's what I thought last night at one a.m. when I woke with lightning bolts of pain in my back.  I've screwed it up badly and irritated it more just before bed trying to stretch it out.  There in the black of night, suffering terribly, I never got back to sleep.  I could only get semi-comfortable on my back, and I kept waking from my non-sleep gasping.  We now know to call it apnea with the available information telling us it will kill me.  I could feel myself dying last night, of course, could feel my heart constricting, the flame flickering.  I made all sorts of resolutions about life then.  Fuck Trump Van Gogh and Biden Magoo.  I don't care.  At first it was about one thing, my not caring, but it has spread like The Blob throughout my being.   

I need to quiet my mind.  So, probably, do you.  

I was at my mother's yesterday.  She went to the dermatologist to have a spot on her ear checked.  She was sure it was a cancer, but he told her no, it is some condition in the cartilage of the ear that has no treatment.  

"It happens," he told her and sent her on her way.  

She was watching the Republican National Convention when I got there.  I saw Vance get the nomination.  I also heard "the pundits" talking about what that means, how his views have changed, how this is going to affect the MAGA movement, etc.  Oh, they were a serious lot opining for their daily bread.  I no longer have cable t.v. and cannot see this sort of thing at my house any longer.  When you have it, you think you need to turn on things like the convention.  You don't.  What the commentators are saying seems important.  I promise you, it won't matter in a day.  They are there to sell you diet plans and lots of medications.  I mean, the whole reason for you watching is so they can sell commercials.  There is no other reason.  It is a hideousness I am glad to be away from.  

Besides, I have "smart" friends who "stay informed" and are willing to "inform" me.  

I have been trying to find an ending to this post, but all I can come up with is this; I couldn't perform the theory.  I spent most of my time writing about the thing I said I would eschew while distracting you with a little dark pillow talk.  I'll blame it on the pain.  It is a big disadvantage.  

None of My Talk

I went "photographing" yesterday.  Got out late again.  Hot.  Sticky.  The beastly camera heavy.  I didn't know where I was going or what I was looking for other than "4 shots."  Trying to get my bearings, I decided to stop at McDonalds.  No shit--I've developed a taste and have lost most of my once considerable will.  I got a Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese and a Coke.  Mother of God it was good.  Best of all, I felt no guilt.  I just enjoyed it.  

It was a good start to the afternoon, I thought.  The burger would carry me through the day.  

I drove.  

Blah, blah, blah.  

Ended up in Gotham.  Saw people on a side street.  "C'mon you sissy.  Park the effing car."  I turned down the next street, circled the block, and found a fifteen minute loading zone.  

Thump, thump, thump.   

A big woofer was pumping bass out of a bar across the street.  I paused.  Gotham is very much a Chocolate City on Sundays.  "What're ya doing, White Boy," I thought I heard someone say.  Fuck it. I pulled the beast from the passenger's side, took a meter reading, slipped in a film holder, and waited.  I framed up what I thought would be a nice shot across the street against a sunlit wall.  Suddenly, the street was empty.  It was hot.  Some people came from the opposite direction.  A small line of people waiting to get in, the door open.  

"Thump, thump, thump."  

I waited.  Finally a group of people walked by the wall, but all willy nilly and catawonky, not really photographable.  

I waited some more.  I got bored, turned my camera to a different and totally uninspiring scened and took a pic.  I turned the film holder around and framed up something even less inspiring.  Neither of them will mean anything.  I was wasting film.  

Got back in the car and drove.  I went west of Gotham, past the basketball arena and further past the soccer stadium.  Nothing going on.  I turned down "iffy" streets where it might look like I was trying to score--sex or drugs.  Hot.  Men without shirts.  Stares.  I turn a corner.  I see a building that interests me.  It was painted in a pale green long ago, old paint faded and streaked.  No windows.  An ancient red ATM machine out front.  The barred front door opens and a tall, thin, shirtless young fellow walks out holding a bag.  It is a store of some kind--the kind without a sign.  The kid looks my way.  I drive on.  

I go down the street that was once lined with homeless people, tents, cardboard boxes. . . encampments of all kind.  It is gone now.  The state passed a law making it illegal.  Vacant lots, though, are full of people standing around in groups.  A truck with a cross on it is parked in one lot.  A crowd of men stand around it praying.  For some reason, this startles me.  

