Dog Days

Originally Posted Monday, August 19, 2013

My mother came to dinner last night after a long trip to Canada.  She has been traveling with one of the tour companies that put together trips for unwitting seniors.  They are tours of the sort you hope never join.  They take buses and stay in mid-range hotels in out of the way places and eat at joints like The Cracker Barrel and stop at weird attractions like stables for famous horses.  She said she will not go again.  She says I've spoiled her.  She can't eat Cracker Barrel food any more.  She said this as she took a sip of an expensive wine while waiting for the steaks to finish up on the grill. 

"Even the ice cream we ate was bad," she said. 

"We should make some.  I have an ice cream maker.  It is the right time of year," I said. 

"Dog days." 

I don't know why, but her saying that surprised me. 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It's the time of year when dogs get rabies," she said. 

"Really?" 

"That's what they used to say."

"Why would they get them this time of year?"

"Because it's hot, I guess." 

So this morning, I Googled "Dog Days." 

From Wikipedia: Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "the Sea boiled, the Wine turned sour, Dogs grew mad, and all other creatures became languid; causing to man, among other diseases, burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies." according to Brady’s Clavis Calendaria, 1813.

These are surely Dog Days here.  I've not slept for a week now.  Terrible dreams wake me all night long.  I can think of nothing pleasant, nothing good.  I am wracked with sciatica and am given to lightening bolts of pain which cause me to spasm and cry out.  I tremble and sweat and begin to resemble all the famous, fading, alcoholic actors of yore.  I don't mind being alone for days and days on end.  People vex me badly. 

I sit and think each morning and late each evening that I will just load up my Leica with black and white film and go exploring and photographing as I did in the beginning, just to see, just to record.  I had developed a nice vision.  What I mean is, my framing of things was fairly distinct and the way I juxtaposed objects often made nice stories.  Seeing is a skill that is developed.  Everyone sees differently.  I want a year at least.  One complete cycle.  Then another, then another.  I want to talk to people I'll never have to see again and tell the story about who I met and what they meant.  I can do that.  I have that skill. 

Last night, my mother told me she watches some crazy movies on t.v.  This was my gift to her, of course.  I paid for a year's worth of premium channels.  She began to tell me about one. 

"This guy was going to get married," she said, "so he goes up to the wine country in California to have a blow out, I guess.  Have you seen it?"

"I think so.  It won an Academy Award." 

"It was a crazy movie.  Is that guy in it retarded?" 

"Which one," I asked, thinking that she could mean either Paul Giamatti or Thomas Haden.

"The one that looks retarded," she said.  "Is he Jewish or something?" 

I'm glad I got her HBO, Cinemax, and Showtime.  Her world is opening up.  But she is a good film critic really, honest in her opinions and unashamed of her personal biases.  And she is succinct.  She doesn't care about the names of movie stars or directors or even the titles of the movie themselves.  She distills it all to basics.  I am abashed by her abilities, really.  I was going to write my review of "Blue Jasmine" today, but it will have to wait.  I'll need to pare away all the extraneous information I thought to give. 

"Did you see that movie about that crazy woman who goes crazy?  She was a mess."