Saturdays

I spent a lot of yesterday trying to organize images from my surfer series to make a book.  I got. . . nowhere.  I wrote an introduction that I later trashed, and I made the cover.  I am putting the book together with Mixbook which is, by almost all accounts, the best of its type  It is the same company that I used to make the "Lonesomeville" copy that still needs revision.  For that book, I printed out every image I would use, laid them out on the living room floor, and arranged them.  Maybe I'll need to do that with the surfer pictures, too, because I've been trying to do it on the computer screen and it doesn't seem to be working.  

I am an organizational mess.  I really need someone to do this with me.  Or for me.  

I've decided to make this book, though, and to re-edit "Lonesomeville" and then put together a second "Lonesomeville" made from the digital camera photos.  Then I want to make a street photo book and maybe some travel photo books, too.  

Ambitious for a man who lacks real decision-making skills about anything concerning himself.   

Once I've made them, I'll let you know.  I might sell you one.  Not for profit, just to cover the cost.  Mixbook ain't doing this for free.  

I tried to get out and maybe make some more pictures yesterday, but things went south.  I thought to go to the great Farmer's Market in a distant town, but when I left my mother's house, the day had already grown muggy.  I decided to drive back to my own home and see what I felt like doing.  

I decided to go to the Saatva store on the Boulevard.

I am finally accepting after all this time the hard truth that my mother will live forever and I will be staying in her house until I die, so. . . I need a decent bed.  I've been sleeping on an air mattress here for years, now.  I didn't realize they could "go bad," but an article I read told me that they do--and quickly.  How, I wondered?  It's just air.  How does air become lumpy?  But I know something happens because I've been trying to sleep "uphill" on this thing for a long time.  

Saatva mattresses are always among the most highly rated, especially the one they call "The Classic."  At the store, I was invited to try it.  

It seemed too soft.  When I was in China, every bed I slept on was very, very firm, and I slept the sleep of the dead.  I like a firm mattress.  I don't want to sink into it.  So I tried a few more.  The one I liked was the firmest and, also, the most expensive.  

I may get an adjustable bed frame, too.  I don't know.  I told the nice lady thanks, etc.  

I decided to walk the Boulevard.  I am afraid to tell you what I saw, but there were hundreds of them, all brand new.  

I don't want to be old anymore. 

I went to the bookstore.  Apparently people still love buying books.  Or at least looking at them.  The place was shoulder to shoulder with bibliophiles.  I couldn't get close to the new book display.  I split. 

Back on the street, I walked slowly toward the car.  They come to the Brandy Melville store on the weekends, the older ones in groups of three or four, the younger ones with a parent who doesn't mind them dressing in that manner.  The groups of older ones are delirious, the younger ones with a parent self-conscious and worried.  

I crossed the street to walk parkside.  Across the paddock was the Saturday market.  My hometown, once a quiet village, has become a weekend "destination."  Women's clothing, bars, and restaurants.  Five jewelry stores.  Three expensive sunglass shops.  A flower shop has replaced the art gallery at the end of the Boulevard.  The gallery selling sparkly, shiny mall art, paintings of dolphins and the like, stays busy.  The national chain brands have begun to move back.  Country Club College is building a large art museum on the back side of the Boulevard.  They are investing in some other projects around town as well.  It is still a pretty little town, but the money keeps pouring in, and we all know the consequences of that. 

When I got back to the car, I was very hungry, which is unusual.  I go most days without eating much before dinner, but right then, food seemed imperative.  I decided to drive across town to get a sandwich at the brewery that sells Punks lager.  Camera at the ready.  

I made two passes through the small parking lot.  Not a chance.  Even the disabled parking spaces were filled.  That sandwich was not in the cards.  

I drove to a Chick-fil-A near my house and took home a chicken sandwich.  Much cheaper, of course.  

The rest of the day was spent wrestling with the surf project.  The rains came.  

The afternoon waned.  I tried calling my mother to see what she wanted for dinner, but her phone was still not accepting calls.  It was later than usual, so I drove straight back to her house. She was fine. 

"What have you done to your phone?"

"I didn't do anything."

Somehow, she had turned on "Airplane Mode."

"WTF?"

"I didn't do it."

It was late.  I hadn't been to the grocery store, so I made a quick meal of spaghetti noodles, tuna, peas, and garlic.  We usually like this light meal, but somehow last night I fucked it up.  It was not very good at all. 

"I think I've lost my ability to cook," I said.  

"Yes."

"Maybe you need someone else to prepare your meals."

"What?"

She hadn't heard anything I'd said.  She just bobs her head and says yes when people talk now.  

After dinner, we tried two new series on Netflix or Amazon Prime.  I don't remember.  We watched about twenty minutes of the first one and ten of the second.  Neither of them interested us, so I gave her back her commercial t.v. and went off to read.  

Saturday night.  Somewhere out there, people get together, tell stories, laugh, lie.  I guess.  I work the morning, late afternoon, and night shifts.  I haven't been out for a very long time.  But I was never much for going out, really.  The best Saturday nights were spent in my studio working on pictures, editing or printing or just sitting and thinking.  Sometimes, the artist in the studio behind me would be working, too, and we'd stop and have a drink together on the loading dock.  Good restaurants and bars were all around, and we could feel the energy and sometimes hear people laughing.  The Boulevard was a short ten minute walk away.  It might be early.  It might be late.  Maybe we'd say goodnight and head our separate ways or maybe one or both of us would go back to work.  It was not lonely.  There was everything everywhere around us.  Sometimes, if the weather was nice and I had the doors open, music playing, people would poke their heads in to see what the place was about.  They'd see the pictures on the wall, and sometimes I'd invite them in and photograph them.  

Sometimes it might be a friend.  

It was a time of creativity and enchantment.

I'll try working on the surf project again this afternoon, or maybe I will re-edit "Lonesomeville."  That is simply a matter of replacing a few of the images that I somehow duplicated.  There are people who want a copy of that, I know.  And then I will go to the grocery store before returning to my mother's where I will make a delicious beef stew.  I have to prove that I can still cook.  

I'm not sure.  I may have given you this song before.  It's o.k., though.  It goes well with a Sunday morning.  I think I'll make French toast.