Wow! I thought the papers would be full of the Epstein file stuff today, but I guess they are walking the line. Maybe they don't want to endure Trump's wrath. There is no proof, of course, just conspiracy stuff, and I really don't care about the Epstein file anymore than I do about the Diddy trial. Apparently, I'm learning, one of the worst things you can do to another person is sex, except, you know. . . for procreational purposes. . . quickly and efficiently.
I'm against violence, of course, physically doing harm to another person. Diddy should have been behind bars a million years ago for that.
And Trump should have been put in prison longer ago than that for. . . being Trump.
But when Musk and Trump fight, I really don't care who wins. They are two of the planet's worst people. It is like The Riddler vs. The Penguin as far as I'm concerned. I hope they destroy one another.
Having said that, though. . . holy smokes! Trump will take away Musk's government contracts and Musk will take his technology to China or somewhere. I guess. I mean, he is not really a tech guy, is he? He just hires people who are.
Whatever. Let's get to the real business. I got my stitches removed yesterday. I'd asked around if it was going to hurt. The overwhelming response was "no."
You lying motherfuckers. Holy shit! It hurt a lot.
I'm afraid I was whining, not heroic. The doc let the P.A, do it, of course. When she put the scissors to my leg for the first time, I swear I thought she was cutting through my skin. I didn't look, of course. It went on and on and on. As she pulled the thread or cat gut or whatever through the hole, some of them felt about half a foot long. The pain shot from my ankle to my knee. I was gripped, jaws clenched, fists balled, arms wrapped tightly around my chest, and once I couldn't help but cry out.
"Ouch. How much more do we have?"
"We're about halfway," she said.
"My god!"
When she finished, the doc, who had his back to me the whole time pretending, I think, to update files on a laptop, came over and took a look. He put some ointment on it and then bandaged it.
"I wouldn't rough that up for awhile," he said.
What caused me most concern was the eye language between the doc and the P.A. They were speaking to one another in some secret language. Was it bad? Had one of them fucked up?
Maybe it is just me. Maybe I'm a baby and someone else would have thought the whole thing fine. But when I left the doctor's office, I was limping. The thing was really barking.
Against all my hopes, I am not done.
"Can I run, jump, and surf?" I asked him when he was done.
"Come back in a week and I'll tell you."
So I have another tender week ahead. Still, fingers crossed.
After the doc's, I went to see my mother to tell her my painful tale of woe.
"Do you want to go get lunch," I asked?
"Sure."
Then came the odious task of deciding where. I don't like any of the restaurants on her side of town, and she certainly wasn't going to go with me to get sushi or ceviche, so we wrestled with the question for a long while before I asked, "Do you want to go to Olive Garden?"
"Sure," she said in relief.
Where else do you take your 93 year old mom?
One day I'll get something other than the soup and salad, but my mother ordered quickly, so I did the same.
When I took my mother back to her house, I said, "O.K. It's time for my nap."
"You can nap here," she said.
That's just how my life goes now. No matter what I do, every day, it is not enough. She needs me to live her life with her now. I have to reject the guilt but I can't completely. It lingers like a low-grade fever.
I needed the nap. I haven't been sleeping well. I've been staying up too late and waking too early, and now we know, all of us who read the articles, that not sleeping well enough will kill you. So will most other things you don't do well or enough. It is a full time job now just staying alive.
So they say.
When I got home, I stripped down and lay belly up on the bed and went into an afternoon coma.
The day was long. My doctor's appointment was at 10:45, and since I had gotten up at 5:30, I decided to go to the gym beforehand. Now that was done as was my daily trip to see my mother. It was three o'clock and, chores over, I decided to go to the cafe. I haven't gone more than a couple times since April 25. That is when I went to the ER for the cyst. That is when this whole thing started. It has been a long while.
The cafe was hopping. It is summer vacation, it seems. I got some tea and picked a spot to sit, took out my notebook, and . . . couldn't write. Nothing to say and no clever way to say it. Same as the morning. It is worrisome. The antibiotics, the hospital stay, the whole shebang, has aged me. I can see it in my face. But what has it done to my brain? Shit hasn't been right since this whole ordeal began.
And so I sat back and looked around. There were a lot of people who looked interesting from afar.
I wanted to set up a little studio right there and photograph them all. Outside the cafe scene, surrounded by their own crowd, they would stand out. You might think they hadn't bathed for awhile, skin pitted, perhaps, or shiny, hair a little greasy. You might wonder whose closet they had raided to find the fur boots or bell bottoms pants. But to me, there is something terribly interesting and irresistible about it all like stepping onto a movie set of maybe a John Waters film.
It was still early when I left the cafe. I went to the grocers. I came home. Five. I made a Campari. I have to quit doing this, for when it is finished, I begin to prep dinner. And I pour a glass of wine. And, dinner plated, I pour another. Dinner finished, of course, I need a whiskey, and then way leads to way and. . . I stay up too late and don't sleep well.
That is to say, it is a pathetic life, but as the song kinda goes, this life "ain't the good life, but it's my life."
Today is to be clear and hot, they say. I need to try to get started on my new photo project. Here is what I know--you can't be going somewhere and stop when you see a picture. You won't stop. You'll promise yourself to go back later, but you know that is an empty dream. No, you have to go out with one thing in mind, and one thing only. Making pictures. I have problems galore right now, almost all to do with the house, but I need to carve out some time today for picture taking. It is hard to get started, but that is true with most things. An hour or two, just to get some momentum.
I skipped out on the factory party yesterday. I just couldn't do it. Maybe I should have; however, something told me not to go.
But. . . am I becoming an isolato?
The answer to be revealed in upcoming episodes. Stay tuned.
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