Sorry, dear reader, I have been rather ill lately and unable to write much. Probably just another relapse of my Peace Corps illnesses, or maybe something rather less romantic and much more prosaic. I hope these images, all of which I shot tonight, might entertain you. Let me also try to tell you a story.
It's so nice here! Last night, at sunset, my housemate and I grilled hamburgers out back, then went up to her place to eat them. I'm not sure how long it's been since I tasted a hamburger, but this one was yummy. I couldn't get Steve Martin's "French" dialogue with his "teacher" in the latest Pink Panther movie out of my mind.
am-bor-grr!
Gotta practice my French; will be there soon.
The theme this summer is green.
My mission is to experiment with all kinds of shades of green.
All of us hope to be diagnosed as healthy, sane, good to stay (as opposed to go.) But it can't always be that way. Some of us must be weeded out of the pool, so the species can go on.
Tonight, I am reflecting on a certain Sunday morning some 18 years ago. I'd just been diagnosed as "severely depressed."
I was in mourning over the end of my first marriage, and the fact that my actions had precipitated its collapse, at least according to conventional wisdom about these kinds of things.
But I was lost at the time, beyond anyone's reach. I was enduring what we like to call a "mid-life crisis," which, if you've not had one, is not at all fun. I was living in am empty house in Mill Valley. (Soon, a U.S. Senator on the lam would join me, but that's another story.)
I have no idea why I was in Berkeley on this particular Sunday, but I was. Maybe I was buying a book about psychology, trying to discover, in mid-life, what "feelings" were.
That's right, at age 42, I still had no clue. How sad is that? Meanwhile, my feelings were running away with me, or at least, with my heart.
I'd fallen in love with a lovely someone in Paris, but she was not with me now. I was all alone. As I passed a bus stop on Shattuck Street that morning, I saw a family -- a man, a woman, their kids, happily laughing, and I felt a horrible pang in my chest.
Why couldn't I be in that picture?
What was wrong with me?
How was it that I was alone on this Sunday morning, the father of three, but no longer welcome in my own family?
Tonight, listening to one of favorite contemporaneous poets, I felt that old feeling once again in his words. So I will leave you with this, because that old pain is back in my chest, here alone again, of course.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.
-- Johnny Cash (written by Kris Kristofferson)
Sunday Morning Coming Down
-30-
4 comments:
Yah, Sunday Morning Coming Down was written by Kris Kristofferson. That is my favorite song poem, and Johnny Cash makes it even more intense with his singing/interpretation.
I've been on the other side of that thing, the mid-life crisis where the guy falls in love with someone else.
I always feel so abandoned when they leave. I tend to take it personally.
Yes. You're right. Thanks.
But back to this: old pain is back in my chest, here alone again...
That is a lonely feeling. I'm sorry you're feeling that way.
I like the soft intensity of the colored glass. It's energetic but at the same time, soothing. That's good energy to have around the house.
Yes, it is comforting. I've been experimenting with seaglass, old bottles, and color combinations for some time now. I sometimes publish that work, including bizarre photoshop versions, on my photo blogs. Certain artist friends use versions of the work for their purposes. I post photos of it in the hope that others can use it as they wish...
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