I turn back onto a main artery and drive by more things I would wish to photograph.  I come to the old Feed Store where you can buy big metal horse troughs, rabbits, and chickens.  There is a giant rooster statue standing outside.  I pull into the lot.  Sure.  My punk ass ain't afraid of no giant rooster.  I laugh.  This sure isn't the way to get famous.  

Yea, yea. . . whatever.  I pull out the beast, take a meter reading, load the film holder. . . the shot doesn't look interesting at all.  But just like the other photos I'd taken this day. . . . 

As I'm walking back to the car, a girl watering the potted plants behind a fence calls to me.  I tell her I just took a photo of the giant chicken.  

"Rooster, I mean."  Maybe.  Fuck if I know.  

"That's an historic statue," she says.  

"Really?"  But I don't ask why.  

"Is that a camera?"

"Yea. . . weird, huh?  I'll show you.  Let me take your picture."

"Really?  Sure."

I am lazy, I guess.  I frame her up through the fence.  I'm not lazy.  I'm nervous.  I futzed with dials and cranks and meters while she watches me.  I try to focus but for some reason, I can't really see.  Again. . . whatever.  I hit the shutter button.  

"I'll send you the photo if it turns out."

"Oh, that'd be great.  I'm the media manager here.  I do all the social media for the store."

She types her number into my phone.  

"OK," I say.  It might take me a couple of days."

"Alright.  No problem."  

I am sweating like a drunk when I get back into the car."

"That one will suck."  

But I had four photos.  I drove back in the direction of home, through Gotham and past the giant Farmer's Market in the park.  There were good photos everywhere.  

I drove on.  I wanted a giant mimosa at the cafe.  

"Hi," said the usual Sunday girl behind the counter.  "You want to see something cool?"

"Of course I want to see something cool."

She whipped out her phone, scrolled a minute, and showed me a picture of a bolo tie with a silver clasp.

"Did you make the silver clasp and set the stone, too?"

"Yes. . . I'm a goldsmith.  I worked about twenty hours on this.  It's my first bolo."

People lined up behind me, but she was being chatty.  

"We're opening up a shop on the Boulevard."

We?  I didn't ask.  

"You know the Simmons place?"

"Yea."

"We're moving in there."

Simmons is a jewelry store that has been in the village forever.  At least it was here as long as I've been.  

"Oh. . . I knew the Simmons girl a long time ago."

There's a story there I can't tell.  She was from a family with money, a pretty girl with a small mouth that the family had surgically fixed.  Doctors broke her jaw, moved it forward.  She got braces.  In the end, she was even prettier.  I probably shouldn't tell that, either, but that is not the part of which I was speaking.  

"Do you know the other big jewelry store on the Boulevard?" I asked.  

"Yes." 

"That's my ex-wife's place."

The counter girl's eyes pop really wide.  

"What?!?  That's your ex-wife?!?!?"

Oh, shit. . . I never tell people that, but we were talking jewelry.  I was wondering if I had stepped into something.  I put my finger to my mouth.  

"Uh. . . let's keep that on the DL, O.K?  Anyway, my ex-girlfriend is a jeweler to the stars.  They carry some of her line in there."

I said her name.  The counter girl knew it.  She's giving me the old Amos and Andy eyes now.  Fuck.  Why'd I tell her this, I wondered?  

"When I finish up, I'll show you something cool," I said.  

I've been feeling pretty good lately.  I was in the garage a couple days ago loading film in the dark tent, and I decided to open some of the drawers in the big print file that I never look into.  Drawer after drawer after drawer, I saw prints I'd forgotten, big things.  Two drawers had alternative process stuff, prints on delicate Japanese fiber papers, giant transfers, encaustic works.  God, I used to be productive.  My heart was really racing.  

"It was easy when I had the studio," I consoled myself miserably.  

It made me sad, but it picked me up a bit, too.  I really did do some very nice work.  Could I do it again?

I was sitting at a table facing a group of four girls.  They were loud and chatty and very catty about other girls they knew.  One with her back to me was scrolling through pictures on her phone.  They were all of girls posing in outfits.  My heart sunk a little.  They were really good.  There were hundreds of them.  Girls.  They do that.  They decorate their walls, make collages, work with color.  Their visual acuity stuns me.  What chance do I stand?  These girls have a billion times more talent than I.  

