Holly Northrop Blog

With the fall colors in full bloom all around upstate New York, even the blackest hearted, black and white photographer feels the pull to break out the Ektachrome 200 color slide film and go shoot a tree with some water around it. Nature is just screaming at you to look at it.

So this Saturday I have two openings. Both are within the same block of each other in Hudson. One is A Show of Heads at the Limner and the other is a Hidden Hudson show at The Deffebach Gallery. At The Limner, I'm showing a photo of a floating head and at The Deffebach Gallery I'm showing three Polaroid's.

I have one more medical thing to get through this week and hopefully, (for fucks sake) I'll be done. Pretty much every week for about two and a half months I've had some doctor up my ass for various things. It's awesome. It's so extreme that even my therapist interjected last week that in all fairness this is too much and it is no wonder I'm a jumpy mess. Everyone thinks I'm overly dramatic until they hang out with me for a year or so.

Since the end of July when I ended up in the ER, I've had an X-Ray of my lungs; a CT scan of my lungs; several freckles burned off my arms and face; a pap smear; an internal sonogram (super fun); a mammogram and massive amounts of blood and urine work. The icing on the fuck-with-me-cake is a D&C this week. Fantastic. Thank GOD I have insurance.

In my head, I've had every known cancer that corresponds to whatever organ they are testing. Not only am I driving myself nuts, (that's a given) just imagine what I'm doing to Martha and Jasmine, when they'll listen to me.

It's all I can really think about, well that and the election and the deep dark cloud of doom that will cover the globe if McPain wins; our nation's/world's economy; thousands of layoffs in New York/world, and the weekly hemorrhaging of money from our nation's/world's existence and our own personal lives.

It's like we're racing our GMC Yukon down a highway that dead ends in 1000 yards. We can't seem to stop flicking Benjamin's and lit cigarettes out the window every two seconds and laughing our asses off while ACDC blasts from our iPod car integration systems.

So disappointing.

Right, so to spare "all ya all", this weeks post is short.

Aside from trying everyday not to freak out about something, things are...well now, who am I kidding, things around here are a little jumpy. I wake up jumpy and so the fuck what. So what if I have too much anxiety, who the hell doesn't at his point in the game? These are frightening times. As I've been saying to Martha, "I'm sick to death of seeing horrible shit happen that has never happened before."

At least my unemployment benefits have been extended. Extended until I get another job? Probably not. The good thing about being unemployed, (aside from the obvious) is that by this year's end I will have been in ten shows. That is the most ever and I think. Too bad it's a crap time to buy art, let alone an unknown artist but still. I did manage to sell one print! It's not like I've been sitting on my ass. I actually think that is impossible for me to do. I'm too squirrely and my project list is endless.

I am almost finished with next year's calendar. Every year around this time, I notice that the calendar I'm working on is way better than the last one. I suppose that is good; that whole thing about my work evolving and all. The idea that whatever I am working on is much more interesting than what I've done, keeps the fires burning, I guess is what they say.

Martha was in San Diego California all last week for a solar convention and I was home alone, avoiding the sun and waiting for dark. It didn't take but a day before I reverted back to my old weird self by staying up until after 2:00 and then waking up at 7am. I thought the meds were going to stop that but much like a runaway truck, sometimes only a sand ramp will stop me.

The show that I'm in during November is going to be awesome. I love showing at this gallery because Tim is not only a great artist, but he is a great curator. The show is called; A Show of Heads and the link is here.

Sometime over the past two weeks or so, our next-door neighbor has taken the air conditioner out of her window and now, she is leaving her magenta curtains open. The problem with this new, fuchsia view of her life is that she has a medical bed, complete with metal side rails up against the window. I know she is taking care of her father-in-law and yes, he deserves to see the outside world but in the two years we have lived up here, I do not remember this window being open. The man is mobile and does not spend the day in bed. I have to say that it is a little bothersome every time I walk out of our house and smack right there is a medical bed. It makes me think of two things that, much like bookends, are very related.

The immediate memory I have is when I was a kid, my little twin-sized bed had rails on the sides so that I wouldn't fall out of bed. I was a roller and I used to fall out all the time, almost every night. After about two weeks of middle-of-the-night incidents, my parents put up rails so they could get some sleep and, in an added bonus, I wouldn't break my neck.

The second thought I have is how I am probably going to end my final days in a bed with side rails. The whole inevitability of it all is a sobering way to start the outside part of any day.

She needs to move him back to the other room he was in, or maybe a nice room with a view of the meadow behind all of our houses. I'm sure he doesn't want to stare at the side of our house all damn day. All summer long, he used to sit on the porch every day, all day and watch the people go by. He always let us know if someone dropped a package off at our house and one time, he told us that he noticed a 'dark man walking around in our yard.' (It was a delivery guy looking for the side entrance.)

My guess is that neither one of us are happy about this. It's not like I can go over there and say to her, "Hey neighbor! So yeah, I'm a self-centered asshole and your father-in-law's medical bed bothers me, can you move it?" I'm sure her father-in-law's medical bed bothers her too.

My nerves are shot. My therapist tells me that I have enormous anxiety (ya think?) and to take more Xanax, that that is what it is there for. I so do. Clearly, with each passing day I become less and less employable. Oh sure I can go spend the day in Manhattan walking around for six hours shooting. I do think my photography is getting better but I can't help but think that in the not too far off future I'll be sitting in some Social Security office somewhere filling out a form having to do with my ability to 'handle' a full time job.

It started with a weird cold that I caught within minutes of landing in the Charlotte, North Carolina airport this past June. While Martha went to rent a car, I walked over to baggage claim to grab our bag. It's always a surprise when it actually comes down the chute isn't it?

Anyway, the minute I turned around to the carousel, a rush of air blew over me and within minutes, I had a sore throat. It was weird and got really weirder. The whole visit I had a wicked sore throat and on the last day it turned into a cough. Thankfully, the flight home wasn't a cough fest but from the first night home and for a solid week after I slept on the couch every night coughing my fucking head off. And I mean COUGHING. I would cough all the air out of my lungs and then gasp for air. It was frightening.

So frightening that after Martha tried for days to get me an appointment with a doctor but no one would see me for four-five weeks, I walked over to the emergency room where they took an X-Ray of my lungs, gave me a scripts for antibiotics and cough syrup with some yummy Vicodin in it. The X-ray looked good so they diagnosed me with Acute Bronchitis and sent me home with instructions to follow up with my doctor five weeks from then.

I took the antibiotics and nurtured the cough medicine and for about a week, I felt better. But the minute the drugs stopped I started coughing again. Some days it felt like I just couldn't breath. I started to get worried and well, a little weirder so the head doctor decided to up my meds. Nice.

A week or so later is when I dropped Victor's Horizon 202 camera.

After $158 to fix the camera I go to my 'follow up' doctors' appointment where my new doctor reviews the X-ray and then asks me if anyone told me what they found in my lung?

WHAT?

Seems there was something 'funny' on the X-Ray; a grayish area in the lower right lobe. She wants to have another technician review the X-Ray and then decide if we should do a CT Scan. She'll call me.

Right.

So I TRY to go about my normal existence by obsessively chewing gum and working out and then jumping out of my skin every time the phone rings. Finally, after two days my cell rings while I'm out shooting in Manhattan. They want to do a CT scan. I call Martha and in what can only be described as extremely pathetic, I start crying while walking along the edge of the East River under the Brooklyn Bridge. (Yet I still continued to shoot photos, very odd) I am convinced that I have lung cancer and that I was going to be dead by Christmas, or at least by the end of September. I think I'm turning into Woody Allen.

