Wednesday, March 1, 2023

It's All Work (and Mysticism)

This is it--the result of my day of shooting large format film.  It is a test shot, a nothing photo, really, but the more I look at it the fonder I become of it.  I find some zen like quality to it.  The bowls, of course, but something else, too.  It makes me peaceful.  I like it, too, because I developed the color film myself which saved me a whole bunch of money.  Processing 4x5 film at a lab is anything but cheap, and there are only a handful of labs that do it, so there is a long waiting period between exposure and scan.  It is a nothing picture. . . isn't it something?  

Many Mexicans.  That is what I had digging up my yard yesterday.  They dug deep, narrow, straight sided trenches all around my yard (link).  Those trenches were amazing.  Deep underground these power lines and cables will lie next to gas and water lines.  It is scary to see.  And yet, much to my great pleasure, they didn't cut any of my irrigation lines which lie only about six inches underground.  I know how hard it is to dig in this yard which is full of tree roots.  These Mexican workers, though,  cut through them like butter.  I can barely dig a hole that doesn't collapse.  What these workers did seemed miraculous to me.  And at the end of the day, they were yelling jokes at one another, laughing away their labor.  It was astounding.  

Meanwhile, the fat anglo chief sat in the truck with the motor running so he could crank the a.c.  This stark contrast was lost on none of my neighbors.  

"Where in America would you find people to work like this?" was the common comment.  

Hard labor has always been the purview of immigrants, though, hasn't it--Chinese, Irish, Italian, Slavs--and, of course, the enslaved.  Once Americanized, nobody wants to work again.  That is the New American Dream.  I'm not pointing fingers.  I'm Americanized, too.  I have my gym membership and think I'm a hero when I pitch mulch once a year.  I have a subscription at the car wash.  I have a cleaning crew.  

As predicted, my lawn now looks like Fido's ass.  They filled in the trenches and put the sod back on top, but everything is uneven now.  I guess I will spend the next few days watering the grass so that the roots will grow.  My lawn was looking nice.  First World Problem. 

Looking out over a sky free of power lines will be rapturous, though.  

I'm still waiting on my flying car.  

It's too early to ask about my knee.  I'm working on it. 

I got a spooky call yesterday.  Not really, but I have made it so.  My phone won't ring unless I have you in my contacts, so for anyone else who calls, they get, "Please leave a message."  If an unknown number calls and doesn't leave a message, they didn't really want to talk to me.  Yesterday, I had a notification that I had a voice message.  I listened to it.  It was nothing, just the noise you get when somebody butt dials you, street sounds, muffled voices.  I looked at the number.  It was from my old-girlfriend Emily's hometown.  How would somebody from there have my number in their phone, I wondered?  Who could it be?   I wondered a lot, so I put the number into White Pages app to see.  White Pages could not find anyone associated with the number.  It could not find the number at all.  I was spooked.  If it were a telemarketer or a scammer, they would not have my number in their phone and would not be able to butt dial.  

I played to the message again, listening for secret messages.  A call from beyond the grave?  I'd have to consult a mystic, use the Weegee board. . . . 

Or, you know, I could do it the easy way and just call the number back.  From a payphone, of course.  

Oh. . . yea.  

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