Me. . . and ChatGPT

Here's a story.  I wrote it, gave ChatGPT many, many prompts, and told it to rewrite in the style of James Salter's "Light Years."  It gave me a story, then I edited it, then it made suggestions.  I just wanted to see if it would work.  Then I mailed it to several people I know varying in age and professions.  I sent it to writing profs and college professors from other departments.  I sent it to a playwright. a retired salesman, and a contractor.  I sent it to my Miami friend fresh out of college.  I told none of them it was a story I worked on in ChatGPT.  I wanted to get reactions.  They varied, of course, but in the main, with one exception, people liked it.  

* * *

It rained the day they arrived in Paris, and the day after. A soft rain, drifting like ash, sometimes invisible except on the surface of the river, where it textured the gray sheen like brushed silk. Their apartment was on the second floor of an old building above a restaurant that served duck and tarte Tatin and closed at midnight. The windows opened onto the Seine. If you leaned out slightly, you could see the towers of Notre-Dame.

Nedra stood at the tall windows each morning in her robe, drinking coffee, smoking occasionally, her hair loose. Below, the water moved like memory. Viri watched her from the bed, not speaking. It was her first time in Paris. He had been several times, long ago, before the girls were born, before the house on the river. It felt different now. Quieter. A kind of dream one returns to, already knowing how it ends.

They ate in small cafés and grand restaurants. There was soupe à l’oignon gratinée beneath a mantle of browned cheese, slices of duck breast with fig reduction, endive with roquefort and walnuts. They shared oysters in the late afternoon with glasses of Sancerre that made Nedra shiver slightly as the chill of the wine met the brine on her tongue. Once, in a café on the Rue des Écoles, they ate veal blanquette, the pale sauce steaming in the narrow bowls. Nedra spooned hers slowly, lost in thought.

Breakfast was always taken standing—croissants torn by hand, crumbs scattered across the zinc counters, café crème in heavy porcelain cups. Viri watched her eat, the way she held the spoon, the way she dabbed her lips. In the Latin Quarter, they sat near the window of a brasserie and ordered cassoulet with confit and white beans, dense and warming in the late October cold. She called it “a meal for peasants,” but smiled when she said it, her voice low, amused.

He took her to see Bonnard at the Musée d’Orsay, the rooms full of radiant baths and waning afternoons. She liked the colors but said little. What moved her seemed private. They visited Sainte-Chapelle, the light fractured by stained glass. On the Pont des Arts, she stood still in the wind, staring across the rooftops of the Right Bank. He put his hand on her back, and she did not move.

In the evenings, they returned to the apartment to change. She took long baths. He read or listened to the murmurs from the restaurant below, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glassware. Once, he heard music—a violin, not quite in tune—rising faintly from the street. He felt outside of time.

At dinner, they drank a bottle of Chinon and talked about things from long ago—places they had lived, people they no longer saw. A woman Viri had once loved lived in Montparnasse now, he thought, or perhaps she had moved. He had not told Nedra. There was no reason. It was not secrecy but preservation—of mood, of illusion.

She had moments of brightness—touching a bolt of fabric in a shop near Saint-Sulpice, reading the chalkboard menu aloud in a hushed voice, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his coat without thinking. But something was altered. She seemed always to be looking beyond him, at the weather, at the buildings, at a thought she did not voice.

At night they undressed without ceremony. Her skin was cool. She did not always turn toward him. He felt the space in the bed like a continent. He asked if she was tired. She nodded, already far away.

On their fifth day, they visited a bookshop in the Seventh. Nedra wandered among the poetry shelves. She picked up a volume of Rimbaud and read the first page, then closed it. Outside, the air had turned colder. The plane trees along the quay had begun to yellow.

They sat by the river, eating sandwiches wrapped in paper. Viri watched a barge pass slowly beneath the bridge. He wanted to say something to her, something final and full of love, but could find no shape for the words.

"You like it here?" he asked instead.

"Of course," she said. She did not look at him. "It's beautiful."

On their final evening, the rain stopped. The sky had the bruised look of twilight. They went walking without a plan. Lights came on in windows across the river. Somewhere a bell rang. They ended up at a brasserie near the Pont Neuf, drank champagne, shared oysters and steak. It was the best meal of the trip, or maybe it only seemed so because they both pretended nothing was ending.

Later, in the apartment, they made love slowly, like a ritual remembered from youth. Her eyes were open. His were closed. There was no sound except the creak of the old bed and the faint clatter of silverware being cleaned below. She touched his face afterward, not tenderly but with finality, and rose to wash herself in the dark bathroom, where the light did not work.

He lay awake, listening to the river. He did not know what he felt. Not fear, exactly. Not loss. But something had entered the space between them, like a language he had never learned. A presence with no name. In the morning, she would dress carefully, as she always did, and they would leave the apartment key on the desk in the hall, walk down the narrow stairs into the smell of coffee and ash and last night’s rain.

He would remember the week as beautiful.

And afterward, he would not be able to say why it was the beginning of the end.

* * * 

I'm just fooling around right now learning how the program works.  It is pretty good at defining writing styles.  Try it.  Write something and ask it to re-write in the literary style of Hemingway, then Faulkner, then Fitzgerald, and see the difference.  The more specific you are, the more accurate the results will be.  Select one work, for instance, a short story or a single novel.  The point isn't that you can have A.I. write stories, but that you can learn things you might not have realized before, knowledge that can then inform your own writing.  

I know. . . I know. . . most people are simply going to use it to write emails and tell jokes.  That's o.k.  Some people use a calculator to add and subtract.  Others use it to send rockets to the moon.  It isn't the tool; it's the user.  

So this morning I have been waiting on the roofer who bailed on me.  He called me yesterday and wanted money.  Ho!  He said he wanted to meet with me this morning.  

No show.  

While waiting, I made this.  It is just preliminary.  I have a lot to learn.  I will re-edit this later and make it much, much finer.  Don't judge me. . . yet.  Don't tell me I'm a child.  I know that, too.  

But for now. . . isn't this shit a hoot?

The Good Old Sunny Southern Summers

Reading is fundamental.  Well. . . C.C. sent this to me the other day goading me to submit some of my photographs to the contest.  

"You're sure to win," he said.  

Sure.  So I did.  It wasn't until later that I took a closer look at the ad.  

Shit!  I think I'm in trouble now.  

When I told C.C., of course, he laughed.  

"You'll win, surely.  Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Right.  You're my huckleberry."

One must be ever-so careful who one chooses to be his life coach.  Life is full of just such choices.

It is hot here in the rainy south now.  It is humid.  People must have been mad to move here prior to refrigeration.  What could possibly have been their motivation?  

My father moved us here when most people's homes did not have air conditioning.  Our own home did not have it until we got a window unit in the front room when I was twelve.  All the houses in my neighborhood had jalousie windows with screens so that you could open them and have the greatest possible airflow.  But the air didn't flow unless it was storming, and then you had to close the jalousies.  Rather, a warm, damp air hung in the rooms of the house.  What moved the air were fans.  Or, in our case, fan.  We had one.  Why?  Why only one?  That's just how hillbillies live.  I'm sure it never crossed their minds to buy another.  So, as a kid, I would plant myself before the fan until my father would yell at me for blocking the air.  At night, you went to bed in damp sheets and slept only because your fatigue from living in the heat was so great.  