The CT Scan was set for that Friday with my follow up visit two-weeks from then. On the day I walked over to the hospital for the scan there was a monster storm coming over the Catskills. Thunder, lightening the whole works. I walked over a little early so as not to have the heavens literally open up on me. They took me early, walking me back to the waiting area of the machine. Just as I am walking by the open door of the room, a flash of pure white light bursts out of the door. It was as though an enormous flash bulb went off to my left just as I was walking by. The timing was perfect and I bet my skeletal image is UV Ray burned into the wall that was on my right. Kind of like an early man cave painting.

Obviously, the hospital, which is on top of a hill, was hit by lightening. The CT machine was fried and they had to take me over to the other machine in the ER.

After the scan I'm told that if they find anything they'll call me, otherwise I'll see my doctor in two-weeks. What is with the wait for a phone call thing? Jesus Christ. After a few days I have both Jasmine and Martha up my ass to call the doctor but I just can't. I do not want to know. La, la la la la la la... I retreat, withdrawal and go into my own little happy place. Besides Jasmine was easily distracted because she was in the process of moving back to Pittsburgh having finished up school. She found a nice one-bedroom apartment in a good area of town and she's even going to have a cat.

On a beautiful Saturday morning and four days before I'm to go back for my follow up doc visit, I innocently check the mail. In the mail was a letter from Jasmine's college. I open it thinking it was a letter congratulating her or maybe even her diploma, but no, it is a letter informing us that she isn't graduating. She is one credit shy of a degree and they have put her on academic probation but she is invited back for the fall semester to finish up her course work. The one credit that she needs is an incomplete. They also sent along a copy of her miserable transcripts unlocking the 5-year mystery on just what the hell was going on in college.

This event was truly unfortunate for all of us.

After the crying, yelling and a few nasty phone calls, Jasmine swears that once she gets a hold of her professor that the incomplete will be changed to a passing grade, I walked out of the house stormed across the street and called the neighbor a jackass.

Monday Martha got an alert from Jasmine's checking account that she was $100 overdrawn. Upon further inspection, it was discovered that Jasmine had managed to motor through $1600 in four days. All of which is more or less explainable except for the $263 at Ikea.

Tuesday Martha got another alert from Jasmine's checking account indicating that there is now $270 worth of overdraft charges.

Thursday at 8:30 in the morning and with 1 ½ Xanax in me I stood in the doctors' small exam room pacing like a caged tiger. Finally, she comes in and immediately tells me that everything is fine.

The 'funny' thing on my CT scan shows a calcified granuloma that is usually benign and generally caused from either a prior early childhood incident with the lungs like pneumonia, or histoplasmosis. Histoplasmosis is commonly caused by a fungal infection and is endemic to the Ohio River Valley. Interesting. I'm thinking it's the combination of sitting in the Ohio River Valley woods sniffing glue at the early age of twelve. That would cover both. Oh hush, it was only for one summer and the damn shit gave me a horrible headache. What can I say, it was Ohio and I no longer live there for many, many reasons. Think Gummo. Seriously.

So right. We go to Pittsburgh this Thursday to visit with Jasmine where we will dance and sing songs. Should be a good time.

It's not the individual events so much as it is the stress of the all events happening at one time or for an extended run of time. I dropped a friend's camera but it was fixed and he's still talking to me. As far as I know, I don't have lung cancer but for over two weeks I convinced myself that I did. I just have chunks of things in my lungs. So far, Jasmine is a mess but she will figure it out, she has to.

Jasmine has asked me to burn all my Joy Division for her. She swears she's not depressed, that she just likes the music and I do believe her but part of me did pause when she asked me. It's one thing when I decide to 'go there' but it's a whole other can of worms if your child 'goes there'.

"Mom, I also listen to Tool, but that doesn't make me want to go out and kill myself."
Although she was making a point I never got past the "I listen to Tool" part of that sentence. Tool makes many people want to go out and kill themselves.

She's coming home for her birthday and I can't wait to see her. She's driving and the cost of gas alone is going to be as much as a night at the Waldorf.

Can I just say that the West Fourth Street subway station is a total pit of shit? I hate when I have to use it and will walk the extra blocks just to avoid the damn place. Every time I'm down there I feel like I'm either going to be mugged or shoved in front of a train. It's one of the few stations in Manhattan that makes me feel that way. Even the station in the South Bronx didn't make me as uncomfortable as West Fourth Street.

I don't know why but that station just creeps me out, the vibe is all wrong. It's super spooky when you're all dressed for an interview, (or a job on Wall Street), you become a target for bullshit. I've seen it with other people and I've seen it with me. Dress like any other scourge of the earth and no one looks twice, but slap and pair of dress shoes and a Fossil Red Leather Business Tote on your ass and well, here they come.

Again with the dental visits, another Wednesday, another filling. I am seeing these people on such a weekly basis that I'm starting to know their lives, you know how their weekend was, etc. I could be an employee, except there is no way I could stick my hands in another person's mouth. I can barely tolerate the sight of my own horrible teeth let alone the fucked up crap of someone else's nightmare.

Funny, my dad was always trying to get me to go to dental school. That's all he used to say to me all through high school. "You know Holly, those dental hygienists make damn good money."

He'd always say that after he'd had a dental visit, which if I recall was with about the same frequency that I have. I get my shitty teeth from his Irish/German side of the family tree. Come to think of it, I get a lot of shitty things from that side of the family. Interesting how he never thought I could actually be a dentist but that I just might be smart enough to handle teeth cleaning.

Speaking of stupid, for two days last week, I periodically watched two guys from National Grid dig a hole in our front yard.

Union Street is undergoing a MAJOR construction project, in fact all of Hudson is but now they have started on our street. They are replacing all of the gas lines, the main one and the one that feeds into each and every house. So the drilling, tarring jack hammering, and general jackassiery should be a good time for all of us. It wouldn't suck so much if everything wasn't in the front of the house. My studio, the living room and the bedroom all have direct viewing of the construction. The only place I can hide out in is either the kitchen or Martha's office.

They have marked up the road in front of each house with colorful orange, blue and white spray-paint. It looks like HTML markup. I do notice that our house seems to have quite a few more notes then either one of our neighbors. Not sure what that means but I'm sure it sucks. It's been my experience that anything that has more code around it or special notations is most likely problematic.

The first day of the project is when they started digging the hole. They were looking for the main gas line. They found our pipe with out any real trouble. It's only about two feet down and right in front of our driveway, but the main line was a mystery, wrapped in a enigma that was stuffed inside a Triple Whopper^TM with Cheese. The magnet that they use to find pipe indicated that the main line was in our yard, so they started digging. Digging, digging and digging. End of day one: nothing so they covered the hole up put a bunch of orange cones with yellow tape around it and went home.

Day two. They dug out the hole that they had just filled fifteen hours before and then they dug further. By now, this hole had interested a neighbor, he came over to stand there, and watch Darrel and Darrel dig a hole.

He stood there for over thirty minutes, looking down at the hole. Amazing. I don't get it, I don't understand what part of the brain wants' to watch someone dig a hole. This is such a man thing. Is this the same thing as when we watch each other put makeup on? Just stupid brain shit, kind of like the power save on the computer.

They finally found the main line three feet over and under the road instead of in our yard. So they filled up the hole, and dug a new one, out in the road.

Saturday morning I woke up at 7am to the sound of aluminum ladders being extended and the general clanking that aluminum can cause. The weather has been so nice here that for over a week we've had the windows open and I'd like to keep it that way. Air conditioners cost money and seeing how I'm unemployed and the entire country is in some form of biblical disaster, (flood, fire and food are all attacking us), I figure the less I can crank up the air the better.

After a few clanking moments, I hear a weird noise coming from across the street. I look out and see a man standing by the neighbor's big tree in the front yard. He has the ladder and is looking up at the tree.

Ok whatever, the neighbors are having something done to their house, painted, shutter stuff, whatever, don't care I move on, pissed that I'm awake so early on a Saturday. But this weird noise keeps drifting over. I think it's either a treed cat or one of those crazy squirrels. I figure whatever it is, it's some kind of animal that is caught in the tree and because the workers are right there, it's freaked out. I know a woodpecker lives there but I wasn't sure they make a growl-moan sound.

