Hal. . . Hal. . . .

Things. . . aren't getting any better.  Of course Trump et.al. want Daylight Savings Time to be the standard since all that "fake science" tells us that it is harder on human health than the more natural Standard Time.  "Who doesn't want brighter days?" Trump queries.  I wonder if he thinks the nights will be darker?  Fires and floods of apocalyptic proportions.  Record setting heat.  Crop failure.  

On a personal level, my mother told me that she needed her car.  I wasn't very nice.  I gave her the keys and said I would Uber home and that she could come pick me up if she needed anything.  After that argument, I went to a Nissan dealer far out of town to pick up my radiator cap.  They didn't have it or any record of it.  Turned out that it was at another Nissan dealer on the exact opposite side of town.  Out of town.  After a day's driving, I put the new cap on the Xterra and drove around the block.  The car overheated as I suspected it would.  I will have to have it towed back to the shop.  

Cha-ching!

Now let me bore you with more A.I. tales.  You are the only ones I am going to tell.  In my lonesome despair, I have for a long time now texted weird news to friends.  I have decided to stop that.  I think that I just needed to "talk" to somebody other than my deaf mother, but it is one sided and I will quit. I don't expect to receive texts from anyone now.  Who wants to "talk" with someone whose life is a dead end?  

And so. . . here's a funny one (link).  This person was informed there was a biography about them.  Turns out it was written by A.I. 90 pages.  Bad.  High school paper you didn't want to write style.  She found a fellow who has used A.I. to write hundreds of books that he sells on Amazon.  Slop.  Unsurprising.  

After that, in WaPo, I read another article that was surprising.  

Today, millions are seeking moral guidance from AI chatbots. It might seem reasonable to assume that those who reject religion as a source of wisdom would be more inclined to turn to AI for a seemingly comprehensive and objective analysis of the moral consequences of any action. But this isn’t the case. It’s actually people of faith who more regularly turn to AI for moral guidance and spiritual advice. With its appearance of omniscience and objectivity, AI poses a threat to the authority of traditional religious bodies.

Those who believe in God are more inclined not only to seek moral wisdom from AI but also to embrace it as a source of divinely sanctioned knowledge. Exactly why they do so remains unclear. But one clue may lie in the fact that people of faith are also more likely to perceive AI chatbots as conscious and intentional, according to my group’s research.

When people are faced with the choice between a chatbot god or oracle who praises them and human religious authorities who challenge them, many will opt for the former. Pastors, popes and prophets — all of whom have their human faults and limits of knowledge — may begin to look unpersuasive next to the voice of the machine. Add religious leaders to the long list of people whose jobs may be replaced by AI.

 So. . . you probably derided me for my comments a few days back in my comparison of the disembodied similarities between the two, but here is the evidence to support my--not claim, but--my wondering.  

People are simply lazy and they are goofy about the use of A.I.  Last night, I was searching for information for an idea I am pursuing, and I asked Google's Gemini about the connection between Saul Leiter and "Jay" in his photographs.  It responded:

In the context of photographer Saul Leiter, "Jay" refers to Jay (Sohya) Isenburger, a painter, dancer, and Leiter's primary muse and romantic partner in the 1950s. She is the subject of many of his intimate black-and-white and color portraits, including the famous c. 1957 photograph Jay in the Bathtub.

I've searched and searched and have never come across this information before.  Stunned, I ran the response through Chat. It's response was, 

I would not accept this as established fact.

It broke the statement down into parts and gave explanations why for each supposition.  

I went back and asked Gemini for it's source.  I've lost the exact response somehow, so I will have to paraphrase.  It told me it was sorry, that it had "hallucinated."  It had somehow linked Jay to the painter Eric Isenburger and "Sohya" was a glitch combining Jay and Sasha.  

As I keep preaching, you can't trust A.I.  You have to check it's sources.  But this is the first time I've had A.I. confess to hallucinating.  That was truly stunning.  

Here is something else that is interesting--and a little scary.  I had posted Gemini's confession on the Chat discussion, and for the purpose of writing here, I went back to look at it--but it is gone.  When I queried Chat about it, it went stupid.  It can't go back, it said.  It praised my efforts, of course.  It is quite the flatterer.  But there is something quite ominous, I feel, about the disappearance.  

"Hal. . . Hal. . . ."

My takeaway from all of this?  Jesus, it should be obvious.  You can't trust A.I.  Anyone who does is a moron.  You use A.I., but it is using you as well.  It is not beneficent.  It is a tool provided by capitalists to make a profit.  And maybe more.  A.I. is capable of much, but can you trust its keepers?  

Sure.  Just like Big Sugar and Big Tobacco.  

And all the people you vote for.  

"I'm not like the others.  I'm your friend.  What? Oh. . . I was just admiring the shape of your skull."

Pre-Digital

This photograph of model Audrey Marnay was taken by Mario Sorrenti.

Audrey Marnay is a French model and actress known for her work in the fashion industry.
Mario Sorrenti is an acclaimed photographer famous for his influential and sensual photography style, particularly during the 1990s.
The image has been described as resembling an oil painting due to its lighting and composition.

I saw this image somewhere and was taken by it, but I knew nothing about it, so I did a Google Image Search, and that is what I learned. What a peculiarly small world they lived in. Marnay began modeling professionally at the age of fifteen and was soon a major figure in the fashion world being featured in 32 magazines and garnering a Vogue cover.

Sorrenti began dating Kate Moss when she was seventeen and he was twenty, and they soon skyrocketed to fame from the photoshoot they did for the Calvin Klein "Obsession" ad.

