Recharge

I had one thing in mind yesterday--get the hell out of Dodge.  I was hesitant, though.  I have forgotten how to leave town.  I have lived the year within ten miles of my house.  Ten miles on the outside.  Mostly within six.  It was all stop and go.  Just deciding what costume to wear was a hassle, and that only meant shoes.  After leaving the house and going back three times, I finally pointed my mother's car in the direction of the interstate.  Oops.  I needed gas.  There are no gas stations around town anymore but the megastores with a dozen or more pumps.  I made a turn to go to one, then regretted it as there was no way to get out of the lot going in the direction I intended, so I had to backtrack nearly to my own neighborhood.  Half an hour here, half an hour there, I finally was on the interstate.  

Oh, my, though. . . bluetooth is fun.  This was my first roadtrip in which I could play music from my phone.  No depending on fading signals, no futzing about.  Boy oh boy--I was living in the 21st century.  

It made a difference.  

Past the factory town, over the great river. . . much was changing, forests cleared, new housing and apartments and shopping centers spreading like a great plague, then, further up the road, the jungle forests again as I passed through the counties.  

The temperature was warm for this time of year, pleasant but troubling if you allow yourself to think about it.  The sky was blue, the temp near 80, the sharp semi-tropical winter light slashing down like a razor.  This year, I was determined to use its drama and its loveliness.  

I pulled into a parking lot a few blocks from the center of town.  Just then, my phone rang.  It was T.  He told me he had just gotten the pics from JP.  He wasn't keen on them.  

"My wife said she liked yours better.  I think we are going to send those in with some of his."

I haven't seen JP's pics yet, so I don't know, but that was nice validation before I grabbed my Leica and headed off for a day of photo fun.  Really.  Just fun and a little nervousness, too, for street photography in a small town. . . well. . . you stand out in the "crowd."

There was no "crowd."  The sidewalks were mostly empty.  But the town, in part, is a scenic dream on side streets and certain alleyways.  I limped.  I snapped.  I breathed in the air.  For a few blocks, it was a movie set waiting for actors.  It is, in part, a college town, a prestigious small private college just larger than Country Club College a few blocks from the city center.  I hadn't thought about it, but students are not back in school yet, so there was none of that, and it seemed Tuesday afternoons were sleepy.  

I had memories of places.  I was invited to participate with a famous photographer in her workshops years ago.  I would drive up to her place with the big effing studio her husband, once the town's mayor, had built for her.  He dealt in antiques and would go to old hotels and houses that were being torn down and take out all the valuables to sell in his shop--old glass door knobs turned purple, pine flooring, old double sash windows, mantles, wrought iron. . . etc.  I'd been there many times over the years buying things for my old bungalow.  Ili loved the town, too, and we used to go up together just for fun.  She loved the record store there and the homemade candy and ice cream shop.  We would eat at a Cuban restaurant and drink a pitcher of sangria.  Her father was an attorney who used to come to the courthouse here and bring her when she was a kid.  We went to the wedding of my secretary here, I remembered as I walked past the place where she asked me to take her photo in her new "going to a wedding" dress.  

Wives and lovers. . . . 

I walked from one end of town to the other, down the main street and around corners down side streets, then back.  I wanted to walk a particular "artisans alley" again thinking I might get something to eat.  But. . . Dry January is not conducive to travel.  I would want a glass of wine or a beer with lunch but I couldn't or wouldn't, and it would, truly, kill the joy.  Dr. Oz and RFK jr. had just come out with a statement that no alcohol was good for you, but I think while alcohol may not be good for you, no alcohol is bad for you.  There is more to health, I think, than prescriptive existence--and I say "existence" rather than "living."  A glass or two of wine with lunch on a travel day to a pretty town. . . that is "living."  

As I cut back through the alley, I saw women--all women at all tables--sitting under umbrellas eating lunch with big glasses of wine, and I thought, "How lovely."  Then I came to a table full of younger, tatted women chatting up the younger, tatted waitress.  I passed them by, then thought again.  Fuck it, boy. . . get some cajones.  

I went back.  I stood, probably awkwardly, an old man with baggy Chinese shorts and a t-shirt, with long bleach blond hair, a stubley beard and a growing belly--AND A FUCKING CAMERA--with a wavering, broken voice and uncertainty, and said, "Uh. . . I like the tattoo around you ear.  Never saw that before.  Can I take a picture."

Really, that is it, verbatim.  I don't know.  What else do you say?  

One of the women at the table said, "The ones on her arm are great, too."

"Yea. . . the one around her ear is really unique," I quavered.  

"Sure," said the tatted waitress.  

Of course, nervous, I fumbled with the camera, blind, unable to focus the fucking rangefinder, thinking for sure I was fucking it up.  My hands were shaking. 

WTF?  I've become a true feeb.  

But the thing was done.  I had done "the thing."

That was good, I thought.  I could do more.  I will.  I will do more.  Just. . . quit being such a feeb.  

Back at the car, I decided to drive out of town to see what I could see.  Down the main street, past the good art museum, a really good one, past the empty college, then through the usual small town litter of restaurants and shopping centers and discount stores, car dealers new and used, truck and trailer lots, etc.  

There was the old Motel I'd photographed so many times, the great old sign for what was once a 1950s Holiday Inn, I think, on a state highway before the interstates were built, converted.  I have a great photo of the sign before it was damaged by a hurricane.  I'd stopped when it was damaged and talked to the new owner who was renovating the old motel, he said.  Now, the sign, still damaged, said, "New Owner."  It was a flophouse for drug addicts and criminals, $35 a day.  

That was that. 

Onward, out of town, to the junction of Hghwy 17 and State Road 11.  I took 11.  Oh, my, I was driving through country, some untouched, but much of it rich horse ranches breeding jumpers and show horses, big drives leading to huge mansions surrounded by pastures, some sitting on big, untouched lakes.  It looked lonely, spooky, even, but I realized that I was only miles out of town on a highway nobody travelled.  I didn't see another car for miles and miles and miles.  I passed things I should have stopped and photographed, but per usual with the unknowing and unwilling, I told myself I would stop and get the photo on the way back.  Onward.  And onward.  My batteries were recharging.  There were the big cranes that live nowhere around my town, five feet tall, flocks of them.  What had I forgotten this year?  What had I not experienced?  What lost?  

And then, driving back, I saw none of the things I said I would stop and photograph.  Of course.  

When I got back to my house, I downloaded the photos, just to get that done.  I would have no time to look through them much before I had to go back to my mother's.  But I wanted to see the ear tattoo.  

Disappointing.  It is not a good photo.  But it was a testament to a bit of chutzpah.  I'd asked.  I'd not been rejected.  I could, perhaps, do it again, even in the era of suspicion.  

There are a hundred or so other photos to look at.  I'm sure they won't be all that.  But. . . I did make some pics that T and his wife liked better than the ones from the catalog photographer, so at least there's that.  

If you are taking those backroads through the sunny winter south. . . a little traveling music.  

How'd You Celebrate?

So. . . how'd you celebrate January 6?  I didn't hear a peep from my republican buddies, so I figure they all went to a party to which I wasn't invited.  

I mean. . . really. . . who are you going to believe, Trump or your lying eyes?  

