Entering the Guilty Plea

Music is a killer.  I listen to it as I work on pictures and run through an ocean of memories and emotions.  I remember that 20th century artists wanted to paint and to write like music where there is no objective correlative to what notes and melodies can make you feel.  Memories.  They are like music.

I'm still not well, and again, I'm not sure why.  It is not purely physical, I know, but there is a component.  I slept most of the day after rising early, writing, and then going for a run.  I had to get up to shoot with a young model whose mother I make pictures with as well.  Perhaps it was the thought of that that had me so anxious.  Maybe things of that ilk.  I can't tell you.  I don't even tell my friends.  Best to spare them some things, I think.  None of them are in my situation with no one at home to tell them no.  What do I have? Leonard Cohen and Charles Bukowski, J.J. Cale and Dr. Thompson.

"She don't lie/ she don't lie/ she don't lie. . . cocaine."

That's what is playing as I write.  Tens of thousands of hours of music cycling through the computer forever and ever.

I wonder what to shoot, about what to write.  "Do what you are interested in," I hear over and over again.  Of course.  It is an indictment.  A guilty sentence against which I must plea.

Guilty.  Guilty.  Guilty on all charges.

I mean, it isn't golf or tennis or soccer.

Whatever.  As I ate sushi tonight on the veranda, ten thousand women ran by to get in line at the movie theater.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Oh, there is a new movie about male strippers with Matthew MaConaughey."

O.K.  I get it. I see.