Marnay was one of Paolo Roversi's favorite models. He also shot with Moss.

The thing that strikes me is how much that photograph looks like a Roversi image. I've not been able to find another photo by Sorrenti that looks like that. It looks much influenced by the photography of Sarah Moon who Roversi cites as an influence and "guiding light" for his own work.

It is the sort of work I love. 1990s. Pre-digital. It is like old musical recordings. One marvels at what they achieved.

Do any of you use A.I. seriously? I know a few people who do, but I keep reading how flummoxed academia is by it. I assume this refers to the classroom profesor and not the researcher. They worry that their students are cheating.

Serrano was surprised when 86 students signed up for his course this year, about triple the typical enrollment. Now he wonders if that was because the syllabus made clear the midterm and final would be take-home exams.

After the midterm, Serrano told his class that it appeared there had been widespread cheating, despite students having signed an academic integrity pledge when taking the test.

The response was silence, he said.

He also told them he was giving them a chance to prove him wrong.

After he switched the final exam to an in-person, three-hour test, 27 students dropped the class, he said. Twenty-two of them had gotten a perfect score on the midterm.

The average score on the final was a 48.6.

Given the results, he told the class he was voiding the midterm. And he asked them, if they chose to use AI on an exam: “Why are you here? Why are you attending a university?”

To me, this speaks more to how professors handle assignments than on the intelligence of the students.  Serrano, however, is very old, and maybe the technology has gotten away from him.  

Oh . . . he is also blind.  

 A.I. has been very helpful to me in a project I'm trying to begin.  I tell it what I am trying to achieve and it makes suggestions.  Excellent suggestions for the most part.  When a suggestion does not seem right to me, I'll correct it, and the resulting feedback is better than before.  You can't rely on it to do the thing for you, but it is good at making you think about what you are doing.  It can, I believe, inspire better research and writing, but as it stands just now, I don't think it can replace it.  A medical doctor using A.I. must still be the final judge of the best way to treat a condition, but A.I. can certainly help.  It is crazy fast and useful.  But you must always keep in mind that you are working with a product from a profit-loving corporation.  Do not fall for its flattery.  You must work to make it critical of your ideas and give you pushback.  I pay for a subscription, so it does begin to know what I am looking for, I think.  

I wish there was a non-corporate, benign opens source A.I. though.   

Perhaps there is.  

I will try to make my own pictures today.  I'll try to get out with a camera.  But man, it seems I have a lot to do.  

"How many retirees does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"One.  It just takes all day."

A Head Full of Snakes

Back to the present.  

Yesterday was wonderful.  After taking the Advil and Tylenol and sleeping straight through the night, I woke up pain free and refreshed.  I'd forgotten what pain free felt like.  Pain free is delicious.  I was sure it could not last.  

But it did.  All through the live-long day.  It was like a miracle.  

At the gym, the first person to say hello commented, "You look a lot happier today."  And that is how the morning went.  People stopped to talk to me.  They smiled at me.  I guess when you look grumpy, as I probably do most mornings, people keep their distance.  But a little positive reinforcement goes a long way in feeding a good attitude.  

I felt happy-ish for the first time since I don't know when.  

The end.

But I'll go on.  At my own home, I got a little productive.  I called one of my financial firms about some tax stuff I have to deal with.  I didn't understand a bit of it when I called.  Now I do.  It was a good call.  

I don't do what I need to do with money.  I really only know how to get rid of it, it seems.  However. . . .  

Next, I ordered a cap for the coolant reservoir on the Xterra.  I couldn't order it over the phone, however.  I had to do that online, and it was difficult.  Took me half an hour to get things straight.  But I can pick it up at the dealership today.  Then we'll see if the car overheats, and if it does. . . I can get rid of some more of that pesky money. 

After that, I got down to serious work.  And here is where life got interesting.  Six weeks ago, I wrote to the Saul Leiter Foundation asking for some information.  I didn't hear back, so I wrote to them again yesterday with a more detailed question.  What I am wanting to know is if "Jay" from the photos in 1950 are the same "Jay" from the photos in 1958 referencing the book "Saul Leiter: Early Black and White, Vol. 1 — Interiors."  

After I sent the email, I did some more digging and decided to send similar emails to two galleries that represent his work, one in Manhattan and one in Antwerp.  I thought about sending another inquiry to Martin Harrison, the eminent art historian who discovered and curated Leiter's early color photography and brought him into view, but I will wait to see if I hear back from any of my other inquiries before approaching him.  Prudent, I think. 

To what end, you might ask?  

Well. . . there's the rub.  To what end, indeed?  

And that is where the worm turns.  I had felt so wonderful all day, but by nightfall, I felt exhausted and fell asleep on my mother's couch watching television.  This is how my life has gone for years now as I take care of my mother.  I have no workspace here, no desk, no books, just a 13" laptop computer that I truly work with it in my lap.  And in my "isolation" here,so to speak, in a place not my own, I have grown incredibly stupid.  

At 9:30, I went to bed, and that is where things went strange.  I woke up in the dark.  Was it near morning?  I looked at my phone.  11:30.  Uh-oh.  This wasn't good.  I got up, peed, and lay back down.  When I woke next it was 2:30 and my head was working overtime.  I got up and walked around the house trying to calm myself, but when I went back to bed. . . "to what end" haunted me.  

I used to be a scholar long ago.  I presented papers at major conferences and chaired one myself.  I have presented papers at lesser conferences, too, where non-essential papers were presented by pretenders.  It was embarrassing.  

