Originally Posted Monday, December 2, 2013
As I smoked, I called Q back, as I had missed a call from him. The conversation was short, however. He had to "walk the dog." So I called another buddy in Cali, my friend who lives in Yosemite. Chatted with his wife, chatted with his kids, and then I kibitzed with him. Stogie gone, scotch glass empty. Oh, my, I think, I am quite social. The night goes swimmingly.
Slava Pirsky's Livejounal site went dead for many months. Finally he emailed me with this site. I thought he had quit the series of portraits with his daughter, but to my great happiness, it is still alive. Look at her, though. She is growing. . . growing. . . . He shoots her as a character now, perhaps too timid to shoot her as what she is. I am certain that is the case. Fathers and daughters are, I imagine, a very delicate and timorous thing. It would be more difficult than I can imagine. Perhaps I am simply angry because he has never mentioned the print he had promised me he would send. But I would rather see her portrayed as what she is, whatever that may be.
I did not have dinner with my mother tonight. She is ill with a nascent cold. I asked her if she wanted me to bring her dinner, but she declined, wishing to sleep and drinks soup. The upside is that I had the entire day to myself in the studio. I worked again on transfer methods, failing again and again, but give a man five or six hours who has a will to succeed. . . and Voila! As the light faded, I got the beginnings of what I want. There is a bright light somewhere down the road, I think. I have a vision.
We shall see.
But the long, long weekend is over, and tomorrow we all return to work. I have done only a portion of what I intended to do, and I imagine it is the same with most of you. Now there is the panic, the rush. Cards to be written and mailed, presents to be bought, parties to plan and to attend, old friends to see--all in three weeks during which we must work. Oh to be a child again. Schools are in party mode. I remember. As I sat at brunch today, I heard a 4th grade teacher talking about the holiday weeks. It is all different from the rest of the year. She brought back so many sweet memories, the things that make us love the holidays. Crepe paper changing from brown and orange to red and black. Turkeys replaced by elves. Bows and ribbons and dear old Santa Claus. I remember the grammar school holidays as a sacred time. There were stories to read, plays to perform. At home, there were Christmas specials on T.V. Lights were hung and kids anticipated what they might get. The weather changed and people huddled close. It was an unforgettable time.
Tomorrow, however, like many of you, I will return to the old grind, the old problems and fears.
My buddy in Yosemite is an ex-broker who retired at thirty. On the phone tonight, I asked him if he had ever heard of a 401K or a 403B or anything like that. He paused and then said uncertainly. . . "Sure."
"Should I have gotten one of those?"
That line has been bringing the house down. All my friends are set for retirement and mostly well-off. I, however, have been the little Grasshopper playing his fiddle all summer while the squirrels were putting away nuts. People think I am kidding when I say that I will be working until I die, but I know that is if I am lucky. I will not be going about the country in a motor home or taking long voyages on ocean liners.
Unless something happens. I could be saved. Someone may wish to take care of me yet. I think that must have always been my retirement plan. I'm going to need to go where Paris Hilton hangs out. She and I could have such lovely times together.
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Another gray and humid day. It is perfect for going back to the factory.
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