Today is my folks anniversary. I’m taking my mom to the --- retirement home? That sounds a little folksy. Nursing home? That rises the hair on my neck. --- ward (hmmm, well, shit) to have luncheon with my dad. I want to say it’s their 63rd. Demented or no my dad will know who the lady is, but the whole anniversary thing will be beyond him.
I have absolutely no idea what it’s like for my mom. I’m being all chicken-shit and not attending, just doing the driving. The very really and mostly true answer I gave my mom was that I didn’t want to pay for a lunch I wouldn’t enjoy, and yeah, I don’t know if everybody is in agreement with me here, but institution food, whether it’s a dietician or a mess hall sergeant, it’s not for joy or leisure.
It’s also in some small part letting them have their moment, though I think my dad is past moments. It’s also that it depresses the hell out of me and, as odd as this is to admit, the whole being locked in thing gets me a little more than I’d like to admit. You need a pass key to get out. It’s the memory unit, keeps the “guests” from wandering off. Though, technically, I think my dad is a citizen. I mean I don’t think he’s had a medical declaration of incompetence.
Hmmmm. Not where I wanted to go. I follow my fingers. I’ve been a bit lost on how to do real life entries. My last flash was the sort of abstraction that, um, wrote myself into a corner here, let’s start again shall we? You know how when you’re diffusing a bomb and sweat is pouring off your brow and your hand that does the precision work is all cramped and your instinct is to shake the hand to reset it? That’s what my last flash was; re-setting my narrative by stepping off trail. It made a lot more sense (or less sense depending on which way you come at it) before I felt compelled to do the edit’s, which technically weren’t edits so much as just gluing more macaroni on the construction paper.
There’s this lady who has been going through my old facebook timeline. We aren’t friends, I mean I’ve never met her and we’ve maybe Face booked two sentences to one another, and she sure isn’t stalking me with nefarious intent, but it’s a little weird. Mostly it’s weird because I discovered I haven’t always been so facebook absent. I think she’s actually stalking sunny. She had to go back a ways to do that.
Facebook is like a lay persons police blotter. I mean you really can find people if you’re looking. In a thousand years when my floating head in a jar of neuro-nano-vampires and rye whisky is dictating the history of the times, I will pick some arbitrary date and say “ … this is the point at which the information age became the invasion of privacy age” I’ll cite the Patriot act which made it legal for the government to do that shit, but citizens don’t need permission to be nosy. Incidentally y’all, there is no ‘The Government’ it’s a myth made up by people who like being persecuted. Nothing that organized has ever existed. Um, maybe the mafia. Neither ‘The Government’ nor the mafia are really putting acid in your tacos though. I mean, sure, they could in theory, but they’d just argue over what drug to put in what food item then break for lunch.
I’ve decided to write like Jackson Pollack painted; I’m throwing words at a canvass and every accident pleases me. Unless, perhaps, Pollack edited his stuff? In which case nevermind.
You would think I’d know more abstract artists whose work looks accidental to me. You’d be mistaken. I remember being very young and visiting the Tate modern in London. There would be a very large canvass painted red. A small but elegant card to the right of the painting would give the name of the piece and the artist. I believe that particular piece was called Red. If I were the artist and had mistyped the name as rde I’d be inclined to call it rde.
On the wall I can see from where I am sitting is a Poster of Edward Hoppers Nighthawks. Not to kill anyones buzz but that’s sort of where I sit on the modern art fence. Any painting that could be a Tom Waits song works for me.
Oh, shit, good call, now I can fade to black
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