"The ethereal past had blinded him, and the
highest happiness he could dream was a return to it."
~E. M. Forester
Maurice
It's Monday. The first Monday in January, and the first Monday of the new year, and I feel like I have already lived a month of Monday's just since New Year's day, last Wednesday. History will document the events of this past week, in great detail, but I will touch lightly on it a bit, just for clarity, you see, we are probably standing on the precipice of World War III, and yes, it was indeed caused by, you guessed it, Donald John Trump! As if that comes as a surprise. The thing is, I don't know why I am not more scared than I am. Yes, low energy. No real desire to do anything. Not putting any planning into anything, including getting out of bed, or out with the camera, but mostly, I don't feel any particular need to cling to Alan, or sit in a corner and cry. I just feel like missiles could be flying over at any moment, and really, I don't particularly care if they are, or if it kills me!
I don't know if the anti-depressants are finally kicking in, I have only been taking them since the day James Comey was fired, back in 2017, or if I have finally matured in the fact that I can't do a single thing about my death, whether it happens in 50 years, or Thursday of this week, at 11:21PM. It's out of my hands if it comes by a nuclear missile hitting my pool, or I am attacked in my driveway by a band of rabid dogs. I can't control how, or when, I will die. But the thought that it might be Trump that causes it, still remains so insulting to me. Death, is a part of life. Period. But you also know that there are better ways than others to leave this world. Take, for example, that I have come to believe that one day, some beautiful autumn October afternoon, I will be standing in a big pile of beautiful leaves, and will be bitten by a gorgeous, highly poisonous spider, and die right on the spot. But if I did, at least I was enjoying beautiful autumn, the season that makes me feel most alive, when it happened. And oh the irony!
LOL.
But I don't want to go at the hand of that ignorant, stupid asshole. If I have to murdered, couldn't it be by someone with as much charm as Ted Bundy? Or the someone with the mildly attractive looks of Scott Peterson? Sigh. Nah, they aren't great choices either. Maybe if one is going to be murdered, it should be by the hand of a stranger. Yes. That does seem more interesting and exotic. Murdered by a stranger, and that's not even a bad title for a book either! Maybe I should write a book, or at least a short story to get my mind off things? Maybe if I stop thinking about nuclear annihilation, I can get back to crying over stupid shit, like Trump's presidency in general. Or maybe I can just let the feelings come, as they find their way to the front of my consciousnesses. Good plan!
Also, I am beginning a new category in my photography... "Mid-Century Style". I am beginning with the photograph above. I took it in November of 2019, near a cemetery I was doing some late autumn photos in. Our house was built in 1962, and has a really lovely mid-century style and vibe to it! Things from that era have been catching my eye for a long time, and so now that we live in the Central Valley, with all these lovely old buildings, it seems that this is the right time to take advantage of my location. And it's a good way to not give up on photography completely, while I struggle will the lack of will to enjoy what life I have left.
Do you remember the ethereal musician? I miss him. He would play his sax, and my mood would improve 100%! It was fine that I never found out who he was, he remains a magical mystery to this very day, but I sure do miss him... and his music. There were days when I was so sad that I didn't think I would ever smile again, and then suddenly, through the back door, in the middle of the day, came his music, and I would feel happy again. I am so nostalgic for those times. Me and Elvis and the ethereal musician, all sharing music and the little things that make life worth holding on to. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear "You're a Friend Of Mine" being played on the saxophone, and feel Elvis's fuzzy paw pressing on my cheek, waking me up from our afternoon nap. He loved the music too. This memory has me so nostalgic for that peace of mind, if I close my eyes, I can almost touch it.
Sigh. I guess there is something to be said for living in the moment.
