... then of course I would

I hate Apple's Photos app. Truly. It is an embarrassment for them and they don't seem to notice or care. I just spent about 20 minutes wrestling with it over a simple file management and editing issue. The best conclusion that I could come to after multiple efforts and some online research, and years spent troubleshooting technical problems, is that Apple is a company that deserves to suffer and die a shameful, expensive, public death. I hope that one day happens after my own, of course.

So, here is a 35mm pic from maybe two years ago. It is one of the boy's school buddies. They are all getting older around me at an noticeable rate. Why does every mention of the passing of time cause me to think of my own death, now? It didn't used to, and I'm still young, or so people say. Are others this morbid, though only privately? Or, perhaps other people healthy in their hearts and minds.

Answer me!

Tough call on the relative health of others, glad I don't have to be the one to make it, at least not this morning. It is the morning of Father's Eve.

As I age I value most people less, though I still see glimmers of beauty and hope and mystery in many, but few my own age. 

Age is among the great discriminatory categories. I see it everywhere, now. How it is allowed in almost all regards, short of cruelty or flagrant discrimination. But so much is subtle, particularly when it comes to how groups tend marginalize types, without ever needing to agree on it openly. It just happens, you start out as one thing and you gradually become another, without realizing how the gradual becomes the inevitable. Until. 

As you age you matter less. Of course this is not true for everybody, some accumulate useful resources. They somewhere keep pirate treasure maps in locked trunks. If you are a parent then you might matter more to your children, or so the hope goes. But this simple recognition doesn't prevent me from observing that the other thing is still happening, also, everywhere now and forever. If I was younger then of course I would fight up against it with the sudden fury of what was once me.  

.

 

The mighty diamond of depression

Back in that other life I went to a getaway wedding at a getaway destination - Mykonos. In an attempt to appear normal, and to sustain a sense of normalcy for a week spent mostly without sleep, I stopped taking some medications that were ostensibly meant to treat manic-depression. Mine, they said. 

Now, whether you are afflicted with manic-depression, or only lightly touched with it, this has only marginal bearing on what the cessation of those types of medications - lithium bicarbonate and Lamictal - has on the psyche and well-being of the patient.

I was being the patient. A stumbling buddha - the sound of one hand laughing. 

I remember there being this immense clarity of just how full of shit everybody was, how false. I could be reached by neither love nor reason. It was overwhelming, to see my friends seemingly as they truly were. Similar to having recognitions concerning yourself and others while on very strong acid, and after. It burns a nearly intractable impression - even about those that you have known so long - on the fragile and perhaps weakened mind. Perhaps damaged. Don't be weak if you're also going to be vulnerable. 

The actuality of such de-acclimatizing from mood stabilizing cocktails works in a very stark and somehow unknown reverse order of operations. 

I learned and suffered a little taste of this with a friend of mine recently.

The details are irrelevant. But. I was given a glimpse into the odiousness in which I operated, and what that must have been like from the perspective of the other person or people around me. The one(s) hopefully operating at nominal levels of regular sleep, food, and meds. 

Nothing can be done. Or, nothing that I will ever do. I have few regrets, or a few, none other than how unlucky time and love can be when arriving and departing at such erratic and regular intervals. 

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A feeling of duty

(Carl De Keyzer)

I'm on my new computer but I have no new pictures on this technological terror, and I need one. 

Do I? Fuck it, take that pic ^^^. It is the only pic by this photographer that I have ever seen. I linked to his site out of a strong feeling of duty. 

Ha - duty. 

I can never seem to recover very well from childishness here. I think I know why that is but do not wish to fix it, and only part of the fix is with me, or cause. There are readers' expectations to which one should also offer their duty, the effects. 

Ok scatologists, I admit defeces. 

Damn it. I wanted to write something good today, something that made me feel good.

I wanted to expel the troublemaker.  

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The skin of the fruit

(Modigliani)

Turning in this sleep

One hand finds this other hand

Teeth breach the skin of the fruit

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Sailing Along The Southern Coasts

Went for a bike ride yesterday, my first in weeks. There were problems. Some time was needed off, but a bottle of wine or more every day started to make me feel more lethargic than enthusiastic. I enjoyed it much. Then its time had both arrived and departed and departed again. 

