A Different Part of the Matrix

I had it all planned out last night, what I was going to write this morning.  But I have changed my mind. . . mostly. It was/is just too confessional.  I've spelled out enough of my fears, phobias, and insecurities over the years.  And, of course, there is the underlying melancholy that too often descends into sadness.  Too much of that. 

Still, there is always the need to confess.  Right?  Confession is good for the soul, they say.  What's good for the soul, though, is not necessarily good for attracting readers.  Maybe.  I don't know.  

Certainly every guy knows of the YouTube video "The Hot/Crazy Matrix."  Maybe they don't share it with their wives and girlfriends, though.  It is pretty offensive in the way of much that is humorous.  There is no Woke comedy that I know of.  But, being the sort I am, I won't post that here.  If you are interested, you can look it up on your own.  That's on you.  

The fellow who made the video has updated it for women, "The Cute/Rich Matrix."  It, too, is offensive.  

I posted it here but removed it.  I don't need to make any new enemies.  All I'll say is that I have fallen into a different zone.  Not on purpose.  It just happened.  

Last night, Tennessee called.  He was on his way back to town.  He will be on his own for two weeks.  His wife is leaving on a trip.  

"Oh, shit.  I've been living a quiet life," I said.  "I don't know about this."

"Get your boots on, son. . . we're going out!"

The thing is, I've been working.  I dug out the negatives from my "A Few Days One Summer" series and began scanning them at a resolution good for printing.  That is much higher than what is needed to post the images online.  When I went looking for them, they were on the very bottom of the stack of portfolios I had in a closet.  I had to take everything on top of them out.  When I did that, however, the rest of the things in the closet tipped and fell and poured loose photos and films all over the floor.  Of course.  I have a mess that I haven't begun to clean up yet.  

Rather, I began the scanning process.  It takes twenty minutes to scan each negative.  The holder will scan three negatives at a time.  One hour.  I've scanned 18 negatives so far.  Why do I want to print them?  

I have an idea.  I may never follow up on it, though.  I want to exhibit them.  To be continued.  

In the evenings lately, I have been putting on music, scanning, and organizing my old files.  I have pretty much given up television.  I realized that nothing I watch makes me happy.  "Fargo."  It is good, but it is hours and hours of murder and bedlam. "Ripley."  The cinematography is grand, but again, the character is "soulless."  The goddamn shows are leaving me hollow.  So evenings now, I "work."  

But going through the old files sometimes has its own deleterious effect.  Maybe I am at the point right now where everything does.  I am working hard, though, to achieve a calm and a peacefulness and a stable equilibrium.  

"Serenity now!"

You see, I was on one part of the Cute/Money Axis, and now I'm on another.  

Tennessee's friends are wealthy.  All of them.  I don't mean the petty money of dentists and doctors.  I mean mega millions.  Old family money often enough.  I'm the shit heel pal.  I've met many of his friends.  I get along fine.  Some have been over and drunk my whiskey and tequila and smoked my Cuban cigars.  I like them fine.  I'm not saying anything bad about them.  They are smart enough and mostly clever and they look swell.  

But I'm worn out with it.  I can't talk with any authority about the things they know.  Yachts, golf courses, private clubs, Michelin restaurants. . . .  It is fascinating for awhile, but it gets tiring.

My part of the matrix doesn't even abut theirs now.  

The girl in the photo. . . I don't know.  As awful as those matrixes are, there is a great bit of truth in them.  All I want to do is work on getting the photo things in order.  

"Friday night I have to go to the golf tournament they have every year.  It's a charity thing put on by my buddy.  He lives in the white mansion on the lake across from the golf course.  He has a big party that night."

I mention a forty-one year old woman who is incredibly beautiful.  I was told she was married to a guy whose family builds highways.  

"Oh, that's ________.  I know him.  They just got divorced.  Yea, he inherited a bunch of money.  He's a real douche.  You wouldn't like him at all.  You know _________ had an affair with her."

Yea.  I'm on a different part of the matrix now.  

That's her, the girl in the picture.  You know what I mean.  Do you think she'd make me happy?  I asked my mountain buddy that question, the one who retired at thirty.  

"Yes. But don’t let her move in. After a while she will argue. And no one wins an argument with you. Not even all those attorneys that we used to play ball with. "

That would be John Morgan's old law partner.  He had mega money, too.  

Cochella starts today.  Are you going?  I think that's what people do.  So I hear.  

O.K.  I need to get back to "work."