Finally I figure it out. One of the workers is a mute. He's not deaf because there isn't any signing going on, just loud moaning sounds after everything the other guy tells him to do, which like normal conversation is every few seconds. He sounds like Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein.

"We don't have enough errands to be away from that all day." I said to Martha.
"Well, we're just going to have to take the long way." She said.

Sunday was rough. I have no idea why but it was rough from almost the get go. Sunday was flea day. I hate the day when we give the girls flea treatments. We never had to do it until we moved up here and I just hate it. Zoe always acts like we've stuck a piece of tape to the back of her neck, staring up at the ceiling then flipping her head from left to right in a vein attempt to lick the back of her head. She looks like she is hearing voices. She can do this for hours and she makes me nuts. She drives me crazy, which drives Martha crazy and before too long, one of us (me) is sleeping on the couch with a little prescription overdose. I hate flea day.

In the middle of talking to Martha about how fucked up my head was (and chewing gum) my temporary crown fell out. Like right in front of her. I wish I could say that this was the first time she has ever seen this but alas I have had many a temporary crowns in my mouth and she is way over the shock of seeing something fall off my body. Sixteen years is a lifetime.

Well, I made it through the first of four dental appointments on Wednesday. I have a standing Wednesday afternoon reservation through the month of June. While walking around midtown shooting and killing time before my appointment, I started taking Xanax because of nerves and back pain.

By the time I was inside the building and around other people I realized that I just might have taken a little to much. I know this because while sitting in the waiting room all I wanted to do was go drink and have a cigarette.

But it's good for me to calm down at the dentist, otherwise it's just hell on everyone involved.

In this batch of unemployment, I have managed to become addicted to Law and Order. In over the twelve years that the show has been on air, I have never once watched it. Oh no, but now, since I've become part of the national statistic number of "The Unemployed" that show is so on. It's on because it's always on. They run hours and hours of it, all shows I've never seen before. It's fucking ridiculous and driving Martha crazy. I can't help it, I find an odd comfort in it consistency, and that "always on" feeling. It seems as though I am finally ready for the Orwellian Present.

I had an interview last Friday the 13th, with nice normal people who were so unlike the lovable lunatic fringe that I used to work with that I could not stop smiling at everyone. An odd site I'm sure.

With this job the not so lovable lunatic fringe is on the outside of the building seeing how the company is located in the World Financial Center, World Financial Center 1 to be exact, which by the way has the same damn elevator look and feel as the Twin Towers used to have. The main lobby has a stunning, jarring, disturbing, (pick one), view of the pit.

Once inside the building the offices themselves face Jersey, directly across from our old apartment. If I get the job, this image should only bother me at least once everyday when I think about how I could have been at work in under ten minutes, as compared to the over two-hour commute that would lie ahead of me on any given day.

Rough shit, I tell you, but like I said, really nice people.

Been having trouble sleeping for about a month or so and I'm not sure why. That whole counting sheep thing has never really worked for me. I fixate on too much on the details. How many sheep? Are they in a field? What color are they, brown or white? Are they shaved? Do they look like sheep, whose faces are super creepy and kind of demonic/human looking, or do they look like the sheep in the Serta Commercial? Is there a fence and if so what color is the fence? White picket or barbwire? Is there grass or dirt and are there other animals around?

It goes on and on and before I know it, I'm more awake then I was before.

Now, what sometimes works for me is rather odd indeed.

I imagine that I'm in a dark space, not so much a room as a void. No ceiling, walls or floor, just darkness all around me and I am suspended from a rope that is tied to my head. The rope leads up to nothing, kind of like one of the cages in Time Bandits.

My body dangles and all my muscles relax, my head is held steady, not so much as choking, but more like a block thing. I imagine that gravity is stretching out my spine.

Sometimes if my back is really killing me, I'll imagine hanging upside down, pulling my spine out the other way, just for a different take on the whole thing.

More work this weekend on Martha's room and I think I'm going to die. Her 3000-pound desk arrived and it took us all of Saturday and well into Saturday night to build most of it, taxing all of my problem solving and geometrical relationships skills. We stopped working only because our backs were broken, I was unable to hold things with either one of my hands and I could no longer think straight.

The house is still a misfortunate mess but her space already has a real good vibe and once it is finally finished, (we still have to build the bookcases and then go through everything, file it and organize the whole mess), it will be a great office. Unlike the fucking disaster, it was before. I wanted to take before and after photos but no one needs to see the before. However, here is the almost done photo and another of Miss M at her new desk.

The outside of our house is turning into crazy cute, which after the cold dead winter look combined with the whole foil thing, we are very happy to at least look normal. It's just the inside that has problems.

Sunday we had to drive a framed print down to Connecticut for a show I'm going to be in at the Ridgefield Guild of Artists. While the whole thing was not so much fun due to back pain and general stiffness that both of us were suffering from. I felt extra bad about making Martha burn a weekend day in the car but we did it. Drove all the way down to Ridgefield, dropped off the print but then we got a little lost when we drove off the Taconic to look at a golf course. Not just any golf course but the James Baird Gold Course, which was built in 1948, apparently an historic landmark of golf course lore.

We then drove around some weird little back roads until we finally came upon civilization and spotted a Dunkin Donuts where just like that, all was made better with coffee and a muffin.

Wednesday I have to pick up another print for a Landscape show up here in Hudson and I just found out that I'm going to be published in Lightleaks.

More home projects on the horizon include a new floor for the sunroom. I had wanted to just rip up the nasty carpet that was in there but right before the last snowstorm in February, I noticed that the floor was buckling in front of the door. So now we have to replace the floor but we can save a shitload of money if I do the demo. Now that is going to be fucking painful. I am scared for my back, shoulders and the general whole body area.

Speaking of pain, I get to go to the dentist every Wednesday for the entire month of June. I've also moved my therapy to Wednesday night, so um, Wednesdays are going to be full. I will either be having a filling filled, a mold made or a crown put in, and not all on one tooth. This a la carte presentation spans several teeth on all four corners of my mouth.

Then after fucking with my mouth, I get to ride the train to Martha and then another hour to therapy where for another hour I'll probably talk about my teeth and all the nuttiness the entire thing is causing me. You know loss of control, pain and that nasty persecution thing that is on an endless loop in my dizzy brain.

The whole thing is a total drag in that I'll have to break up my day of shooting to go to the dentist, not just once but for four weeks in a row. How the hell is that going to work. Start placing your bets now as to what week you think I'm going to crack.

After $2,700 and a week and a half later, Jasmine finally has the Jeep back and not a day too soon seeing how she moved Saturday and Sunday. Her living situation has always been a little screwy but this one was down right stupid. Now she's in another place until August, when by all accounts she is supposed to graduate. She's not going to walk though, she'll just have the diploma sent here, where upon opening it, Martha and I will drop to our knees and weep.

A woodpecker has moved into the neighborhood. He's hammering away at something across the street. I can't tell if it's someone's house or a tree that is his construction zone. It's pretty cool to hear the tat, tat, tat every few seconds. It's cool because it's across the street and sort of a muted sound by the time it reaches me. Closer, it would drive me crazy as most things do when they get near me.

Because the Earth is attempting to rid itself of the parasite known as Homo sapiens, the weather here went from 40° to 70° in a day. So it was no surprise that a big black wasp somehow got into the house, specifically the darkroom. I was the unfortunate one to discover this. According to Martha, I turned into a basket case, which I am sure is the correct assessment given my behavior. It is however also unfortunate that she said this to me, instead of muttering it to herself under her breath. But in her defense I do tend to become emotionally unhinged at the strangest things.