There is some building hope for another ride today. That is sometimes how exercise works. You get a little rush when you return to it, suddenly you have a challenging personal secret - how you feel when you try. Of course when returning to riding after an extended break of any kind I immediately start dreaming of buying myself an extravagant reward for having done so. Yesterday it was of taking today off from work and going to a few bikes shops, ending the day with a brand new gravel bike. It brought me much pleasure yesterday to imagine such a series of events happening today. But they did not happen, not yet. That's my nature, as an imaginative guy. My imaginings often involve the many things I would buy and enjoy if my life were little else but leisure. If freed from the shackles of employment. My wants seem modest but often involve the purchasing of things that are several thousand dollars - cameras, lenses, bikes. Everything else that I want I just buy without much hesitation. 

I rode my bike by an all wooden sailboat yesterday that had a For Sale sign on it - $3500. I wondered if that included the trailer and I told myself that it must. I came home and told Rachel and Rhys about it and for a short time we thought of what it would be like to have a small sail boat, what learning to sail together would be like, or what we believed it might be like. We all loved the idea of summer sailing, visiting lakes within a day's drive that we probably don't even know about yet. That is what we all talked of as we drove through the lights and towards town.

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The Beach

Family pics - they are what I'll do more of now. They are fine with me. They are mostly all I've done. I take lots of pictures, and tend to post images that matter more to me than perhaps the viewer. So be it. 

I only took one of these. 

And I still find it so hard To say what I need to say

But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me Just how I should feel today

I see a ship in the harbor I can and shall obey

 

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Beth-machista

I don't know what pushed CS over the edge but he has stopped talking to me, ever since he threatened to do so. Who knows - old people are unpredictable, except when they are angry. 

Mom also gets mad when I talk about how much hippie-pussy the boy is going to one day get (see picture above). Maybe CS suffers from a similarly arranged moral apoplexy. He's always aligning me with some other values dressed up as bohemienne. He will make a great housewife also, someday.

I can never remember if it's the Philistines defeating the Israelites or if the other team won and the good guys are still allowed to love art modestly. You tell me.  

The Old Testament is fading for me, like so much Faulkner that I never bothered reading, any more than about rather than the thing itself. 

It is all heard by this idiot, fluff of sound and furry, 

signifying bread crumbs. 

Out, out, Greek salad, 

this way to crouton crumbles.

all of our cucumbers have olived feta.

Horiatiki, Horiatiki, Horiatiki

Caper berries in this petty place, 

from day to day.

,

 

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Still Dead and Companied

A second night at Dead and Company. It's as if the music never stopped. I don't have any pictures from the second night, but they would have looked just like the pictures from yesterday. The show was good, again, though I'm not sure how much I need to go to multiple shows of the same band over the course of a weekend any more. This is the second time in about two or three years. Last time it was the Grateful Dead, also, with Trey Anastasio. The Fare Thee Well tour.

Well, once my buddy wakes up from his late night journey to Jupiter then we can start getting back on the road, maybe drive through SF and get some dim sum. That always makes things better. 

I bought the boy his first tie-dye t-shirt. He will be happy that I brought home something from the show. 

CS says that he can't know me any more, in yesterday's comments section. Who knows what combination of things said yesterday could have been his final undoing, that I went to a Dead show, openly admitted to eating acid or I found John Mayer's behavior to be sleazy. You know, it is possible to get very young girls high on drugs and still be a creep. 

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Dead and Company

(Shoreline Amphitheater)

Here is the setlist for last night's show, for people who love such things, of which I am an occasional one who does. We're returning tonight for another show. We still have some acid left, I think. That stuff is best eaten in the afternoon. Anything later in the evening becomes too insisting of its effects.  

John Mayer is a douchebag, but a very good guitar player. It is an odd combination for him to be playing with these old hippies, but I suppose that he and Bob Weir share the love of sex with young girls, so they have more than just the tenuous musical connection that I perceive for them. 

They are in a band together, so my opinions matter very little here. That I am at a weekend's worth of shows to watch them further dismantles the flat argument of my opinion. It must bother me that he was born in 1977, or something. It's okay for me to be an ageist, now, I hope. 

Mayer is douchey. I met him one night when I worked at Apple. He had a fourteen year old girl with him, high on drugs, at 4 in the morning. He was gloating a bit, that he gets to do such things, in a very sleazy way. Perhaps it was some moral sense that I'd like to pretend I don't have, but the fact of his creepiness was unavoidable. I was not alone in this feeling. Even by my liberal standards, it seemed wrong. 

She could have been a young looking 17, I suppose. I mean, she was very high. Cute, etc. 

Seemed for some wrongy. 

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The physicality of fumbling up

Few things remain simple, or only hauntingly so. I've had to learn to keep quiet about almost everything, which doesn't always make for good writing, not for a confessionalist. 

