Saturday, January 27, 2024

Cue the Music

Just the way I found it.  Sort of David Lynch, I thought.  Cafe Strange.  Cue the music.  Now, I mean.  It is easy to read to and will make this post so much better.  

The photo is good and fine the way it is, evoking an empty, disheveled strangeness, I think, but what I would like is to put a mic stand and an old ribbon microphone slightly stage right and have the people of the cafe stand behind it, perhaps singing to the eclectic music that is played there.  As always,  beginning is the most difficult part.  Once begun, it would all be cake.  

I despair, though, that it will never get done.  As always, I need a young, creative female assistant who is fearless.  She could get people to do things I no longer can.  

Selavy.  Imagine if you will.  

My mind this morning is as blank and empty as my life.  I read the first essay in Joan Didion's "Slouching toward Bethlehem" last night.  In the preface to the book, she admits that she has an advantage with people by being a small, non-assuming female.  People are not as guarded around her, she says, as she appears non-threatening.  

"My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests.  And it always does.  That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out."

But man alive, she sells them out in a most glorious style.  She can really put the words together.  She can really write.  

I've become too involved, perhaps, in not selling people out, at least not those closest to me.  

I hope that you can read this (link).  Capote sold everyone out.  See this (link).  I'll need to find a way to watch it.  Without commercials, of course.  

The only ones, I think, that I am ever tempted to sell out are Q and myself.  We are made up characters with the traits of mythical coyotes, sometimes clever, sometimes buffoons, and always victims of our own outlandish egos.  

"Why do I always look so good in the mirror and so bad in pictures?" (Barcelona).  

I seem to make this photo every time I have to stand in line to get a drink at the cafe.  And I almost always send it to somebody.  Sky says I've perfected the art of the mirror selfie.  There is that, anyway.  I look better when the viewing distance is doubled.  

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