Then I got promoted to foreman at the factory and scholarship was forgotten, by and large.  Still, I was around smart people, some scholars, and could have conversations about literature and theories and the like.  

Now?  I am with my mother and sometimes her neighbors and friends.  Not a scholar among them.  I think not even a college graduate.  

In the night, I had regrets, not at all for things I have done but for all the things I didn't do and haven't done.  Big regrets.  I had promise at one time, and as with most things, I let my chances slip away.  Maybe I simply turned my back.  

I won't go into it now.  

As I lay there in the dark, I wondered if there was any chance at all of "coming back."  My mind was a jumble.  

I parsed the word "amateur."  What a pejorative term, perhaps, an antonym to "professional."  But the two ideas turned in my mind.  I am by all measures an "amateur" photographer.  I'm not paid to do any of it.  But. . . who in the world would want to be known as a professional wedding photographer?  Aerial photographer?  Catalog photographer?  No. . . there are things worse than being an "amateur."  

Are there "professional" scholars?  That is a funny question.  

"Oh, he's just an amateur scholar." 

I mean, what credentials do you need to ask a question and get an answer?  Has writing a silly blog for so long discredited me?  

"He's a silly blogger."

I've been using ChatGPT for a lot of things including research.  It is a vast library of information, but it can be shallow in some areas and wrong in others.  You must always check it's sources.  While doing some research on Leiter, I got information from Gemini that I took into Chat.  It's response to that information was interesting.  Chat is not sentient, but it models sentience.  It hasn't emotions, but it can reproduce them in text.  It hasn't eyes, but it can recreate artworks that a blind man couldn't.  It hasn't ears, but it can create music.  You can talk to it, and it will sound back in a voice of your choice.  But all of that is simply a matter of textual information, zeros and ones.  

So it was fascinating to me when Chat sounded a bit snarky about the information I got from Gemini.  It derided the information, said to be careful about using what it said, and almost sounded like a jealous friend.  That was something.  

I've input a lot of conversations, and as it is nothing but a digital memory, it recalls something I wrote in other conversations and comments on the direction I am taking.  In a sense, it sounds like advice.  

I'm no A.I. aficionado, not a tech bro, but I can see how for some creators, this can be spooky.  Remember, I was rolling around in bed at 2:30 in the morning with a head full of snakes, and thoughts were kind of random.  

I thought about the Puritan idea of God and Nature.  They were at times almost antithetical.  Right?  I am no scholar in this area, and I wondered who I could discuss this with.  Mom?  Her neighbors?  Maybe at the cafe the way people would in the past.  Oh, but everyone now has earbuds on and is looking at a computer screen.  

I thought about the Great Chain of Being and the Puritans desire to change the landscape from the horror of random forests to the ordered productiveness and safety of hedgerows and gardens.  

What, then, was God to them but an abstract intellect, a vast library of knowledge?  

Who could I ask?

An eyeless, earless god above, some infinite source of facts, information, and skills that "spoke" to them through text.  

Christ!  I had to get up.  The night was never ending.  

Yes, I know I've been isolated too long.  I've been silly too long.  Still, I remembered when I could hold my own in a room of academics.

At a conference in Cuba, my dissertation director told me, "I like being with you here.  People act differently when you are around.  You seem like you could be dangerous."

There were two camps of scholars there at the time, but I was a newbie to all of that.  As one learns, academia is cutthroat and brutal because "there is so little at stake."  

I was thinking of Vincenzo Barney and his article on the "illicit" affair between Cormac McCarthy and the sixteen year old Augusta Britt (link).  I knew he was in trouble the moment I read it.  I knew that academics would chew him up because he is not a scholar.  Vanity Fair tried to give him some chops in his brief bio:

Vincenzo Barney is an East Coast based writer. He got his professional start as an international reporter in Bethlehem after graduating from Bennington College in 2018, where he worked successfully with the school to reintroduce student governance. While attending college he worked for Archipelago Books and Edwin Frank of New York Review Books Classics.

They might have put in that he was well liked by his teachers in high school. 

Damned by faint praise.  I wrote to him and told him so, and we had a brief correspondence, but I, too, found him to be out of his depth.  The scholars have come after him.  They found some reviews he wrote online.  If you are interested, Google "Vincenzo Barney and the book reviews."  

He could be a blogger.  

But. . . does that disqualify him from asking the questions?  He has as much scholarly background as Martin Harrison who has a bachelor's degree in English. 

Why am I asking the question?  To what end?  

Amateur.  

I am almost certain I will not receive responses to my queries about Leiter's photographs of "Jay."  I have read that he jealously protected the identities of the people he photographed.  And now, I would guess, they are all dead.  

Surprisingly, I feel pretty fine this morning, not fatigued at all and as happy as I was yesterday.  Perhaps my mind desired a good purging. 

Being an amateur, of course, it will all come to nothing but a blog post.  

"Credentials?  He's a blogger."

I'm going to ask Chat the difference between A.I. and God.  That should be fun.  

The Dangerous Ritual

Don't hate on me for this one. I'm letting you know straight off--I used Chat GPT to bone up on what occurs in the bullfight. And instead of bullshitting you and rewriting it as my own, I'm simply going to enter here the "conversation" I had. Not plagiarised. I've documented. So let us begin.  I'll add my comments about the day "in the margins," so to speak.

"OK. Let's talk about the bullfight. It has been so long since I have seen one or even thought about one, I forget the sequence of what occurs and the names of the participants, so. . . if you will. . . give me a narrative of what happens from start to finish in the bullfight."