I'm going to start telling people that I'm heavily into Civil War reenactments, that I'm on the side of the Confessionalists. I go every year. Make up some plausible name for a city in Virginia. If anybody challenges me then explain that they're confusing it with a city in Tennessee. Do this of course with confidence. 

We were in bloody battle with the Secretists. Family against family, brother against brother.

For no known reason, the other day, I started telling Rhys about the biblical story of Cain and Able. God's question to Cain in the garden, to which he responded, Am I my brother's keeper? A shitty attitude to have with God but good question. 

I tried to explain to Rhys why I believe the answer to the question is Yes, that we are culpable for the well-being of one another, and it is best to acknowledge that to one another. Immediately I started following it up with qualifications, of course. 

Does any of this become easier, or does it ever become any easier? Any of it?

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Are all ghosts clairvoyant?

(Musée Mécanique, SF)

Last night Rachel and I went out to dinner, a date, if we are still allowed to acknowledge such things it that in this post-binary world. There was a newly renovated restaurant space that had opened up - Layla - that we wanted to try. It was lovely, better than Olive Garden... As we were leaving I pointed out to Rachel the bowl of apples in the entrance hallway, a reference to the late rock promoter, Bill Graham. When we got in the car I played her the song, Layla, because my singing of it did not evoke a memory for her. The only version I had on my phone was the acoustic one, which was shameful but unsurprising. Or, so I thought. After playing that one for her, and picking up Rhys from the sitter, I tried to play the regular album version, the classic, from YouTube. Somehow that was even worse. 

Freedom Rock, etc.

Ah well, it was not even my past but the past before that, so what do I have to be ashamed of? My generation produced We Built This City on Rock and Roll. If you ever need any additional reason to hate Bernie Taupin then look not further than that late career hit for Starship. Yes, Starship was what they changed their name too, when the concept of a Jefferson Airplane perhaps seemed too attached to a past that they were clearly breaking free of. 

Can I end a sentence with the word of, twice?

My official position is that Eric Clapton has always been a useless douche bag. This was a required stance for anybody that listened to alternative or new wave in the 80s. He was from the oafish and loathsome past. Exceptional guitar playing could not possibly save him. It was his stance towards being a rock star that was unacceptable. Then, he wrote that song about his son dying. Tears, Heaven, Etc. Quite possibly the worst song ever written. Unforgivable. 

Well, my report of our date seems unnecessary now. We had fun; it was sweet. We talked of the future and what possible trips we could take with the boy. There have been a few possibilities that we have discussed now - Yellowstone and Jackson Hole, Tokyo, NYC and Washington D.C. Maybe there were other places mentioned. Those three are high on our list, each for different reasons. 

We talked about Jackson Hole and Yellowstone as a mixed snowboarding and camping trip, one in which we could maybe bring one of Rhys' friends with us. He would love that. He wants very badly to get a camper and do a road trip with mom and I. He mentions it often. Tokyo is a no-brainer. We all love the culture and food for slightly different reasons, I suspect. The foreignness has much appeal. Then, a late entry was two trips that we have been talking about that we realized we could just roll into one. When I mentioned last night that we could stay at the Mercer or Soho Grand in NYC I could see that I was saying the right things to mom, who was two flutes of champagne deep at this point. I spoke of all the fun things we could do - visiting friends and sightseeing, a Yankees game, the Statue of Liberty, The Met and MOMA, our favorite restaurants. Then we could take a train to D.C. and have two days there. The Smithsonian, the National Gallery, the Mall, the White House, the nation being greatly made again.

What wholesome family fun - just crimes, misdemeanors, and vacations. 

  

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Helps me, Jesuys

I started to post something vile again. Cato and I had a joke yesterday that made me chuckle. But then I couldn't find the right picture to match the joke, so everything went the way of the Dodo.

I find myself having the strangest of conversations with my friends lately. The mechanics of being an age. This age. The talk is more private and more pragmatic than what I am used to. There is talk of the treatment of common ailments. Nobody wishes to be interested in these talks. 

I took a few minutes away from a mildly stressful day to write here. I avoided the vile but became trapped by the mundane. 

You saw it happening and you did nothing.

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Akira Ichiban Q6

I'm not sure if I've ever seen two dogs have consensual sex. Having lived in Florida for the irresponsible length of time that I did it seems nearly impossible to have not seen such a thing, though I have no specific memory of it. All I see now when I close my mind and think of the Sunspot State are dogs fucking in the dirt. Mostly in the backyard. Everybody has a backyard there, and every backyard a dog. It never seemed to me as if it was the female dog's choice. 