Interestingly enough, the phrase 'basket case' originated in WWI. It was used to describe solders that had lost both their arms and their legs and had to be carried around in a basket. It is only recently that it is used as a description for someone who is losing his or her shit.

Learn something new everyday.

One funny thing about the whole wasp episode was that Martha was just getting ready to take a shower when I freaked out. Because she is awesome and the one to kill flying things, (I kill the crawling things) she walked up the stairs, naked except for her glasses and a pair of socks. The wasp was in the window right behind the new Irish Shamrock that we had just bought exactly two days prior. I have to hang these plants or Lily mows them down like grass. They are beautiful and I love having them in the house. She killed the last one we had in the high-rise so I was thrilled to have a new one.

When Martha fired off a blast of Raid Earth Options Wasp & Hornet Killer, she not only sprayed the wasp but nicely misted the plant.

Me: You sprayed the plant!
Her: Did you tell me not to spray the plant?
Me: No but we just got it.
Her, sort of yelling at me: Did you want me to kill the wasp or what?
Me: Man that shit stinks.
Her: I think it smells nice. Kind of lavender.
Me: Yeah, poison lavender.

Monday the exterminator was at the house and I just loved it when he told me that I needed to calm down. He was here for about an hour and it was much like therapy as well...therapy. Considering that I haven't been in two weeks, it was a deeply needed session. At least he's a nice guy. I should have made him some cookies or something.

Wednesday, I had my rescheduled doctors' visit and here is what I learned. If you cause me pain and then leave me alone in Hoboken for too long, I WILL go to the record store and I WILL most likely buy something. I bought the new Breeders and I managed to find it in a more reasonably price vinyl then I was finding in New York. Considering that I bought The Song Remains the Same in 1976 for a whopping $7.00, $12.00 for a new record today isn't that crazy. Plus, it comes with a free digital download. It's like getting two records for the price of one. I couldn't afford not to buy it. At least that is what I told Martha. But she has a soft spot for The Breeders so she wasn't too mad at me. Anything to stop me from talking about wasps or Jasmine, right babe?

Finally around midweek, Martha was able to escape my madness by traveling 700 miles south to the other side of the crazy coin, and spend three days with her mom. This trip was to be a little different because her sister, her niece (complete with husband and one-year-old baby in tow), were meeting her there. I managed to get out of that shindig because I had to deal with some gallery stuff. Besides there were already too many people planning to shove their bodies into Gen's tiny overheated apartment. It would look more like an intervention then a family visit, (sort of like the same thing I suppose) but anyway the deal breaker was a crying baby added to the mix.

Been there; done with that, I'm out. Instead of messy diapers and constant whining, I get to hear about Jasmine's logistical problems with dropping the Jeep off for a checkup because the person that was supposed to drive is on acid and can't drive her back from the dealership. I guess it is better then her telling me that she's on acid and can't drive the car.

This is what happens when you let them live, teach them to walk, talk and wipe their own ass. That talking thing was a big mistake.

With Martha leaving on Thursday, I was alone for three and a half days. Gone are my 'whoop-whoop' days, that is for sure. But I did notice that once I'm alone I immediately revert to my old sleeping patterns. Staying up until two or three in the morning, waking up at seven and then napping around three, it was classic stuff. It's amazing how living with one person who is relatively normal; sleeps normal, eats normal etc., how living with that person changes my sleeping regularity. When she's around I seem to stop being so weird.

All I know is that our big fat bed sucks without her in it.

A quick look at April and I see that Jasmine is coming home for a weekend visit. I'll be shooting a friends pre-wedding photos all around Manhattan. Then I'll be alone one weekend when Martha travels to North Carolina to visit her mother. This time I'll be baking cookies for profit and hopefully visiting lots and lots of art museums. Somewhere in there maybe I'll get an interview or two.

Before a job interview last week, Martha and I were lying in bed enjoying a little morning conversation.
"I had a dream last night that I had cancer." I said.
"Oh god holly"
"Yep, I was in a hospital bed and I had cancer. Oh and I had to have a little dental work done; they did it right there in the bed."
Laughter
"You were there, I had started chemo, and well yeah, that is it. It was..."
"God Holly", she interrupted, "why don't you cheer up a little?"

After I printed out the last page of my resume packet, the printer died. But considering that it's almost six years old and the endless amount of prints, resumes, letters and general directions I've printed out on the thing, it's amazing that it has lasted this long.

I use shit to death. I wear clothes until they are rags. I rip though coats like nobody's business. It seems like at the end of every season I need a new coat. My CD player is eighteen years old, the receiver is roughly thirteen, and the turntable and cassette deck I've had for at least ten years. The speakers however are new. I even have vinyl records that I bought when I was is high school. My Canon 35 mm camera is the one my dad bought me (new) in 1981. Even my Holga is over three years old and they are not supposed to last past a year. Right now, all Martha hears is that I have a bunch of shit that is going to break all at one time and I will need $1,000 to upgrade. She did buy me a new printer, however.

The older I get, the older all my crap gets.

There are only three physical things that I have left from my marriage. The emotional things are too numerous to mention and in reality, it's not what happened in the marriage so much as the outstanding shitty behavior that happened well after the divorce. But anyhoo, all three of these things were already old when we bought them. There is the Victorian lamp in my photo room. Originally, we bought two of them; Jim got the other one. I am sure his second wife promptly made him throw it out along with all of his guitars and other musical instruments and anything having to do with his former self. I suppose that is one way to weed out the past. Let the replacement dig through your crap and make a new life for you.

Ok, obviously I'm having a few issues here but let us press on.

Jim and I bought the pair of lamps at the Salvation Army in East Liberty for $14.00. The lamp I have still has the price on it, written in Sharpie Permanent Marker on the metal base. I have a 1960s marble table that I now use to cut mattes and file negs on, but back then, it was our kitchen table. Many a thanksgiving dinner and morning cereal has happened around the thing. I think we paid $20.00 for it.

Lastly, there is the 1940's red leather chair in the living room. Jim and I bought the red chair at the Salvation Army in Bloomfield for $45.00, the most we ever spent on a thrift store item. When Lily was a kitten, she went after it so there is some damage on the left side but over all it's in great shape. I am debating on giving it to Jasmine but not until she looks to be a little more stable in her housing. Could be awhile.

I've been thinking about throwing out a bunch of stuff. I know I should. I've done this before but I could always weed out more. What is the fucking point of dragging around crap year after year? Ok fine, I understand why it has happened. My mom threw away anything that I couldn't take with me when I left home. She tossed out paintings, drawings, journals, yearbooks, photos, furniture, art supplies, clothes, sketchbooks, reading books, letters etc. Gone, all fucking gone. The problem is, that shit was not hers to throw out. I would have eventually put it on the curb but I lost that opportunity.

So now, because I'm so damaged I hold on to things like grim death. I have a painting that a friend did, that I hate but cannot seem to throw it away because a friend did it. A friend I no longer talk to. So it sits in the sunroom facing the wall in the corner. I have old journals that I WILL NEVER READ, and most certainly do not want anyone else to read after I'm dead, so I really should toss that shit out. I have stacks and stacks of old VCR tapes from when Jim used to bring home the video camera from work. He would put the thing on the tripod and film whatever happened in the living room for hours and hours. Mostly, it is of Jasmine running around the room, chasing the cat with her bubbletop toy vacuum cleaner, screaming out total gibberish all the while looking like an add for Ritalin. Although the tapes could be used as a public service announcement for birth control, the thing about the VCR tape is that Martha and I don't even have the VCR hooked up.

So maybe some weeding is in order. Seems like my life, while tidy, upon a closer look is pretty chunky with useless crap. Throw out all the shit and have the VCR transferred to DVD is what I'm thinking. At least the storage of a DVD is much, much smaller. Eventually, things will be so small; I won't even notice them at all. And I suppose that is the real point.