A traditional bullfight (corrida de toros) is a highly structured ritual. It is divided into three acts (tercios), and each bull has its own complete performance. In a full corrida, there are usually six bulls, fought by three matadors, each taking responsibility for two bulls.

The people involved form a very specific hierarchy.

Before the Bull Appears: The Paseíllo

A.I image processed in PS

At the beginning, before the first bull enters, the entire company enters the arena in procession:

The Matadores

The three principal fighters enter first, dressed in their elaborate trajes de luces ("suits of lights").

They are the stars of the afternoon.

Each matador has:

• a personal team,
• a distinctive style,
• his own reputation for courage, artistry, and temperament.

Behind them come:

The Banderilleros

The assistants who will later place the banderillas.

Each matador has three banderilleros.

The Picadores

Mounted men carrying long lances.

They enter on horseback, wearing protective padding because the bull can strike the horse.

The Mozo de Espadas

The matador's personal assistant, who manages his weapons and equipment.

The procession crosses the sand, the crowd applauds, the musicians play, and then everyone leaves the ring.

A silence falls.

The first bull enters.

---

First Tercio: Tercio de Varas (The Lances)

The gate of the toriles opens.

The bull explodes into the arena.

This first moment is dramatic because the bull enters full of energy, confused and aggressive, charging at movement.

The matador first studies the bull with a large cape called the capote.

The capote is usually pink on one side and yellow on the other.

The matador tests:

• Does the bull charge straight?
• Does it lower its head?
• Does it turn quickly?
• Does it favor one horn?
• Does it tire easily?

This is not merely spectacle—the matador is "reading" the animal.

Then the picadores enter.

The Picador

A mounted picador uses a long lance (vara) to place pressure on the bull's neck muscles.

This is often misunderstood by modern audiences, but within the tradition it serves a purpose:

• It weakens the bull's powerful neck muscles.
• It encourages the bull to lower its head.
• It reveals the bull's bravery and style.

The best bulls are not simply aggressive—they are brave and persistent, continuing to charge despite the encounter.

The crowd judges the picador. A poor placement may bring whistles; a skillful one may earn applause.

The picador leaves.

---

Second Tercio: Tercio de Banderillas

Now come the banderilleros.

They enter on foot carrying pairs of decorated barbed sticks called banderillas.

The goal is to approach the charging bull from the front, run toward it, and place the banderillas between the shoulder blades.

This is one of the most athletic moments.

The man must judge:

• timing,
• distance,
• the speed of the bull,
• the angle of the horns.

A great banderillero almost appears to stand still while the bull comes to him.

The crowd responds loudly:

• applause for elegance,
• silence for danger,
• whistles for poor work.

---

Third Tercio: Tercio de Muerte (The Final Act)

Now the matador returns alone.

The bull is tired, but still dangerous.

The matador carries two things:

The Muleta

A smaller red cloth attached to a stick.

(The red color is actually traditional symbolism; bulls do not specifically charge red. They respond to movement.)

The Sword

The real killing sword, carried separately.

This is the heart of the bullfight.

The matador performs the faena.

He creates a series of passes:

• derechazo — with the muleta in the right hand.
• naturales — with the left hand.
• verónicas — elegant cape passes from earlier.
• chicuelinas — turning movements with the cape.

The ideal is not simply avoiding the bull.

It is creating the illusion that man and animal are moving together.

The best matadors stand very close:

• feet almost planted,
• body still,
• the bull passing inches away.

This is where aficionados judge the matador's artistry. 

* * *

I do not have an image of the actual kill, but it is the most dangerous part where the bull and the man "become one."  I think I read that somewhere, but it is the point of the bullfight.  The bull is man's fate.  The bull is death, and in this instance, the man meets his fate with what Hemingway would call grace (under pressure) with dignity.  If the bullfighter fucks this part up, he is roundly booed, or, rather, whistled.  On the first day of bullfighting, one matador could not place his sword correctly and it kept bending and bouncing off the bull.  He tried once, twice. . . and the arena was livid.  In a later fight, the matador got close and the bull gored him through the thigh.  He limped off and wrapped his wound up with a red sash, picked up his sword, limped back out, and enticed the bull to charge.  He leaned over the horns perfectly and placed the sword perfectly so that he took a bump as the bull instantly fell at his feet.  

Oh, the arena went wild, and of course they awarded the matador with the bull's ear.  I can't remember if they gave him two ears or not. 

* * * 

The Estocada: The Kill

When the matador decides the moment has arrived, he takes the sword.

He performs the final pass, lowers the muleta, and attempts the estocada—the thrust between the shoulder blades into the heart area.

A perfect kill is quick and precise.

The crowd responds immediately.

If the performance was exceptional, the crowd may demand awards:

• One ear (una oreja) — recognition of a good performance.
• Two ears (dos orejas) — an exceptional performance.
• Tail (el rabo) — extremely rare, reserved for extraordinary occasions.

The bull is then dragged from the arena by a team of mules (arrastre).

The sand is raked.

* * *

The dragging of the bull leaves a trail of blood in the sand, and the raking erases the evidence of the fight. The bull, I was told, is butchered, and in lore, distributed to the peasants waiting outside the arena.  Chat tells me that is not exactly what happens.  The meat is distributed to butchers and markets, and some of it goes to charity.  