I see this all the time at the dog park now. Dogs just rape each other. They try to get some playtime in before and after, but every now and then you witness some sort of sudden assault. The owners are mortified, of course. I try to stop the dogs when I can, as if my dog is partially to blame. She was wearing a brightly colored collar.

If you've never tried to stop one dog from fucking another dog you'll know this is not exactly a one person operation. It requires practice and training, and life affords so few opportunities, and few partners to do that dance. I try to match everybody else's enthusiasm for separating them, but sometimes I suspect that people can sense my heart's not really in it. I suppose I could just grab the male by the collar and toss him away somewhere, but that somehow seems worse than the sex crime itself. 

Since I have a female it is usually some male that is being indiscreet about their amorous feelings towards my lucky lady. So, it is up to a variety of Sonoma hippy-chicks of all ages to stop the assault, mostly. I'd be lying to say that this doesn't make me giggle a little bit inside. Not because of the act itself or their reaction, but you can see how much they project human morality onto their animals and expect it to come to life there, fully formed and evidenced in modesty of behavior, discretion. I always take some time out afterwards to tell the offending dog about my best friend, Jesus Christ. This will have about as much influence on their desire to rape as will the frantic stream of invectives and direction emanating from their owners - No! and Stop! and Insert Dog's Name! here.

The one that really gets me is Bad Dog! 

I suspect that in a dog's mind screamed phrases like No! and Stop! only mean Hurry, hurry... to them. It only seems to increase the urgency of the act. 

The women always apologize afterwards. I am tempted to ask them if they let their dog masturbate enough? Other times I am enticed by my inner demons to say that I can't tell if my dog's in heat or not. I sniffed all around her butt the other day but I couldn't be sure. 

She has been spayed, I'll explain, but I don't know if they cut off the flow of all of her woman parts.  

She seems flirty.

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Fighting death and kissing nipples

I promise not to write about dub or reggae today, though it is almost all that I wish to write about. It is sad and beautiful and yet somehow triumphant and strong and filled with faith so foreign. 

I am standing up at an adjustable desk that holds my new computer. It is difficult for me to stand for any period of time. Something has changed in my lower back. It no longer has the will to negotiate. I need a desk and a chair, but I keep telling myself that standing is better for me, less sedentary, but the truth is that my body needs the sediment. Whatever sediment used to protect my aching vertebrae has long since abandoned me. One of the results of living is pain. So be it. Let it be. Let be be finale of seem. Keep on keepin' on, and don't ever stop truckin'... whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother... we are probably family, though there's less fish in the sea than there used to be. 

Great minds, quite noticeably, do not think alike. Though that is no reason to presume that you are great when everybody else insists that you're a twat. 

I speak God's truth, you see. 

I just read that this is the wettest year ever. Or, I think that's what I read. It was a headline only, probably about the east coast, but I'm certain the author lives in Sonoma, on my street. 

It is dispiriting, this endless rain. Shifts in weather patterns vex me and they should vex you too. It is an omen, I say, a portent of what will come. 

If you're not wet then you're not paying attention.

. 

From the well of exaggeration

It's been raining for a year.

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"A day without music is a day lost forever"

Have I really not written since Tuesday? It doesn't feel like it. I worked all week and I worked all day today. It happens sometimes. It's never fun, but at least it has been rainy all day, which lessens the sting. I may take some time off this week. 

I don't have anything to say, really, I just finished with a long, intractable problem that neither myself nor any of the people working on it could solve, so I wanted to look out elsewhere into the world, where solutions were not required. 

It is just a day gone but it would have been my day and now it is not and never will be. 

I did have a few newly acquired albums playing in the background today, so there is that. If you want to hear what reggae would sound like without the obligatory guitar strums on the upbeat then listen to the link below. It is my favorite album of today. 

The pup has been at a kennel all day. We'll go to get her soon and she will make me feel better. She loves me and I her. We let each other know by rubbing our faces together where I can smell all of her soft puppy fur. She will lick and nibble at my ear lobes. It is sweet and makes me giggle. 

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Surrender

In my battle with the world I should have backed the winner. Today beat me senseless, lifeless. All day I ran like a three legged lizard, scrambling to escape a bored scorpion that just wants to talk.

 

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Basic Age

I've had an unusually difficult day at work. Don't want to write about it, but it's how I spent my day, without any cycling to force the arrow through to the other side, to be broken off and pulled through.