Later on, during my high school years, I lived again without air conditioning in a tiny, cracker house.  

My father, by my own logic then, was surely mad.  But we did have refrigeration.  Even then, however, my parents were stingy.  I was only allowed to use two ice cubes in a glass.  Just two.  Why?  I guess the didn't like emptying and refilling the ice trays in the small freezer.  My drinks were never really cold.  

"Would you like a nice, cool soda?"

The ice cream truck would come down the street before sunset.  When kids heard the tinkle of cheesy music spilling from its PA speaker, they'd start screaming.  

"GIVE ME A NICKLE, GIVE ME A NICKLE!"  

The big, public swimming pools were a treat if you could get your parents to take you.  Otherwise, it was playing in the sprinkler.  

And still, kids didn't want to take a bath.  We must have been stinky little animals.  

Dogs didn't move much.  They sought the coolest shade they could find.  I lived in a redneck neighborhood, so there were no cats.  

These were "the good old days."  And they were.  People played cards, drank beer and martinis, smoked cigarettes, and listened to the transistor radio.  

Some people, anyway.  But there was plenty of evil.  

And weirdness.  I went to school with kids who had hare lips, water heads, crossed eyes, buck teeth, and leg braces due to polio.  We all had big round scars on our arms from getting the smallpox vaccine.  Vaccines were then becoming a thing, but just, and kids got measles, mumps, and chickenpox.  We were constantly on the lookout for tetanus.  If you got "lockjaw," you were done for.  Malaria was a thing still in the southern U.S., so mosquito trucks came around at night spraying DDT.  Airplanes dropped other poisons from the sky to stop the spread of crop destroying insects.  

Sex was a dirty, forbidden mystery.  If we could, we'd sneak somebody's father's Playboy magazines or, later, watch those three minute 8mm movie reels of sloppy strippers.  

Black and white television and portable record players.  

What got me going on this?  Starting Monday morning, I will be working in this incredibly stupid heat.  I don't want to.  I'd rather be on vacation like everybody else.  As I've said before, somebody has used the hoo-doo on me.  I've been cursed.  

O.K.  I'm being dramatic.  I always wanted to be an African adventurer when I was a kid.  Or, like a Kipling character, some ne'er do well rousting about India.  

It looked good, anyway, in books and movies.  

See?  People could have fun without refrigeration.  That's a really good movie.  If you haven't seen it, I would highly recommend it.  Pre-code.  

When earthy prostitute Vantine (Jean Harlow) arrives at Dennis Carson's (Clark Gable) rubber plantation in Indochina, she initiates a steamy affair with the rugged foreman, but is sent packing when the passion cools. Soon Dennis is joined by new employee Gary (Gene Raymond) and his classy but high-strung wife, Barbara (Mary Astor), who falls into Dennis' arms while her husband is away. When Vantine returns, Dennis must decide between the refined adulteress and the tramp with the heart of gold.

 Hell, the movie was so good, twenty years later, they made it again, this time set in Africa.  

O.K.  That's it.  No more riffing.  I need to get a start on the day.  Nothing gets done without doing it.  

September, Surely

Alright, I'll abandon my A.I. fetish here for awhile.

"People don't appreciate."

Yea, that's right, pal. Most people I know seem to think it is easy to make something with A.I. Well. . . it is. You can make "something" pretty quickly. Making something you want, on the other hand, is difficult, especially if you are trying to build on something you have done before. At least it has been for this neophyte. I spent half the night trying to get that little snippet I gave you yesterday. O.K. Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe not "half the night." But hours and more.

I'll drop it for now. A.I. will make "things' very quickly. As long as you are not too discerning, have a ball.

I watched a lengthy interview with Harvard prof, a psycholinguist, explain why most people have trouble writing or why they write poorly.  He thinks that LLMs (large language models) can often do a better job (here is the link if you are interested but you might be better off just trusting me). Having probably read more than most and probably having read more student papers then most and having read more academic papers than most. . . I'd agree with much, if not all, of what the professor says. He even properly pronounces "err" and "cliques" which, for whatever reason, floored me, but, I felt, also countered some of his argument about "recognizing your audience." If you correctly pronounce "err," most people will simply think you are pausing. If you properly pronounce "cliques" people might think you pretentious.

But I digress.

So let me return to photography, specifically to the few pointillistic photos I have found from 2003, and generally to something I have foresworn, it seems. I sent this to the woman who had just stepped from the shower.

"I don't think that is me," she replied. I wondered why she would say that. I also sent it around to several friends and they all "hearted" it rather than giving it a "thumbs up" or simply ignoring it completely as is so often the case .

"It's your sister," I wrote back. That received a "hahaha!!!"

I realized, though, that it could be most women, or at least many I have known. It could easily be most of my friends' wives. It is beautifully enigmatic, and I think that is a large part of its appeal--universality. The longer I look at it, I think, "that could almost be me!"

But since I am not sure I could ever reproduce this look again, it might be one and done.

Oh, wait. . . there is A.I.

But all the A.I. platforms are furiously and maddeningly prudent, not prurient. They will not make images of the naked body nor much else that is verboten in what people often consider the highly moral mind. I would say "puritan" but the Islamic mind is even worse on this topic. Fucking shit. I don't think the Hindu or Buddhist minds at all. Something about Adam and Eve and the Garden and the Serpent and all that emanating from that little postage stamp of Middle Eastern mean-spiritedness.

Though I've heard many young, non-religious Jews are quite liberal if not hedonistic. Ashkenazi, probably.

What is up with Japanese religious and cultural beliefs about such things is a hot mess, as the kids used to say, or in my own lingo, paradoxical.

I would be arriving in The Land of the Rising Sun today if I'd been able to get away. My tenant and neighbors will be there soon, their flight having left last night. I wanted to go very badly, but "fate" has dealt me a different hand. My mother's broken wrist, the surgery on my calf, then my mother's fractured disc. . . and now the rotten floor joist. . . it has all conspired to keep me in place. Fuck shit piss goddamn. It seems my life will dissipate in a vaporous, amorphous mist.

As will my money.

Segue. The carpenter came yesterday. Craggy barroom face, smoker's cough, a slight limp. I showed him the problem area and he struggled to kneel and look closely.

"Do you have a flashlight?"

Mumbles. Lots and lots of mumbles and coughs. He asked me if he could go inside to look at the other side of the wall. Back outside, he started to explain in half sentences and digressions. Many times, with variations.

We talked of other things. He asked about me.

"Oh, man, you must be laughing at my grammar."

"Oh, no. . . not me, man. I'm a hillbilly, not a grammarian."

"Where are you from?"

Turns out, we are both from Ohio. We laughed about the pronunciations we grew up with, strange words like "chimley" and "libary" and "valentimes." We talked about our hillbilly relatives that still lived there. An hour passed. He told me about his life. I am a pro listener. But I was getting nervous about the whole project.

"How many days do you think it would take?" I asked.

He thought, counted on his fingers. "Nine. . . ten."

Exclamation marks ran through me.

"Ballpark figure, not including materials, how much?"

