Maybe Tomorrow

I have a real quandary today.  Should I write?  Should I tell?  Should I show?  My confidence has been shaken as is often the case with those who go on too long.  Have I gone on too long?  People don't read every day?  At all?  Shall I repeat myself with another retelling of what I have eaten, done, or drunk?  What show I've watched on television?  Who called or didn't?  How my mother is or what I did at the cafe?  

People love pictures of dogs.  I have dog pictures.

But I don't have a dog.  I had a dog, and I have pictures of her, too, but not anything from this year.  I have too many pictures poorly cataloged.  I went through a file of images I have worked on most recently.  Holy shit, there are so many. . . you can't imagine.  And these are simply the ones I've take time to cook up.  

Should I show you yet another picture of the neighborhood done with funky lenses?

Or shoppers on the Boulevard in my own hometown?

There are funny ones, like this.  

"Good things come in twos."  

I could go back into the enormous files of street photos I have taken in New York.  There are more than you will possibly wish to see.  

Have you seen enough, I wonder?  What to do?

There are photos from other cities, too.  

But why would you care?  Would you rather see some fungus?

I take photos of everything.  Maybe you'd like to see another experimental thing I've taken on the deck 

Oh, yea. . . multiple exposures morphed into one.  You've probably never seen that coffee pot before.  Milk jug?  I don't even know. 

Did I ever tell you about old girlfriends?

Oh, yes. . . I'm sure.  Old Crippled Casanova. 

Not my house, obviously.  Not my girl, either.  You may remember I started a project once taking photos of people in their own homes.  

Christmas portraits?  Street parades?

Should I tell you how many of these Christmases I've photographed over the decades (again) and how I was too ill to go yesterday?  Oh, man. . . I could thrill you with that account.  

I could show you photos from my various heroic adventures in underwater caves, on mountains, and across the seas.  Or running with the bulls in Pamplona.  Oh. . . I've already done that?  

I could show you pictures that my girl took of me in the hospital with tubes hanging from my chest, my arms, my nose, deep dark bruises and open wounds from head to toe. . 

No?  Yea, that's what I thought, too.  I could show you photos of my home life and love. 

That only makes me sad, though.  Especially when you all are with your own lovers, families, and friends.  

But you see. . . that's all I've got.  Oh, and of course. . . the studio project.  

Oh, sure. . . I have a billion more of them.  I have so many things that I can't even share with you.  

A trillion things.  

This post is a piece of dung.  From the look of current things, I think I am, too.  I wish I could do better.  I wish I could turn it into something resembling art.  But I spent yesterday dying, or so I believed.  I am trying to regain my footing today.  But you know how dying is.  Your mind becomes a jumble of old images, old things, and you wish you had done better.  You wish things had turned out differently.  You are aggrieved by the inevitable.  

But for now, I turns out fine.  I quit looking for meaning.  I went for entertainment.  I watched an entire season of a romcom series.  True.  "Nobody Wants This."  It is stupid.  Maybe not.  Maybe it is why many people are happy.  It made me feel better as did my small meal.  Yup. I watched the entire season.  I didn't leave the house.  

But. . . when it was over, another series popped up.  I watched the opening scene.  It was in a bar.  There was a piano and drunken people were singing, being led by a disheveled Santa Clause.  It took me a second to recognize the tune.  Oh, no. . . holy shit!  It was "A Fairytale of New York"!  Hook line and sinker.  

I missed a lot of years of watching things.  I kinda caught up with that Ferguson guy, but that was from a long while ago.  When I saw Kristen Bell in "Nobody," I was shocked.  She had aged ten years.  Then the opening to "Black Doves."  Was that Kiera Knightley?  It sort of looked like her, but what happened?  Oh, shit. . . ten years, too.  Is it inevitable, this thing?  

I don't know if I can go on.  Perhaps I will "make avocado toast."  You won't know what that refers to if you don't read every day.  I must assume that it will just be lost on everyone.  

My mother turns 93 on Friday--it is the 13th. 

Here she is 79 years ago at the age of 14.  We will make a day of it.  What do you buy a 93 year old woman, though?  She says she wants perfume.  

I will go in a bit to have my hair done.  I'd rather be walking about in the holiday air watching people shop and eat and enjoy the season.  But to what end?  You know. . . I have a whole lotta wrestling and roller derby photos I haven't shown you.  Street photos, and of course studio photos, too.  

But I'm feeling redundant.  I read an article about one of the absolutely great writers of our era, Alice Munro.  Turns out. . . well, if you care about it, here (link).  Of course, she is being cancelled.  The thing is, she turned all her pain into unbelievably well-written stories.  She often wrote about the same things, similar themes, recurring characters, familiar settings. . . but not every day.  It's probably too late, but maybe I should try crafting something rather than boring people who come to the blog from time to time.  I still write a journal for a private audience of one.  I would always have that.  And if the crafting of something didn't work out. . . well, only I would know.  

Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.  I'm not sure.  I mean, you might not be here.  But someday, I may not be here, either.  

I mean, shit. . . look what god has done to Kristen Bell, Kiera Knightley. . . and my mother!

"Look what your god has made of me!"