Yesterday was fine and beautiful. . . and I felt awful. That seems to be typical for me. When the weather changes, on that very first day of beauty, I always feel down. Sick in body and soul. It might be an actual metabolic reaction to the changing weather. I don't know. It could be psychological. I never have felt I could live up to the beauty of a gorgeous day. Not the first one, at least.
I think, however, that it might have been that Bahn mi sandwich I had at the Asian market. My gut was bad. The spaghetti carbonara didn't help, either. So I stayed inside on the most beautiful day of the summer so far this year.
Until I ran out of matte printing paper. I think I've already told you that I have been printing the A.I. images of my work on little 4x6 fine art papers. They are beautiful. In part, it is due to the colors that are more painterly than photographic. The outlines are softer. I am surprised each time one pops out of the printer. Again, it takes a lot of "work" to get what I want. The work is in the prompts and the challenge is getting around the strictures ChatGPT wants to place on your image. And sometimes you get a third hand or a bent foot or a terribly twisted face.
But this one. . . oh. . . yes. You might recognize her.
It was four o'clock and I was feeling punky, but I hadn't yet gone to see my mother, so I took a quick shower, dressed, and headed out the door. I was greeted by air you couldn't feel and soft light the quality of what you imagine it might be like in heaven.
Everyone was everywhere. People were outside. It was one of those days and it made me sad to have missed it. You could smell enjoyment like a subtle perfume. People seemed for the moment happy.
I got the usual friendly greeting at the photo store. I grabbed a box of paper and was out the door in minutes. There is a new photo processing place in town that I haven't been to yet that processes 4x5 film, and that is where I headed.
When I walked in, a young man was at the counter ahead of me. He was talking excitedly about something to the lady behind the counter, and when he finished, he turned to me and looked at my camera.
"Oh, wow. . . what kind of camera is that?"
I had my little Leica CL film camera. He wanted to know all about it, how long I'd had it, and then he wanted me to help him pick out a new color film. I walked back to the glass door case with him. I wasn't sure what films the store was carrying. I looked at the usual lot of film, made some suggestions, and answered his barrage of questions. I saw that the woman behind the counter was free, so I excused myself to ask her what the turn around time was on processing 4x5 film. Three days, she guessed. It was four-thirty. I had to run.
Maybe it was the sickness, I don't know, but I couldn't figure out a good way to get back across town to see my mother. I took wrong turn after wrong turn and must have driven twenty miles out of my way in some serpentine fashion. I got to the rehab center just before five.
My mother was in her room watching tv. It was loud.
"I'm guessing you are not wearing your hearing aids."
Like everyone with hearing aids, she doesn't want to wear them. I told her the day was beautiful and that we should sit outside. She got up and grabbed her walker. As much as I say she has made a tremendous comeback from the grave, she does not move well. She is very, very slow.
As we passed through the dining hall, the staff was setting up for dinner.
"What time is dinner?" my mother asked.
"Five."
It was just before five now. We walked through the door onto the second floor deck and sat on the faux wooden bench. It was pleasant, but my mother was concerned about dinner.
"They usually serve at six," my mother said.
"It is Saturday. Maybe the staff is anxious to get home."
My mother got up to look inside. She was quite concerned about dinner.
"I'm going in," she said.
Weird, I thought. She was just leaving me outside thinking she would eat and return I guessed, but I got up and opened the door for her and followed her into the dining hall. She sat at a table with a Korean woman who has been there as long as my mother. There was only one other person in the dining room sitting at a table alone. I watched as the servers carried covered dinner trays to the rooms of those not coming out. My mother opened up her fruit cup and began to eat. One of the staff brought her some soup. My mother couldn't hear what the Korean woman was saying and was shouting out non-sequiturs in response. My energy level was tanking and I was fading, so I told my mother I wasn't feeling well and was going home. She smiled that deaf and dumb smile and asked me if I was going to sit on the porch. I told her no, that I was going home. I probably hadn't been there fifteen minutes, and walking to the elevator, I felt tremendous guilt. But, I wondered, what would happen if my mother goes home and I became ill and had to go to a hospital? That was something that had to be figured into the whole equation. In my present state, I often feel I am on the verge of a complete collapse. I don't want to deal with anything any longer. And at that very moment, I just wanted to be home.
I felt like shit, and knew it wasn't a good idea, but maybe I've become an alcoholic. I wanted a Negroni, and so I made one and took it to the deck. A slight breeze came and went blowing like an oscillating fan around me. I looked at my phone. Nothing all day. I felt like a man transported into some "Twilight Zone" episode where strangers seek out my company but I can't find anyone I know. I was waiting on something that was never coming. And all about town, the celebration continued.
My stomach was still ill, so I made only a small Greek-ish salad for dinner. I ate it with a torn piece of a crusty baguette and a very cold glass of Sav Blanc. It was good. It was very, very good.
As I ate, I scrolled through the suggestions of what Amazon's Fire TV thought I might like to watch. There was a film about Klimt that I put in my saved to watch later box. And from there I found more. One was a film I have not been able to find ever, one I watched so very, very long ago, a film about Gaugin called "Wolf at the Door." I took a very young and beautiful girl to see it. I'm afraid it might have been the wrong film to take her to as it seemed too suggestive. But nothing ended and she and I kept in touch after she went away to college. She would write me letters often. She is married now to the son of the brother of a fellow I knew from the old steroid gym days, a fellow from a family who owned the biggest transportation company in town. The uncle is dead now, so she told me when I last saw her at the Fresh Market a few months ago. There is still a spark of something between us every time I see her that thrills me. By god I wish I had taken photos of her back then. She was always simply fascinating, a homecoming queen who played soccer on the boys team and had a passion for fishing. Seeing the film title brought that all back. Yea, I thought, this is what I'll watch tonight.
But I didn't. I turned off the tv after dinner and never turned it back on. I futzed around making prompts and pictures still feeling lousy, and early on I decided to go to an early bed.
Today will be lovely, too, and I will try to go out into it, but the weight of things I need to do hangs about me like a man trying to swim with too much chain. It just pulls me under. Maybe I'm dying. I seem to have as many bad days as average days now. It happens. People die. Not my mother and her ilk, of course, but people like me who cannot stand to live a nothing life. I've been thinking recently that I will just give in, that that might be the best thing. I will watch sports on television like everyone else and not think about anything at all. There is always some sport on t.v. now. And if there isn't some game or match, I'll watch the sports talk shows where pundits opine about upcoming matches and games and wonder what if in adamant tones. Vehemently. Maybe I'll learn how to play fantasy football, whatever that is. It seems to be popular. I'll drink beer and eat fried chicken, but I won't take up golf. Maybe, however, I'll watch it.
It's what people do.
I'm tired of thinking and feeling all the rest of it.
But, o.k. . . just one more song. . . like something beating the shit out of you. . . in the key of Sam Shepard.
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