Nothing Now

I have nothing for you, I really don't.  Just more bellyaching, more crippled narrative about non-life, non-living, about doctor's appointments and mother's miseries.  The shifting of the clock has not helped, nor has the constant roaming noises my mother made last night.  I am up.  I am down.  

"Always throw the fight.  Take it lying down."

Those were some lyrics to a song I was listening to the other day.  

Everyone who sees me says I need to get some help with my mother.  I'll confess--I don't know how to do that.  It seems more complicated than just continuing on as is.  I don't have the energy for it.  

Here are two little known Hopper paintings, things hidden and rarely seen.  The brushstroke is gentler than in many of his paintings, the details more pronounced.  These were from his days in Paris before he married Jo.  She did not like these and so they were basically "lost" paintings--until now.  Every nude Hopper painted after that was Jo.  She became his eternal model.  

How are they just emerging now?  I know a guy who knows a guy. 

Here he is returning to the United States and moving into the style he would be best remembered for.  Selavy.  

My mother is banging and crashing and kabooming things incessantly.  I can't think.  I don't want to think.  I want to sleep.  But I must have her across town for a double epidural soon, so I will end it here for now.  Who knows what fresh horrors tomorrow may bring.