I can't sleep…
(He) has figured out what life is about. It’s not the money that makes him happy. I truly believe Alan has figured out where enough is at. He’s found enough and the strange thing about finding enough, you often end up with more than enough.
— Steve Hartman, on Allen McCloskey in “Local Hero” (CBS Sunday Morning, August 6, 2023)
A Tuesday, on the train, in the evening, after work. The train smells of: humans and ruin, bad breath, old sweat, rotten fruit. Through the dirty window, San Francisco in winter: cold sunset over glinting water, dark hills dusted with lights, the black silhouettes of palm fronds clawing at the fading pastel sky.
The train is full of Believers. I’m not one of them. The Believers have wan skin and glassy eyes. They wear: wind jackets with tech logos, raw denim, canvas sneakers, sustainable ballet flats. Their white plastic earbuds override the sound of real life, their faces buried in their screens. They do not speak or make eye contact. They aren’t really here. The train is full of husks.
I act like one of them. Slow, sad music plays through my earbuds. The song makes the commute feel like a movie. With each flash of scenery, the train carries me farther away from the office. Each day here presses the life out of me. On the way home, I am silent, flat, pulped.
— Sarah Rose Etter, Ripe: A Novel (Scribner, July 11, 2023)
Image & Book Review by Vivian Manning-Schaffel in Shondaland (July 11, 2023): In Her New Novel, ‘Ripe,’ Sarah Rose Etter Shows the Pitfalls of a Hyper-Capitalist System. Etter’s latest novel is a poignantly tragic, absurdist view of the “late-capitalist hellscape” that is grind culture.
It was Sunday morning. 4:50 a.m. 68° F. Morning Walk @ Cove Island Park. 432 consecutive days, like in a row.
My “observations” from my Sunday walk led to yesterday’s Monday Morning Wake-Up Call post — a quote from Janwillem van de Wetering, about being proud of his awareness, proud of his awareness of his pride, being clever to know that he is stupid, etc. etc.
The quote landed. My cup of awareness (I thought) runneth over, and I have a vice grip on all that I don’t know. But this observation seemed to bottom out.
This spring, with the increase in seasonal park traffic, garbage cans were planted throughout the Park — electric pink — surely colored to encourage patrons to dump their sh*t in the can. I did notice the green cans, but they seemed fewer in number. And for 100 straight days, I walked by these cans, tossed trash in these same cans, and zero light bulbs turned on.
Until Sunday morning.
They were wearing headlamps, lights bobbing up and down as they approached.
Her head was down, averting contact.
His head turned to me in response to my “Good Morning”.
“Good Morning, Sir” in a Spanish accent. There we go again. Another human being calling me ‘Sir.’ Respect? Or do they see a Retiree? Either way, de-stabilizing.
They kept walking. I took a few steps in the opposite direction, stopped, and turned to look back. Continue reading “Walking. With Georgia.”
Hasn’t happened. Ever.
50+ years.
Not a single time.
I’m stuck on I-95 S. Frustrated. I was up early, planned to be ahead of the morning rush, way ahead, and now, here I sit. Nasty traffic, snarled. Waze signals delays, and more delays.
Need a mind set shift. I type Dire Straits in search box. Because dire it is. That ain’t workin’, that’s the way you do it / Money for nothin,’ and chicks for free.
Nothing for Free. Stupidity is expensive.
Traffic is at a dead stop. I grab my briefcase from the backseat and rummage through it again. Nothing. What makes you think it will be there. You went through it twice at home. And your Suit jacket from yesterday and the day before. And your pant pockets, from three days. And the hamper. And the floor in the closet. And your other bag. And the kitchen counter. And the car. The trunk. The glove box. Under all seats, and between seats. And the side pockets. A sweat droplet glides down your back, your forehead glistens. 55° F and you’ve just about had it for the day.
I inch forward in traffic.
I call the office: “Could you please check under my desk? In my drawers? Call lost and found? Call the restaurant hosting the work dinner Tuesday Night?”
I call home: “Could you check my Suit pockets again please? My desk drawer? My other bag? Under the cushions on the couch? The drawer in the night stand? The floor under the nightstand?”
I’m sure with two different sets of eyes, they will find it. I’m sure.
I sit in the cabin, in traffic, in silence, and wait. Nick Flynn: “We are made of waiting –…”
Traffic inches forward. WTH. Is everyone in the State of Connecticut parked on I-95?
Both calls come back. Nothing.
I’m sitting in my first morning meeting. Mind is gone, Away. Replaying the last 2 days, hour by hour. Or was it three days ago? Forgetting many things of late. A harbinger of things to come?
Rattled. Continue reading “Driving I-95 S & N. Money For Nothing.”
He thinks the prices paid for his works sometimes border on madness. “I want to ignore it, mostly,” he says. “I’ve had sufficient money to do what I liked every day for the last 60 years. Even when I didn’t have much money, I’ve always managed. All I’m interested in is working, really. I’m going to go on working. Artists don’t retire.”
~ Lesley M.M. Blume, The World According to David Hockney (wsj.com, Sept 9, 2019)
Other notables from this essay:
“I have the vanity of an artist. I want my work to be seen. But I don’t have to be seen.” —David Hockney
“[The drawings] seem to exist fully formed. It’s like he bleeds them onto the page.” —Arne Glimcher
Painting above by David Hockney: The Road to York through Sledmere, 1997 – oil on canvas 48×60 in.