I tried watching the new Ricky Gervais Netflix special. 

Meh.  

I tried watching the new Dave Chapelle Netflix special. 

Meh. .

I watched "Killers of the Flower Moon."

👎👎👎

Maybe it's just me.  I mean. .  . I finished watching the latest season of "Emily in Paris" last night.  Wasn't wild about it, but I didn't mind.  Kinda like watching "The Mary Tyler Moore" show, I think.  

I saw an opinion piece in The Times this morning.  I didn't read it.  I was just fascinated that old "Caught with His Pants Down" Toobin is kinda back.  And it made me think of Anthony Weiner.  I wondered why there was nothing about him in the Epstein Files.  

Remember those?  That was a loooong time ago, before Venuzuela.  Try not thinking about that. Try not to worry about your 401-thing and all your savings.  Try.  

I know you think I'm obsessed with that sex pillow.  I'm not.  I'm obsessed with having someone to use it with.  Oh. . . my kingdom for. . . .

Anyway, I found the DIY one 

O.K.  I'll quit it.  I swear.  I am a child, truly.  These things just break me up.  Nobody else, I know.  My friends never respond.  

That's a stretch.  I don't have any friends now.  Just mom, and I haven't shown her any of that.  She would, I know, have a response.  

What's a day without some Post-Photographic Reduction, or whatever I was calling it. 

I usually have a 35mm lens on my Leica when I go out street hunting, but yesterday, I put on a 28mm.  Fascinating, eh?  Well, for the first time, I loved it.  I think I'm going to leave that on the camera for awhile.  

Scintillating.  

So. . . no more NPR.  You know I hate that. . . but I haven't been able to listen to it for many years now, for the most part.  My favorite thing has been "Science Fridays."  Have you ever listened?  That was better than good.  I will miss that awfully.  But, I think, NPR did it to themselves, just like the dems and Minnesota Walz.  My Marxist buddy is responding to Trump's invasion of Venuzuela with Marxisms.  You bet, Bud.  Let's not win everybody over to "our" side.  Let's just be strident.  

"C'mon, man. . . learn how to read a room."

I've come to realize, though, that he is somewhere on the spectrum.  I guess we all are somewhere on it, but he's quite a bit further along.  

I just want to take pictures.  Better ones.  I'm trying now every day.  

I'll keep trying.  

I'm Only Guessing

I don't know where to begin (or end) this morning.  I've been awake since 2:30, though I stayed in bed.  I couldn't sleep.  I thought I was supposed to sleep better when I stopped drinking.  The only thing that has happened so far is that I miserably want a cocktail at the cocktail hour.  This has been the hardest Dry January yet.  I don't feel any sharper mentally.  I am still a broken mess physically.  Spiritually?  I can only say I have attained no enlightenment and I sure as hell ain't attaining internal peace.  

So what's the point?

You know.  Discipline.  

I'm sure I feel better.  I just don't know it.  

I finally got out of bed at 5:30.  At least, I thought, I'd have some moments of peace.  Really?  Not on your life.  My mother got up right behind me and hasn't quit shuffling back and forth through the room on her squeaky walker since.  

"Serenity now."

I didn't call the home care for the elderly place yesterday.  I will today.  I did manage to get some things done, but most of it was a bust.  I texted a painter T recommended and he is going to come by my house to take a look.  Cha-ching!  He won't be cheap, I am certain, but I am not going to be painting high up on ladders for days anymore.  

Or many other things.  What I want is a driver.  Not all the time.  I just want to take photos out the car window, so I need a driver for that.  They would drive my car, so it would only be their time I would need.  Who would like to be my driver?  Should I take out an ad in the paper?

"Paper?  WTF are you talking about?  What paper?  Are you fucking daft?"

The flu epidemic is at a 25 year high.  I'm flu-averse.  Paranoid, really.  This is the flu that kills old people.  I guess I'm not really ready to go yet.  Reality check.  I haven't been going to the gym, though I may go today.  The gym is the place to pick up bacteria and viruses.  It is second only to schools.  O.K.  And nightclubs.  

Yesterday, when I got to my house, there was a crew putting in a new gas line for the house under construction across the street.  My street is very narrow and their trucks--many trucks--were blocking both entrances to my mulched drive.  I'm cool, though, and I parked at the apartment.  As I was walking back to the house, I saw that they had dug a six foot deep, four foot wide hole in my front yard.  

"Hey man," one of the crew addressed me.  "Would you mind if we put our drill in your driveway."

Still cool, "Sure, no problem."

I went inside to change into my workout clothes when I heard a siren coming down the street.  Then another.  When I finished dressing and went outside, there were four cop cars, two fire engines, and one ambulance blocking the road.  I stood and watched from the end of my drive.  People were coming out of their houses to see what was going on.  The medics took the stretcher (?) from the back of the ambulance and went into my across the street neighbor's house.  One of the workers came over and said, "Heart attack.  One of the fireman told me."

Wow.  The fellow across the street is younger than I am, but he has had a bad heart for a long time.  He is a bum, a drug dealer, and a lout, but he got in with the woman who has lived in that house her entire life.  It was her mother's, but it was her grandmother who had all the money.  She left her granddaughter a bunch of properties and some gas rights on some land out of state.  The Lout gave her two children who are retarded in most ways, and he thinks he's The Man.  I always wave and say hi, but if we talk, I try to use the 30 second rule.  He's a big guy and dangerous in the way of retarded pitbulls.  Talking to him is not enlightening and is hardly entertaining but for the character analysis you might put into one of your stories.  

A fellow who rents half of an old duplex on a big piece of property around the corner rode up on his bicycle.  He is kind of a bum.  He washes windows for a living, but I think he lives off disability pay.  Maybe he had been in the service.  Again, I am guessing, but I know that he always looks like more of a bum than I.  Hands down.  

He wanted to know which house they had gone to.  I pointed to The Lout's.  

"Probably domestic violence," he said.  I was thinking the same thing, but I told him what the worker said.  He nodded and rode off.  

A woman from down the street walked up and stood with me.  I can't tell how old she is.  I don't know if she works.  She lives alone, I am pretty sure, with two big dogs that she walks by my house.  Sometimes she waves and comes to say hello and can be very chatty, but other times she doesn't even look.  I think maybe she is bipolar, but I only have her brief encounters to base that on, so don't take it literally.  The thing is, she is kind of attractive, and I think she might like me.  I'm a bit of a nut magnet, so it is possible.  She is not thin, but. . . I don't know.  Something about her.  

"What's going on?"

I told her the heart attack story.  We stood looking at the house across the street.  

"I see you got a new roof.  It looks nice."

It looks nice?  What?  

"Oh. . . yea. . . I have a lot still to do.  I'm calling a painter today.  And I still have to re-rock and mulch the drives, then I will tackle the garden."

She looked concerned.  "You're not moving, are you?"

"No.  I like it here."

"Good.  Me, too."

I was getting a vibe.  She's on her meds, I thought.  I looked at the smooth skin of her face. Surely MedSpa.  Her hair was dark, not her natural color, I thought.  How old was she?  I couldn't tell.  Forty?  

