Wednesday, August 26, 2020

Gin and Xanax and the Southern Way

I cannot see out of the windows this morning.  Condensation.  As my art/travel friend says, it is too hot to do anything after 9:30 a.m. and too humid to do anything before.  It is true.  We are in the killing months here.  Every weed known to humankind has sprung.  Everywhere there is overgrowth.  The air is either still or storm.  Air conditioners strain against the heat.  These are the mold and mildew months.  There is no reason on earth to be here right now except for the fact that I can't go anywhere.  Now we wait for hurricanes, or rather hope they will pass us by.

I have picked a fine time to end my constant drinking.  Truly, that is all that can sustain one these days.  Gallons of gin and tonics and bottles of Xanax are the modern southern bromide.  Every dilapidated Tennessee Williams' heroine would know that this and treachery and perhaps a little murder come calling this time every year.

But this year is far worse.  Nerves frayed by shut downs and isolation in the Time of Covid can scarcely contend.  I'm surprised the police haven't shot everyone by now.  They will, I am certain.  But they will have to go house to house.  Nobody is on the street.

Last night, surfing YouTube, I came upon a post about "The Girl from Ipanema."  It has been one of my favorite songs since I was a kid.  I dialed in.  Holy shit!  What I don't know about music!  I watched this long video entranced and barely understanding.  I realize that most people talking about music is much like most people practicing medicine.  I will put a link here, but I don't expect you to watch it.  It is only for reference (link).  The bands I played in shouldn't even be called bands.  Our understanding of music lay in major and minor chords with a few ninths thrown in.  If we played guitars in "alternative" tunings, we thought we were really doing something.  Simple harmonies, maybe.

Apparently, "The Girl from Ipanema" was a very dangerous song.

I just deleted a couple of paragraphs about "whitewashing."  I can't seem to help being inflammatory, and I am trying to change.

I'm posting another photo from the olden days.  In truth, they have caused me nothing but trouble.  They have cost me much money to make, and there has been no return.  Zip.  They have cost me much in other ways as well.  The whole endeavor was probably a mistake.  And yet. . . I love them.  I am fascinated by them.  I drown in them.

I hope I know more about this visual art than I find I do about music.  I'd hate to realize I'm the Rod McKuen of visual art.

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