"She's not really ugly," one of the girls says, "but why does she dress like that?"

"I know, right?  She could be so pretty."

"I mean, she's not ugly."

The table ruptures in laughter.  I think "Mean Girls," though I've never seen the movie.  I'm certain, though, they are playing roles.  They have the vocal inflections going on.  They give me arthritis.  

On my way out, the counter girl is busy, so I don't bother her.  As I walk out the door, I hear, "So long.  See you later."

I catch myself reflected in the mirror above the coffee prep counter.  

"That's your ex?!?!"

I guess.  

It is Sunday night.  Dinner with mother--except when I called her earlier, she wasn't certain about that, so I hadn't planned anything.  I call her to see what's up.  She's still not sure.  I tell her I have some raviolis I'll bring over.  She has broccoli.  It will be a simple meal.  O.K.  

I take the film holders and the developing tank to the garage.  I come back, mix the chemicals, put on some music, and get to work.  Four pieces of film.  Four bad photos, I'm pretty sure.  It sure takes a lot of time to make four bad pictures, I think, but I feel fuller these past few days than I have for a long while.  It's a stupid thing, but it makes me feel productive.  I haven't napped for days.  

As I stand at the sink processing the film, I think about the photos I take, and I realize that I am in love with everything I shoot.  Yes, that's it.  I take photos of things I love.  It is a love affair.  I'd not thought of it this way before, but yes. . . it is romance.  I don't make pretty pictures necessarily.  I like odd photos.  Even for the people I photograph in the street I feel an attraction.  I look at the photos years later and remember the moment.  Yup.  It doesn't matter if it is people or the trees in the photo at the top of the page.  It is something I loved.  

I pull the photos from the tank.  The exposures look good.  I hang them to dry and pack up for my mother's.  When I get home and the film is dry, I will scan them.  

The feed store girl--shit!!!  I missed focus.  The things one foot behind her are all sharp.  It is a shame, I think.  That lens is soooo cool and yet, because of the shallow depth of field, soooo hard to focus.  

Late at night, as I'm getting ready for bed, I decide to send the photos with an apologetic note of embarrassment.  I feel like a dope.  

"But I told you I'd send them, so. . . here they are.  I am coming back to photograph the chicken/rooster.  Let me know and I'll try to get you into focus, too."

I'll try four more today.  Hours of photography for four pictures.  Remember when you were in school, in English class, and you had timed writings--an hour to write a five hundred word essay?  Yea.  This blog doesn't just happen.  I spend a lot of time on stupid shit.  

That I love, though.  I'm a romantic.  I'm a lover of people and of things.  

"Nobody can love like you do," a girl once told me after she left me.  

Yea, yea, yea.  

"None of my talk ever seems to get me anywhere."

Wrong Sometimes Right

I don't want to talk about the Trump thing.  We don't even need to have an election now.  It's over.  It's done.  It's Trump's world.  We're just living in it.  

The Joker is Wild.  

Let's talk about me.  I have been lazy.  I've been in pain.  I haven't done much.  But yesterday, I decided I needed to do something, so I got all my 4x5 film holders together.  That took a long while.  They were everywhere.  I am not very organized.  I looked at them.  Some were marked with colored dots.  Others were not.  What the hell did they mean?  It had been so long since I had loaded film in the holders I had no idea.  So. . . I put them in a dark tent and opened them to feel the notches at the to of the film.  The notches are there to identify what kind of film it is.  I sat with my computer opened to a notch identification page and began.  Oy.  It was tedious.  I have maybe 30 film holders.  Double sided.  Some of them had color film.  Some of the color film was of one type, some of another.  Different iso ratings.  But they all had the same red dot.  As I felt the notches, I separated them, and when that was done, I put a second red dot on the faster film.  Then I began on the unmarked holders.  Some held X-Ray film.  Others held a very thin, slow emulsion black and white film.  Again, I marked them.  But there should have been a whole lot of other black and white holders.  I searched the closet.  I searched drawers.  I started over, took everything out of the closet and looked again.  Then I had an idea.  I went to the car.  Tucked away under one of the backseats which had been folded down was a bag with seven holders.  I checked them all in the dark tent.  