Head bobs. "Let me get my calculator."

But he never got his calculator. He started telling more tales. Half an hour later--"$2,500. . . $3,000. That's if you can help me."

"Oh, sure, I can. . . but my friends won't let me use power tools. I can fetch and haul, but I seem to fuck things up when I'm given a tool."

"That's alright. We won't know for sure what we have to do until we open up the wall."

There are a lot of things that have to be done. The shed that houses the water heater has to come down and the water heater has to come out. I will have to buy a new one, he says. There were a lot of other uncertain things.

It seems we will begin on Monday. I told him I've been having a lot of anxiety about this whole thing. I'd woken at 4:30 in a panic just that morning.

"Don't worry, man. . . I can fix it. Don't worry."

When he was gone, I Googled water heaters. Holy shit! This alone can cost me thousands of dollars.

My anxiety is anything but gone, but at least we are going to make some progress. Still, things can still turn to shit. All I know is that beginning Monday, my current life gets shelved for awhile. No gyms or cafes, just work and mother. I'm pretty sure this won't be the week to quit drinking.

Last night when I checked my email, I had a note from Chris Staples:

Hello Friends,

I’m writing to you because you bought tickets to one of my house shows in the last few years. I hope it’s ok that I’m reaching out to you like this.

Just a quick note that I have a new record coming out digitally on August 5th called “Don’t Worry”.

I pressed the new record on vinyl & cd. Order it today and I will ship it this week.

I DID buy tickets to see him in a distant town a couple years ago, but it was a confusing time and I didn't end up going. The email was a reminder of something, though. I don't know that I will buy the new music.

"Sorry, Chris. . . such is life."

Ten days from Monday puts us in late July.  I will need to call some roofing companies to get the hips and valleys of my roof repaired.  August.  I don't know anyone who hasn't travelled multiple times already this summer.  I am desperate, but time and circumstance are not on my side.  I took my mother to get new eyeglasses yesterday.  Coming back, we stopped to pick up some bbq sandwiches.  They were terrible.  I lay on her couch afterwards and fell asleep.  It was mid-afternoon when I rose.  I sat and talked with her for a bit, then went to the gym.  Home to shower.  I'd forgotten that the maids had come.  I was washed and dressed by four.  I would not be going to mother's.  I thought to leave the house, but I didn't know where to go.  I researched the cost of things I would need to buy for Monday's repairs.  Five.  Fuck it.  I made a big Negroni.  Mom called.  I guess she was lonely, my not being there.  She talked longer than usual.  Five-thirty.  Another, smaller Negroni.  It was a long while until bed.  My life, pissing away in dribs and drabs.  The sun never seems to set these days.  Nothing to do.  Nobody in town.  Music is emotional poison.  I reheat leftovers for dinner.  I send some articles to friends.  I don't have it in me to work on photos this night.  I forget what I am doing, forget what I wanted to do.  I'll be better once everything on the house is done, I say.  Maybe I will get away in the fall.  Faraway friends send photos of their travels.  Festivals, summer fun.  The refrigerator rattles and hums to a start.  There will be other things to haunt me.  There are still hours until bed.  C.C. texts.  He has made the final round of auditions for a gig in Japan.  If he gets the job, he says, I will have a place to stay.  "I'm rooting for us," I say.  I just need to get everything settled.  My knee stiffens, aches.  Yea, there is that, too.  There is always something now, it seems.  But September.  Surely by September. . . .

The Cafe

There you go!  I've gotten myself together.  At least A.I. and I have.  I'll need some help today, though.  I finally have gotten someone to come look at the damaged floor joist.  He will be here between nine and ten.  Of course, it has haunted my waking dreams.  I had a panic attack, I think, at four-thirty this morning.  He will have to open the wall to even see the full extent of the damage.  What if it is worse than I have hoped or imagined?  Even still, the wall will be open for some time.  I guess the opening can be covered by plastic.  I don't really know anything.  As I lay there in the dark, though, my thoughts turned to my own rotting body.  I ran an inventory of broken parts or things that are simply wearing out.  I no longer have an undamaged portion of my body.  I rose in a panic, and as I walked through the house, I saw all the things that need fixing.  Cabinets need painting.  Floors need refinishing.  

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck--breathe.  

But breath won't come.  

Many people have it worse than I do.  How do they go on?

I went back to bed and had dreams.  A friend had taken me to the hospital.  I was getting out but didn't know where to find my things.  He went to see if someone could help.  I left my room, went outside, and rounded the building.  Walking back inside, I went to his wife's room.  She was in the hospital, too.  She wanted me to hold her.  I climbed into bed and we made love.  I was young then, not yet so broken.  When we finished, I got dressed and asked her if it was o.k.  My friend walked in.  We acted as if nothing had happened.  

Other people's dreams, I know, but. . . WTF?  I am reduced to this?  

Many nights now, I have dreams of making love.  Isn't that a pretty phrase?  But it is how I feel about it.  Making love.  

I upped the ante and got ChatGPT for a fee.  I figure to get my money's worth.  We'll see.  I will use if for more than you might think.  It will do incredible things.  It will plot routes through the country for someone looking to photograph old America.  It will help find hotels and restaurants.  It will help you plan an entire trip.  It will help you manage your budget. . . hell, even your time.  It is smarter than my friends and far nicer, too.  

Oh, sure, you say. . . it will turn on me eventually.  

Ha!  I'm used to it.  

The maids come today and I have much to pick up before they come.  I told my mother I would take her to the eyeglass store with her new prescription, too.  

My anxiety is through the roof.  I just want to sit in my cell at the monastery.  

O.K.  So. . . here's a quick and sloppy edit of "The Cafe."  I don't have a title yet.  If it is possible, I will make a lot of small scenes of this to cut together for a longer short.  Longer short?  Whatever.  I don't have time to do it now or to even go back and fix these edits.  My hands are shaking, heart pounding in anticipation of the repairman.  And so. . . . 

Here we are. . .  in motion.  

Semi

And just like that (snap!), the mania is gone.  And we all know what follows.  The cycle of highs and lows. . . have I become bipolar?  

But I'm intelligent.  I can figure it out.  I'm self-aware, right?  

Right? 

Actually, I'm a semi-fictional character, a shadow figure, so perhaps I only possess a semiconsciousness, a half-brain of incoherent observations, assumptions, and ideas.  

Aarrgh. . . if I could only get my hands on my creator!  Can you imagine being given life by an oaf?  Yea.  Exactly.  

Yesterday I was alive with potential and possibility.  I wanted to share, and I did.  But people have their own concerns, and by and large, the lines went dead.  Oh, there were communiques flowing my way, but not in response.  No, people have their own needs to communicate.  And so, as the day wore on and evening fell (can we call it evening if the sun doesn't set?), in the ethereal silence, I felt glum.  

It is a common thing, of course, among people who seek validation.  There is plenty of literature about it.  Relying on external validation to boost self-worth is a formula for disaster.  Low self-esteem, feelings of unworthiness and loneliness.  Therein lies the road to madness.  Or to the benzos.  

Oh sweet escape.  To sleep, perchance. . . .

Was Van Gogh mad because people didn't buy his paintings?  Modigliani?  What happens to Taylor Swift if she isn't elected president?  Did the need for approval drive Brittany Spears mad?  