Just then, the medics rolled out the stretcher (?), but it wasn't The Lout on it--it was his daughter!  She looked white as a sheet and was crying out.  I've known her and her brother, of course, since they were born.  Not "known," really, but known of them.  They are both simps, I think, but I have been told they are going to college.  Well, everybody does now, and everybody graduates.  It's the new rule, so I am not really surprised.  But she is, by all appearances, a bad girl.  She wears the sluttiest costumes I have ever seen.  She was a fat girl who got skinny.  Drugs, I assume.  And the boys would come and park down the street to pick her up.  They'd call her on the phone and she would come running out in something showing her hoo-hoo.  The boys didn't dare go to her house.  NOBODY is allowed in the house unless they are fellow druggies.  The cops are often at the house, and one day they were there when a tow truck brought her wrecked car.  One late night, I guess. . . but I am only guessing.  I'm just saying that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  

The Lout followed her out.  He didn't look very concerned, but he was miffed that everyone was standing around looking, I guess, and he mugged me, crouched, and acted as if he was taking a picture, and indictment to us all.  My blood boiled quick, and I almost yelled "Fuck you you drug addict moron," but I only got the "Fuck" out when I remembered the bipolar woman standing next to me.  I was still trying to figure her out.  

So nothing was clear except there was no heart attack.  The Lout looked over and said, "She had a seizure."  Hmm.  O.K.  So why the four cop cars?  

The woman from down the street said, "It was nice to see you," and turned back in the direction of her house.  I got into my Xterra and tried not to back over the two policemen standing in the street behind my drive like entitled pricks.  I had to go the long way 'round.  

I worked out in the park's outdoor gym, walked and stumbly old man ran, and came back home.  I'd been gone about an hour, I guessed, maybe a little longer.  The fire trucks were all gone, but there were still two police cars there.  Seemed weird they would hang around for over an hour because of "a seizure."  Something else was surely at hand.  

By this time, the big drilling machine was in my driveway and trucks were parked all along the narrow street.  It was not a peaceful day.  

All that to say. . . I didn't do everything I had planned.  After I showered, I worked on more of the pictures I had taken.  You have to take photos if you want to be a photographer.  That's the rule.  But. . . if you want to be an artist. . . . 

Still. . . it is all work.  

I need a driver.  Hell. . . I need an assistant, plain and simple, and a studio, too.  Why didn't I become famous and have all that?  Why didn't I marry the ultra-rich girl and become funded?  

The answers to these questions can only be guessed at.  I'm certain we can chalk it up to a character flaw.  

But I am only guessing.  

Much to do today, but I have gotten an early start.  If it weren't for mother, I'd have it all done before noon.  As it is. . . . 

I really don't know, but I think the woman down the street was giving me vibes. 

Still, I'm only guessing.  

Ask the Young

T. and I had plans for Sunday.  He still wants me to teach him "photography" meaning we would go out with cameras and make some pictures.  But Sunday came in damp and cold and sunless, and I was lazy, then I played beautician and helped my mother color her hair.  It wasn't much of anything, really.  The hardest part was getting the thick gelatin like substance out of the squeeze tube into the application container with the other chemicals.  After mixing them, I just squeezed the stuff all over my mother's head as she massaged it in.  Wait thirty minutes and rinse.  Sale price--$4.95.  

What?!?  Do you know what I pay to get foiled????

She was supposed to turn blonde again, but she came out a light brunette.  She is disappointed, but it still looks much better than the gray.  

By the time we had finished up, it was one and still dusky out, so I texted T and told him it wasn't a good day for photography but if he wanted to go later to let me know.  He seemingly had no interest.  

I went back to my house and worked on images I hadn't processed yet and made some more. . . what did I call it--Post Photographic Subtractive Presence?

I need to make that more memorable.  

 I burned the Lampe Berger with the Lolita Lempicka oil and sweetened and purified the air in my abandoned home. . . but help MAY be on the way.  My hillbilly cousin called and told my mother she would be here mid-January.  Really?  Hope against hope.  Hell, maybe it will happen. 

Still, I will call a number I was given for in-home senior care today to see what it is and how it works.  My mother is a tough bird, and I can't do this for the rest of my life.  Just to be able to go out to make some nighttime pictures seems like a little slice of heaven let alone being able to slip out of town once in awhile.  

But simply to be in my own home with my own things and to determine what to do with my own time and to sleep in my own bed.  

Oy.  

Hell. . . maybe I will get one of these. 

Yea, I don't think it will make me any more attractive.  I keep sending the pillow ads to my married friends asking them if they have bought one yet.  None of them have answered.  My guess is that their wives won't let them.  Do people married a decade or more still have sex?  With each other, I mean.  

I just looked it up. 

Frequency Varies Widely: Some couples maintain a weekly or bi-weekly schedule, while others have sex monthly or less.

"Normal" is Subjective: Experts emphasize that there's no single right number; contentment with the frequency is key, with a "sexless marriage" often defined as less than 10 times a year, which isn't always a sign of failure.

I DO know, however, that cuckolding has become a very popular thing in my own hometown.  It is easier than swinging, of course, because you don't have to have four willing, attractive people.  Many men have become more open about it.  

So, of course, I just looked it up.  

Cuckolding is indeed becoming more mainstream, especially among couples looking to explore new dimensions of intimacy. Cuckolding is now seen as a way to deepen connections between partners, moving beyond mere humiliation to a shared adventure.

I'm guessing, only guessing once again, that the people I've sent those advertisements to have yet to find the pleasures of being a cuck.  

This is all fascinating to me, of course, who always enjoys the twisted lives of others. 

"Why do you say it is twisted, dude?"

You're right.  I think what other people do is fine.  Heteros are beginning to enjoy the life of gays now, I guess.   Tell the truth--wouldn't you like to see someone plowing your own true love?

"Oh, yes. . . I'd love to see him getting plowed."

She said.  

Well this has certainly gotten out of hand.  Let me go back.  What I DID do yesterday was go through my old Lonesomeville Pola files to find family friendly images.  That was a chore. . . and pretty much a waste of time.  When I was finished, I looked like the worst photographer in the world.  So I said to Red.  

"Oh don’t you even! You know how good you are! I do! Ok I’ll go through them in a bit."

I asked her not to show them to the gallery owner until she let me know which ones she chose.  The wrong choice could kill the whole deal, I think.  

Shit.  I should send her the little boy and the little girl in the swim caps.  Oh. . . but only the little boy is a Pola.  Still. . . . 

It is Monday, and things return to normal.  The holidays are all over now.  Everyone will feel the low hum of routine once again.  It makes me happy, of course.  I hate it when everyone else is having fun and I'm having none.  

Trump is having fun.  He's a real cowboy, that fellow, balls as big as cowtown.  

You know we're fucked, right?  This can never turn out well.  The motherfucker knows he is dying and is determined to fuck up everything before he goes.  All you assholes who voted for this evil, twisted moron have done this.  

"What about Biden?  Harris?  Hillary?  Obama?"

That's their mantra. . . and in part. . . they are right--except about Obama, the best president in my lifetime.  But the dems have fucked up, and so we have Trump.  

I guess we can all share the blame.  We've squandered what we had and have ruined everything.  

