Monday, April 8, 2013

Update 4/8/13

(Cato and James)

Things change. Rhys is no longer the child he was a month ago. Barely perceptible traits have emerged simultaneously. But they are there, and growing fast. Words form, attempts at others are made.

The boy is in love with strawberries. He would point at them and call them "Apple" when he wanted one, at first. After a few times of Rachel and I saying, "Strawberry" sure enough he'd try that word next. Three syllables of emulation.

Give me what I love, he insists. 

I am doing a similar thing with the Fuji X100S, though my charms are not those of his. Rachel is being pragmatic. It sits in my Amazon cart, waiting. It is all pre-sales so it might be sitting there for some time. 

I got to see one while in SF, before I was so drunk that my friend was taking me to get coffee and a sandwich. Before I was in any danger of harming it. I'm too old for that life any more, drinking far away from home. I never want to be further than a few minutes from my bed ever again. 

But the camera is a marvel. It is everything I want, for now. It left me with no questions. I could pretend to be something with that camera, like a tourist. 

Cato looks like a victim of SF homelessness. It's the style here, life on lease. I think Burning Man fucked him up a little bit. He'll be a Christian in another couple years. 

I don't want to work today. I can honestly say that most days I don't mind it, at all. I enjoy the complexity of the job. But I feel like I lost a full weekend on Saturday. That is the other thing about drinking heavily. Time. It is all we have. Time, and memory.

Drinking destroys both.

I want to lounge and read, listen to music that I can't when Rachel and Rhys are around: Captain Beefheart, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, The "electric" Miles, Joni Mitchell...

Rachel hates Joni Mitchell. She wants to challenge her to a UFC cage fight. I have tried and tried - perhaps too much. There are types of music that her ear will not allow her to enjoy. She hears it as chaotic whimsy, nothing else. If by the second verse she can't reasonably predict what is supposed to happen then her mind revolts. Jazz deprives her of the pleasure of consistency. That is its very charm, for me. 

Jesus... This post is so boring I can't even go back and proof-read it. If I get inspired later maybe I'll post again with a minute-by-minute account of what sleeping is like.