This had taken me some hours.  Now. . . what was there to do but get the big camera and shoot.  I took two pictures on the deck.  Same old shit I'd done before.  It was hot now, mid-afternoon.  Whatever.  I threw the things into the car and took a drive.  I'd find something to shoot.  

But the streets were dead.  The light was harsh.  I drove and drove the hipster neighborhoods and ended up at a skate park.  I got out and walked up.  There were two dads with four boys in one bowl and a lone teen in another.  It didn't look worthwhile.  I drove downtown.  I drove here.  I drove there. I needed four negatives, and I'd shot two at home.  The developing tank will only hold four at a time.  Two shots, that was all.  

I was giving up.  I was going home.  But then. . . I pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of our infamous art museum.  I saw two women walking to the lake with fishing poles.  I grabbed the big-assed bag holding the monster Liberator and some black and white film.  By the time I got to the lake, though, the women were leaving.  

"Wait!" I said.  "I wanted to take photos of you fishing."

That didn't come out right.  They looked at one another.  

"We gotta go." 

Smooth, buddy, really smooth.

Then another couple walked up.  

"Wow!  What kind of camera is that?"

I explained.  "Here, I'll take you photo."

They were happy to do it.  I showed them where to stand and began futzing with the light meter, turning dials and settings on the camera.  

"This is slow, sorry.  It takes awhile."

I slipped the film holder into the back, framed them up, focused, got the focus aid and looked some more.  They were getting antsy.  

"O.K.  Hold on."

I pulled the dark slide from the holder, took a deep breath, and pushed the button.  The big old mirror went "thunk!"

"I'll send you a copy if you like."

The fellow typed his number into my phone.  

"O.K.  I should have it tomorrow.  I'll develop it when I get home, then I will have to scan it."

Nice couple they were.  

One more negative to shoot.  There was a line of cypress trees.  What the hell.  I wanted to go home.  I lined them up in the viewfinder, took a meter reading, and. . . oh, shit!  I'd forgotten to set the aperture on the lens before I took the photo of the couple.  Shit piss fuck goddamn.  Well. . . maybe, with luck. . . . 

I took the phot of the cypress trees and packed everything up for the trip back to the car.  

When I got home, I took the film holders and the developing tank to the garage and loaded the film.  Then I mixed the developing chemicals and began.  One minute pre-wash.  Nine minutes developing.  One minute clearing wash.  Five minute fix.  Rinse and rinse and rinse and rinse.  Heart in mouth, I opened the tank and took out the holders.  Hey now!  Three of the four sheets had images.  And yes. . . the couple had turned out.  

Joy and rapture.  Now all that remained was to see if I had hit focus with that beast.  I hardly ever do.  I hung the film to dry and headed over to see my mother.  

When I got back home, I had a text.  Trump had been shot.  I don't have cable, but I juked around my Amazon stations and got the news.  Christ, he was lucky.  Another inch and he'd have had a bullet in the brainpan.  But there he was, bloodied but unbowed.  Reporters would spend the rest of the night interviewing anybody they could from people in the stands to the hot dog vendor.  No reason to watch any of that.  

It was starting to rain.  I made a Campari but had to sit inside.  When it was done, I sat down to eat the food bowl I had bought on my way home--black rice, broccoli, mushrooms, chicken, red onions, cilantro, and some kind of hippie sauce.  Sav blanc.  It was really good.  

Then I made a run to the liquor store.  Got a pack of cheroots.  Back on the deck with wine.  No cat.  It began to sprinkle again.  

I was getting texts about Trump.  The gymroids were enjoying this.  

"Teflon Don," they crowed.  

Yea, yea, yea.  There was nothing to say.  I watched "my shows" for awhile, then remembered I needed to scan the negs.  It was already bedtime.  

I loaded two of the films into scanner holders and fired the scanner up.  Something was wrong.  I couldn't get the right settings.  I tried and tried to no avail.  I turned everything off, unplugged the scanner, restarted.  Nope.  I deleted the application and downloaded a new one.  Nope.  I tried another scanner app.  I got the scan you see at the top of the page.  I thought, "Shit. . . the film must have been bad.  My luck is no luck.  WTF?"