I guess.  I'd really have to ask some twenty-somethings to know.  That's just what I think I'll do.  

The Tyger and The Lamb

I didn't really see the moon last night.  No photos.  The sky was clouded.  It rained.  We needed the rain, so the only complaint is that it didn't happen a day earlier or later.  So. . . I reimagined my neighborhood from the 1920s.  The Boulevard had been lit since earlier in the century, and by the '20's, most homes had continuous electric power.  

But there were no drones, so. . . I had to invent it.  

Like all towns now, however, greed runs under the name of "progress" and my little village has become as overcrowded as any other sweet place in the country.  Greeheads will always have their way.  Always.  It may take time, but they will win.  It is the Law of the Land.  

I wasn't in my little village last night, however, but on the outskirts in a neighborhood built in the 1960's at my mother's.  Oh. . . we had a big night--parboiled cod over brown jasmine rice and broccoli.  Where once it appealed to me, last night we both swore off preparing the fish that way.  Afterwards, we went out for a swinging Saturday night at the CVS where my mother bought hair coloring.  

We were back to the house at 7:18.  

For the first time, I thought I really wanted a scotch.  I made a decaf coffee instead and followed it up with copious A.A. cocktails.  I am certain of the benefits of Dry January, but I am equally certain of it's deficits.  I've never strived to be a Ghandi.  

Let's get to Trump World.  Next--Greenland!  Old Bone Spurs sure likes to shoot 'em up, eh?  MAGA meant ALL of the America's as well as things on their borders.  We are living in a testosterone injected, muscled up world inspired by Ultimate Fighting and Taylor Sheridan.  The thing is, we all know it is true--brute force and greed will ALWAYS beat down intellect and sensitivity.  

For a literary look at it, read G.B. Shaw's "Candida."  It's not quite that, but it is a good exploration of a woman's view of something quite similar.  Moral piety, however, replaces testosterone.  Still. . . . 

But we are "trending" in 2026.  Testosterone is out.  Polypeptides are in.  

So is this.

Now EVERYONE can do it!  Maybe you've been DIYing your own for years, but now there is a scientifically formulated pillow . . . 

to turn any woman. . . . 

Like everything else, what was once a dirty little secret is now a social media phenomenon.  

There is a med or a device for everything.  We live in the "Age of Marvels and the Marvelous."

I'm just waiting for the Super Bowl halftime show myself.  

Well. . . this has certainly devolved into a mess of a post, maybe apropos for the End of the Roman Empire.  They were an openly kinky lot, or so the BBC has taught me.  

Maybe I should have had that scotch after all.  My mind wants focussing.  But, you know, I may have lost an ounce or two already.  I still need to work on my VO2 max for longevity, though.  I've heard that is the best way to enjoy the last decade of one's life.  

I should have ended the post with the "Candida" thing.  But I didn't.  Maybe I can end with a song. 

Nope.  I can't find one that I like.  Do you ever get like that?  Do you ever find yourself not liking anything in your music library at all?  

It's just one of those days when little is appealing.  Except drink.  Maybe I am just now experiencing withdrawal.  Psychological, not physical.  

I've been searching for a clip from a Sherlock Holmes/Basil Rathbone film with this dialog in it.  I used to have it, but I can't find it.  It is a fine clip, a good clip, and if you can find it, send me a link.  I miss it so. 

Sherlock Holmes: [on the pajama suicides] Indubidably, these murders are the work of a well-organized gang and directing them is one of the most fiendishly clever minds in all Europe today.

Inspector Lasade: Any notion who?

Sherlock Holmes:: I suspect a woman. Do you have tobacco around this place, Watson?

Dr. Watson: Yes, I've packed it. A woman? You amaze me, Holmes. Why a woman?

Sherlock Holmes: Because the method, whatever it is, is particularly subtle and cruel. Feline, not canine.

Inspector Lasade: Poppy-cock. Canine, feline, quinine, when a bloke does himself in, that's suicide.

Sherlock Holmes: Unless the bloke is driven to suicide and then in that case it's murder.

Dr. Watson: Driven? That *sounds* like a woman, doesn't it?

Sherlock Holmes: Definitely, a female Moriarty. Clever, ruthless... and above all, cautious.

And, FYI. . . all the old Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films are available for free on YouTube.  I've watched them all, and I'd recommend them. . . if you have Premium and don't have to watch any commercials.  

Post-Photographic Subtractive Presence and the Full Wolf Moon

Post-Photographic Subtractive Presence. It sits between:

    •    photography

    •    memory

    •    apparition

    •    and refusal

How's that for my new project?   Post-Photographic!

I have two ways of creating the images now, one more random, and the other totally controlled, at least if I can do again what I did in Photoshop yesterday.  

"That's not photography!"

No siree, Bob. . . it is Post Photographic Subtractive Presence, an entirely new thing.  

I think. 

If I have the cajones, I'll post the one I made yesterday at the end of the post.  One can never be too careful these days.  

Yay!  We've invaded Venuzuela!

Or something.  I'm not sure what we've done yet.  But yea. . . MAGA!

Apparently, we're alway willing to punch down.  Don't fuck with the big boys and girls, though.  I mean, how can we support those warmongers in the Ukraine after they attacked Russia?  And Taiwan?  We'll have to wait and see.  

The BIG news, of course, is that tonight is the first full moon of the New Year, the Full Wolf Moon.  Once upon a time, you had to rely on me and my astrologer, Q, to tell you when it was coming, but now, as you know, the big papers are always copying what I say and do so they have begun touting the coming of the full moon days before it arrives.  

Good God, I've influenced so many indirectly.  

Don't know how I feel about that.  

What should you do on a wolf moon?

Journal, meditate, read or anything that helps clear your mind. Use this time to self-reflect, create intentions and start making plans.

What should you eat on a wolf moon?

Eating on the Full Wolf Moon often involves practices related to lunar cycles, like water fasting/juice cleanses for detox (the "werewolf diet") or nurturing foods to align with nature's energy, such as probiotic-rich items (yogurt, kimchi) for gut health, fresh greens, or seeds, depending on whether one focuses on purification or nourishment under this potent winter full moon.

I guess tonight is not the night for indulgences.  I am going to take a wild guess, though, and say that in more primitive times, with a lack of fresh fruits and vegetables, it would be a night of wild rabbit and strong drink.  Here in the time of indulgence, though, it might be a good idea to fast. 

I watched a documentary last night on women in the Indiana State Prison system.  The general population are kept in their cells for 20 hours a day.  They get three hours a day in the exercise yard and an hour a day for eating and showering.  

Hmm.  Somehow familiar.  I can't quite put my finger on it. . . . 

Oh, yea. 

I should be a busy boy right now.  I need to find out how much having my house and apartment painted will be.  I need to peruse my Lonesomeville series and pick ten or so images to send to the Beverly Hills Gallery owner.  I need to get out today with a camera.  I need to take a drive of at least one hour out of town next week to somewhere.  My senses need recharging.  

No.  Rebirthing.  

I should call to see about getting some help taking care of my mother.  I don't think my cousin is going to be up for it once she sees.  

So. . . my Post-Photographic Subtractive Process.  Why do I do it?  Why do I want to make things harder when they can be so easy?  Why do I always want to run off from the crowd?  

