Another Painful Day

Originally Posted Friday, November 15, 2013

Jesus Christ.  It is only seven-thirty and I am already too deep into the liquor.  I had two martinis when I got home (it was my night off from the gym) and made a tomato/avocado/garlic salad as I watched a "Colbert Report" on demand.  Then I had half a chicken and baked beans while I watched another.  With a fairly poor Chardonnay.  Then a scotch.  Or two.  And, as I say, it is only seven-thirty.  I will never make it 'til nine. 

Last night was much the same as tonight.  I sat down to eat and watched "Uncle Buck."  I didn't mean to.  I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1989.  I kept telling myself I would turn it off.  But I didn't.  It was cute (as they say).  Candy was endearing.  Still. . . .

I must blame the changing time.  It is awful.  My body clock is off, but at least I have learned not to worry when I wake in the middle of the night.  Or any time.  I woke at five today, went to the bathroom, went back to bed, and slept until seven.  No problem.  It is a matter of nerves, I think. 

Models I have worked with before want to work with me again.  It is true.  They write to me and ask.  But I am tired and maybe through.  I am not certain.  I want to go to the studio and make pictures of vegetables and fruit the way I made pictures of women.  But I don't.  I don't do anything.  I eat, I drink, I watch television, and sometimes, if I am not too drunk or tired, I read.  It worries me, I promise you.  There are models who want to do insidious things, thrilling things, in my studio.  I have resisted, but in truth, it excites me in the night.  We are twisted creatures, really, the prototypical demons.  They come from within, not without.  Like Martin Luther, I whip myself for such thoughts.  Cat o'nine tails.  Not really.  It is too kinky. 

One of the very good contemporary writers, William Vollman, has published a book of self-portraits.  Oh--in drag.  You must read this to understand (link).  He is a truly intimidating writer, but one that has too much autism or, perhaps, William's Syndrome.  No, I kid you about that.  He is a type of genius.  It is more like Asperger's.  But that is not the point.  O.K. . . . I think I've lost the point.  But you know what I mean.  Even genius is twisted.  Or especially.  How could it be else-wise? 

It is morning now, gray and damp.  I am anxious for no reason that I can prove.  Perhaps it is because my back will not let up, because I had to take pain pills in the night to ease the pain so that I could sleep.  It has been months and suddenly it is getting worse.  I grow lazy and fat because of it.  All this sitting is no good, but it hurts to stand, hurts to do the household chores that need to be done.  It hurts to get dressed.  I don't wish to live like this, of course, but therein lies the question.  My body tremors with anxiety. 

Friday.  We'll see how that turns out.