I'm falling apart. I'm losing both my sanity and my health. Some nights I think now. . . .
Writing with the music is more difficult. I don't know what I was saying. My mind drifts with the melodies. My words get circumvented by lyrics.
So. . . here's a photo from the few end of the roll pictures I took on Sunday. They are nothing but small town amateur illustrations. Here you see part of the Boulevard, the brick street, the bookstore in an old two story building, a woman dressed in what she imagines is an art festival outfit with her coddled baby stroller.
This is my own hometown. Adopted long ago. It was not my birthright. I come from a hillbilly house on the Little Miami River without an indoor bathroom. Long, fun journey from there to floating on the French Riviera on a Crowned Prince's yacht.
Still, I'll go to a hillbilly's grave. No matter, we all go home in the end, I think.
As I say, I don't get to the Boulevard much anymore. The Boys are going to Happy Hour tonight. I'm afraid my happy hours are catch-as-catch-can right now. I had mine for a minute yesterday afternoon.
I went for beer and boiled peanuts when the cleaning crew showed up at my house. When I walked into the brewery, there was Crazy Larry. He is always there. It was early, however, and I thought maybe he wouldn't have come yet. But there he was, and so I felt obliged to say hello. After I got my beer and my number, I sat down at his table. He just looked up at me from his big, thick pile of scratch off tickets and said, "Hey, sorry. . . I'm going to be busy. . . ." He held up his phone to show me something. It looked like a lotto ticket. Beats me what it was, but having been told to scram, I did.
I was only being polite, but wow. . . . Crazy Larry.
After the beer and nuts, I drove back home by way of the Cafe Strange. I pulled into the lot thinking to get a green tea. I parked and sat in the car and didn't move. In a couple of minutes, I pulled out of the lot and back onto the street. I didn't have it in me. I need to find a new cafe.
Home, I got back to scanning negatives. I have a good scanner, one of the best, but scanning is irritatingly slow, so while the scanner thumped and bumped along, I entertained myself with other things.
The house was clean. They leave it sparkling. I told the woman who owns the business that there wasn't so much to do since I was staying with my mother, and unbelievably, she handed the money back to me. I was sincerely touched, but of course I didn't take it. The gesture alone was worth the price. Some people just have heart.
When the scanner finished up with the negatives, I unloaded them and put in a fresh batch. I downloaded the scanned images and took them to the big computer to cook them up. Shooting from the hip, just pointing the camera in the general direction of the thing you see, yields some surprising results. Most are trash, but some. . . I don't know. They seem almost intentional.
But I'll save the rest for another day.
As I worked on the images, the phone rang. It was my mother.
"Where are you? What are you doing? It is getting late!"
Yea. I'd been gone for hours. Time to hang up my little slice of life and hurry back to caretaking.
When I got back to her house, she was flummoxed.
"You didn't leave me the t.v. I couldn't watch anything. You didn't leave my pills, either."
Shit. I hadn't, I guess. I hadn't put together her two o'clock meds. First time. And I had left the t.v. on the FireStick and had forgotten to put it back to her commercial cable stations. Obviously, she doesn't know how to put together her meds or how to work the remotes. It was five. I put together her two o'clock meds and gave them to her.
"We'll do your eight o'clock meds before you go to bed."
I wasn't going to, but fuck. . . I made a Negroni and sat outside with her. She wasn't wearing her hearing aids, of course, so whatever I said, I needed to say again much more loudly. Our conversations have become extremely truncated.
Negroni gone, I went in to cook dinner. Cubed steaks with onions, baked beans, baked potatoes, and spinach. The "baked potatoes" were done in the microwave. The beans were from a can. Cube steaks cook in minutes. I wilted the baby spinach in a pan with olive oil. Quick and easy.
After dinner, I had to run to the bank to get my mother some money. Her house cleaner was coming in the morning and my mother's cash was gone. She hasn't had any for longer than she knows. We're working on my bank account now. Such things never occur to her anymore.
After cleaning the kitchen, what was there left to do?
Today I am up early washing bedsheets and preparing the house for the cleaner. I have an appointment with my beautician just after noon, so I must go to the gym early and get home to shower so I can make the long trip to the other side of the county. I never decided on what to do with my hair, so I will leave it up to her. I'm getting fat and hideous, so maybe she will put pink in blue in my hair and tell me to get some tattoos and a pair of Doc Martins.
I am seriously more Quasimodo than ever. Every joint and broken bone in my body hurts right now. My car was rear ended when I was in high school and my neck has been growing more arthritic ever since. I've done something to fuck it up now and I can't turn or raise my head without shooting pain. Tennessee and Alain both go to a woman for their necks. She does dry needling. I read an article in The NY Times this morning about bad necks and dry needling. It seems to be the best thing. $180/session. I think I will have to try.
And so, I march forth into the gaping mouth of another busy day. All I have are a few amateurish photos and this. This makes life just a little more palatable.
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