Archive for October, 2016

Catatonia Litter Box

What I suppose you’re beginning to read are the words describing the frozen state of my mind as I deposit them into a litter box of sorts and hope that dumping will emancipate my simmering despondence so that I will inhale something  sweeter in the daze ahead.

Four weeks ago, I showed an acquaintance/friend-at-arms’-length (A/FAAL) the upstairs duplex recently vacated by two former friends who left it looking like Hurricane Matthew had passed through.  A/FAAL loved it, saw lots of potential, and promised to pay half the security deposit before November. After he departed I removed the “FOR RENT” sign from my front yard. A week later,  A/FAAL called to explain he had changed his mind and would not rent the place as promised. He said the reason why was that he could not live in a place with ME as the owner. I’m still choking on the vapors that affected my outlook after the news. I have not advertised that the place is for rent since, I have not shown the duplex to anyone since (though I did return the yard sign to its curbside location the day he shared the bad news) and I have not been back upstairs to finished cleaning it up since I showed him the place three weeks ago. It sure looks as though I’m metaphorically setting another guitar on fire, — it’s so illogical: painting myself into a corner knowing that, if I don’t stop painting, there will be irreversible harm from this antic. Sunday morning I discovered that the OINKS who trashed the upstairs also broke my clothes dryer in the basement.  Words fail me over this. Earlier today I proclaimed on Facebook that if I thought I could get away with assassinating the poop-faces, the OINKS, I would. Everybody who knows them — they’re members of the local visual arts community — would know who did it, so — and I don’t own a gun; don’t want to own a gun — I guess I’ll have to stab them to pulp telepathically with my rapier-like disdain.

I understand how, in a perverse way I am COUNTING on consequences of my self-inflicted woe to make it easier for me to  throw up my arms, throw in the towel, give up and rekindle my kinship with the dust. It’s not like me to be neglectful of obvious responsibilities as I’ve been doing for the  past thee weeks. But it’s getting to be like me.

Other circumstances are at force in my life which contribute to this stinking malaise. Also about three weeks ago the owners of a business where the aviation museum I founded and administrate advised me that I must relocate my office  to a different location: to two adjoining rooms which, together,  total more square feet than the one  room I’ve been vacating, one I’ve developed for the past six and a half years. Though there are several positives to share in this dictum from on high,  the museum will be relocated away from the mainstream of life in this building, and I am certain the “drop in” visitation by  pilots and passengers who encounter my open door and visit will decline PRE-CIPI-TOUSLY. Fewer visitors fewer happy  chats, less contact with the “outside world.” I’ve put other obligations “on hold” as I move and arrange things.

Except for the sign in my front yard, I’ve not tried to find residents for the upstairs duplex because I consider it “un-showable” as it is.

My new Android phone smarter than I am, and I’ve gone almost two weeks with no phone service at all. Friday I visited the AT&T store where they fixed the problems, and I had a working phone again. I received calls from two people wanting to see the upstairs after reading the sign in my front yard. We arranged I would show the place to the first person Sunday at 11 and the second at 11:30. I printed lease applications last night. Neither person visited. I sat on my  front porch reading from 10:55 to 11: 45. I would have seen anyone who I had talked to approaching. It didn’t work.

With the end of this dreadful October “in sight” I resolve to relax a little.  I have been so tense and out of sorts that if my anus were my attitude, you could discharge a pistol an inch away from it, and the bullet wouldn’t penetrate the orifice.

I am dedicating all the time I need on Monday (day off from part time employer) to finishing cleaning up the house after I visit the AT&T store and get my Android returned to service. I won’t even come out to the airport museum until I have completed what needs to be done at home.

The only place to go from here is up.

Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.


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Deleting Traces of Me

I spent two solid hours deleting probably 300 pictures I had posted at my “arts presence” on Facebook (where I call myself Conger Job) this morning. I felt compelled to do it. Why?

Because inside I was horribly despondent that life had come to in which I feel terribly estranged from most of the people who mean a lot to me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve felt this disconnection.  Last August I threw away almost 200 color prints and probably 300  35 mm slides (taken with a cameras that used film) going back to the 1960s when I began to become serious about photography in junior high school. Similar forces consumed me when I  burned a pretty expensive Ibanez guitar in my back yard. When I was in my teens, sometimes I was so sad that three or four times (in my LIFE)leading up to high school and  never after that) I scraped the blade of a pocket knife against my left forearm or punch a wall until taking some of the skin off but never bleeding significantly. I knew others would think the activity quite disturbing, and I knew I was plum stupid for doing  it, I was smart enough to know I didn’t want to HURT myself. I never injured my knuckles and the evidence of the blade activity usually healed itself over the course of a  week. I didn’t want to permanently immolate myself. Do you know what I wanted to do?

I wager some readers (sadly) know what I wanted to do.

I wanted to tell the world I wasn’t happy.

Ask I creep toward  my 70s,  that early illogic has manifest itself in a new way. I want to take back and forget all the happy memories and positive circumstances I captured in fractions of seconds with cameras: the girlfriends, the travels, employers I have served and loved, homes I used to live in, cars I used to drive. I understand that if I get run over by a runaway truck tomorrow, nobody’s  going to want to know about the young woman I’m standing with in white suit coat and tie before we went to the invitational at the Leland Hotel downtown in 1968.  The discarded pictures, some of them better than average are the loose baggage the passengers throw out the opened airplane door, to  lighten the burden, the load, in the effort to make sustain forward motion all the way to landfall and a happy landing. How much are the pictures of strangers I photographed at 20 art gallery receptions over the past 15  years worth today? Weeks after each event, after I posted them on Facebook or showed them to a few friends they were pretty special. Today they don’t exist because in my life today, having seen FEW of them over the past five years, I am metaphorically dead from them as they are from me. So the pictures will join barely  recalled names in the dust of vibrant souls which used to be alive to me.

I’m not pitching clothes and I’m not pitching  a lot of my books and magazines; mostly books I know I will not want to read again. No time for a garage sale, I’m just downsizing into the dumpster at my employer, traces of the man I used to be.  Did  you know that once upon a time a popular publisher of a creepy, truly obscene magazine called Hustler published pictures of Jacqueline Kennedy (President John Kennedy’s wife) in the nude? I still have my copy of the magazine and some Playboys and Platinums. I held the magazines in my hands a few days ago after discovering them on a low shelf in a closet. I didn’t even look at Jackie Kennedy’s pictures, TRUE. But I also didn’t pitch the  magazines into the trash. They might be useful some day.

Special thanks to the MANY NEW FOLLOWERS of Honey & Quinine, at least 10 over the past few weeks.  I wish we could engage in conversational dialogue with each other, on my front porch, two to four of us at a time at table with coffee or wine. To all of you and those special folks who have read my poems and posts for years, again I exhort you to . . . .

Live long . . . . . . .  and proper.

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