Time to Go? What Do You Mean By. . . "Go"???

There is no separating the body, mind, and heart, I'm finding.  Where one goes, the others seem to follow.  I'm a mental health basket case right now.  Serious bad.  But my body is a mess, and my heart seems broken. The body and the heart, I'm reckoning, are taking my mind along on their torturous ride. I have an ego as big as Texas, of course, and it's terrified of the 4th dimension.  

I saw the comedian Steven Wright at Catch a Rising Star in NYC on that infamous trip through New England with my girl in 1983 when Dennis Connor lost the America's Cup.  I didn't want to go to the comedy club, but my girl did.  I thought I would be bored, but I laughed like a country cousin.  We both laughed so hard and loud that the woman at the table next to us asked my girl, "Honey, is that your boyfriend onstage?"  Whoa!  Just a couple of rubes.  

There were four comedians that night who would go on to be quite famous.  Steven Wright was one.  In his downbeat, glib way, he said, "Some people are afraid of heights.  I'm afraid of widths."  I repeated this joke for years.  One day, a friend said to me, "I think you fear depth."  Clever fellow.  But these are only three of the four dimensions.  For you, the unlearned, the fourth is time.  The 4th dimension is killing me.  

 I haven't slept for two nights now.  My brain is busy trying to murder me.  It keeps telling me we should rent a convertible, load up on drugs, and drive really fast on skinny mountain roads.  At night.  With the lights out.  "Just for a hoot," it says.  "One last great adventure while we're still able.  No matter how it goes, it will be fabulous.  It is something people will remember.  Fantastic!"

And it seems an argument my heart is coming 'round to.  "Why not?" it chimes in.  "You're stupid and it makes me laugh."

When I look in the mirror, I see what they mean, of course.  If I put on my glasses, that is.  But for the moment, I limp away from my reflection and painfully try to pretend.  

"Tomorrow we'll start a new regimen.  We'll be back to playing basketball in no time." 

Etc.  

In addition to being lazy and insecure, I am learning once again that I am terribly indecisive.  I spent a part of yesterday culling my prints.  I put them into piles I think make sense, then I put them together in other ways.  Which way?  What works?  What is best?  I can't make up my mind, so I sit down and stare out at them scattered around the room and the floor for a long time.  Thinking.  And then I come to the conclusion that they are all a bunch of shit, and I pick them up and put them back into their container thinking I'll just take them to the dump.  

I'm at the point where someone else needs to make all of these decisions.  Had I already done this, if I had made some kind of name, you know, maybe.  But now. . . it's like the dreams I have that make no sense and drive me to my waking quandary.  

"Ah. . . ah. . . what should I do?"

Maybe if I just get a knee replacement. . . . 

But there is a show in NYC that I might go to see September 8-10 (link).  It is after Labor Day, so travel should be a bit easier, but New York Fashion Week is September 8-13, so NYC will NOT be cheap that week.  I am of two minds.  One is to say fuck it, pay whatever and get a good room for a week and eat and drink and spend all the money.  The other one says fuck it, too, but in the other direction.  It will rain.  You can't walk.  You will be bummed.  It will be a drag.  

That's my mind.  My heart is split as well.  Where once, you know, travel was romance and I was always--ALWAYS--certain that some beautiful woman would fall in love with me, now my heart just laughs.  

My body is simply weary.  

But really. . . if I don't go, it will seem the end of all things.  I haven't been to the city for. . . how long?  Ili and I were there for her friend's wedding.  God. . . many years ago.  

I should go.  

I just need someone to take care of all the arrangements.  I should be famous.  I should have an assistant of some sort.  

It is already Saturday.  The week flew.  It was a week ago I went for the fish sandwich that wasn't there at The Pig.  I was a Ready Teddy then, going to move around the town, change my life, be more dynamic, make new photographs, etc.  And I did to some extent.  I am emptying the storage unit and trying to cull photos.  I am trying to make decisions for a website.  Yesterday I went many places in my own hometown,  from a new men's clothing store on the Boulevard to a Berkeley-style fancy-ass-no-signage-on-a-dead-end-street-warehouse-home-decor-and-plant-shop where I bought new vegetation to put on the mantle, Then I went to the Village Hardware Store to get some bug spray which I accidentally sprayed all over my hand right away and waited while my lips went numb and my vision blurred.  That may have been simple paranoia.  

Later, with a cocktail, I got a text from the pretty woman who will not ask me out.  I made a picture.  Note the smoke from the cheroot.  

Real art, that.  

And later still, I had a visitor.  

But bedtime was another horror show.  

I can hear you.  I can.  You are saying, "Stop your whining you little fuck.  Book your flight.  Go to New York.  Eat, drink, look at art.  You're such a fucking crybaby.  Quit being a snowflake.  You want to die with money in your bank account?"

No, sir.  No, mam.  But. . . you know, what about The Covid???

I can hear you heaving.  

I'll go.  I'll go.  Surely I'll go.  My last big trip was with Ili to Paris one October.  It was Fashion Week there then, too.  And it was fine.  Just find me a hotel and book my ticket.  Get me on the plane and we'll go, me, mind, body, and heart.  

I saw him the night he imploded at the newly renovated Beacon Theater in 2001. Q had to work that night and missed it.  I thought his girl was coming, but she didn't make it.  I was in love with her and have always suspected Q queered the deal. 

But of course, there is really only one anthem for the city.

Oh, hell. . . you come, too.  

* * *

Sorry. . . that concert was in 2002.  

(link)