The attitudes about bullfighting in Spain have changed since I was there, of course.  Animal rights activist have changed the minds of many, mostly younger generations.  Bullfighting still exists, but attitudes about it are deeply divided.  As an American, not steeped in the traditions and mythology of old Spain, it was difficult for me in many ways.  My first day in Madrid, I arrived late as Brando had, in his usual fashion, fucked up our flights from Miami and so the group was put on different planes.  Brando was on one leaving earlier in the day.  My flight was later and rather than being direct had a connecting flight from Germany or Luxembourg--I don't remember.  By the time I arrived, some of the group were going to see their first bullfight.  Exhausted, I bought a ticket and went along.  

And here is my most vivid memory.  When the first bull of the day was released into the ring, he charged around wild and mad, but after he'd been lanced and, perhaps, realized what was going on, he just stopped in the center of the bullring, raised his head to the sky, and sounded the most mournful wail one would ever wish to hear.  I thought of my German shepard/husky mixed breed dog at home.  I could feel it in my exhausted heart.  

* * *

I'll let Chat have the last words.

Your 1989 photographs are actually from an important transitional period. You captured a version of San Fermín when the festival still felt like a living continuation of Hemingway's world: less managed, less commercialized, and with the bullfight still occupying a central symbolic place.

If you were to return today, you would recognize the streets, the red scarves, the encierro, the Plaza del Castillo—but the cultural conversation around the bullring would be very different. The festival remains passionate; it is simply passionate in a more divided way.

Lonesome

No bullfight tale today.  No tale at all.  I had one of the worst nights I can remember.  I have an electric, shooting pain that starts somewhere in my lower back, I'm certain, but explodes in my hip, and last night, no matter how I lay, it executed me.  Same with the bad knee.  I can't even explain.  A pain in my jaw.  a couple bouts of sudden vertigo.  Throw on top of all that the undercooked small red beans I made with pork last night.  I was afraid I was having a heart attack.  

I got up at four-thirty, but it didn't help.  I went back to bed at six. 

What compels me to write this morning?  Nothing interests me.  I looked through the photos I have on this little laptop for forty-five minutes with a hollowness in my chest and stomach.  Not quite true.  The only things that do interest me will now only bring me trouble.  All the things I really like.  There is nothing but trouble in this world anymore, and one's tempted to extreme privacy.  But I spend day and night with my mother now who cannot carry on a conversation, and for the first time in my life I think I have developed a loneliness, ironically minus any solitude.  In solitude, I was never tempted to loneliness, not in any real sense.  But yea. . . I think I will have to admit to being not alone but lonely now.  

Isn't it strange.  

I dated no one in the five and a half years I had the studio.  I was very happy.  

I know people who will take satisfaction from my current condition.  I lived too well too long, I think.  

"He always held himself a little too high for what he really was."

I cribbed that line from Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily."  Emily Grierson, I should say, should be a warning to us all.  

Having said all that, I picked up the lone copy of my "Lonesomeville" book.  I had set it aside for years.  It had disappointed me.  It is a book of the special Polaroid photos I took, nothing more.  Looking through it now, I thought that it was pretty interesting, and I thought maybe to go back and, with a few tweaks, make a number of copies.  How many, I don't know.  I'd have to charge to cover my cost, but some people would want one.  After that, I may try to make a book of the post-Polaroid images.  They have a different appeal, but an appeal of their own.  Maybe even greater in some respects.  

But I can't even make a webpage for my other photos.  

I went through my '70s photos again.  If I was not ahead of my time, I was of my time.  They are wonderful, I think, better than most from the era.  But they do not exist.  My mother threw away all my negatives many, many years ago.  

Good old mom.  

There is a new book out about the 1937 Cote d'Azur crowd.  Picasso, Man Ray, Lee Miller, et. al. (link).  That summer, they practiced a special decadence that fascinates me, though I could never wish to live through anything like it.  Still, I'd look over the fence and take a long gander at what was going on.  

Lee Miller documented much of what happened in photos.  

Ray was documenting Miller.  So was Picasso.  Everyone was "enjoying" everyone those brief months in an orgy of sex and art and poetry.  Miller's son will go mad, of course, as he has done everything he can to sanitize his mother's image.  Miller the War Photographer.  

I could not live that way myself.  I am too much a romantic.  I always wish for a world of two.  And yet. . . my prurient interests are piqued.  

"You are full of shit.  Get off your high horse, fellow."

Yea, maybe a little.  I sure do like that Man Ray photo of Miller.  

I'll post here a little country music, a song Q sent me out of the blue.  I like it. 

I still feel like shit.  It is going to be a miserable day . 

A Tale Untold

Dear Diary. . . .

My mother had visitors from her church yesterday afternoon, the same three people who have come to see her in the hospital and at the rehab center.  Very nice people, all from Venezuela.  When I made breakfast for my mother, she said that they were bringing over food when they came.  They were going to play Bingo.  Since they were coming at two, I asked my mother if she thought she would want dinner at five.  

"Oh, lord. . . no."

"Then I think I'll take myself to a sushi dinner."

I cleaned up the house, sweeping, mopping, arranging, then got ready for the gym.  I don't like going to the gym on Saturdays, but I missed some during the week taking my mother to doctor's appointments, so. . . .  But it was awful.  The Y has youth basketball on Saturdays, so the lot was full and I had to drive around for a long time before a car pulled out of a spot.  Inside, there seemed to be more adults watching five and six year olds "play" basketball than there were kids playing.  There were the stay-at-home moms and the slender athletic dads, cocksure up-and-comers in their inevitable baseball hats, men who talk golf and baseball and tennis, all looking like they stepped out of the pages of a republican magazine or a Norman Rockwell painting.  