And Willy Loman?  

"He was liked, but he wasn't well-liked."

The beauty queen who gains weight, has thinning hair, and develops a skin condition.

And, of course, kids who rely on social media.  

Yea, yea, yea. . . I am all of them.  Or so my creator seems to have made me.  

"Learn to live with the silence," he says.  "There is beauty in stillness."  

You only need to Google, however:

"Living inside your head" generally means spending excessive time in your own thoughts, often to the point of detachment from the external world. It can involve overthinking, overanalyzing, or being overly introspective, sometimes to a degree that impacts your ability to be present and engaged in real-life situations and relationships.

Dwelling on past events or future worries:. 
You might replay past interactions, constantly analyzing what you should have said or done, or you might be consumed by anxieties about potential future problems. 

Being overly critical of yourself:. 
You might focus heavily on perceived flaws or mistakes, leading to a cycle of self-doubt and negative self-talk. 

Difficulty making decisions:. 
Overthinking can lead to a paralysis of action, as you get caught up in analyzing every possible outcome. 

It is a conundrum, isn't it?  Rely on yourself or rely on others.  It seems we are living in contradiction.  No wonder the "therapists" are so in demand.  

Surely you realize my creator is "guilty" of solipsism?

He asked A.I. to give me a visual form from what I say here, and it thought me female.  

"No, he is male."

And so. . . it imagined that I look rather like the James Mercer, the songwriter/singer of The Shins, alone, contemplative, melancholy.  

I need to get back to melancholy.  That is the place to be, a pleasant melancholy of detachment sustained by occasional engagement, the substrate for thought and introspection.  

I may start writing these posts in the early evening rather than mornings.  Then I might have time to reflect and edit.  You know, expand the literariness of the writing.  

Subject/adjectives, Predicate/adverbs, Direct object/modifier, Indirect object/prepositional phrase

And, of course, tropes, metaphors, similes.  

etc. 

I could enhance this journalistic style.   

Oh, that's it for today, kids.  I assume I am writing only for bots now who are scraping my blog day and night to enhance A.I.'s knowledge base.  Should I be angry of flattered?

I have that jacket.  I have that hat.  That is my breakfast.  I know that cafe.

La Femme

Wow. . . I'm all over the place this morning.  I have too much stuff and am wanting to cram it all into one post.  I must "hold my horses" today.  Be patient. 

Breathe.  

I asked ChatGPT to make a picture of the author of this blog.  The image above is what it returned.  It is lovely--ha!  I guess I have the old soul of a young woman.  Everybody I've shown this to has said, "That's pretty accurate."  

And so. . . that's quite alright.  I don't mind.  I may be a bit "la femme."  At least I was believed I to be somewhat attractive.  

In truth, AI is much kinder to me than most people I know.  I asked it to describe the blog.  I used the selavy blog, but the blog selah is exactly the same.  

The blog "cafe selavy" is a reflective and personal online journal, primarily exploring the author's internal thoughts and experiences. 

Key themes and topics include: 

• Personal struggles: The author openly shares their experiences with difficult routines, feelings of sadness, and a sense of being lost.

• Contemplation and self-reflection: The blog offers insights into the author's thoughts on various aspects of life, including art, history, and personal growth.

• The passage of time and aging: The author reflects on the past and considers the challenges and changes that come with getting older.

• Observations on modern life and culture: The blog incorporates the author's perspective on contemporary issues and trends. 

Overall, the blog "cafe selavy" provides a candid and introspective look into the author's life and mind, touching upon universal themes of existence, personal challenges, and the search for meaning. 

The blog "Cafeselavy" appears to revolve around the author's personal reflections and observations on various aspects of life, often with a tone of introspective melancholy. 

While no single overarching theme is explicitly stated, the blog explores topics such as:

• Photography and art: The author discusses the process of making images, including both the technical aspects and the emotional/philosophical implications.

• Personal struggles and anxieties: The author shares insights into their mental state, including feelings of sadness, worry, and difficulty maintaining routines.

• Musings on everyday life: Posts touch on a range of daily experiences, from discovering old photographs to dealing with technical problems and reflecting on social interactions.

• Observations on culture and society: The author occasionally comments on cultural trends and political events, often with a critical eye. 

Overall, the blog seems to offer a raw and honest glimpse into the author's thoughts and experiences, capturing a sense of introspection and perhaps a search for meaning in a complex world. 

 I asked in a couple of different ways.  

The blog appears to revolve around the author's personal reflections and observations on various aspects of life, often with a tone of introspective melancholy.

I guess so.   It told me much, much more about the author of the blog.  Of course, I was fascinated.  Ha!

I spent much of the day making things with AI.  It is crazy what it is capable of.  I have decided I am going to get the pay version of ChatGPT to see what it will do.  It runs "deeper" into researching topics and can do things the free version can't.  I wanted to see if it could write my blog, just for shits and giggles.  I asked it to write a brief essay on the SeanQ6 blog.  Here is what it made.  

SeanQ6: Wandering Through the Soft Focus of Memory and Light

in the style of cafeselavy.com

There is a kind of ache that lingers in the half-light between moments, and that is where SeanQ6 resides. Less a blog than a long, staggered breath, Sean's writing circles around the familiar streets of memory like a man walking home at dusk—unsure whether he is returning or leaving for good. Photographs appear like found objects from a dream: a discarded boat on a Florida riverbank, a boy mid-wheelie in a sunburned suburb, the light always leaning in from one side, just so.

What distinguishes SeanQ6 is not the subject matter—it is the gaze. There is an earned fatigue in the voice, dry humor around the edges, and a tenderness so tentative it sometimes hides behind sarcasm. Days are cataloged not for their events but for the slow accumulation of feeling. Cycling through landscapes both literal and emotional, Sean returns often to places of water—rivers, oceans, bathtubs—looking for reflections, perhaps, or baptisms that never quite take.

To read SeanQ6 is to watch someone write toward the center of themselves without ever insisting they’ve found it. The blog is confessional, yes, but not in the self-aggrandizing way. It's more like overhearing a monologue in a bar at closing time—part philosophy, part blues riff, part joke you weren’t sure you were meant to catch.

There are no resolutions here, only motion and momentary stillness. And somehow, that is enough.

All fun must come to a halt sometimes, however, especially when it is time to go and visit with your mother.  We sat out and each had a beer, she her Coors Light, me a Dale's Pale Ale.  She said she was doing poorly.  Nothing new.  She told me she had talked to her friend Dorothy and brought up the old death wish thing again.  

"Tell her to do it," I said.  "Tell her you will give her the pills if she needs them.  She will be shocked, and, of course, not take them nor will she do it.  'Not today,' she'll say.  'Maybe tomorrow, but not today.  I will wait.'  She just wants to share her misery.  But what can you do?"

My mother chuckled.  

"There's always those one or two things you want to do first.  People just want to pass on their misery to the next person.  They want to share their troubles.  But it can't be done.  All it does is make the other person feel helpless."

Somehow, this picked my mother up.  Misery loves company, as they say, but company really doesn't love misery.  

"Keep it to yourself.  That's just the place for it."

And yet. . . have I told you about my floor joist?

