Mundane

I'm going to clean up my life.  That's what I tell myself often.  But I have gotten too sloppy.  

After my few days of being "high," I crashed.  Went "low."  Didn't leave the house yesterday but for the trip to my mother's.  When I got there, she and my cousin were out.  I admit, I was relieved.  Came right back home.  What to do?  In an effort to "clean up," I was eschewing the evening cocktail.  I would limit myself to wine and beer.  I am beginning to envy people who like smoking dope, but it doesn't work for me.  

I made dinner early.  A bread lettuce salad with garlic, halved cherry tomatoes, and garbanzo beans.  Then I heated up leftover brown rice, lentils, and teriyaki chicken.  It wasn't so good.  I watched a couple documentaries, one on the photographer Peter Lindbergh.  I have not been making photos and haven't used my newest camera, the Fuji GFX 50 (I can't even remember what it is called) which I desired for so long, much since I bought it.  I picked it up.  It was heavy.  Big compared to my Leicas.  I walked around the house, into the closet.  My mundane life, I thought.  Why not?  It is all I have.  

I snapped a few pictures around the house.  

I watched t.v.  Drank beer.  Went to bed early.  

I hadn't much to drink and took nothing to help me sleep.  And I didn't.  Sleep, I mean.  I didn't sleep after I woke at 12:30.  I napped, maybe, once in awhile.  I thought.  I should quit writing about my life.  I would.  

I tossed.  I turned.  I thought maybe I was dying.  I looked at the clock.  3:59.  I got up.  I wasn't sure, then I was.  I put on the coffee.  I needed photos for the blog.  The Fuji had photos I hadn't downloaded from months ago when I used it once.  It was too early for the news.  I went to the office and downloaded the photos from the card.  The camera is something else.  The quality of the files is startling.  I cooked up two photos, then two more.  It was five.  

I pulled up CNN, then The NY Times.  I didn't want to read any of the stories about Biden or Trump or the election.  I read a film review of "Daddio" with Sean Penn and Dakota Johnson.  I watched the film's trailer.  It looked good.  I wanted Dakota Johnson to love me, of course, but I look like Sean Penn now.  

I read a review of another new film, "Last Summer," about a 40 year old attorney who has an affair with a 17 year old boy.  French.  Very French.  I want to see that one, too.  It reminded me of Annie Ernaux.  

I read a review of "The Bear."

I perused a few other stories.  It was six.  

I sat down to write the blog.  What to write if not about my life?  My mundane life.  It is all I know.  

And so. . . this.  I have pretty, expensive(ish) sports coats of silk and of linen.  I have shoes I haven't worn in years.  

The detritus of my life looks good framed. I like the camera, but it is big, heavy.  There are people who want me to photograph them, but I have been too afraid.  "What if I fail?" I think.  I've lost confidence.  Maybe, I think, I will post an ad on the wall of the cafe.  "I need someone who lives nearby who wants to be photographed all the time.  We will collaborate on pictures, looks.  Silly stuff, ugly stuff, profound things, pretty things.  If you are interested, contact me."

Or I might go somewhere and set up a backdrop and a 4x5 camera and see if people will stand for portraits. 

These are the things I think sitting alone with cameras.  I also think, "Why?  What's the point?"

I let something get into my head that has damaged me.  

The sun comes up.  The world is wet.  Do I go back to bed, or do I put on my running shoes and go to the park?  

Have I become a manic/depressive, I wonder, late in life?  Can one develop such a thing after a lifetime of steady, pleasurable melancholy?  

I have four offers from friends to come visit them.  There is a woman here who almost likes me.  I've gotten cards--real postcards--from women who are traveling.  

"We must catch up soon," they say.  

I picked up my guitar before bed last night.  The strings hurt my fingers and my fingers had forgotten much about where to go.  My vocal range, never great, has shrunk by half.  I felt ashamed.  My soul did not sing.  

Maybe I will embrace this mundane life with the resolve of a stoic.  Or maybe I'll come out of the dumps I have fallen into.  Everyone is leaving town,  It is hurricane season.