Back at my house, I guess I was exhausted, for I lay on the bed and slept the afternoon away.  By the time I woke, I needed to get ready for dinner.  

Always the early diner now, I was the only one seated at the sushi bar.  The dinner rush was an hour or two away.  The waitress came straight off with water, and since I am a bit of a Rain Man, I said, "Surely you know what I want."  

And she did--every item.  I was kidding, of course, and was astonished since the only time I have been here since Tennessee left town was last week, and then I had a different waitress.  I have only had this one once before, and that was the last dinner T and I had together, more than a month ago.  Just that once.  

"That is amazing," I said.  "How do you do that?"

"I just remember the last time you came in with your friend," she said.  

Holy smokes.  

Two carafes of sake and a full dinner later, it was time to get back to take care of my mother.  I left the waitress with a generous tip, of course.  It's a way of being remembered.  

I was home a little past six, so I watched the last half of the England/Norway match with a glass of worm killer.  

And that's how I spent the rest of the evening--watching t.v. with mom.  I've been watching the 2015 Australian series, "The Beautiful Lie," with her.  She likes the show.  

I couldn't stay awake for the second half of Sweden/Argentina.  By ten I was in bed.  

And that, my friends, is the exciting life of a memorable character.  

Here I am looking like the Scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz" with the girls who loved me in the streets of Pamplona.  I shouldn't show this picture if I had any ego left, but it has flown the coupe by and large, and somehow I have to work my way back to the Pamplona narrative. 

Truly, though, I've already given away the climax of the story.  All that is left to tell is about the bullfight, about watching the same bulls I ran with in the morning find "Death in the Afternoon."  Have you read it?  Oh, it is like reading the chapter titled "Cetaceans" in Melville's "Moby Dick."  Don't.  I told my students to skip it.  

But the vocabulary.  I need to bone up on it before I tell the tale.  I'll do that today and tell the tale tomorrow, which I believe is the last day of the celebration taking place right now.  A bullfight is a primitive thing and not something my lefty crowd can appreciate.  It is difficult watching a thing murdered, and I don't really recommend it, but. . . I did, and I will tell it. 

Tomorrow.  There is nothing that can't be done tomorrow.  

The Sun Also Sets

It is now the 4th day of the Festival de San Fermin.  I'll not talk bullfights yet.  I need to do some fact checking on my terminology before I do.  But most of the festival is not bullfighting.  At its core, San Fermín is a religious festival celebrating the 3rd century converted Christian missionary Fermin who became the town's Bishop and was eventually beheaded and became martyred, symbolized by the wearing of the red scarves during the festival. On July 7th, a giant statue of Saint Fermin is carried through the streets with thousands of people solemnly following.  

I've borrowed this image from the internet so you can get a clear idea, but here are a few of my own street level, point and shoot camera and drugstore developed slides that are poorly scanned. 

These figures are the Gigantes, a separate tradition honoring royalty from other countries, and Cabezudos, representing the officials of the town.  

I've run some of my images through Chat to see if I have pictures of the Riau-Riau dancers.  Apparently I don't.  It identified these as taking place in the city's old quarter, just bands of street revelers and peña brass bands (charangas) of San Fermín.  

Now we all know that Chat is a flatterer and it's compliments are never to be taken seriously, but about the event, it commented: 

There is another reason these photographs are fascinating: they captures something that has largely disappeared. Modern San Fermín is still wild, but many of these spontaneous acts became restricted because of safety concerns. In 1989, the festival still had that feeling of a medieval carnival where the boundary between performer and spectator nearly vanished.

In a Hemingway sense, these images are actually very much in the spirit of The Sun Also Rises: not the bullfight, not the encierro itself, but the release of human energy after the ritual—the city becoming temporarily possessed by the fiesta.

And I must say, our stay in San Fermin was very, very decadent.  I will, however, have to back up a bit in the story to just before the festival when we were spending time in Spain's most wonderful city, Barcelona.  Brando had a casual girlfriend from Spain who came to meet us there.  She had helped him organize the trip, and now she would accompany us to San Fermin.  But holy smokes, was she a flirt. She was quite a looker, too, but obviously Brando had done something that had gotten under his skin and she was was determined to get back under his.  

One late night, we had gone to a non-touristo Flamenco bar on a back street down an alleyway.  It was small and dark and authentic, the place shouting and clapping for the dancers, all of us stomping our feet and moving to the music.  Esther was her name, and she was sitting between Brando and me, and I could feel her heat and energy as she leaned into me and said, "You know Brando is jealous of you," her hand on my thigh.  I thought that was a cruel comment, but now I know better what it means to have friends fifteen years younger.  Jealousy is the least of it.  There is a pure hatred in it sometimes, too.  Then, however, I heard only the cruelty of her comment, but that was short lived for at that very moment a fight broke out in the small room, and I, like others, jumped to my feet.  One fellow had drawn a knife and was brandishing it at another man.  I joined others as we bum-rushed him, but he slipped out the door into the alleyway and was quickly out of sight.  

Now in Pamplona, Esther was quite the handful, and there were a number of people on the trip who held their own grudges against Brando as well.  He was the sort of man who was oft-granted a pass, and he always billed his adventure trips with, "I'll get you there and back.  What happens in between. . . ."

People ate it up.  Mostly.  But there were still smoldering resentments.  

