Still. . . I'm Smiling

I'm still on a mountain high in spite of "everything."  That has to go in quotes, for it is never "everything." Hell, there is so much that is good, but the rough things steal our attentions.  Mine, I mean.  But not yet.  No. . . no, not yet.  Since I've been home, I've been solitary again.  It is O.K., but it stands in stark contrast to the trip.  I will--I must--do something about that.  But company was easier there.  I'm still trying to figure that out through the narrative that I will soon get back to.  But first, apologies for posting so late.

Yesterday, I went to use a large Epson 44" printer, but started later than I had planned.  Then I printed longer than I intended, but the images were so good, I kept saying to myself, "One more, just one."  I didn't get out until just past early afternoon and then went to the gym.  It was three o'clock by then, and I hadn't eaten.  Both of those things are good, I thought, because I have begun to lose some of the lazy, drunken fat I've gained.  But I was hungry and so went to a favorite outdoor cafe to eat and sit out on the end of the boulevard and watch the slim crowd pass.

After lunch, I had plans, left over plans from vacation.  I would do this, then that, all out of the usual realm of hometown existence.  I had my Leica with me.  I would begin.

But when I got to the car, the battery was dead.  Drats!  So I called AAA.  They would be there in less than an hour, they said.  I was parked in an fairly isolated parking lot and had no jumper cables, so I waited.  An hour went by, then more, the minutes passing through me like sandpaper.  An hour and fifteen minutes into it, I got a call.  A truck was two miles away giving a jump to someone and should be there in less than half an hour.  I waited.  Forty-five minutes went by.  I got a call.  It was from a tow truck operator.  He was on the other side of town and would be there in forty minutes.  I, of course, was livid.  I began calling people at AAA complaining.  Of course the person on the other end of the line was some weekend flunky who could not care less, but I was working out my argument for later, for The Big Guy.

"You are a service," I said.  "You advertise your services.  You will provide help in less than an hour."

"Yes sir, we are doing our best."

"Nope, I said, "you are not.  You are doing your cheapest.  You have too few trucks on the road.  You advertise one thing and provide another horrible version of that.  It is like taking money from people to provide a chicken barbecue, and when they all show up on Sunday to eat, you are cooking one chicken at a time on a small grill.  'Sorry,' you say, 'we're doing our best.  We've just got a lot of customers right now.'"

That was a good one, I thought, but the phone moron making his $10/hr was surely just waving the receiver in the air with a smirk.

"Yes sir.  The best I can do is not to credit your account with this call."

Each Christmas, I get another membership from my mother who was always terrified that my '85 Volvo would leave me stranded.

"Great, pal.  You're a fucking champ."

I knew I had better end the conversation there.

By the time the truck showed up and the new battery was installed, it was dark.  The most beautiful day of the year was over.  I'd missed everything.

Home.  A shower.  It was too late to go to market and come home to cook, so I went to a fish shack up the street that used to be very, very good, but which now was hit or miss.  This time, it was a miss.  But I was up and ready to do something, so I drove up to the boulevard to see.  I stared at the crowds in a few joints wanting to see what I saw last week.  But the crowds had not been there, had not transformed.  It was all the same, miserable conservative dolts with joyless paranoid self-satisfied smiles that were a warning rather than an invitation.  The rigid postures and hair that did not bounce.  Brokers and broker's wives and women who wanted one or somebody who made that good conservative money that you could count on.  Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I thought.  I'm going home.

There, at least, I could do something creative.  I had plans.  I would work on the billions of photos I still owe, but first, I'd check my email.  And that led to something else.  Finally, it was late.  I wanted to make at least one photo, so I began working.  Somehow, I'd forgotten things, though.  I'd lost my touch.  Struggling for an hour and a half, I finally had. . . a mess.   It was not at all what I wanted or intended.  Oh well.  I sent it anyway to the model, Drug Skinny.

Earlier, I'd taken some herbal sleep aids, but herbs do not have any kick, so I dug out a Xanax that someone had sent.  They were weak ones, he'd said.  O.K., I thought, winding down.

I didn't wake up until nine-thirty this morning.  That was the first time I'd opened my eyes.  I lay there comatose for a long time, my body heavy.  Surely it was the combo, I thought.  Herbs and chemicals with a wine chaser.

But now the sun is shining and the air is crystal clear.  I will take my Leica out for a walk in some part of town I never frequent.  Just to see.  No promises.  I have too many of those yet to keep.  But I am smiling still and my heart is not heavy.  I can't tell you how many good things I still see.  I am still happy.

I didn't intend on such a long explanation.  It was to be brief and then I would get back to the narrative. But that will wait.  I'll write it tonight and post it early tomorrow.  In the meantime, I'll give you this.  It is a photo I did for Drug Skinny's website.  It is nothing I wanted, but I love her enough to do such things for her.  And she sent back the following with a note that said, "hehehehehe."

"My ass," I said.  "Don't be fucking with my work."

But it is a throw away picture for me, and really, I didn't know D.S. could do such things.  She truly makes me giggle.