What More?

I've been experimenting with the gel plate transfers.  I finally got an image, but not much of one.  This is a magazine transfer that I took a photo of with my phone and futzed with until you could see it.  The actual transfer is not nearly so visible.  

I left my mother on a Sunday afternoon thinking I would take another walk down the Boulevard.  When I got to my house, though, I thought I'd hook up my old color laser printer.  I need laser prints for transfers.  I got it hooked up after a lot of moving things and running the cabling, and later that same day, I fired it up.  Oh, yea.  Lines running through the prints.  I'd forgotten.  So I Googled "how to get rid of lines in my laser prints" or something like that.  There were lots of videos.  So I did that, taking the thing apart and cleaning the parts for a couple hours.  I was blowing laser toner all around the room and breathing it, and I think it fucked me up.  I was kind of worried that I had done some serious permanent damage.  But when I put the laser printer back together. . . it had only gotten worse.  

I had some old laser prints lying around "from the day," so to see if they were still good for transfers, I tried one on bad paper with a transfer pen.  

The toner did transfer.  The transfer could have been better on good paper, but I wasn't willing to go that deep not knowing if the prints would still work.  So now I was ready to try a gel plate transfer.  I lay down the black acrylic paint, then put down the laser print and rolled it out with a brayer and the knuckles of my hand.  I waited ten seconds and pulled the laser print off, and I could see an image left behind.  Ooooo.  So I let that dry.  Well, I helped it dry by using my hair dryer.  I wasn't sure if that was a good idea or not.  When it was dry, I lay down a layer of white acrylic paint and pressed down a piece of paper on top.  I let that sit for twenty minutes, then, feeling anxious, I pulled the paper off the gel plate.  

Again, the actual print was not as visible as this is.  

Next I tried the "Vanities" print at top from a page out of an old Vanity Fair magazine.  

And the day had gotten away from me.  I had gone to the grocers earlier and was making small red beans and pork in the InstaPot for dinner.  My mother always loves that one.  My mother called.  I forget why.  It put me on notice, though, so I put away my art toys, jumped in the shower, and loaded the car for the trip back to my mother's.  

It was a beautiful day, and I was making all my transfers outside on the deck atop the glass topped table.  People stopped by.  First a neighbor who was walking her dog.  

"How's your mother doing?"

So I went through the litany--short version.  Her own mother had died at the age of 95 this year.  She told me all about it.  They had her in a facility and had hospice taking care of her.  It was hard.  

Ho!  

But the thing I took from the conversation is that Hospice isn't just for killing people at the end of their lives.  Not right away.  They will come and provide care and assistance the neighbor said, and Medicare covers the cost.  She sent me a link.  I'm skeptical about this, but if someone can give me some relief. . . oh, my. . . I'll take it.  

Then a little Vespa pulled into the driveway.  It was Tennessee and his wife.  I asked them how Cows and Cabs went.  

"It wasn't worth the money," T's wife exclaimed.  

T told me who he saw there, a crooks gallery of middle-aged pretenders.  

"Who bought THEIR tickets," I laughed.  

"Right?" 

He spoke of the VIP section.  

"I sure as hell wouldn't go if I wasn't VIP.  I wouldn't want to pay to be little people."

I could tell they agreed.  

And so, though I didn't get around to taking a walk, the day was a pretty good one nonetheless, that little part of the afternoon I was able to steal.  

I was up part of the night.  Something was wrong with the HVAC.  The inside fan was not turning off when the compressor did.  I got up a couple times to futz with it.  Then I'd lie in bed waiting for it to come on and turn off.  I fell asleep at some point, and when I woke up, the inside fan was off.  Had it healed itself?  Ha!  You know that doesn't happen.  But the sun was up.  It was eight o'clock.  I woke just in time to put together my mother's meds.  I had things to do.  Her house cleaner is coming today.  I needed to get sheets into the washer.  I stumbled around all muzzy headed.  

And now?  Oh, I have much to do today.  I have to get something notarized for the roofing company.  I have to get to two banks.  I am going to try the gym for the first time in a week.  Maybe.  I am still feeling a bit off.  

And I want to interview strangers.  With photos.  What?  

Oh. . . I have a new crush.  

Nuzzi, 32, lives in a tiny house in the heart of Malibu where lizards crawl into her kitchen and the King James Bible and “The Divine Comedy” — two books she was reading while she was writing “American Canto” — sit on her dining room table. She drives around in a white Mustang convertible, like a Lana Del Rey song come to life.

Olivia Nuzzi (link).   

Shithouse rat crazy, probably.  Yea. . . I can't help myself.  A femme fatale if there ever was one.  But, this one sold me:

Over the past year, she found herself interviewing strangers, and missed, she said, “relating to the world and everyone in it that way.” 

Life lessons there. . 

The article ends with this:

I made a joke about how [Eric] Adams had seemingly thrown away his life just to fly business class.

Nuzzi shrugged.

“I destroyed mine for less,” she said. 

Classic!  Another Joan Didion, maybe.  I will read her book.  

So. . . that's a lot for a guy who doesn't get out, right?  And now there is season 2 of "Land Man."  

What more can a fellow ask for?