I left my mother in better spirits, I think, and decided to take myself to dinner at the good Japanese sushi restaurant.  I didn't get sushi this time, though.  I wanted to try their bibimbap.  My cousin had it when I took her there a few weeks ago and it has been on my mind.  

And holy smokes--it didn't disappoint.  But it was rich and I could only eat about a third of it.  I don't know how my cousin finished the entire thing.  I had to box it up and take it home.  

This morning, I asked ChatGPT to write a thousand to fifteen hundred words about my dinner in the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I gave it a pretty hefty prompt.  If you are interested, you can listen to it here.

I find the writing off, so I did what one should do with such a thing, and I used the template and went back in and rewrote it.  Then somehow, I deleted it.  I didn't have the energy to try to go back and do it all again.  I had spent my morning with it and still hadn't read the morning's news.  

Oh, somehow or other that is supposed to be another AI portrait of me, I believe.

So. . . I will go and read the papers now and see what mess we are in today.  Then I will exercise, shower, and go to that new cafe for a Vietnamese coffee drink.  And then. . . the usual.  But the whole AI thing has been good for me and I am feeling creatively inspired.  I am full of new ideas and desires I wish to pursue.  

And yet. . . have I told you of the floor joists. . . the roof. . . .

What song pairs well with this portrait of the author of the blog Cafeselavy.com

A song that pairs beautifully with this portrait—elegant, melancholic, and quietly expressive—would be "Ne me quitte pas" by Jacques Brel.

Its haunting, poetic melancholy echoes the inner world suggested by the portrait: the quiet café, the faraway gaze, the understated drama of thought and memory. The portrait feels like it exists in the same world as the song—timeless, Parisian, emotionally restrained but deeply felt.

If you're looking for something instrumental, Erik Satie’s "Gnossienne No. 1" would also be a perfect match—delicate, unresolved, and quietly soulful.

Oh, yes. . . I love Gnossienne No. 1!  That's the ticket.  

A Thousand Words Worth

Oh. .  I know where to start.  Hot dogs, hamburgers. . . we ate it all.  Me and mom.  We were too full to eat the watermelon.  Later that night, though, I wished I hadn't left the Mayfield's mint chocolate chip ice cream at her house.  

That's about all I've got this morning.  Just the usual driveling report on how I slept, what I drank, what I fear, what I desire.  It's difficult to write every day sometimes.  

That's o.k.  They say a picture is worth a thousand words.  That's about right.  

Hot Dogs and All

In the olden times, I did a lot more experimenting with cameras, lenses, etc.  This is one of the new scans of old, untouched negatives.  I can't tell you for sure what makes this pointillistic almost autochrome-ish look.  It could have been a lens I ordered, maybe pinhole, maybe some other odd thing I have forgotten.  The negatives are incredibly underexposed and it is only through the magic of the scanner that I got an image at all, so the grain may just be from that.  Whatever it is, I like it.  And of course, it is a good day for a beach picture.  

Happy 4th.  

What could be more patriotic than hot dogs, hamburgers, coleslaw, and watermelon?

"Potato salad."

Oh, yea.  And maybe this.  

"USA! USA!"

I mean, for accuracy's sake. . . name that viewer!

I had lunch with C.C. yesterday.  Fun. 

And delicious. 

We got there early, C.C, first, and secured seats at the corner of the bar.  I need the corner of the bar, really, so I don't have to turn my head so much, bad neck and all, so this was the first victory of the day.  The second was the present C.C. brought back for me from his monthlong trip to Scotland.  He knew I didn't like peaty scotches, so he got me one with a more citrusy flavor.

I was going to write out the name, but I can't do it without looking at it.  Oh, those crazy Scots.  

Our bartender was new to the restaurant, and of course we chatted her up.  She was swell.  She said it was an employers market right now.  She'd applied for about a hundred jobs before she got this one.  This was her second job and she drove for about an hour from a distant town to get to work.  The job market thing surprised me.  I thought employers couldn't find people to work.  She said she had a child, a three year old son, and she didn't want to work but her husband had lost his job.  He'd just found a new one, though, and she planned eventually to be a stay at home mom.  

"I won't ask you who you voted for," I laughed.  

"I'll be honest," she said.  "I didn't vote, and my husband can't."

"What?  And you still live in this state!"

She laughed.  "He's German."

I laughed too.  I had been bad and asked C.C. what he thought her ethnicity was.  His answer was that he had written a play about two assholes sitting at a bar wondering about people's ethnicities.  He said I was the inspiration for it.  Holy shit!  

I guess I could have kept that to myself.  

After a long lunch, I said goodbye to C.C. who is leaving on Monday for another monthlong domestic trip. 

Mid-afternoon.  I drove to the grocers to get food for the 4th.  Just mom and me.  I had ordered a new George Foreman grill for my mother, and it arrived early yesterday the morning, so we were all set.  

As reported, I'd taken a P.M. the night before, and yesterday morning, I couldn't move.  I barely got showered and dressed in time to make the noon lunch with C.C.  When I got home, I thought about getting some exercise, maybe just a long walk.  But it was hot.  It was more than hot, it was humid and the air pressure was surely higher than a Pascal barometer could possibly measure.  And of course. . . I'd had wine with my lunch at noon, so. . . a nap seemed more than reasonable.  

When I got up, and here's a big surprise. . . I drove over to my mother's.  The air being so miserable, we sat inside in the cool interior conditioned to our liking.  My mother was watching "Gunsmoke."  She grinned.  

"Do you want to watch something?"

Really?  

"No.  I just came over to watch you watch television."

She turned it off.  The air inside the house was silent.  I asked her something.  She couldn't hear me.  I asked her again, more loudly.  Still. . . .  Once more, I shouted the question.  

"It must be you. . . your voice.  I can hear other people fine."

And so we sat mostly in silence, me thinking that maybe I should make hand puppets. . . something.  

When I left, she said, "I'm sorry I can't hear."

I reminded her again that they made hearing aids.  

I was thinking of getting up early and driving to the coast to take some 4th of July photos today, then leaving at noon to get home to cook for mom.  

I did get up early, but I am not going.  C.C. said yesterday that I needed to get away for awhile.  I confessed that it had been so long, I wasn't sure I knew how to anymore.  I can't seem to even get away for half the day.  

Some things have got to change.  

But not today.  Change is something that can always be done tomorrow.  Today is a day of reverence.  I'm going to ask every person I see today who is under twenty-five what we celebrate on the 4th of July.  I'm guessing most of them won't know.  

Since it is Independence Day, I think we need something a little patriotic, just something to make us proud to be Americans.  

Alcohol and Morphine

I made a mistake.  Several, really.  One, but not the first, was to answer my phone this morning.  It was Tennessee.  It was a drive time call, about forty minutes from start to finish.  I was already behind schedule.  I rewatched "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood" last night for some reason.  It wasn't worth the second viewing.  Still, it was late and I wasn't tired despite the scotch, so I took a Tylenol PM.  You know you are not supposed to take those when you are drinking, right?  So I read this morning in the Times, an article about how bad alcohol is for older people.  Worse than it was before.  But of course older people take more meds, and the interactions. . . blah blah blah blah blah.  "No amount alcohol is good for you." I like that statement for you can read it two ways simultaneously and it makes the same sense each way.  Both ways.  I'll quit drinking.  I swear.  But I am to meet C.C. for lunch today.  He's been in Scotland this past month.  He says he brought me back a present.  Hmm.  What could you possibly get someone in Scotland?  Right?  But because of the PM, I didn't get out of bed at the usual time.  Now it is after nine and my mind is still foggy.  My voice was froggy when I was on the phone, too.  