Listening now to one of the most beautiful pieces of quiet music. Hoping. Haven't listened to it in years. Could not find the right recording online quickly. So I've posted one that I have never heard. Fuck it. The recording is almost as important as the music, so I hope the one below works well.


I read an essay about Susan Sontag's essay writing tonight. That is how I should spend every afternoon or evening: reading quietly, music in the room. There is some recent scandalous news of her out now in the panopticon. Just saw it.


It has been between the sixth and seventh year of my son's life that I hardly have time for myself. It becomes the thing that I do. It's not terrible. It is everywhere, all for now and for soon.


Standing up and typing at the keyboard of my new computer, some years underneath me. Can't imagine having to stand to do anything any more, having now already exceeded this basic age.

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Moms

Having been loved by my mom is one of the few feelings that has stayed with me from childhood, that and my crushing uncertainty about being loved. 

I asked myself this morning when I woke up, What makes a mother's love special? Of course there may be some inescapable biological aspects to those feelings, but I've known enough orphans and adoptees who feel the same to know that biology alone does not explain all of it. Having felt loved, from an early age, is something that stays with you. Or, it can. People need to feel nurtured, at times, and safe. I never got the feeling that one day I might have to fight my mom for a pork chop. I remember building forts in the living room with my brother and her. 

Feeling loved seems to be a mixture of the love that another person shows for you and what you repeat to yourself about it. Once your mother is gone you have fewer things to repeat to yourself. It is best to stick to the stories concerning the glory of love, avoid the other stuff. 

To watch the boy express his love for mom is really something - sweet and pure and true. It is enough to make me happy. 

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Dr. Satan's Echo Chamber

Oh yeah, I forgot to post, or started to but never finished, ran out of things to say, or have said them before. Like CS, I also have no stories to tell. What do I do that would produce a story? I spend my days repeating daily things, not discovering.

The boy's behavior improved. Did I write about that here, or has it just been tumbling around inside me for a month? Could be both. He was being naughty, disrespectful, and mom and dad had to drop the sledgehammer on him. To give you an idea of how tough we are: we took away all screen-time.... Not sure if you know it or not, but that is about the worst thing you can do to a kid now. No more terror, no more tyranny, no more discipline too. Just reasonable conversations, one after another after the other following the one before that.

I have nothing to say today - no stories from beyond the womb. 

Lee Perry is Jesus. I mean, Jesus. I won't bore you with writing about music, but when he was brilliant he was like nothing else that had ever happened. I am listening to the Black Ark mixes of this album. They are among the deepest, coolest, most bad-ass and beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard. I couldn't find the same mixes that I'm listening to online, and that link is to the already known and famous album. It's criminal that the dubby mixes aren't available on YouTube.

You guys should come to my house and hear it.

Tell you what.... I'll make you a real sweetheart deal. If you think that dub isn't right for you then I'll let you walk out that door right now without signing on for this once-in-a-lifetime generous timeshare offer, but if you're wrong then you might have to live the rest of your life regretting the decision that prevented you from ever getting involved in South Florida's Gardens of Inspiration single and double use units.

I'll concede that it is a bit strange that at 50 all I want to do is ingest THC and listen to old dub albums, mostly from '75-'81, the golden years. But what the fuck, I've reached that stage in life early where you realize time is truly limited and you may as well do the things that let you avoid doing things you just don't want to do.

What happens to people?

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Unwritten jokes

Well, I was going to make a joke about Rachel, Ann Coulter, and Celine Dion getting it on but my sole reader stole my thunder in yesterday's comment section. I was going to try to add Phil Collins to the second portion of the joke, because of me. Something about us all checking for Ann Coulter's Adam's apple. I bet she has a nice big, protruding laryngeal prominence. 

I don't have a pic of me that suggests Phil Collins handy, but you get the idea. The joke works, even in its current crude and unformed state. 

Rhys is in his room right now. Punishment. I had to go to school to pick him up. He has been misbehaving. Shockingly, this brings me no private internal joy, as I might have long ago guessed that it would. I'm not very good at punishing him. That may be part of the problem. I'm not sure. I'm so used to being around people who regard every one of my emotions as being over the top that I have a difficult time gauging much of anything. There is always a low level hysteria waiting to respond to anything that begins to suggest randomness. 

I used to be afraid of misbehaving. I don't mean physically afraid, just afraid of what my parents would say to me, of being ashamed, disappointing. Rhys doesn't like me being displeased with him, but perhaps not adequately. He doesn't seem afraid of anything, specifically of the consequences we decide for him. He has too much confidence that he can avoid most the brunt of any punishment we throw at him. This is in part because he's an only child. He knows that any justice we dispense towards him is almost equally punitive for us. 