Like all bad relationships that do not end in gunplay, eventually someone either leaves on their own, or walks away after being told to get the fuck out. I have been in a nasty staring contest for about six-months with the mothership and finally, they blinked. Of no real surprise to anyone, I was officially laid-off on Monday, I was asked to leave.

I have numerous mixed feelings about all of this but the foremost reaction I have is the desire to take a sauna everyday for about month so I can sweat the past two years of ugliness out of my pores.

Having worked there for over six years; the last two being one of the worst professional spans of my career, forced to watch well over 100 people leave either voluntary or involuntary; I am a little weirded out by the length of it all. It was the longest job I have ever had, so it will probably take me some time to get my bearings.

I guess the best way to gauge my state of mind is to review what I did upon leaving the building for the last time. I walked down Bowery, deep into Chinatown and shot two rolls of film. As I slowly wiggled my way back up to C-Lab to pick up a roll of color film, I stopped and had coffee at Starfucks, where I openly and aggressively applied Tiger Balm to my back while sucking down a tall coffee. Walking further up Broadway, I slid into Best Buy and bought the new Cat Power with a Christmas gift card that I had been carrying around with me. All extremely normal things.

I was hired at the Voice on my 39th birthday, one week after my unemployment had run out and three months after the Towers fell. The pit would continue to burn for another two months and every day on my way into work, out to lunch and on the way home, the air smelt like a combination of chemicals and wet earth that would get up in the sinuses and linger on the tongue.

How I got the job was a simple matter of having a friend who used to work there. He made a call for me and before I knew it, I was hired. The funny thing about my interview was, deep down in my gut I just knew I was going to work there. Before my interview, I sat over in Cooper Square Park smoking a cigarette, looking around I could just see myself there. The other funny thing is that for the past two years I haven't seen myself there at all. Long gone are the folks whom I respected and enjoyed working with, replaced with people who never wanted to have anything to do with me; an interesting environment to say the least.

Yes, my last day at the Voice ended quietly. After shooting for several hours, I made my way to Hoboken where I jumped on a train to meet Martha. I dived right into the post-apocalyptic nightmare that is known as The Road, which I am right in the middle of. Then something completely unheard of happened. I managed to have a whole three-seater to myself all the way to Suffern, New York.

Crazy Isn't Stupid, Stupid is Just Stupid
Moving on, spring is coming, I can tell even though we still have white snow and brown deer poop in the yard. We start this week out as week five of the siding people and with the exception of some kind a weather issue; they just might finish the job. No. Fucking. Way. I know, right?

Martha and I did what we always do when one of us is let go and our financial future is sent into a tailspin, we bought something pricey. We consider it the layoff gift, because we're that damn weird and being laid off isn't a big enough gift in and of it's self, we bought art. Excuse me we bought Photography, apparently, a dying art form, which complete strangers delight in telling me once they see a Holga around my neck. People are so damn strange.

I remember years ago when Martha bought me a digital camera for my 40th birthday. I fooled around with it for days, shooting in all different modes and all the different settings. Eventually I settled on a programmed setting of no flash, white balanced, ASA 400, no beep, no sound and one shot only. Basically over time I navigated as close to my 35mm as possible. I goofed around with the Black & White setting but the whole thing felt stupid. I shot hundreds and hundreds of digital images over the course of two and a half years. The very first version of my website was almost all digital. Roughly all the Voice work I shot was digital, except for a few features where I was able to use the Holga for that 'Holga Look'. On a side note, I find if very funny that the last thing I shot for the Voice was this, although, it is not the one I would have picked. I would have chosen this one, but I'm just a picky bitch.

Countless times when I am out shooting or just walking from one place to another in New York the soundtrack in my ears perfectly matches the visuals of my path. Some are obvious like walking down McDougal Street while listening to Dylan or walking in step to Marquee Moon, over by Bowery and Bleecker, even though all that exists down there are hi-rise apartments full of Upper East Side Blonde girls who suddenly want to live the 'Downtown Lifestyle'. Thank god for places like Avalon Bowery Place, (Studios starting at $2,895) that can make those dreams safely come true. For Martha and I to live there, it would cost us around $6,500 a month and I wouldn't be able to have a darkroom.

Anyway, despite New York's continual slide into wealth management, I am talking about the delightful musical surprises that happen. Things like listening to Elvis in the middle of Union Square, or the Pixies in SoHo. Weird little bits of musical chance that can make the most miserable event tolerable.

One such moment happened last week when I was on the 6 Train going uptown to what I thought was to be a routine dental visit, but more on that in a minute. I had to stand on the train, which normally I don't mind but when the train is crammed full of shithead foreign tourists coming fresh off a Ground Zero stop, I turn into one big cranky face.

Just when I decided that I hated everyone, through my ear buds the sounds of the Butthole Surfers, Leave Me Alone flowed faintly in the background. In the process of yanking my hand up to adjust the volume control, I smacked the ass of the girl in front of me.

She jumped up and around allowing me the full on force of her lunch choice involving buckets of garlic. I smiled, she didn't, I rolled my eyes and shifted my direction by precisely one inch to the left and turned up the music. Standing three inches from my face and mouth breathing garlic at me, she glared at me for exactly one whole subway stop, and then looked away once we passed 14th street, having taught me a harsh, harsh lesson. (Like that had any effect on me, honestly now, all you did was stare at me and make my eyes water.)

This particular 6 train was being driven by Mr. Fuck-You-I'm-in-the-Union-Driver. You know the guy. He doesn't give a fuck about any of it and pushes the train to go as fast as he can, stopping on a dime in every station, laughing to himself in his little booth at the sounds of bodies banging about each subway car. He's the guy that we've all seen get off his shift and slide out of the subway car like Superfly, saying "Hey Baby" while pointing to all the female Transit employees.

Riding with Youngblood, you know the drill, find a nook and ride the wave. While traveling between subway stations and well beyond 60 miles per hour on some of the long stretches, for a split second your feet can actually leave the ground. It's the slamming on of the brakes that you have to be ready for. Every stop, all the tourists went flying, yet oddly, they never stopped talking to each other. Hands on pole, legs in the air, yak, yak, yak. I know they are talking because I can see their mouths moving around, but thankfully, all I hear is Butthole.

Once we get to my stop, I birth myself out of the subway car and immediately moved into the salmon upstream sensation of 59th street at lunch hour. It doesn't matter what direction you are headed, it is always the opposite of the flow. It's like a blizzard, always in your face and way too bright.

I am late when I get to the dentist so within seconds I am in the chair with the little napkin thing around my neck. Things move along like normal when the hygienist notices something about my upper left molar. Great. Okay, well, let's see what it is.

Now my relationship with this particular dentist is long and strong. For years, she was the only professional of any kind that I was seeing. That means that she was my therapist, my doctor consult and a life coach. She went through Jasmine's cancer with me where I would go there for check ups, just lay in the chair, and cry. Sad but true.

All this drives Martha crazy because:
a: Dr B (as she is known) is out of network;
b: she's fucking crazy Park Avenue expensive; and
c: I simply will not consider anyone else.

I can guarantee that as Martha is reading this, her hands are sweating and she's getting a headache, combined with a little stomach upset.

Dr. B pokes around in my mouth and does not like what she sees. Three shots of Novocain and a laser procedure later, I am numb and slightly shaken. But it wasn't as bad (meaning I wasn't as bad) as it can be. In fact, Dr. B touched my shoulder and said, "I just want you to know that was the most normal I've ever seen you. You're almost like a normal patient."

Drugs and therapy baby, drugs and therapy.

So, good feeling gone when I go to check out. The total for the day came to $4,500. Upon hearing that, I just started to ball. Dr. B walked over to me and hugged me then told the billing clerk to cut the bill in half.

Half is still crazy but not $4,500 crazy as I pointed out to Martha later on that evening, when she about had a heart attack.

I may be unemployed but as Martha pointed out to me while lying in bed one morning, "Thank god you're on medication."

