Solitude

As I finished writing yesterday's entry, I walked out to give the yardman two checks, for I had not seen him in awhile.

"How's it going, Henry?"

"It's O.K. sometimes."

"Remember when it was good most times?"

"Oh yea, mon."

Henry is my longest running relationship now.  We go back over twenty years and three houses.

The day was hot and I felt like nothing.  Still, I took a run too close to noon and was even less enthusiastic about anything after.  Showered, I went to buy plastic sleeves for the Polaroids and then went on to lunch.  Beer, I thought, would be good on a day like this, and even though I had told myself that I would quit drinking. . . and it was good.  A sandwich and some sweet cucumbers and I was sluggish.  Picked up the dry cleaning (why do I have such a thing, I wonder) and went by the studio to work a little bit, then home to scan and process.  And an Americano sounded fine.  I responded to emails, mostly models and the minutia of when and what, sending off jpeg pictures, scanning and processing, and then having worked through my desired nap, it seemed time for dinner.  Sushi, I thought, and a big Kirin nuclear beer.

It was early and I was alone on the veranda.  The staff came out to say hello, bringing me sake which I did not want, and then after ordering beer, two.  A slap on my back and a hello from behind, I turned to see my friend the literary traveler.  Sit, sit, I'll buy you a drink.  No, no, my wife is in the car.  I'm picking up pizza next door.  I talked to one waiter about school, another about the tall Japanese waitress who they never let wait on me who was stuck in NYC for a wedding that had to be postponed until Monday. Apparently the Big Apple has the Big Fear.  My friend, returning with his pizza, called out, "where everybody knows your name."  Sure, I thought.  I forgot to point out to him that the music was not playing.  Spend enough money. . . .

Hot hot heat.  The barometric pressure rises so that you expect a storm, but the storm doesn't come.  It makes me fear for worse weather.  Back to the house, the air conditioner strains cooling the house.  I pour the whiskey one must consume after sushi (I think it is recommended by the Surgeon General) and returned to scanning.  I will not go out tonight, I almost said aloud in response to a phone message I had received to meet some friends at a wine bar.  I could go.  There is no reason not to.  And there is really no reason to stay in.  Alone.

I watched a documentary about Van Gogh on Netflix.  Not good, not bad, but I now want to read his letters.  He died from solitude, he writes.  All he did was paint and paint.  He was too much alone.

How much of it was madness one wonders?  How much the other?  Six months later, his brother Theo died, too.  I will look into this today.  I must know more.