I shouldn't do that here.  I really shouldn't.  

Pretending's Fun

And so now, of course, it is time to "get on with things," whatever "things" is.  The news is full of tips on how to "get into shape" without really trying, advice on how to become "a super ager," on what to eat to and drink for perfect health, etc.

As we all know, there are too many photographs in the world now, but I've come to the conclusion that there is just too much writing as well.  The Times, I think, dedicates more words to opinions than to actual news.  Here's the conclusion to today's David Brook's piece, logic and evidence be damned:

If you lead a life designed to maximize personal independence and autonomy, you’ll get to live a relatively unrestricted life. But you’re more likely to live a low-energy life, slower to harbor those great loves for people, places, God, vocation and nation that arouse fervent passions and yield ardent lives.

If, on the other hand, you resist the autonomy ethos and put loving passion at the center of your philosophy of life, you will find yourself tied down by all sorts of obligations — to things like a spouse, kids, community, God and a vocation. But your love for these things will constitute fires in the heart, producing great vitality, full engagement, an increase in personal force. It is one of the weird paradoxes of life that the constraints you choose are the ones that set you free.

This ridiculous binary would be best read in Redbook or Reader's Digest.  But. . . he has to come up with something.  

"What the hell are you saying?  Pot meet kettle."

Yea, that's sort of my point.  Pictures and words every day.  And in truth, I can't even say what I really want or post or even take the photos I desire.  

"Well, you know, our best lives are left unlived."

I watched one of those good photo vids on YouTube last night and came away with this jewel: "Images of the child contain the latent adult."  

Something like that.  

Anyway. . . we must get on with life.  And life is hard.  And so we have. . . therapists.  Here's a bit of a clip I heard on NPR's "Here and Now" yesterday while driving. 

I don't know.  I mean. . . I guess.  Now a therapist must admit that they never "cure" anyone, and in this incidence, even the therapist admits that the real problem lies not with the individual but with the economic situation that keeps the working class in an increasingly desperate state.  

"That will be one hundred dollars."

Economic hardship among the working class doesn't simply exist here in the wealthiest country in the world, of course.  I've recently been recommended by my YouTube algorithms this.  It seems like a masterful piece of absurd minimalist cinema to me. 

I have another made by a female worker in Japan if you want more.  

This woman takes comfort in noodle dishes, David Brooks in. . . whatever.  

Life is an absurdist play by Beckett, it seems, full of distractions or nothing at all.  

I think of Auden's "The Unkown Citizen."

As C.C. is fond of saying, "The world is mad but for thee and me. . . and I'm not so sure about thee."  It is either a bastardization of a Robert Owen quote or something from Shakespeare.  But yea. . . you get the point.  

Some photographers try to make images of that place between hope and despair.  So I've heard.  I would like to make images of the space between being and not being.  I stayed up far too late last night trying to get Chat to help me do just that.  

All night long, it and I worked on ways to convert images into something akin to this, but hours later, the results were disappointing.  I have found a way, though, of grabbing the image before it completely forms, in that limbic zone of existence.  But. . . the technique is wholly unreliable.  

The hours have given me ideas for postprocessing my own images, though.  It will be labor and time intensive and will ultimately fail, I fear, but I'll need to give it a go.  

"In these pictures, we see the latent image."

Yes. . . keep working on that.  

"I woke this morning, it felt just like yesterday."

Well there you go, the absolute workings of an unformed mind.  I'll need a nap today, but maybe the best artists work in some sleepless, semi-conscious state in which the world is dreamlike and partially complete.  

Who am I kidding, though.  I'm just some Average Joe.  But as the song goes, (the song?), "pretending's fun."  

The Year Is Born

And now. . . the Holiday Hangover.  The adrenaline dump is done.  The Christmas decorations must come down.  I turned off the holiday lights for the last time last night.  Some of you were up early this morning, out for a New Year's hike or run.  Some of you slept in and are now in your housecoats and slippers sipping coffee or tea and thinking about food.  Stripped of decorations, the landscape is stark and wintry.  The New Year struggles to take form, the baby born, the spectre of the unknown.  

All those holiday chores we put off now weigh upon our minds.  

"On Monday, I must. . . ."

One day this week, I will journey to the silent marshlands on the coast, the National Wildlife Refuge or Preserve. . . whatever it is called. . . and shelter from the wind and cold in quiet meditation.  

There is no use making resolutions.  We have no idea with what we might be faced.  We can only prepare to walk gracefully through the fire.  

"God grant me grace."

I'm glad I got the jump on Dry January.  I may regret popping the cork on the champagne last night, but I'm not beating myself up over it.  

Too much. 

I have ideas on how to spend the day.  Part of it will be making a fifteen bean soup with ham and vegetables for "Good Luck."  Also, for the fiber.  I read yesterday in WaPo that protein is "out" and fiber is "in."  They predicted other trends, too, for the trendy.  

Otherwise, things will be quiet, I hope.  We'll just take things day by day.  

Zombie Apocalypse

I had a marvelous day, a fabulous day. . . for awhile.  

We can get to that.  I have paused Dry January and popped the cork on the bottle of Veuve Cliquot with my mother.  It is magnificent. 

But the day. . . .  I stuck around the house with my mother until after noon as it was 34 degrees in the morning and I wanted to wait for the warmest part of the day to do my outdoor gymnastics.  And they were wonderful.  I am actually doing an old man's stumbly run again for feet if not yards at a time.  I feel absolutely athletic.  The sun was shining and it was almost fifty degrees and I felt more alive than I have in a very long time.  

But the day was more than that.  Messages.  Many messages.  Factory workers, old flames, and MOTL, too.  I may be devolving and lonesome, but on this day I was not (completely) forgotten.  

O.K. O.K. . .  I initiated all of it.  It's not like people were thinking of me until I made them.  Still. . . some responded.  Some bitter old fuckheads. . . well. . . I should absolutely let that go.  

Nevertheless, I felt good, and Red said she showed some of my "work" to a friend of hers who owns an art gallery in Beverly Hills.  She said he was interested and I should send ten to twenty "family friendly" works.  

"Whose family?" I asked.  

I have no confidence that it will work out, but it was a nice gesture.  

At four, however, I had a call from my mother.  

"Where are you?!?"

She sounded lost.  I was running errands, picking up her meds at the pharmacy, getting groceries. . . .  I am going to need to get some help, some people who can stay with her when I'm gone. . . even for a few hours in the daytime.  I will begin working on that first thing next week.  

When I got back to her house with all the drugs and groceries, as I was putting tomorrow's fifteen bean dinner and ham with potatoes, carrots, celery, and spinach away. . . I remembered I'd forgotten to get what I needed to make dinner.  

Another trip to the store.  

Dinner.  I tried talking to mother, but she can't hear a word I say.  

After dinner she said she was cold.  She was wandering around in her walker.  

Fuck it.  Why am I telling this?  

I watched Season Five, Episode Six of "Emily in Paris" last night.  Don't judge me.  It is like watching "I Love Lucy" in color.  To my point.  It was the 4th of July and she was at the American Embassy watching the fireworks--just like tonight--and I remembered that I was at the American Embassy in Paris for a reception when I presented a paper at the Hemingway/Fitzgerald Conference there.  I never think about it, but it was a nice memory.  Had drinks with the Ambassador, etc.   High falutin.  