Ah yes, week four of our home renovations starts out with the siding people still here. The creamy yellow siding is all up; gone is the flapping foil and chunks of demonic wasp nests. That's right, I'm not just fucked-in-the-head over wasps, there really was an infantry of horror behind the old aluminum siding. The boys, (as we now call them), pulled out big slabs of nests all along the back of the house. Some still had wasps in them, but because it was cold, they died upon exposure. If only it were that easy. I can think of a few people that if all I had to do was to rip them out the house onto the front lawn where they would die from exposure, well then Martha, fill up the Prius 'cause we are going on a road-trip.

So what did we learn here? Sometimes, I am not as zany as I may appear to be. I am kind of like that warning on the side view mirrors; objects may be closer than they appear. Just because I'm freaking out about something does not mean that it isn't real.

Anyway, now all that is left to do on the house is the window treatments and all the other little details, which if I remember correctly, is where the Devil lives; in the details.

On cloudy days, the house looks (no doubt about it), yellow. On sunny days, it blends in more with all that damn sunlight and seems to be more cream.

Every part of the outside of the house has been hammered to death. What that means is that all over the inside of the house is dust and little one hundred year old dirt particles. Mostly the dirt crumbs are all around the edges, window frames, outside wall baseboards and any furniture that is against any outside wall. So pretty much everything. I've been trying to keep up with it but it's just useless. So once they leave, (hopefully by Tuesday) I have a immense whole-house cleaning to look forward to.

On the other side of torment, somehow, I ended up on a peculiar mailing list at work. Roughly twice a month I receive a package with a God book in it. I'm on a Christian mailing list. Of all the things that could come to the Voice it is hardly one for the record books. The fact that this package is addressed to me is odd. Someone out there decided that I needed to get my God on.

So far, Thomas Nelson, Inc. from Nashville, TN has sent me:
The Trouble with Paris: Following Jesus in a World of Plastic Promises
Jesus Brand Spirituality: He Wants His Religion back
Finding Our Way Again: The Return of Ancient Practices
And, from the Ancient Practices Series: In Constant Prayer

I've made a little shrine for all these books over my desk. Seeing how I really don't have much personal stuff there anymore. I have been putting up 'my flair' with either weird things I find around the office from past employees cubicles, or things that come to me, like the god books. Up until a few days ago, I still had hanging there my 20 x 13 photo of dead Pope John Paul II that Gianni Giansanti took and that I personally think is one of the top ten amazing shots of 2005, but I brought that home because I didn't want anyone else to snag it.

In addition to all the Jesus crap, I have a Sexual Harassment pamphlet thumb tacked to my cube wall, a webby award that the old web team won back in the 'tail end of the days' when we did shit that was cool, and a copy of a TPS Report.

Walking by my desk one would think that I am some kind of crazy religious dyke with the conflicting protestant and catholic concerns.

While poking around the Thomas Nelson's, Inc. from Nashville, TN website, I noticed a few interesting things. I particularly liked the menu on their homepage for the first three sections; Fiction, Non-fiction and Bibles. It is interesting to me that they find a difference between them. Upon closer look, the line between them all is pretty fuzzy but when you start using the term Non-fiction in reference to anything having to do with Christ aren't you already blurring the lines of reputable classification?

The reference section is more like self-help on how to read The Bible, which furthers my belief that all self-help books are bullshit. In all of the reference section this book: Captivating Heart to Heart Study Guide: An Invitation Into the Beauty and Depth of the Feminine Soul, bothers me the most.

Here is the first paragraph of the books description:

"Every little girl has dreams of being swept up into a great adventure and of being the beautiful princess. Sadly, when women grow up, they are often swept up into a life filled merely with duty and demands. Many Christian women are tired and struggling under the weight of the pressure to be a "good servant," a nurturing caregiver, or a capable home manager."

Eww, eww and yuck.

It's like Haiku:

little princess girl
capable home manager:
tired woman's dream

What the hell is a capable home manager? Is that what they are calling housewives these days? Well, by that classification, my mom was an incapable home manager with a "slight" prescription drug problem, but hey, maybe she just needed a little more GOD in her life or to be dragged out on the front lawn.

In the video section, I found out that James Brolin stared in a A Dramatic Presentation of the Birth of Christianity.

James, (Marcus Welby; Amityville Horror; Barbara Streisand's husband), Brolin plays Peter. The guy who put the Reagan in The Reagans. I hated Reagan so much (still do) that I just wanted to punch the TV anytime he was on the screen. Judy Davis was awesome as Nancy and the reason that I watched it in the first place. I remember thinking at the time that her version of 'Just Say No Nancy' reminded me of my nightmare of growing up in a house of republicans.

This is that movie that the Republican Party got all pissy about and threatened to boycott. But I'm confused here, it's network TV. Who the hell cares if a political party decides to boycott anything that is broadcast on network television? What is the larger message here; does the Republican Party own Nielsen TV Ratings?

Anyway, CBS caved to this threat and moved it on over the Showtime. Showtime, the channel that has always excelled in stupid programming and will run the sloppy seconds of HBO in a heartbeat. This explains to me not only why The L Word ever made it on the air, but why it is in its (gag me) fifth season.

Right, okay, let us see I've covered God and the Devil, home renovations, politics, mom issues, lesbian sex and drug use. Is there anything else I'm not supposed to write about? Why yes there is, but for now I'm good. So I guess I'll go flip back and forth between a little mind numbing girl-on-girl no sex/stupid sex, and the Nielsen TV Rated Oscars, while abusing a just a little bit'o prescription drugs.

The siding people are still in our lives and with only being able to work one to two days a week due to weather, it's anyone's guess as to when they'll finish up. We start week three this week, and I'm kind of getting used to having them around.

Last Thursday at the end of the day, the foreman and I were standing on the sidewalk looking at the front of the house when I commented on how great it looks, how it was really coming along.

He turned to me and said, "Yeah, you know all day people have been driving by real slow, checking it out. One guy even drove by then turned around so he could look at it again."

I looked at him and laughed, "Dude. People have been doing that since the first day you were here and ripped the shit out of it, making it look like a baked potato."

Ah yes, but we're not finished yet. The other night the winds were so high that more shit flew off the house and landed in our neighbor's yard. Nice, real nice.

Three weeks ago, the only restaurant that Martha and ever go to closed for a three-week holiday. As the weeks pasted by, Wasabi's lights were dark and Martha and I were lost. Every Friday night, we go to Wasabi and have a little bit of sushi and laughter. It's our thing and now our thing was on vacation.

Two weeks ago we thought we might try another restaurant, but all we ended up doing was driving around, giving up and then going home. Pathetic, we know, but we didn't want over priced Italian food, which in Hudson there are three of those places. The Mexican place is always crowded and included in your overpriced meal is unusually snotty service. The last time we were there they sat us next to a table full of children under five with the kitchen door at my back. After the hostess tossed menus at us we looked at each other and decided to go. We just walked out.

The diner closes at 8:00, strange for a diner, but not for this town. Hudson is more of a daylight kind of thing. There are several places to eat and have coffee when the sun is in the sky but at night, not much moves around out there except for deer, cats and an occasional crack dealer over on State Street.

But Valentines day brought along total happiness. Not only was Wasabi open but I got a t-shirt from The Elephant Sanctuary and my Polaroid film from Austria finally came.

I bought Martha the translated from German version of Arthur Schopenhauer's The World As Will and Representation, In Two Volumes: Vol. I. It's so intense and so very, very dark that just looking at the cover brings me fear, loathing and a heavy sense of nothingness. But hey, that's what she wanted. Nothing says love like deep dark German philosophy.

But back to happy thoughts. The super big thing that happened is that Martha had HDTV installed in the bedroom. Ha! This all started when months ago she bought the big TV for the living room and had HDTV hooked up in there. Suddenly, I was out there all the time making her watch stuff like Arcade Fire on Austin City Limits. But now, I can go in the bedroom, leaving her free to watch all The Family Guy she can handle.