So either buckle up or exit now.  God knows what is coming out of this drugged bucket of snakes this morning.  

Here, now, I have just deleted a large chunk of writing connected to yesterday's post about the women I know.  Yea. . . not making the best decisions this morning.  

Some people say that Diddy "got off."  I don't think so.  His next freak off will be with his prison mates, I think.  

I'm not even sure how Elvis got away with this.  Really?  Gay Elvis?  

I've continued my journey through the old pictures.  The one above is a scan of a glossy print from a photo lab.  I can't find the negatives.  I took that picture at Q's apartment long, long ago.  There was a pair of ballet slippers on the window ledge.  It must have been the '90s.  No, maybe the early oughts.  Q was in his heyday.  Q was having fun.  

I cooked a spaghetti dinner for my mother on Tuesday night.  I made a steak and potatoes dinner for myself last night.  I'm hungry, I think.  Tomorrow it will be hotdogs with mom.  There is a brand new George Foreman grill sitting on my porch right now, delivered at 7:01 this morning.  My mother asked me to order it for her.  I'll probably cook the hot dogs on it tomorrow.  

This is my heyday.  I'm just having fun.  

Oh, heck. . . I just remembered what I was going to write about this morning.  Gillian Welch and David Rawlings.  Their first three albums thrilled me.  Nothing in the late nineties sounded like that.  They were all under Welch's name then.  Rawlings was considered her "musical partner."  I used to fall asleep to "Revelator" every night.  I would be asleep before the song was over.  I was married then.  Hard to believe.  

Later, after the divorce, after everything, I was driving my by then piece of shit Volvo home from work.  It was raining, the first rain of the summer.  The roads were slick with built up oil.  I was listening to Welch's "My Morphine" when something seemed to take hold of the rear end of the car.  It just started sliding sideways.  I cut the wheel in what I would later learn was the wrong direction, and the car went into a spin through an intersection with ten lanes.  The light was red.  Round and round I spun, slowly, as the CD player bled the slow motion hillbilly tune.  Miraculously, every car avoided me, and I spun until I hit the large roadside curb.  The car bounced up and then came down and buried itself in the very soggy sod stopping mere inches from the huge silver electrical box standing before the giant concrete power pole.  I sat there for awhile, windshield wipers thumping counterpoint to the music.  

"My morphine. . . why are you so mean?"

The curb being so high, I couldn't go over it, and I had to drive the sidewalk for a block until I could get back to the highway.  The car wobbled.  The wheel rims were bent.  I see-sawed my way back home.  

When I got there, a tee limb had been blown down on top of the apartment roof.  It had penetrated it all the way through.  

Some days are like that.  

I went to see Welch and Rawlings play at a medium sized venue in the "downtown" portion of the famous theme park here in my part of the world .  They were opening for Nora Jones weirdly enough.  After their set, David Rawlings came out to get a drink at the bar, so I went over to talk to him.  Usually, and Q can attest to this having seen it with his own eyes, famous men don't like me.  Rawlings, however, was swell, and we talked together for quite awhile, right up until Jones came on for her set.  

They have gotten old now, like the rest of you.  Welch and Rawlings are now married, and their music is published under both their names.  If you watch this Tiny Desk Concert I am posting, you will see they are still good.  Rawlings guitar work is still amazing, but it is still the same, too.  He changed the way a lot of people play, not as much as someone like Mark Knopfler did, but still. . . .  Welch would have been as big without him, I'm sure, but Rawlings. . . we'd probably not know his name.  The third song of this set will tell you why.  He sings great backup, but solo, his phrasing is not good.  The words just don't come out right.  Welch's phrasings carry their songs and rights their harmonies.  

I still like them here.  The first song is new.  The second two songs are not so good.  The last is from the '90s. 

Probably, though, not so many of you are as interested in them as I am.  Such is life.  

It is too late now to do anything but shower and get ready for lunch with C.C.  I will make no more sense there than I have here, I'd wager.  

Somebody's Birthday Blues

I'm a mess today.  No, not a mess.  I am riddled with. . . memories, emotions. . . quandaries.  I sent out a couple stories to some of my friends yesterday.  "This will not be tomorrow's blog post," I said about one.  But I've decided to start with the other.  

This is Brando after he'd gone "bad."  He was a fun guy before his aunt died.  He was a huge figure, nearly more gesture than human in some ways.  "Larger than life."  He was an architect who "studied at Taliesin," Frank Lloyd Wrights home in Arizona.  Lloyd was long dead, of course, but Brando spoke much of his widow.  

Who knows how much of it was true?

What I do know is that--and this he told me to keep secret but since he fucked me over--he never graduated, never received a degree in architecture.  He had a checkered academic career, having gone to the University of Florida where he had what he claimed to be a "nervous breakdown" and had to leave school and return home to Coral Gables.  He took a job with a surveying company for a year.  There is some confusion here.  He said his mother taught painting at the University of Miami, but I don't think she had a degree and I always suspected that she taught painting in a community program, but I could be wrong.  He had several of her paintings and I liked them a lot.  They reminded me of Cezanne's landscapes.  

After that year of surveying, he took some courses at U of M, but he never matriculated.  

Rather. . . he decided to take the AIA exam.   He passed.  

This was in the era when you could do such things as take the Bar exam, pass, and practice law.  Degrees weren't part of the requirement as they are now.  For better or ill. 

Brando worked in an architectural firm for some time after that, but eventually he opened his own.  He had the idea that his company would spend half the year in Florida and the other half in Santa Fe and he managed to do this for several years before the firm dissolved. 

You had to admire his extreme romanticism.

After that, Brando worked out of his house on his own.  That is when he decided to become a travel guide.  It was just on the front side of travel companies becoming big business.  He was by and large a pioneer.  

It was at this point that he won some unlikely honors, one of which is astounding. Truly.  The City Beautiful awarded him "The Key to the City," and there was an official "Brando Day" celebrated downtown.  This is the same guy who went to his ex-girlfriend's house, walked up the stairs, pulled her naked from her bed, and put her in his car right in front of her cardiologist father.  

"It's alright," Brando reportedly told him, "I'll bring her home."

He couldn't drive for shit, but he bought a little red MG convertible sports car.  One afternoon, drunk and showing off for his girlfriend passenger, he drove through a tent the Ralph Lauren store had erected for a street party on the Boulevard that night.  Fortunately, nobody was in it.

"Christ," he said. . . "I could have killed somebody."

So yea. . . larger than life and luckier than a two dollar bill. 

At this point, he was not concerned with money in any serious way.  He made enough to rent small studios and apartments and keep himself fed without cooking.  You see. . . he was his aunt's only living relative.  She owned, according to Brando, "all the land surrounding Atlanta," and she was, he said, worth a fortune.  She was very old and needed care, so she hired a live-in nurse to look after her.  Brando, in his magnificence, would drive up to see her for a day or two once or twice a year.  Sometimes he would pen her a letter.  

