A Thousand Eyes

And so it has begun. . . pitifully, perhaps, but a thing must begin before it can end, and if I don't make better photos soon, this project could come to a screeching halt.  This picture is o.k.  I took it a few days ago driving to my mother's.  I thought it important to show the frame of the window to show it is about the road.  Good job, I'd say, since I had my little Fuji X-VI with the flash turned on at hand.  The inside of the car lit up like Christmas, and I like the result.  

I've been such a bum, though.  I don't really want to do anything at all.  I saw one of those silly things on the internet yesterday and thought it pretty apropos.  

Let's swap summer for winter and it is perfect.  But I used to leave the house.  And so Sunday morning, I packed up some cameras and lenses and headed out for a little adventure.  I stopped at McDonalds first, though, to get an eggamuffin.  I needed fuel.  I sat in my car in the shade on the parking lot and ate.  It didn't take long.  And then I headed for the interstate.  

Don't get excited.  I wasn't going far.  I was driving to the "wrong side of town."  It is one aspect of "The End of the Road," the unattainable American Dream.  Now I believe that is true for everyone, but it is especially true for most.  I'll have more to say about that in the future.  

I went to some places I'd been recently on my plastic light cover adventures, but I hadn't taken any pictures then because there was just too much going on.  Too many people, too much traffic.  But Sunday morning is calm and sleepy.  

You would think.

But let me tell you, the neighborhood has a thousand eyes.  Seriously.  There are people out everywhere.  Every time I would stop the car to get out and take a picture, somebody walked out onto their porch or balcony.  Corner boys were hanging around.  

"Hey man. . . whitey's in the neighborhood with a camera."

Yea, it's true my brother, but I'm no popo.  I'm just some guy trying to make pictures.  Still, it is a bit spooky.  I try not to be spooked for there is nothing worse.  I don't think dogs are the only ones who smell the fear pheromones.  So I limped in a cocky manner like I was made.  

"Brother, you don't want any trouble now.  You can't touch me.  I'm not like the others."

I was driving in an industrial area of shitty warehouses and lots of truck repair places.  I mean, it was beat.  And still. . . eyes were everywhere.  

This place was advertising for diesel mechanics.  Brother, there is plenty of good money to be made there.  It just ain't for me.  

So I drove and stopped where I could, leaving the car running, and would limp about and make pictures that don't inspire.  But since I've not been going out with a camera for a very long time, I thought it was just part of the deal and that I would have to shake off the rust.  Maybe that is true, but my heart felt something contrary.  

Speaking of hearts, I read that men die of a "Broken Heart Disease" quite often.  That ain't good news.  My heart is hardly ever whole.   But what can you do?  Everybody's going to die of something, and it will never be what you want.  Still. . . quit telling me this shit.  

* * *

I wrote that yesterday before going to dinner with mother.  We ate with her across the street neighbors, one of their usual friends, and the 91 year old neighbor from a couple doors down.  Chicken and dumplings, creamed corn, lima beans, and corn bread.  Real southern.  I brought a bottle of wine that lasted a minute.  Then we had some really bad, cheap wines from the house.  I rarely choose the water over the wine, but. . . .  Our hosts are good, though, to do this as neither of them are doing well, he with a terrible back that has crippled him, she with. . . everything age can bring.  They start cooking in the early afternoon and have to clean up when we leave.  I never help with anything, of course.  I feel it would be bad manners.  I simply bring the good wines.  

Though my mother lives across the street, the heavy rains came and we were held in place for too long.  Finally, just when Mr. MAGA began his attacks on Fauci, the Biden Crime Family, and the rest, the rain let up.  

"Mom, c'mon. . . we need to go before the rain comes back."

I got a call a little while after getting home.  It was mom.  Uh-oh.  

"I can't get my laptop to come on."

The night before, just before nine, I had to drive over because she couldn't work the t.v.  It is getting to be a bit of a challenge now.  She can't remember how to do many things.  Last night at the dinner table, she was telling us that she bought her car in 1965.  "No. . . 1985.  What is it?"  

Yup.  

It will be another scorcher today.  I've been looking at the weather around the state.  Our highs are much greater than anyplace on the coast.  T. is in Key West.  The high there today will be seven degrees below our own.  WTF?

I think my surgical wound has healed nicely.  I don't think the scar will be all that pronounced.  This guy did a really good job, I think, and I will tell him so.  

"Hey, man. . . do you do eyes?"

I slept an hour at a time again last night.  Up now since five.  I think I'll go back to bed.  

Because I can.