Yes, this life is and always has been an unwritten joke. 

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From the Hand of Favor

Going through old pics is a mixture of fun and then something else. Time passes, that's a fact that photography insists upon. It is nice to get those little glimpses into what was, though. It was the trip that I was on from today's picture that caused me to really get into photography - France, circa 2008. What little cinematography I learned in school was long ago lost to excess. I don't remember what a t-stop is, etc.

I like the Terry Richards look of the picture above. Now, I know that he is not to be commended, because his sexual impulses are destroying people, but he did make his mark with a certain style of photography, one that I happen to like for candid shooting. I've done some nudes in this style, but they did not come out well, unless Terry Richards also shot crime scenes. I suppose some would argue that every picture he took is a form of evidence of same.

I don't really know that much about him, or the accusations against him, but I do remember the visual style and it is one that is fun to imitate.

Eventually women will get tired of accusation destroying the sexuality and sensuality of their shopping experiences. They will silently overwhelm those who have claimed them as their own. Advertisers are rightfully afraid, now. Well, the ones that aren't trying to capitalize on the times by standing with it. But you can't successfully suggest sex without implying a power disparity, because that is what creates the dynamic, though that is the world that is now demanded of us. What was is male privilege at its most loathsome, say some.

Can you believe women have to suffer the insults of fashion photography? It perpetuates objectification. Look at it.

The first major publication to reintroduce aspects of the lurid in their campaigns will be touted as bold and provocative. Or rather, the first one will be roundly denounced, then another one will pull it off. It will fly. That is how time passes; greater minds need lesser ones.


The online personality that I most resemble lately is Ann Coulter. I don't use her nouns. I try to occupy myself with different subjects than her, but we have the same basic outlook and use a lot of the same verbs: people are full of shit and should be mocked, claims of victimhood far outpace victimization, everybody's a fucking pussy, and individual personal freedom is more important than we have been telling ourselves.

But who wants to sound like an old crank, especially one that is indistinguishable from the harpy of the GOP? Who among you wishes that, for little old me?


That Rachel resembles her does not escape me. This has a preventative influence on some of my various sarcasms. I am trying to learn how not to be honest about every single thought that happens upon me.  That is where people begin to confuse the distinction between types and the thing itself. I know I have before.


So, anyway, Terry Richardson. I looked him up for the last month's worth of news and it seems the accusations have subsided, though so have the jobs. The once chic temptations, garish hints of unashamed sexuality and even that of - gasp - the brash suggestion of porn, have fallen from the hand of favor. Apparently there were some who felt that the expectation should not be that the rock-star fashion photographer should pursue the craziest pussy he possibly could, and would not then be rewarded for his satyrical behavior through satiation.

I have listened to their complaints, in a general sense, and have found them to be sensible when heard in great and suffering detail. It is the in the abstract where it all comes together and makes perfect sense.

Still, something about everything always  feels so wrong.

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Access

Upon recovering my iPhoto libraries and scanning through old pics I have found a handful that are among the most precious and beautiful things that I have. Making babies is something special. It is a form of public intimacy - the evidence of a known secret that is as yet unrevealed. 

The images are a series of her as she was becoming more and more pregnant. The one above was in NYC, the one below about three days before the boy was born, in Sonoma. They are incredible things, for me, both sensual and complex. I took them quickly and without much concern for technique, which haunts me now, though even some of the ones that are blurry have a special charm, a paired innocence with the subject. The blur seems to remove any lingering erotic intentions or purely documentary purpose. The ones that are in perfect focus seem somehow too explicit, too well lit, too literal. I would show more here but most of them are nudes and Raquel might not sign off on them as being too unflattering. Though of course she could not possibly be any more wrong. You can't tell a pregnant woman that, or much afterwards either. I have learned that you should make a woman feel beautiful, but carrying a baby can impede most any efforts.

I would do it all over again, twice or thrice. The images roam around as magic inside of me. They are mysterious and powerful, incantations that come back to tempt. 

That's my morning truth: I like getting her pregnant.

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Enjoy:

(Yes, older pics... still)

My plan is to go for a nice long bike ride this morning, a couple hours.  We'll see. I'm here now, lying on the bed listening to ever more obscure dub from the 70s. It's the only music I listen to any more. Most of it flies under the annoyance radar of casual listeners, so I can play it around the house all day without irritating the other tenants. It has aural complexity and invites attention without demanding it. So, perfect for a dad in his 50s.