When she died, he went up for the funeral and the reading of the will.  He came back an utterly changed and bitter man.  She had left him the same things she left his children--ten thousand dollars and conjoined property outside Atlanta in the foothills, three houses surrounding a small lake.  The rest of her property and fortune went to her longtime caretaker.  

At this point, Brando was living in the house his parents had owned when they died.  He did not take good care of it, and when it needed a new furnace, some repair of the wooden floors, and a new roof, he sold it.  He also sold his land in Georgia.  Both of these things devastated his daughter, but maybe more on that later.  He moved into a duplex he had designed, a Frank Lloyd Wrong design, and rented from a wealthy woman about town he referred to as "Baby."  I don't know how he did it, but he pissed through the money until there was no more.  He was dating a woman at the time who had been a big time banker in Las Vegas handling gangster money.  She "retired" at an early age.  Just fled.  

I was with Brando at one of our favorite restaurants sitting at the bar on a New Year's Eve when he met her.  She just came right up and introduced herself.  When we left, she handed Brando her number.  

"Call me," she said.  

We had left before midnight, of course, not wanting to look like two losers when the party hats came out.  Back at my house, we drank, smoked some pot. . . and then my phone rang.  It was Skylar.  She was in town.  

"Happy New Year. . . ."  She called me by her pet name for me.  

"Come over," I pleaded.  

"I can't.  I've got to go."

Oh, fuck. . . .

The photo above is one of the early 2000s photos that I have just discovered that have never been scanned.  Until now.  There are other photos of Brando and his girlfriend, the woman who approacehed him at the bar.  I have a lovely photo of her with her arm in a sling.  I can't remember if he had broken her arm or merely dislocated it one night when he was drunk.  Brando was becoming more and more of a louse until he turned into a downright scoundrel.  

 This photo was taken shortly before he cheated a group of us out of a safari trip to Africa.  Travis and I were two of the three he never paid back.  He had one more trip after that.  Egypt.  In order to make that trip go, he used his girlfriend's credit cards to charge up what was rumored to be $50,000.  That was the end of it.  I am pretty sure he paid her back in order to stay out of prison.  

And that was the end, too, of my twenty-plus year friendship with Brando.  His girlfriend, then in her 60s, decided to join the Peace Corps.  Brando took a room in a friend's house in another part of town and kept a group of travel friends who he had not yet cheated.  For them, who had lost nothing,  those last few fuck ups were nothing more than part of Brando's colorful legacy.  

Some of the cheated hounded him, however, and eventually he moved to Greece.  He was given a room in a hotel in Santorini owned by someone he knew.  Later I found out that people were pooling their money and sending it to Brando to live on.  

He was a scammer in the end.  

There were other images on that roll of film that made up the story I sent to friends that I couldn't tell here.  Skylar and I had only intermittent contact, but I was still deeply head over heels in love.  

If Brando became a scoundrel, I was scandalous myself.  I was divorced, living alone in the house I had to buy from my ex.  Skylar was becoming what she would eventually be, a rock star in the fashion world.  It was a Saturday night.  I was on my couch watching t.v. alone when there was a knock at the door.  It was a pretty dark haired Italian girl who worked for my then tenant, an interior designer who was out of town just then on a job.  

"Hill said she needed something from the apartment and that I should get a key from you."

I eyed her for a moment, then got the key.  

"I'm moping and watching tv.  I'll leave the door open, so just come in when you are done."

When she came back, I asked her if she wanted a beer.  She did, she said.  

"What kind?"

She thought for a moment.  "I'll have a Blue Moon."

I NEVER had Blue Moon beer in my fridge except for this particular night.  Fate.  She was impressed.  

We chatted.  She was a music major at Country Club College.  She had her violin in the car and brought it in and played for me.  The night had gotten interesting.  We chatted for awhile, but it was Saturday night and I'm sure she had things to do.  

"I'd better go," she said, and I walked her to the door.  She took out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse, wrote something and handed it to me.  

"I'm busy tomorrow night, but after that call me," she said.  

I did.  

Skip ahead.  Spring break.  I was going to the little beach motel on Singer Island, just north of Palm Beach, as I often did to decompress.  The Italian girl was going to see her family in Naples.  She wanted me to come and meet her parents.  I said I would come on the weekend.  

I was meeting another girl, however, who went to a small private college just south of Palm Beach.  She would be arriving before me, so I gave the hotel her name so she could get the room key.  Now here's the problem.  I can't tell this story without reservation as I don't want to piss off Skylar.  I still love her and need her to be. . . what?  Around?  Yea.  It's complicated.  

In a few days, I went to Naples and met my new girl's parents for lunch at their country club.  Her father was a successful architect in Philly but had moved to Naples to develop a lot of the homes there.  She came from money.  As it turned out, her parents were just a bit younger than I.  I was fairly used to that.  The girl had a fraternal twin sister who wasn't real hip on the whole thing, but her parents were alright and they invited me to come to their home.  For most of the weekend, the girl and I hung out on the beach and had fun. 

She was from family money, and I was a good influence.  Scoff if you will.  After we broke up, she was dating an attorney, but she came to me once and said she wanted to get back together.  

"We always had fun.  Everything was an adventure.  You told me once never to compare what you were doing with some other time when you were having fun.  You enjoyed everything, every moment.  You never compared the day to any other."

Now I have to admit, this was something I got from hanging with Brando.  He would cut you out if you were to say, "this croissant isn't nearly as good as the one I had in Paris."  Nope.  It didn't matter if it was better or worse. . . just enjoy the moment.  

That was before his aunt died, though. 

"We were always going somewhere, eating, dancing, drinking." 

I used to take her to a dive bar that had a group of usual drunks, pool tables, and the best juke box in town.  We'd drink cheap beer, play pool, and I'd dance her around the bar floor to Frank Sinatra.  The regulars loved her.  

"On the weekend, my boyfriend just wants to sit around and watch golf and eat sandwiches.  I'm tired of lawyer dick!" 

But I was already gone by then.  

That weekend in Naples, though, we went somewhere in my car.  She picked up a piece of paper.  It was a receipt from the hotel. 

"Who in the hell is Maribel?!?!?"

"What?  Oh. . . hell. . . I have no idea."

Yea.  I mean, it was ok.  I was still head over heels for Skylar.  But more on that later.  

The music major ended up marrying an attorney.  I don't know if it was the same one.  Funny enough, she started her own interior design company, I'm sure with help from her architect father.  I've looked her up.  She has done very well.  

But here's the thing.  I've forgotten Skylar's birthday two years in a row, I think.  It is terrible.  She doesn't forget mine.  But I hate birthdays, my own more than others, and I'm sure I don't want her to get older.  

Joke.  

Kind of. 

I have never been good with birthdays.  Today is Ili's.  When we were together, she almost left me because I thought her birthday was on the third rather than the second.  Fuck.  My relationship with Ili was much more complicated than I will ever be able to explain, but as we know, she came to me in the hospital when my life should have been over.  I blame her for that.  