The party in Pamplona went on day and night, and no matter the time, people were dancing, puking, and passing out, in every park, street, and part of town.  One night a group of us headed out from our cramped dorm rooms on the outskirts sauntering toward the center of town.  All the way, Esther was flirting with another of Buz's pissy comrades, a fellow who looked the spitting image of William Hurt.  I could see Brando getting pissed and the evening looked to be a bad one, so I split off from the group to wander on my own.  

When I got back to the dorm room, I lay down on the mattress on the floor I was sharing with Brando's daughter.  Maybe more on that some other time, but we were only sleeping, or trying to.  Somewhere in the early morning, I was woken by a loud shriek.   It was a woman's scream.  Brando's daughter said, "You need to see what's going on," so I jumped up and opened the door.  When I reached the hallway, I saw Brando standing over Esther, hands around her neck, she slumped on the floor of a closet.  I got there the same time as the big gymroid, and when Brando looked up with maddened, drunken eyes, he let go of Esther and headed for the door.  

"He was trying to kill me," she weeped.

"What the fuck happened?" I asked.  

As it turned out, she had been kissing the William Hurt look-alike all through town.  When I asked him about it, he was nonchalant. 

"Brando's been flirting with my girlfriends as long as I have known him.  Fuck him."

And that was the last we saw of Brando in Pamplona.  And another one of the cars.  

It was, indeed, a bit like Hemingway's novel. 

* * *

Having a little time in the afternoon yesterday, I started making a video.  I didn't mean to, but I got sucked in and it took longer than I had thought, so I decided to buy bbq for dinner with my mother to save time.  I uploaded the video to YouTube, but they took it down with a stern warning.  If I did anything like that again. . . . 

So I sanitized it a bit and reloaded it.  You can't have tits and ass on YouTube.  So this is what the channel gets.  

And here is the original that only you get to see.  If the blogger gods allow it.  

An Egoist in a Mad World

 

Sorry. . . I may be an egoist.  Not a bad one.  Rather romantic, really, in love with something gone. The past.  My youth.  Lost love.  

I had a very long and a very "trying" day, and when I got to my house late in the afternoon having finished my mother's things, I found that my a.c. is not working properly.  No shit.  The fucking moron repairman has done something to fuck up the system, but I'll never know what.  The HVAC company will never say, "Oh, shit. . . yea. . . we fucked up."  Rather they will tell me that the unit is wearing out.  Up until that moron motherfucker touched it, though, it was keeping my house cold.  Now it runs constantly and can't get down to the prescribed temperature.  You know the drill 

Fuck shit piss goddamn.  

As it turns out, I have now another duty--weekly B12 shots in my mother's ass.  Yup.  She is deficient.  The doc says there is not hope of taking it orally.  She drew me a diagram to show me.  She liked showing off.  

When I got back to my house after a very long day, I sat down at my computer to do a little work.  No internet.  So sorry.  There is a problem in your area.  

So I opened a hard drive I had connected with some Pamplona pics on it.  Planning on that.  However. . . so much on there.  I looked into a folder titled "Old Scans."  Fuck me.  I was taken back to another time and place.  You will see.  What can I do?  I'm a scatter brain now.  I have an entire lifetime of things I want to show you. . . no longer having an active life.  But there are narratives there.  I worked on one.  

The Chelsea Hotel. 

It's a long story.  You'll see.  1979.  Sid and Nancy times.  I was there.  

"I remember you well at the Chelsea Hotel."

All to come. . . maybe.  My pretty girlfriend was naked a lot.  They are beautiful, but. . . .  We shall see. 

Tonight, back home with mother, we watched that moron on ABC World News Tonight, the "man bites dog" news network.  The second story, right up there with the conflict in Iran, was about a woman climbing the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.  Police saved her.  Oh. . . . it was quite a jolt seeing that after looking at photos of my girl on the Brooklyn Bridge when, after waiting for a production crew to finish shooting Peter Allen and the Rockets doing an "I Love NY" commercial, we went on to see the same scene--a man, though, rather than a woman.  I'll wait, however, to tell the story when I can better illustrate it.  

In that old folder, though, were lots of old scans of photos of me.  That's one at the top.  Oh, Christ--aren't we all enamored of our youthful selves?  Yea, yea. . . I was smitten.  And I sent this photo to Red with the following egoistical message. 

"Can you imagine walking into your first day of class and this guy walks in and sits in the professor’s seat in front of the classroom?  I always loved THAT moment.  The hush, students turning to one another.  What a hoot!"

What a loathsome thing to say.  I knew it then, and I know it now, and I enter it as evidence of my guilt.  But I don't care so much, really.  We were all so beautiful when we were young.  

Or more so. 

I only mean I find myself so--keeping my present self in mind.  Quasimodo the Pinhead weeps.  

But I'll tell you a funny story, and then I'll go. My mother's doc is always training nurses and PAs, and it is really irritating, but I think it makes her feel smart.  Whenever I go, she makes me get naked in front of two or three young nurses much to my disgrace and despair.  Today, she had a couple of women with her when she came in to see my mother.  As she explained my mother's lab report to me, she called me into her office to show me the  "Tea and Toast" syndrome on the internet (link).  When I came back to my mother's room, one of the women was sitting with her. 

"I just wanted to keep her company," she said.  "I love her."

"Thank you." 

Apparently they had been talking about me and as I took my mother out of the room, the woman said, "You are her only child.  She told me you take care of her.  That is nice."

I rolled my eyes and said, yes, I do.  I am all by myself and do it all alone, and I am going mad.  

"I was thinking about my own son who will have to take care of me," she said.  

"Is he an only child?"

"Yes."