We went to the mall on Saturday and I think I've figured out the best way for me to stomach that shit is to go straight there from therapy. If I spend an hour, digging deep into the crazy cracks of my brain, then go directly to a mall, it is several hours before I even realize that we are nothing but a society of consumer zombies and start cursing at the air. So with all that brain down time, we were able to get shit done.

We spent an hour in the Verizon store buying new cell phones and I did not freak out about it. Our cell phones have been an issue for months. We've been paying $89.00 a month for roughly ten minutes of cell phone usage. AT&T was totally ripping us off and because we were not on a contract anymore, they could not give a shit about us. Every weekend I would back out of the mall idea, but not this time. This time Martha just drove there and so the whole Verizon marathon was a breeze. Well, sort of. Nothing is really ever a breeze but let us just say I did not add to the situation, as I have been known to do.

After the Verizon thing, when I normally would have demanded we leave, instead we walked down the mall way to the overcrowded Apple store to check out iPods for Jasmine. Super long muddy Jasmine story made short; her roommate had a party with a bunch of people that Jasmine did not know. She left the apartment to drive a friend home and when she returned, the people were gone as was her iPod.

Jasmine told me this several months ago and she begged me not to tell Martha, which I agreed to because, well she fucked up and I see no need to underscore certain things in Martha's eyes. It was Martha's idea to buy her that iPod for her 21st birthday so I felt it would hurt her feelings to know that it was stolen.

Because my child is so very horrible at keeping a secret that is told to her, (she can't even keep her own secrets) while she was on the phone with Martha she got all blonde and let it slip that she no longer had an iPod.

"So, I was thinking, when I get my tax rebate can I use that to buy an iPod?"

Martha was like; "...wait what, hold on. What happened to your iPod." And so on...

This is the exact same way that I found out Jasmine was still working at Staples after she told me she quit— like we agreed that she would do so she could FOCUS ON SCHOOL. A few weeks went by and forgetting all about the little fib, she told me one Saturday night she was tired from working. A few weeks went by and forgetting all about the little fib, she told me one Saturday night she was tired from working.

[Insert a long heavy sigh here.]

Martha, being the nice one of the two of us, wants to buy her a new iPod for her 24th birthday. I don't want to buy her anything until I see a diploma.

Is it wrong to want to buy a $400 brown leather messenger bag? Without the whole, rational of, Jesus Christ Holly it's $400 or Jesus Christ Holly it's leather; pushing all that aside is it wrong to want it? I most certainly don't think it is worth $400. I mean what is? I can't think of anything other than some kind of electrical appliance that would justify a $400 purchase of one item.

I can spend a great deal on $10-$20 purchases but balk at anything over $50, except the Sundance Ring Bag. From the catalog page, it spoke to me. It somehow convinced me that its 'big, bold and handcrafted rich, rugged brown leather' was going to make my life complete. It's 'vintage inspiration' would make me feel young again, comfort found in my 70's hippy heritage.

Never mind the loose knowledge that I have of what goes on in a tannery. I mean talk about a long, toxic and filthy process. No matter, that bag spoke to me.

Yes, that is right you have guessed it. Martha has been out of town for several days and I've been home alone with nothing more then my thoughts to keep me in stitches. And I have to say, coming straight off of the whole Martha/Jazz dynamic it has been welcome chunk of solitude. Sometimes, they are like two cats in a pillowcase.

I am such a crazy little bee when left alone. I worked on my site, cleaned the house, and watched those types of movies that would drive Martha crazy. I stayed up way, way past my bedtime listening to music at ungodly levels while finally putting all my vinyl records away. I had quite the stack going on, an odd mixture of Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Kramer's The Guilt Trip, which is just fantastic by the way.

One of the perks to living in a house I suppose, I can be squirrelly all night long and who's going to notice? One night I was up so late, fucking around with bulb exposures on my Holga and popping a handheld flash at various things around the house, that even the cats had gone to bed, sleeping on top of the covers waiting for me to settle down.

But now, the reality of life returns as soon as Monday afternoon when I will be in the dentist chair having the hole in my mouth filled. I just hope that after a visit to the dentist a $400 purse does not seem like a reasonable purchase when compared to the bill. Usually the price of my dental work skews almost everything else. I've had one-hour visits cost more then our monthly rent at the high-rise.

Ah yes, the high-rise. Probably the coolest apartment I've ever had. I miss the high-rise. I think we all do. The only thing wrong with that apartment was when the neighbors would cook this horrifically stinky food. The stench would ooze out of the cracks in the door jam and no amount of hi-test incense or air freshener could make it stop. I don't know what it was but my god it was retched. I think I compared it once to what cooking a yak in bleach might smell like.

But I can't have a darkroom in a two-bedroom apartment. I feel like I'm living my very own Green Acres but only in my own head. I am equally Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert, having a fondness for both Manhattan and a Hooterville way of life. When I'm in Manhattan I'm in my element but when I'm home, holed up in my house for days on end, I'm pretty happy too.

I suppose I have a lot of duality in my brain. I think that's part of the problem, or so I'm told.

The last roll of film I dropped off was free and if I would have know that I would have brought more then one roll. But as it was, they all had just found out that January 4th would be their last day. As we hugged goodbye, there were tears in everyone's eyes. After thirty years in the neighborhood the photo lab that I use for all my custom print work and color developing is closing. No more Spectra. They are the only photo lab I have ever used in New York. I feel slightly untethered from the earth, and no, that is not an exaggeration. The folks at Spectra KNOW me. They KNOW my daughter. They KNOW my work. The same people have worked there forever. The one woman I hand over all my unprocessed color film, negatives for custom work, instructions for custom print work and special requests like, don't cut the film, cross-process, and an occasional fast deadline I have know for seven and a half years. She has worked for Spectra for twenty-two years.

In my studio, I have binders full of negatives that Spectra has processed for me over the years, roughly 400 give or take a hundred, if one is counting.

Oh sure I'll find another place, probably C Lab but that is not the point. Handing someone a roll of film is a trust issue. I trust them not to fuck up by stuff. All the rolls of film I have moved through Spectra, they have only screwed up one print, which was reprinted immediately; two rolls of film that was lost for a day and then found in a different drawer; and once they overcharged me for a contact sheet and that was corrected the every next day. That's it and that is why I would walk out of my way to drop off film and pick up contact sheets no matter where I happened to be in Manhattan.

This comes on the heels of a lot of change in the neighborhood. Little places are gone, lost their leases, or pushed out by bigger fish. What's weird is even the big fish leave. Barnes & Noble is closing, which is kind of like when the Tower Records on Broadway closed. There are mixed feelings about it all. I could buy super cheap books and records at both of those stores, even though I should and do support Other Music, Shakespeare & Co. Booksellers and my personal favorite, St. Mark's Bookshop. But when a big tree falls, it makes everyone wonder what hell will crop up in its place. Astor Wines & Spirits moved from its location and a Walgreens crawled up from the sewer lines, even incorporating the old corner sign.

Yes, yes I know change is good but at what price? Is a Toys R Us better then a Tower Records? That is a tough call isn't it. How about this; is that place that I used to buy vintage purses at of more value then a Fusion Sushi restaurant? Is a used record store better then a candle shop? Does a Chase Bank bring more ethnicity to the neighborhood than the Second Avenue Deli did?

I know I sound like one of those 'old New Yorkers' but deep down I think in my heart I wish that the East Village would, at the very least, try and 'fail better'.

Tripping Out With The Money
I had to take the train home the other day solely because I am out of my goddamn mind.

I was so freaked out about a pending snowstorm that I convinced Martha to let me take the train home instead of riding in the car with her. Yep. My mind is a terrible thing.