If you're just not sure if dub is right for you then consult your doctor and try the link in this post. It's not an album that I would say best represents the genre, but it's the album I would play for people who think that all dub, and reggae, sound the same. Pass the Dutchie, etc. You'll find plenty of familiar elements in the album, but you'll find other things also without needing to be a very careful listener. It leans towards jazz without leaning too far away from calypso, etc.


I'm happy to be listening to any form of music enthusiastically again. I went through a few years in which I thought that I had lost most of interest in music. I think I had just grown tired of a few of the genres that had dominated my view for so long. Dance music now bores me, for the most part. There are a few people that play stuff I really enjoy, but most of it has receded back into a place where it all just sounds the same - dull, repetitive, uninventive, electronics. Luckily, few aspiring djs ever send me their mixes, hoping to get my opinion on them, any more. The only people that I do go out of my way to listen to consistently play the type stuff that I might like.

Don't get me wrong, there is plenty of good electronic music out there, but it requires a curator and unfortunately those come packaged in the form of the dj, many of whom are wholly insufferable.

Okay, before I lure myself off into a a tangent or screed, I'll wrap it up and leave you to your own thoughts and pleasant confusion for the next 30 minutes.

Enjoy:

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Unsent Postcards

I was able to recover an old photo library upon setting up my new computer and organizing myself a bit. I am interested in computing again. 

I found a bunch of old pics and have been posting them on Instagram. It is silly and shameless of me but I don't mind.

Here, I'll post one here that I didn't post there. It was one of my favorites; one of Rhys' first portraits.

Being pregnant was fun; creating life is good. Much better than good. I should have been doing it since puberty. 

rachel, rachel, rachel. 

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... his books

If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed. - Jean Cocteau

The boy has been causing all types of mayhem, experimenting with disrespect. It is difficult to watch, the clumsy birth of what may become a touch of healthy sarcasm and irreverence. The willingness towards naughtiness is a more compelling posture. I get that; I believe that. Of what use are manners if they show no sign of ever having been challenged? It is a thing that seems impossible to teach, for me, never having found the consistent balance to strike.  

Mom's eyes sometimes let me know how detailed are my conversations with the boy about what I believe to be nuance in behavior and understanding. During the most boring times of the news cycle I read that kids are much smarter than the credit we tend to give or deny them. Over the course of a lifetime everything gets to be true for a moment. 

I picked him up from school today. His punishment: sitting on the couch reading while I pretend to work. His young voice sounding out the halting words of each sentence. Had I known this would be the result of him causing trouble I might have been more encouraging. It is sweet in that way that you can not hold, only maybe keep as part of some amalgam of the memories of the time. I have written it down here. 

And Now. 

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Safety, Thirst

I only have a few minutes to write, am forced to rush today if I would like to get a bike ride in. 

I went to visit an old friend the other night, almost a week ago now. He was back from India where he was traveling for 6 months, and Ireland, where he is originally from. We sat and chatted and ate dinner and drank good beers. We compared lives. He has no children, no partner, has never cohabited with a girlfriend. We are both getting older and I suppose we must sometimes have curiosity about the other's life. 

I spent my portion of the night vocalizing the noble protectiveness of being a father. 

It's great, to know what and how to love, and what must be done, and then maybe I said something else that was semi-noble.

When I gave him a ride to the place where he was staying, after three beers, I explained that the dog had eaten both the seatbelts - passenger and driver.

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Lights of my Life

I am beginning to understand why some of the older people I know are not ever excited to see and talk to the other older people that they know - the talk turns to death, or suffering, or ailments, or strokes and heart attacks, and of course suicide. Every now and then an overdose. The infidelities have lost their power to tantalize, I guess. It seems to be the only reason some of my friends reach out to me any more, to make sure that I am aware that others my age are dying off, or suffering some horrible malady. It's really no wonder that there are others that only want to frame the image of their family's lives through social media as being healthy and happy and often traveling. 

I went for a bike ride today. I was up into the hills where there is no cell signal. I couldn't escape an uneasy feeling I had, wondering what would happen if I had a heart attack. A friend's older brother just had a massive one while cycling, was 10 miles into his journey, felt bad and turned around. He collapsed somewhere in the middle of what might as well have been the 18th century. He went to someone's front door in the middle of all of that nothing and begged for help, was airlifted out eventually. It took the ambulance an hour to arrive. They summoned the helicopter. 

