Fictitious Insight

I'm just going through the old files and posting pics I've never shown.  I think.  Hell, I can't really remember.  These are all taken with film cameras, developed, scanned, and processed by me.  I used to do that, just wander with a film camera and the rest.  Huh.  I really wasn't all that long ago, just a few years.  

Maybe I was a better walker then, had better knees.  I will suggest but not detail that I am doing things again that seem to be helping my knees.  But I don't want to jinx it.  

Now you might think I am a bit protective of my persona, and you might be right, but I also make a lot of fun of myself, too.  I sent this to Q yesterday for fun.  

Oh, he loved that.  He said he didn't know I smoked.  Ha! 

"Are these real?" he asked.  Silly boy.  No.  That is not me.  It is just a creation of a suggestion of me that I fed into the machine.  

"You look like Joe Walsh," he said.  

I don't smoke, and I don't wear those stupid shoes.  The t-shirt, o.k.  

"The best thing is that the girls don't pay any attention to you."

Yea. . . I wrote that.  I wrote the whole thing.  Of course it is not "real," but it is too close to being "real."  I think sometimes I am one thing, but this, I imagine, is how I appear to others.  It is truly awful and scary and hideous.  

I tried to correct the machine.  After Q's love of these, I told it to give the male figure a better body and to make him more attractive.  No shit--it wouldn't do it.  I couldn't rewrite the narrative.  

I could turn these into videos, of course, but Q's enjoyment of my own derision. . . well. . . the whole thing, really was bringing me down.  I could only see this fiction as a mirror to reality.  There is much truth in fiction, perhaps more than in what we assume to be reality itself.  

I probably manspread, too.  

Q, of course, is rich and has a rich and lovely wife and a kingsized house in the upscale 'burbs and nice cars and a vacation seemingly every other week.  I am a broke ass caretaker without any of that.  Well, the house, but it is 100 years old.  My life is a curse, the result of a life lived too well with too little for far too long.  

Selavy.  

Oh. . . the cigarette.  At some point in writing the script for these pictures, I mentioned "like an older Hank Moody."  Californication.  He smoked, and that was the takeaway.  Since I have been watching some of it again, that was in my head.  The show is almost 20 years old, but much of it is about the old world being taken over by the new.  Hank is an analog man living in a new digital cosmos. 

My mother sits and kind of watches with me.  

"Did they screw again?" she'll ask.  

"Uh. . . it's why I like the show," I laugh.  It's not really true, but it could be if the show didn't have some snappy dialog.  It lasted seven seasons, but it got stale after a couple, sloppy, sappy, and sentimental.  It was incremental.  How long can you run with a guy drinking and screwing his way through Los Angeles before the gilt rubs off?  

I'm no Hank Moody, but I used to be better than what the machine has shown.  That's what I get for being self-depricating, though.  

Insight. 

Big day.  Mom, then mom, then mom.  Bank business, ENT appointment, then fetching glasses she left at the cardiologist on Friday.  But I think I will load up a camera with film again and take it around with me to capture the scenes of daily existence.  Things seem to look better that way.  

Let's see if I have any music.  Ah. . . yes. . . a little rhumba.