Monday, September 11, 2023

Somewhere Pulses Quicken

A wild animal citing?  Indeed.  It's the feral cat!  After a week and a half, she showed back up looking none the worse for wear.  I found her looking through the kitchen door when I got out of the shower.  What the devil?  Where had she been?  I grabbed her bag of food and went out to the deck.  She looked at me and meowed as she always does when she wants food.  No other time.  Just then.  I dropped food in her bowl and she set about eating as always.  And then, when she was finished, she sauntered off, not sticking around to commune for a second.  

I'm not her boy, I guess. She found something better.  Story of my life.  I can't keep a girl to save me.  

I'm still struggling with the void.  I can't figure out how to configure things on my site.  Google needs me to write for them.  I'm guessing their instructions are written by someone in Japan.  Have you ever tried to put a grill together?  You can't do it.  Nobody can except the guy at Home Depot who does nothing but.  It doesn't have to be that difficult, but the grill instructions are like the menu on a Sony camera.  Ridiculous.  

So maybe you are reading this or maybe you're not.  I'm going to need to hire a tech guy to figure this out.  Where do you go to hire a tech guy?  Oh, don't worry.  I'm a clever boy.  I'll figure that out. 

I've continued going through prints.  When Tennessee came over, we went through them for an hour, just part of one of many tubs, and hardly made a dent.  And I'll tell you what--I am a pretty good. . . good what?  It's not just the photography.  It's the treatment, the after-product.  Whatever it is I am talking about, I was pretty good at it.  

I have three friends whose wives have seen some images on their husbands phones.  They want me to photograph them.  I take it as a testament to. . . something.  Not that my images are glamor.  Anything but.  I have people be weird and plain and somewhat strange.  Still, for all of that, people trust me.  

Had I a studio, of course. . . . 

Maybe I'll get a benefactor.  

I should report that I left the house yesterday.  I exercised hard and long and fought back against this mighty depression that engulfed me.  For most of my life, if I began to feel anxious or blue, I would just put on my running shoes and get out into the fresh air.  I still haven't given up on the idea of being able to run again.  I should, but I haven't.  To run and jump and twist and shout.  It is the best defense for me against the absolute absurdity of existence.  

Maybe that is why I make absurd pictures.  Maybe that helps me, too.  

Exercise, looking at prints, and dinner with mother.  There is little of interest there.  I am of fading interest, too.  For a very long time, I knew something spectacular was going to happen to me on an almost daily basis.  You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth.  My fashion friend would, of course, for her days have been even more so.  I believed in her, but holy shit, she exceeded imagination.  Q's had a pretty good run, too.  He called me yesterday to crow about his connubial bliss.  Now Date Night really blows his skirt.  He says he's writing his blog again, so I guess I'd better link the Q.  I'm sure you'll be able to read all about it.  

My friend, Travis, too.   

Now, though, for me. . . I need to quit expecting the spectacularly and wondrously unexpected.  These are remarkably unremarkable times.  Still, a young girl somewhere, is leaving an exciting note under the windshield wiper of some lucky boy.  There are smiles and giggles.  Pulses quicken.  

I can't even keep a fucking cat.  

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