Once upon a time.  

Now. . . 

I made silly videos for NYE today while I was sitting in my mother's house with nothing but a small laptop computer.  There were a bunch of clips I thought I might put together, but using Grok, it was impossible.  Individually, they were fun, but there was no hope of connecting them, at least by me.  Feel free to use them if you want.  

 

 

 I did make one that I will show you eventually.  But I am hoping that this next year will be better than the last. Fat chance.  Trump, Minneapolis, Gaza, Ukraine, Taiwan, Venezuela. . . the list is long.  Then there is RFK Jr. and the whole new pandemic.  Rich republicans are buying guns.  Trust me.  I know.  And if Trump dies, it gets worse.  Vance has tiny horns, but they will grow.  It is difficult to be optimistic.  

Still, I'll beat the pots and pans.  What else can we do?  We are still primitive creatures.  

O.K.  I told you I would post, and I told you it would be stupid.  Still, I have my obsessions.  Peace be with you my homies, and walk on the sunny side of the street.  The zombie apocalypse is upon us.  

Happy New Year!

Good Riddance!

Man. . . this one kind of snuck up on me.  I knew it was coming, but I just realized tonight is New Year's Eve.  Goodbye to fucking 2025, the year of stolen time.  

And good riddance. 

And it has ended apropos of all that has happened.  Last night, I cracked and lost part of a tooth, just a tiny piece, but now my tongue won't leave it alone.  

Selavy. .  my ass.  

Yesterday, I had a few hours of reprieve.  I met my friend, one of the great people from the factory, who is now a VP at a college in Virginia.  You may remember her as the one who saved the birthday card I gave her when she turned 30 in which I inscribed, "Now you are officially too old for me to date."  I know many of you will not find that humorous, but she did and she told me yesterday she has it in her desk drawer at work.  She took care of me at the factory with all things official and tedious, and when I got run over, she basically did everything that needed to be done while I was away.  When I retired, she told the next straw boss who took my place, "I ain't doing that for you," even though, I think, she was kind of sweet on him.  

So we went to the good Spanish restaurant where the barmaid always remembers what I eat and drink and where we left our last conversation.  She is a grand girl with two children who has since I've known her survived breast cancer, and I think she must now be one of the most grateful and cheerful women on the planet.  

Or so it would seem.  

I got to the bar first.  

"How was your Christmas?" I asked.  

"Great!  Our house looked like a Toy'rUs exploded in our living room."

She asked about mine.  

"Not so good."

"Oh. . . I'm sorry." 

When my friend showed up, I was drinking an A.A. cocktail, cranberry and soda. 

"What's that?"

"I started my Dry January the day after Christmas."

"You were doing that last time I saw you."

"So were you!"

So she said to the barmaid, "I'll have an A.A. cocktail, too."

Two fellows on the other side of the bar looked over and laughed.  

"Closest I'm getting to that was my No Shave November."  

I raised my "cocktail" in cheer.

Then we got down to it, telling one another what a shitty year it had been.  I had much more to tell, many more incidents.  She had one--the breakdown of her husband.  

"It seems all I have done is cry all year." 

I'll not belabor our miseries here.  Well, I have mine for months and months and months, but I'll not reveal anything more about hers.  In the end, though, we had a dark laugh about a morbid beginning to bring us a better year.  

"I shouldn't laugh at that," she said, "but I can't help it."

"Yea. . . we should go to hell."

And we laughed some more.  

I've thought much about it, and 2025 has been the worst year of my life.  The year my wife and I separated, she told me she wanted a divorce in late August.  By November, I was beginning one of the most exciting eras of my life.  I went to bed on New Year's Eve in one century and woke up the next morning in another with someone who would take up space rent free in my head for the remainder of my life.  

And to that I will say Selavy.  

I will be home with mother tonight.  Nothing like that turning of the century.  But I think I've decided to pop the cork on the remaining bottle of Veuve Cliquot.  I know I've started my Dry January, but it matters little.  Champagne tonight, Dry January again in the morning.  

It only makes sense.  

I'm working on some things that I will post tonight.  Stop by if you are up.  It will definitely be stupid and silly as the night should be.  Is there a "Thin Man" movie marathon playing on t.v. anywhere tonight?  Oh. . . that would be the thing.  

Come February. . .

The temperature has dipped into the chilly zone.  I have a luncheon date at noon.  I may have to wear long pants and shoes.  I don't know if I have any long pants that fit me anymore.  I haven't had a pair on this year.  I'm pretty sure none will fit except for my Chinese pants with the elastic waist.  I don't mind wearing them when I'm on my own but I haven't seen my friend in a year, so I don't want to look too bummy.  The changes in my physique should be shocking enough.  

I just finished off an almond croissant with my coffee.  I began my Dry January the day after Christmas, but I didn't want to start a new diet at the same time.  I have enough going on.  I figured starting both in the same week would do me in.  

My friend asked me if I could meet her for Happy Hour, but I told her that was essentially impossible, so we made it lunch.  I'm looking forward to ceviche and gazpacho, though with the chilly weather, I may change my mind and get something good and hot.  

And a cranberry and soda.  

I've been making pictures as often as I can.  I take my camera with me everywhere I go now and am getting less shy about firing it off.  None of it is conceptual.  I'm just photographing "the world."  I have some "concepts," but I haven't the chutzpah yet to pursue them.  Nor the time, really.  Hard to do in an hour or two a day.  

I may be grabbing a break, though.  My hillbilly cousin who comes down every winter to glom free room and board off my mother is coming in January.  My mother told her not to come, that I was staying here, but my cousin whined and said she'd sleep on an air mattress on the floor.  I told my mother if she wanted her to come, I'd stay at my house and let my cousin have the bed.  I'd come over every day, of course, to set up her meds and make sure everything is going smoothly.  But, I said, she cannot come and go.  She can't decide to go stay with my cousin on the coast, for I may want to skip town for a few days.  

Oh, Lord. . . my soul for a few days respite.  

I have no confidence this is going to work out, of course, but since I don't have anything here but a travel bag, moving back in would not be difficult.  

Except mentally.  

I imagine my life again.  In my imagination, it is full of creative and spirit building stuff.  The reality will be working on my house, though. . . mulching, re-rocking driveways, painting, re-mortaring. .  . the garden.  

I'm still a bit off balance, but I have hopes that in a few more days, the displaced crystal will have dissolved.  That is one possibility I read on the Mayo Clinic site.  I have no desire to return to the gym just yet, so yesterday I walked and did some light exercising in the park with the outdoor gym.  I was very careful not to move any crystals around.  I figure with Dry January, a reduction in sweets, and daily calisthenics, I'll be looking like Brad Pitt by February.  

A boy can dream.  

Mostly, though, I want to follow up on my photo dreams.  If I could spend my nights working on cataloging my images, deciding which ones were most representative of each project and style, and experimenting with post-processes and printing, I'd be ready to. . . ready to. . . ?

I haven't a clue.  But I'd feel a whole lot better.  

How's that?  It's as chipper as I can be right now.  Not bad.  