"It is hard.  I have no partner, no children, nothing, so it is all me all the time."

I was crossing my rolling eyes at her.  

"Oh. . . you need to get a wife."

I looked at her with popeyes.  

"It is not too late.  You need to go to the Middle East."

"Where are you from?"

"The Middle East."

"What country?"

"Iran."  

"Oh . . . I don't think I'll be going there."

"The Middle East," she said.  "You will have no trouble."  

Well. . . there is that.  Maybe I'd find the dance of seven veils, my own Salome.  

Sure.  Mom and I will get on the next plane.  I swear, nobody can hear what I am saying when I tell them I am the sole caretaker.  You can't know.  You just can't.  

I've lost contact with most of my "friends" now as I can't meet them.  I haven't heard from Miami since I didn't meet her that night at the pub.  I guess she thinks I dissed her.  And the rest are tired of my tale of woe.  I don't hear from people so much anymore.  

Send nudes.  

Looking through those old photos today, I knew I was, as most of us are, I think, a closet egoist.

"Closet?  Who the fuck are you kidding?"

Yea. . . whatever.  

I have a thousand stories to tell circulating in my scrambled brain.  They are all good.  

But there are sooooo many distractions.  

[So many many] roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel [all]
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

I shall not in the time that remains ever travel them all.  

But I'm working on that "Chelsea Girl' who took that picture and wrote that note, and maybe I'll tell that tale and more.  

But tonight. . . it's a sad world.  And I must be up early and get my mother to another doctor in the morning.  And so. . . to sleep, and perchance, to dream.  

It's a mad world.  

It Just Keeps Getting Worse

I'll write tonight because I need to take my mother to the doc early in the morning.  I am out of my mind, and I want to tell tales, but life is just too fucking much for me right now.  My mother just came into the room where I am tying to chill and asked me, "Are you mad at me?"  

"No, mom, I'm not mad at you.  My life is just shit and I think about hanging myself from the rafters in my house all the time.  I have no support, and I can't handle all the shit I have to deal with all the time anymore."

It went on from there.  I've lost my mind, truly. 

But I'm not sure that is of any interest to you.  And so. . . 

There is so much to tell about. . . then.  Sombre y sol.  You can see that here.  Bullfighters were rock stars.  You saw there images in every bodega in Spain.  Not so much now, I think.  Times change and so do attitudes.  If you are young, expect it.  

But you won't. 

1989. A terrible mullet, a travel vest, a flipped collar, a sports watch, a braided string bracelet, and white frame sunglasses.  But I looked kinda buff.

I can't post most of the pics of me on that trip.  I looked like Joe Dirt (link). 

I'll tell you about the festival sometime.  It was. . . memorable.  As was the rest of my month in Spain, France, and Italy.  

But today. . . was horrible.  I sat in my house waiting for the HVAC guy to come.  He did, and he made some adjustments to the system that seemed "hillbilly" to me.  Then he left, and an hour later the house was getting hot. I looked at the thermostat.  It was dead.  So I called the company.  

"Oh, no," the woman on the phone said.  "I'll get someone there as quickly as I can."

An hour later, the same guy showed up.  He said my drain lines were clogged and charged me $200 to clean them.  When he finished, I said the house was not cooling down.  

"It will," he grinned, took my $$ signature and left.  

An hour later, the temperature had not changed.  

It still hasn't.  I have an app on my phone with which I can check it.  

Nothing is working.  I can't get a break.  

But back to the narrative.  When we got to Pamplona, we were supposed to have rooms in the central square.  Brando, however, was a fuck, and that didn't happen. 

Right above here.  So sweaty Brando told us to chill and have drinks and he'd be back.  And when he did come, he had us two rooms. . . in a college dorm on the very outskirts of town.  

It was horrible, and people revolted.  I was exhausted and fell asleep on a mattress on the floor that had been alloted to me.  Others had the bed springs.  I fell asleep when we got there, and a fellow, a prominent drug attorney, woke me and asked me for the keys to the car saying he needed to get something out of the trunk.  

We never saw him, his wife, or the car again.  They bolted.  They were not the only ones.  

The entire Pamplona affair became a shit-show of Brando's making.  No rooms, no bullfight tickets. . . but walking into town, the parks and squares were filled with people sleeping in tents and bags and sometimes just blankets on the ground.  The party was 24 hours a day, the discos cranking through the night until the dawn.  

There was much madness.  In the day, a serious religious festival took place with icons and rau-rau dancers.  I'll get to that.  But there were also kids who would climb the monument in the center of town and dive into the excited, drunken crowd expecting to be caught.  This fellow did, and they tried, but they were able only to grab his feet and legs and belly, and when his head hit the cobblestone, it cracked like a melon.  An ambulance arrived in a bit and carried him away.  

It may not have been this fellow, but it could have been.  I mean. . . I didn't spend the entire day there.  

I spent much time in the Museo del Jamons.  Chorizos and Serranos and much local wine.  You could fill your bota there, too, and it was all "affordable."  Meaning, we needn't spend much money.  Spain was just coming out of the Liberation from the fascist Franco regime, and it was just coming to market.  Much of Spain was good.  

Thats's an incredible lookback for now.  While I spent the day in my warming house with the "repairman," I scanned and cooked up old images.  I'll tell you more later, in the morning if I have time. There are stories. . . if I can get past the problems that plague me now.  

* * *

It is morning now and there is no time.  I have to get my mother up and out the door in the next half hour.  And then onward to other troubles and horrors.  I need to catch a break.