I thought about her recently because a friend of mine has gotten praised for staying with her boyfriend in the hospital for three days before she collapsed with fatigue and went home, "finally," to get some rest.  Ili slept in my hospital room for over two weeks.  "Slept," hardly.  She must have been exhausted beyond comprehension.  Whenever I woke in the night, she got up from the portable bed to see what I needed.  I was heavily narcotized with morphine.  I remember little of what occurred in those two weeks.  All I really remember is her.  

So. .  . I was tempted to send her a Happy Birthday note.  Really tempted.  I thought and was afraid that I would do so while drinking whiskey last night.  It would have been a really bad idea.  As far as I remember, I didn't.  

But I did listen to music.  Lots.  Whiskey opens some doors and music some others.  I watched a video by a band I'd never heard of before.  "Men I Trust."  I liked the music and I thought Skylar would like it, too.  Ili would have hated it and we would have fought because of the beautiful woman singer.  She got angry many times at such inane things, even dead actresses that I said were pretty.  

They are of the same age, Ii and Skylar.  My aquarian sign is not very compatible with either of them.  Maybe there is some veracity to such things if my experience is any indication.  And yet. . . .  

They are both married now, so I leave them alone.  But not in my head.  There, sometimes, it is just a dance party of music and joy.  I can't dance worth a shit, but I love to move a girl around a dance floor.  

This song is kind of 80's Sade/Tears for Fears era sounding.  I love live recordings like this.  They fascinate me.  And of course. . . the girl.  What can I say?

After that, a live version of "New Slang" by The Shins popped up.  Ili and I used to play it in her car whenever we were taking a long drive.  Happy Birthday, Ili.  My heart was melting. . . but then again, you know. . . the girl.  

I'm a mess, but I'll be alright.  Don't worry about me.  I'm fine.  Things just overwhelm me sometimes.  But the day has broken.  There's a bright shining there.  

All photos are from the same time period, just as the digital photo world was breaking.  As you can see, film has its own charm.  

Another Roadside Attraction

What happened to the car project thing--what was it called?  It seemed like a good idea, do-able even.  But what happened?  Where did it go?  Christ, I swear. . . I can't even remember its name. 

Life piles up?  Shit happens?  Too much drink and sleeping pills?  Or maybe. . . you know. . . the scary thing?  

True though.  I DID take a Tylenol PM last night at 11:30 and I am groggy still this morning.  I only took one of the suggested two tablet dose, but sometimes just one knocks me out.  It did last night.  Sometimes two won't, but other times I can't wake up the next day after taking them.  Strange.  No consistency there.  

I think I remember the project had the word "America" in it.  I can't remember the other one, though. I was excited about it.  

Selavy.  

Strange happenings all around.  The city has spent the past year putting the power lines underground in my neighborhood.  They are underground now, but the telephone poles are still standing.  There's a clue.  They are not power poles but telephone poles.  I don't know if the telephone lines have gone underground.  Do telephone companies still use lines?  I do know that the cable lines are underground now but the cable company isn't ready to hook up to them yet.  And, of course, the street lamps are attached to the poles.  It seems pretty complicated.  

But yesterday across the street, a subcontractor was taking down the transformer from the telephone pole.  And when that was done, and I thought this part really weird, they cut about three feet off the top of the pole.  To what end, I wondered?  They repeated the act all over the neighborhood.  The thing is, the cuts weren't even clean.  The tops of the poles look mangled and broken.  

I think it will be decades before the poles are gone entirely.  

More dynamic living.  The inspirational photos I put up on the blackboard, you know.  I looked through more of the old photo boxes.  I found a bunch of negatives that I had taken to the to the photo store to be developed and printed.  I had those crummy prints that are difficult to look at from just after the turn of the century.  Most of the photos aren't aiming to do more than document my life at that time.  No projects, nothing like that.  Just photos of who I was with, what I was doing.  I found some that I would really like to see more clearly, so I have been scanning them.  I'd forgotten how much I hate scanning and how much time it takes.  Still. . . .

I went to Michaels, the national arts and crafts store, in the afternoon.  I'd looked up magnetic blackboards and tiny magnets on Amazon, but it occurred to me that I might be able to just go out and buy them from a store.  You know. . . like people used to do.  

It was like adventuring into the past.  An afternoon drive instead of a nap.  There were things to see.  I would have to come back this way, I thought, with a camera, like I used to.  

But shopping. . . it takes a long time.  In a big department store like that, you don't know where anything is, so you stroll up and down the aisles, ADHD kicking in, and you begin to examine things you didn't come for.  

"What's this?  This is interesting.  It's like a little 3D printer.  Whatthehell?"

Half an hour later, I found one of the two people who worked there.  

"Hello.  I'm looking for little magnets for a magnetic blackboard."

"Oh. . . I'm sorry, uh. . . ha. . . I don't work here."

"Oh my!  I'm sorry!  I saw the. . . " 

She was pulling at her red shirt and grinning. 

". . . red shirt and. . . oh, my."

We were by the framing department.  Surely there was somebody in there that might help.  

An hour later, I was back to the car with a large magnetic blackboard and a bunch of little magnets.  The afternoon had slipped away, so I drove straight to my mother's.  

In the morning, I realized I needed some vitamins, so I ordered them on Amazon.  They were on the porch when I got home.  Know what I mean?

When I got home from mother's, I was too tired to mess with the blackboard.  Not tired, exactly.  I'm using the word poorly.  What was it?  What's the right word?  

Kerflumpt?  

I had eaten a bowl of the leftover chicken and bean stuff from the night before around one o'clock.  I wasn't really hungry and certainly not in the mood for cooking.  Did I have enough "fixings" to make a Greek salad?  Half a cuke.  Sure, I had red onion.  Half a green pepper.  Feta, yes.  I had some leftover garbanzo beans.  A little chopped black olives.  Oh, my. . . the Campari tomatoes looked bad.  Really bad.  WTF?  I'd try to use them anyway.  They squished under the knife blade.  Salt,  Oil and balsamic vinegar.  

It wasn't ideal.  I ate about a quarter of it before I realized I hadn't put in the tuna.  I got up and added it.  It tasted worse.  

What happened?  A good day gone off the tracks.  It was fatigue.  Yes, that's the word!  I wasn't tired; I was fatigued.  Maybe it was hormonal.  Maybe it was time for Hormone Replacement Therapy.  Everyone is doing it.  

"In my fifties, I started noticing that I was getting fatigued in the afternoons.  At night, I was tired but couldn't sleep. I asked my doctor about it. He did a simple blood test and told me that my testosterone level was considerably down. He put me on TRT, and now I feel like I did when I was a teen!?

That photo of two douche bags, one looking like a penis, the other looking at the penis's wife's hooker implants.  The photo is an instant classic.  

All of them, of course, are using hormone replacement, just like RFK Jr.  And a whole lotta republican congressmen (gendered) and senators, too.  Obviously.  And Hegseth is surely dosing.  

O.K.  Three cups of coffee and some banana nut bread, and I'm starting to wake up.  What the hell did I just write?  

No matter.  

Maybe I'll retitled the project.  I'll need to since I can't remember what I originally called it.  Perhaps. . . "Another Roadside Attraction"!  That sounds pretty good.