See I just cannot seem to behave in the car when there is snowy weather. I know, I know, we live upstate what the fuck did I expect but see, there are different kinds of snowy weather and it is the ice combined with the 'two inches and hour' storms that freak me out.

When the roads start piling up with ice and snow, I become as a wild animal might behave while trapped in a car. Open-mouth hyperventilation and chewing at the windows makes for a stressful drive, to say the least. I could jump from the car.

Knowing all this and unable to talk me down at 7:30 in the morning about a snowstorm that isn't supposed to start for twelve hours, Martha agreed to letting me take the train home. She, the more rational of the two of us, would drive parallel to me on the other side of the Hudson River, meeting me at the train station in Hudson. I'm not quite sure why this woman loves me.

The good thing about the train is that I managed to snag a window seat in business Class while only paying for a coach ticket. Business Class is where the folks who take the two-hour train every day get to hang out. These people can afford to pay $126.00 a day, five days a week, every month all year long. That is roughly $57,960 a year in train costs, allowing for 6-weeks vacation and miscellaneous days of not riding the train. As I sat there among the prime rib of New York's Business Class, I wondered just how much one would have to make in a year for almost 60k not to concern your bottom line. You know, my gross yearly salary is what these suits spend on train travel in the same amount of calendar time. So what I make in a year is of no real concern to them. I am a travel expense, that is probably somehow expensed back to the company they work for.

I noticed that much like in the Coach Class travel these folks have the 'both of these seats are mine' mentality. The guy directly across the isle from me set up his very own travel office. Headquartered in the window seat, with the stunning views of the sun setting over the Hudson River out of his un-smudged with city crap/hair gel window he was in command of his domain. In 'his' adjoining passenger seat, he had pulled down the tray table where he had placed his laptop, (opened to some very important Excel Spreadsheet), and his cell phone which was blinking signals to the Blue Borg earpiece sticking out of his head.

On the front of 'his' passenger seat, and behind the tray table he had hung his suit jacket with a special suit jacket hook, (probably from Sharper Image) and on the floor, he had placed his shoes. I noticed the shoes and strained to look at his feet, (because there is no way I would let my socks touch the floor of an Amtrak train) and I noticed that he had slippers on.

On the passenger seat, he had a large blank yellow legal pad, a few pens, what appeared to be a voice recorder and a stress ball. I think I also saw a stapler but I'm not so sure.

I was able stare at this guy for so long because he had pushed his seat all the way back, his head nestled in a travel pillow; he was reading a small used paperback book. I tried desperately to see what he was reading but was never able to get a good look at it. Plus, I got bored with him once the sun went down and then I became fascinated by the woman in front of him. Wearing the female version of the upper crust business suit she too had her own little thing going on. Complete with opened laptop, various electronic devices and instead of a legal pad, she had The New York Times; she was ready for the all-important workload that might come screaming at her. I watched her inhale a medium size cheese pizza and two chocolate glazed Krispy Kreme Doughnuts before I found myself too sleepy to pay attention anymore.

All along the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge there are signs bolted into the light posts that read; "Desperate? Life is worth living! Call Helpline." I noticed this last weekend when I was on my way to therapy. Fitting, I know, but what struck me as odd was that they are mostly posted in the center of the bridge. Now, the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge is long and tall, and if, lets just say if, you wanted to jump off the bridge I would think that any point along the bridge would work. Why make a trek of it when around 200 yards in is just as good of a location as dead center? Maybe that is the point, Dead Center but see no matter what you hit, anything over two stories is going to kill you. Thinking that you can just dive off a bridge, slip into the water and then drown is a mistake. No, no, it's hit the water and explode. Hell, I could swan dive from the top of my house if I wanted to. Not that I do, I'm just saying. Relax, it's the holiday's isn't everyone thinking about killing themselves?

Thursday, before the snow actually started in Hudson, Martha was all cross-eyed and hell-bent on going into work. She managed to make it there, but not before driving through the tip of the storm, causing her concern on her ability to drive home. After about an hour at work, longer then it took her to actually get there, she got back in the Prius (!) and drove directly into a blizzard. It took her three-hours to get home, which isn't bad considering the severity of the storm. She said there was an accident every half mile of so, and the Prius did 'not that bad' in the snow.

Once Martha was home what more could I ask for? A huge snowstorm to dump fourteen inches on us the day before my birthday seemed just perfect.

Jasmine bought me a really cool photo book and I'm so proud of her. It arrived a day early and everything. All in all my birthday was great. I baked my own birthday cake that was so good Martha had two pieces and then passed out with yellow frosting still on her lips.

A new Diane camera is in my life thanks to Martha and I've been shooting with it like crazy. I'm currently out of developer and fix so I have no idea how the little camera is performing, (to me it seems fine), or where the light leaks might be. My chemicals probably won't get here until after Christmas, which sucks and proves that sometimes I really should pay attention to this holiday.

Speaking of Christmas, I have yet to buy one fucking thing for anyone and I'm not really sure what to do about that. At this point in the game, it's almost too late to buy crap online unless I pay crazy shipping. So that means I'm actually going to have to drag my ass out of the house and go into the places that have Christmas music, or excuse me, 'Holiday' music playing. Martha and I decided not to get a tree again this year, because Zoë is such a monster and will not leave any kind of evergreen alone. She is such as suck ass cat that the only foliage I can have is cactus and she tries to eat that. Stupid thing. I've even seen her try and chew on the Christmas lights. Anyway, we are exchanging a few gifts and we do have the outside decorations up but inside, it could be anytime of the year.

Bucktooth Neighbor Wave
Our neighbor across the street is totally obsessed with outside chores. I know this because he is forever making noise and seeing how my studio and the living room face him, well... he bothers me.

In the summer, he was ceaselessly cutting the grass, weed whacking the trim, mulching the flowerbeds and watering. In the fall, he was constantly blowing leaves down the driveway and then into the front yard where he would blow them into a pile. He would then get the lawnmower out and mow it all up. Now, in the winter, I watched him snowplow, salt, shovel, and again snowplow all day Sunday. Every hour he was back outside making some kind of noise interrupting my enjoyment of the hours upon hours of Planet Earth in HDTV that I was engrossed in. That show ROCKS and it rocks real hard on the new TV.

Anyway, Martha and I started talking about what might be going on over there and here are the loose facts. He looks to be around our age. It is his parents' house and they still live there. He moved in around the time we bought our house. My guess was to help with his folks. The mother is almost unable to walk, yet refuses to use a walker. I've only seen her a handful of times and she has the smile of elderly dementia. The father shuffles out every now and then in his slippers to take out the recyclables. There is a sister, who looks to be within a year or two of the brother and she has a little yappy white dog. Cute as could be but it barks at everything, including the wind. The sister only comes around every few months to visit. At one point yesterday, we noticed a kid outside, chipping away at some ice. Not sure where he came from. The house is small, smaller then ours and all one floor, so when everyone is in town, (like now) it must be gaud awful. Mom, Dad, brother, sister, kid and dog. It explains why at one point I looked over and noticed that he was just standing in the driveway holding the shovel. Just standing there, not doing anything but not going inside either. It was 17 degrees outside and he was just standing there.

Ah, yes there is nothing quite like Christmas time along 5th Avenue in Manhattan. Kind of makes ya crazy if you don't have some sort of distraction. So that is why I shot Christmas in Midtown while listening to Led Zeppelin; specifically, the live twenty-five minute version of Dazed and Confused from the 1972 show at the LA Forum. When that song was over I found myself still in the feverish pitch of an international Christmas blast and unable to tolerate the sounds of directionless tourists. I shuffled my Shuffle to the twenty-three minute version of Whole Lotta Love from the same 1972 show. I definitely had a Wizard of Oz and The Dark Side of the Moon thing happening. It was, simply put, fantastic and the only way to roll around up there this time of year. It doesn't have to