I Googled for help.  It was way after my bedtime now, going on one.  I turned everything off and went to bed.  

When I got up, I started futzing with the scanner again.  I did some more Googling, reading.  

"Make sure the cable to the top lamp is connected." 

Holy shit.  I looked.  It wasn't.  I plugged it in.  Boom!  It worked like a charm.  

This is a "new" scanner I bought on eBay.  I haven't used it since I bought it months ago.  O.K.  I cooked up the scan in Photoshop.  It isn't quick.  But finally. . . . 

Look at that!  An actual picture!  I can't explain to you how happy I was to get this image.  

I sent both pictures to the fellow this morning.  

I woke up late this morning after my late night.  The morning has slipped away from me.  I want to go make four more big camera images today.  Four a day, I think.  It's a lot of work.  

But if I keep using the camera correctly, I'll start making a project.  For now, though. . . . 

Sailing to Byzantium

I've involuntarily joined the Insomnia Society.  I haven't slept for weeks now.  I fall asleep easily, but I wake in pain.  It's my back.  If you've never suffered with a back problem. . . well. . . you are the lucky one.  Last night I sought some needed help.  I got hold of some light narcotics.  Opioids, if you will. Tramadol.  It is supposedly like codeine.  I took half.  Hours later, I took the other.  It didn't touch the pain.  

Up before five.  Selavy.  

No.  That's not interesting.  How's this.  Sally texted wanting me to go out.  Yea. . . I haven't mentioned Sally.  I don't tell you everything.  But I was feeling funky and told her some other time.  

"Come on, you old geezer.  Let's have some fun!"

It could be fun, you see, but. . . well. . . I'm not in love.  Still. . . .

"I'll need to take a raincheck."

I don't know if I'll get one or not.  Again. . . Selavy.  

Q got married yesterday.  It's true.  He told me so.  Sent a photo of his bride, son, and self.  They are moving, changing coasts.  They'll be rich now.  Love and money.  The American Dream is alive and well.  

For some.  

I'm still haunted.  

What should I call her?  She sent me a song.  No message.  We don't message anymore.  Just a song.  It resonates with the popular theme of "someone living in your head without paying rent."  I wasn't sure whose head, though, nor whose rent was not being paid.

I decided I needed to go out.  It was Friday.  No gym.  No walking.  Nothing.  Just limping in a corkscrew fashion, fat, untidy.  I was hungry and decided to go to an old old old haunt I never go to since I went to China.  But it isn't a Chinese restaurant.  It's Vietnamese.  I'd go for some pho.  I'd take cameras.  Maybe I could finish a roll of film.  It has been nearly impossible, it seems.  

I parked in the lot behind the building and walked the block, little camera at the ready.  It was hot.  Brutally so.  There was no one on the street.  As I approached the restaurant, I passed several others.  One was new to me.  It had a Michelin sign.  I looked in.  It was sparse, clean.  I decided to try.  

 The small restaurant was almost full, but I found a table for two and slipped into the bench seat facing the window overlooking the street.  It seemed small and too upright, but it would have been ridiculous to take the chair facing the wall.  A waitress came immediately and said she'd bring a menu.  As I waited, I read the placard in a holder on the table.  

She brought the menu.  Udon noodles.  I chose a beef dish with a side of fried mushrooms.  They didn't serve alcohol, so I ordered a Mexican Coke.  

The waitress set the table.  It was a mystery to me, several small bowls and dishes and a mortar and pestle, I guessed, but for what I hadn't a clue.  

The soup came along with many small dishes of. . . I didn't know.  I pinched up a small taste of one.  It was crunchy and plain.  I decided to put everything in the bowl.  I tried a delicately breaded fried mushroom.  It was wonderful.  Then the soup.  It was good, too, and filling.  And, of course, you can't beat a Mexican Coke over crushed ice.  I looked around the restaurant.  I was the only one eating alone.  A line had formed and people were forced to sit on a bench outside.  The restaurant was doing a good business.  About 50% of the customers were Asian.  The other 50% were what you would guess.  At $14 for a bowl of soup, they were doing alright.  

A real outing, I thought as I walked outside.  I'd bothered the usual friends with photos of my food, but the list of recipients is shrinking.  Not everybody wants to share my joy.  