Now I must prepare my mother's breakfast and get her set up for the day.  I need to get back to my house and see if anything fits.  Ha!  We all know nothing will.  All we have to do, though, is wait for February when I'll be trim and fit as a fucking fiddle!

I'll write my tribute to Bridget Bardot tomorrow, perhaps.  I've been meaning to.  I've never minded the difference that the XX/XY genetic thing has created.  I've watched all the nature shows.  Mammals are like that, you know.  Nature rather than nurture.  Mama bears are fierce, but the boys still find them sexy.  They have to work hard, though, to get accepted.  Not every male gets a mate.  Indeed. . . inevitably the female choose one with. . . money?  Charm?  A sweet smile?  A pleasant disposition?  The one with the biggest muscles?  Science will tell you one thing, but we all know it is a mystery.  There are just some things a boy can't understand.  

Etc. 

Better

The fear that I had a stroke is passing.  I'm more stable now as long as I don't turn my head rapidly or bend down to look for something.  Those are good signs that it is a displaced crystal in my inner ear, so. . . I am almost relieved.  I am still miserable but less terrified.  

So. . . I sounded the alarm.  Just remember, it is here that I reveal the workings of a fragile mind.  I am prone to panic.  It is, I think, part of having a very strong and active imagination.  Such things are a blessing and a curse, as are most things in life.  Can't have the yin without the yan.  

So they say.  

"They." 

The pressures of caring for my mother, however, have not lessened.  Indeed, they are becoming greater.  She is hallucinating more, mostly in the night and when she gets up in the morning.  She is like a wild animal caught in a trap then, eyes uncomprehending, mouth agape with panicked moaning.  She wanders about on her walker tilting her head side to side looking at some strange land she's never seen before.  Then she'll cry out some nonsensical question.  It reminds me of the scene in Bonnie and Clyde when Clyde's brother, shot, is dying.  Without reason, he yells out, "Where's my boots?  I believe the dog got my boots, Clyde."

During the day, she is totally rational.  I'm sure this is common, something like "Sundowner's Syndrome," but I haven't researched it yet.  

But there is never a time she is not miserable.  It is terrible and terrifying, the thought of living in constant misery without moments of happiness or joy.  Surely this is where the concept of "hell" was birthed, a ceaseless and never ending torture.  

The "innocent happiness" of a child, the opposite end of that spectrum, must have been some imagination's conception of "heaven."  To enter "heaven" is to be like a child, an innocent "lamb."  

I am somewhere in that other place, "purgatory."  It all seems crystal clear to me now from where the conception of these ideas of the afterlife sprang.  

"Have sprung." 

Did you click on any of those links to the brief docs on photographers yesterday?  Surely not.  But here's a name for you.  Michael Ackerman.  You can test your eye and brain to see if you tend toward the commercial or to the "artistic" side of photography.  My Miami friend sent me some new photos of herself.  Good ones.  She has a good commercial eye.  She is now the head of branding for a line of baby clothing.  Not bad for a kid just starting out.  She's a worker and a real go-getter and will do fine.  

But looking at Michael Ackerman's work, along with the works of Martin Bogren and Antoine d’Agata, I realized I'm somewhere trapped in between (link).  I was taught by imaginative photographers who manipulated the straight image.  I weaned myself first on the incredible precision of Edward Weston but then fell under the spell of Robert Frank and Garry Winogrand.  Then came Diane Arbus.  If you try to be an amalgam of this group. . . well, you can't.  And so I've tried to work in many ways.  And that, I am thinking, will limit your ability to grow in any one direction.  

That's one of my "catalog" shots at the top.  I've been waiting to see JP's before posting mine, but he still hasn't produced.  As I have reported, I was always standing behind him trying to stay out of his way, so my angles were limited.  I didn't mind, of course, for this is not something I wish to pursue.  I would like, however, to gain access to the studio for my own wicked reasons.  But what I really want is to have my own again where I can experiment to my desire's end.  And as I watch my mother and consider my own lifespan, I think more and more, "why not?"  You can be feeling fine and be struck down, reduced, compromised, in a mere moment.  There comes a point where you know you can't count on tomorrow.  

Here's a short fluff network piece on a photographer who has photographed the worst of human conditions his entire career, a photojournalist, a kind of photography I have ever had much interest in pursuing, but when he comes home to Paris, he makes "postcards" of Parisian life.  I love his "postcards."  I think, like him, I am drawn to extreme poles.  I will reconcile myself with thinking that. 

A Bad Start Gets Worse

A bad start to the end of they year turned worse.  Yesterday I sat with my mother all morning.  I still had vertigo, but I thought I would be o.k., so around noon, I got dressed to go to the exercise park for a workout.  There was a big group when I got there, muscular, athletic guys doing handstands on the high bars.  O.K., O.K., so what, I told myself.  Just do your routine.  

I was alright on the first round.  Squats, crunches, push ups, and body rows, then a walk/run around the half mile track.  I planned on doing four sets.  I was feeling really good when I got back to the exercise area.  Squats, crunches, push ups, body rows. . . and then. . . .  When I tried to stand up, the world began to spin.  I grabbed hold of the bar to wait it out, but there was no waiting it out.  I tried to walk, but I was like a drunk on a ship in high seas.  I grabbed hold of a post hoping no one had noticed.  I waited.  O.K.  Try to walk.  I could barely make it to a nearby bench walking this way then that.  I sat, waiting.  Surely it would go away.  After a few minutes, I tried again.  Nope.  I hoped I could make it to the car, but then what?  I knew I shouldn't drive, but I had no options.  

I drove home trying not to turn my head, never going over twenty miles/hour.  

I staggered into the house and to the computer.  I looked up the Epley Maneuver.  I went to my bed and did it as best I could, but my ribs and back and neck are arthritic and painful and I didn't feel I was doing it well enough.  I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

When I woke up, it was after four.  I needed to shower.  When I got out of bed, I grabbed hold of the bedside table.  Then the door jamb.  Then the counter.  I turned on the shower leaning against the wall.  I made a mistake and tried to wash my hair, but the bending and turning brought on the vertigo.  I was able to finish my shower and to dry myself.  I did what I needed to do.  I began to wonder if maybe I'd had a stroke.  Perhaps I should call 911.  

But my mother.  I have no backup.  There is no one.  She can't put together her meds.  She can't open a jar or a can.  I pulled myself together, dressed, and made it to the car.  I needed to stop at the grocers.  I didn't think I could, but I would.  

In the parking lot, I grabbed hold of a cart.  I needed the cart.  It was a hard effort to make it through the store.  I couldn't turn my head.  I had to focus on the cart to keep my balance.  I'd make spaghetti.  Broccoli.  Sauce.  I felt as if I might puke.  

I got back to my mother's house.  I had to take the garbage cans in.  One of the wheels had come off the recycling can.  I couldn't bend over to fix it.  My mother was sitting in the garage.  Her concern for me was minimal.  

"How are you doing?"

It took every bit of willpower to make dinner.  I barely ate.  My mother recounted a story of when she had vertigo.  She went to an ENT doc and he had done the Epley Maneuver.  She was better after that.  