All of that rattling through my head as I huffed up my own hill to nowhere. Well, to Jack London's Wolf House, to be more precise. 

When I die I don't care how my death will be described, as long as the most appropriate word for it isn't preventable. Though unavoidable and unstoppable don't have much appeal, either. The word that I most detest is slow. That means painful. I'm certain that my insurance company is working towards making it inexpensive and are entirely unconcerned with it being pleasant. I've outgrown any desire for it to be sudden or tragic. There is barely any of the raw material left for the latter category. I've never learned a very good way to talk about death and dying. 

I arrive and depart talking of myself.

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"Enjoy Every Zenith"

No new pics. Just a folder of old ones.

Spring returned, just in time. We had a week of nearly 90+ degree weather after what seemed like one Spring day and years of Winter. Today we will take the dog to a regional park where there is a lake that we will swim. 

I bought a new computer - $3000. I hate myself for doing it but I have been spiritually hobbled by my last one suddenly failing on me. I can't say that its demise was entirely unexpected. It lasted 8 years, which is nearly miraculous for an Apple computer. I have included the details of the new one below, for my nerds. I could have upgraded to the faster processor and the improved graphics card also, but that would have been almost another thousand dollars. I won't be doing much video editing. Once it gets here and I have it up and running I will buy Lightroom and Ableton Live. The latter of the two will either make me feel cool or silly. 

My hope is to start scanning the thousands of 35mm film shots I have taken, or to hire an intern to do so. It has become absurd that I have let this effort back up on me like this. I see how people become risibly eccentric as they age. They hold on to their interests in a tangential fashion. One side slips away into the abyss, losing contact with the behavior that continues, which makes no sense without any follow through. One day I'll be a cyclist that buys bikes but never rides, also. 

What can I do? I like to shoot film, and I would like to have the shots I've taken. Mostly I like going through life framing what I see. Hearing the sound of the shutter click and manually winding the film. Maybe one day I will see those frames again. This morning I wondered if the new pup, Akira, would outlive me.

I have tried to convince CS to go on a photography road trip, but he is not quite up to it yet. Maybe I'll go to Berlin and do a road trip with Cato. He has dug his Sony camera out of the shipping box where it has been since he moved to Germany. He took a trip to Barcelona, which seems to have been the inspiration for finding it and charging the batteries and lifting it to his eye to press the shutter. Who knows, maybe he's one of those annoying millennials that uses the electronic viewfinder to compose his shots. 

There is so much great photography out in the world. It is overwhelming, yet people are still mostly insufferable. Age softens some of those feelings, while holding the body in an arc of pain. 

Nerds:

27-inch iMac with Retina 5K display

With the following configuration: 3.7GHz 6-core 9th-generation Intel Core i5 processor, Turbo Boost up to 4.6GHz 64 GB 2666MHz DDR4 memory 3TB Fusion Drive storage Radeon Pro 580X with 8GB of GDDR5 memory Logic Pro X .

Public Hair

(Album Cover)

I thought of a name for the band. We need a drummer machine still, but things are really starting to come together now. Our first album will be comprised entirely of pensive jazz masterpieces. 

I have been playing a handful of folk songs lately. This weekend we are meant to go camping with a group of about 40 campers and hikers, parents and kids. The Cub Scouts. Because I am useless in most daily practical matters - and everybody else was offering to roast pigs or dig trenches and latrines - I offered to play some songs that people can sing along with around the fire. Cumbaya. The others jumped on this idea - loved it, have written me emails to confirm. 

I am using it more as a promotional opportunity for Public Hair's first local tour, so it's important that I shine.

Any time that we have ever had what might be considered a "musical" moment at any of these scouting events it has left me feeling less than patriotic. So, we'll maybe do Blowin' in the Wind, This Land is Your Land and On Top of Spaghetti. If those voracious folk fans demand an encore then I'll have Oh my Darling, Clementine up my sleeve. It is such a perverse and wicked song to sing to kids, but what the fuck... I've roamed and rambled and followed my footsteps. 

I meditated yesterday, only for a few minutes. It gave me some insight into what an absolute wreck my inner world is. 

I kept trying to talk myself into taking a short break from meditating to rub one out. As they say can happen at these times, my impediments became clear and presented themselves to me unobstructed. 

I spent my time in the upright darkness, chasing away the phosphene dance of my eyelids, repeating in hushes, my mantra-ray: .... Shhhhhhut the fuck up, Shhhhhhean.....

When I'm almost done I always whisper, Vietnamaste. 

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