Selavy. 

It was too hot to walk around, and as I limped to my car, I thought I should have ordered a desert.  I'd settle for a cafe con leche.  

At the cafe, I took out my phone and Googled Zaru.  I was wondering about the Michelin sign.  Indeed, the place had won a Michelin Bib Gourmand Award, an award given restaurants that serve simple but  standout dishes at reasonable prices.  There were four given in the state this year.  

So I read.  

As I sipped my coffee, I made some notes in my journal.  I was thinking about the song I had gotten earlier.  My friend had sent me a Spotify link, but I no longer have Spotify, so I went to YouTube to look it up.  It was one of those songs melancholy maniacs like me fall into.  As I listened, I read through the comments.  

Of course people live in your head. Those you've loved. There are loveless people, I know, sociopaths whose love is so shallow or paranoid that they can simply turn their backs and walk away. 

Who would want to live like that.  Broken hearted people are the only ones for me.  

Rent free.  

The song, I read, was from a show that the YouTube commenters seemed to love.  

"Normal People."

I looked it up.  It had nice reviews.  I'd give it a go.  

It was three.  I decided to make my visit with my mother.  

She was not doing well.  She has a doctor's appointment Monday with the dermatologist.  There is a spot on her ear she thinks might be cancerous.  It bothers her, is red and crusty.  But, she said, the entire side of her head was hurting.  

"Do you want to go to the emergency room?" I asked.  

"No.  I'll wait until Monday." 

I reminded her that she had some anti-anxiety pills the ER doc had prescribed when she fell and hit her head.  She decided to take one.  That is when I nabbed a Tramadol. 

I was back home by four.  Fuck it.  I'd felt off all day.  It was time for a cocktail.  Campari, gin, vermouth, lime juice, and soda.  That thing kicks ass.  

I ran a hot Epsom Salts bath and sank into the tub.  Friday night and I was staying home.  Maybe it was the song.  I didn't want any company.  

I fed the cat and smoked a cheroot.  I should give up smoking and drinking, I thought.  Maybe I should go to a meditation retreat.  Maybe I'd meet some fucked up girl there and fall in love, just like in the movies.  

I poured another drink and watched two--no, three--interviews with Donna Tart.  Why?  Beats me.  I have two of her novels that I've never read.  I tried "The Secret History" a couple times.  She was nineteen when she started writing the novel and twenty-eight when she published it.  Publishers were in a bidding war to get it, and she was paid $450,000, the highest price ever paid for a novel.  I bought it right when it was released.  It is 576 pages long, and I have never made it to page 100.  

After watching her interviews, I thought I knew why.  She is from a writing program and talks like she's in a graduate class workshopping some piece of fiction.  It's just too precious, I think.  Still, I decided that I would give it one more go.  

I fixed dinner, the same as I'd had the night before.  I didn't want to cook, so I made a salad with a can of chicken on top.  Most of a can.  The kit-kat was still on the deck, so I left some in the can and rinsed it well to get the salt out as I've learned to do so that I don't destroy her kidneys.  Just a little chicken and a lot of water.  

When I tire of Tart, I put on the first episode of "Normal People."  Oh, no. . . I'm hooked from the get go.  I'm a sucker for this sort of stuff.  I have to turn on captions, though, for I can't understand half of what they say.  The Irish accents are tough.  At the end of the first episode, there is a song.  No, not a song, two or three lines from a song.  I Google it.  Oh, my.  

I send it in response to my friend.  

The fucking show makes me cry, of course, for far too many reasons to explain.  

I watch another episode, then "Babylon Berlin."  Then I take half the Tramadol and go to bed.  

Most nights when I lie down, I begin writing in my head.  Not much of it makes it here, of course.  Last night I was thinking about what I had done with the day, what I hadn't read and what I had watched, and I thought about the difference between watching a thing and reading.  It is a matter of distance, really.  Watching a show is external.  You are reacting to surfaces.  Reading is all interiority.  You and the characters, the setting.  All merge and become one.  You are inside the words that are inside of you.  It is the difference between watching a landscape pass you as you look out from a moving train and being in the landscape itself.  Each is good, but they are different arts.  

Then I thought about the things that don't get said here.  And I hear the music.  

Always the fucking music.