I sat on the couch.  The room was spinning.  I sat in front of the tv and looked straight ahead.  What would happen if I began vomiting?  What would happen if I had to call 911?  I was beginning to panic.  This was too much.  I have been under too much stress.  I have known for months now that this was ruining my health.  I have been sure I was dying.  

My mother pretended to clean up.  She shuffled with her walker for ten minutes to get her bowl and serviceware to the sink.  

I went to the bathroom and took a Xanax.  My anxiety was chartless.  

When the Xanax kicked in, I turned on the television.  I thought it might distract me until I could go to bed.  I watched videos about great photographers.  This wasn't helping.  So many of them died when they were my age or a year or two older.  I thought about all the things I planned to do.  They wouldn't get done.  I thought about the suicide package in my bedside table.  It seemed impossible.  I saw myself in a nursing home suffering through to the miserable end.  It would be much harder than I've ever imagined to take one's own life.  

I had to get up to put together mom's meds.  I cleaned the kitchen.  My mother said she was going to bed.  She didn't.  She kept telling me "O.K. goodnight," over and over and over again.  Finally I snapped.  

"Go to fucking bed!"

Ten minutes later, I could hear the slow motion rattling of the walker.  She walked into the kitchen and stood looking around.  She stayed like that for a long time.  She gets lost now.  

"Go to bed."

I wanted to go to bed as well, but I was afraid the vertigo would not let me sleep, so I stayed up and watched more famous photographers.  There are a few very good documentary channels on YouTube if you are interested.  Here are a couple.  There a some others, but I haven't the energy right now.  

(link) (link)

As I sat after my mother went to bed, I thought about needing care.  There was no one to give it to me.  I have no one now, no support at all.  Ili took care of me through my entire recovery from my accident.  She slept in my hospital room for weeks.  She stayed with me at my mother's for months.  We were not even together when I got run over.  But she came.  And for that amount of time, she was an angel.  

Other than my parents, nobody else in my life has taken care of me.  Not even my ex-wife.  

Red said she would.  She was going to send me her miracle drug to heal me.  That was a month ago.  She waited too long though, I fear.  She didn't help.  

I resigned myself to the pathetic end, and as I watched the videos on famous photographers,  I could only think of all the things I didn't do.  If I could just get well again, I thought. . . . 

Ten thirty.  I stumbled off to bed.  I lay down expecting the room to spin, but no. . . it was alright.  On either side.  And unbelievably, I slept.  

When I got up this morning, though, I stumbled getting out of bed.  I still have vertigo, but I don't think it is as bad.  I am telling myself it is not as bad.  Surely it is simply a crystal out of place in my inner ear.  The medical websites said that without doing anything, the vertigo will go away in five or so days.  The crystals can be dissolved.  But the websites also talked about vertigo being the result of a stroke.  That's all I needed.  My doctor loves to thrill me by telling me that my unresolved high blood pressure can result in a stroke.  I have a very apocalyptic imagination.  She, I'm afraid, is the fuel that feeds it.  

I hope it is my apocalyptic imagination.  

So the bad start to the end of the year has gotten worse.  

My mother got up this morning moaning and yelling out.  She creeped up on me in the dark.  

"Somebody's missing," she said in a panic.

"What?"

"Somebody's missing."

"What are you talking about?"

"The person who was here last night, out there, with the crazy hair."

She is beginning to hallucinate.  Maybe it is the drugs.  I can't be sure.  But I am going to need a Plan B.  I need backup.  I'm not going to be able to do this alone anymore.  

I know this is killing me.  I will die before she does, I am certain.  

Bad Start to the End of the Year

Habits are hard to break.  Breaking with several at the same time is terrible.  Confusing.  I began my Dry January yesterday.  It seemed a dumb affair from the start.  Doomed.  It is a mental thing that requires unwavering discipline.  Given my life circumstances at the moment. . . . 

I'm also trying to give up the gym, at least for Dry January.  You would think that would be easy.  Rather, I am adopting a calisthenic routine.  There is an outdoor gym in a park nearby.  There is the sound of birds and plenty of sunshine, but it lacks society.  I mean, when I go to the Club Y, I have social interaction.  There are the gymroids, of course, but there is a host of secondary players, too.  It is fun to be among the amiable.  

On the very first day of calisthenics, however, I was doing some bending toe touch things and my inner ear went berserk.  I haven't recovered.  If I move wrong or roll over in bed at night, I get the spins.  I thought it would go away, thought that the the crystal would find its way home, but it hasn't happened yet.  I am walking on a stormy ocean, my body incorrectly interpreting gravity.

And so, writing here in a new, more interesting way is impossible today.  I can only write my complaint, as dull as ever.  

After Christmas, my mother has taken a mental turn for the worse.  She is more confused, more forgetful, and more difficult.  Her mind is slipping, but her body won't quit.  

If my mother had a gas stove, I'd be tempted to turn it on without the flame and sit with her as we both entered the eternal ether.  

I remember once telling a class that Sylvia Plath committed suicide by placing her head in the oven.  The kids were squirming and one boy spoke up.  

"Jesus. . . how could she stand it?  That must have hurt!"

I realized then that they were thinking of their own electric ovens.  Ho!  Yea. . . that would hurt.  

Virginia Woolf filled the pockets of her coat with rocks before entering the river.

Such things.  

But that photograph. . . oh, that gives me pleasure.  Late December on the Boulevard.  Tank tops, shorts, and shopping.  I love the blur, and I would shoot everything on a slow shutter if I didn't feel it would become too redundant.  But I do love the impressionism of the thing.  

The joy of being a flaneur.  And a voyeur, too.  I will have cards made u[ that I can pass out to people who query.

"What are you doing?"

I have fallen in love all over again with my newest, nearly silent Leica--on burst mode.  It is a new world.  But last night, I dreamed of that Big Assed Black Cat Liberator Aero Ektar.  I will load it into the car and make some pictures with it again.  I have two friends, twin brothers, who have lived together their entire lives.  I have never photographed the two of them together before.  It is difficult to photograph friends, I find.  Too much fear of failure.  But what an opportunity I am passing on, I think.  Maybe I will try.

Dilemma.  

I can barely function with this dizziness right now.  It is awful and makes me want to go back to bed.  There is a thing called the Epley Maneuver that you can do to try to move the crystal back into place, but you need to know if the ear affected is the left or right.  I am hoping that things just straighten out on their own.  If they don't, though. . . . 

Isn't it ironic?  I mean, this happens on the first day of Dry January.  I'll be fine, though, without the liquor.  But it isn't fun.  It is almost impossible to feel distinguished or dapper or elegant without a cocktail glass in hand, isn't it?  Rather, one feels like a preacher at a New Year's Eve party, a stick in the mud, someone whose sole quality is Puritanical.  I much prefer Nick Charles, "The Thin Man."  Nick and Nora knew how to live (on her money).  Rather, I feel like a man in a stiff black coat preaching against the sin of pleasure.  Health is one thing, but elegance is another.  

Still, it is hard to be an elegant fat man.  Yes, there is that.  He wasn't called "The Thin Man" for nothing.  I will drink again once I am svelte.  O.K.  Maybe not svelte, but not the waddling messy mass of a lump I am right now.  

Here's to having a figure!