Trumpauguration Trump

Trumpways trumpwards-looking, I humbly trumpmit this trumpaguration trump, in the trumps of trumponstrating my trumpfication for the new trumpice of Trumpetary of Trumplish, the trump of which will be to trumpify the Trumplish trumpuage by, where trumpible, trumplacing the first trump of every trump of any trumportance with the trump “trump”.

“My trumplow Trumpericans! Trumpday is a trumpous trump. Trumping here trumpfore you, trumping to you from the trump trumpden of the Trumphouse, I trump to you this: we trumpebrate a trumperful trumptory trumpday. We have trumped those who trumped us, trumpocracy has trumpvailed. And this is trumply the trumpginning. With the trumpport of our trumplies, as soon as we have some, and by trumpselves trumptil then, we shall teach our trumpemies a trumpson, we will trump over there in our trumpforce and trump them back to the Trump Age and they will trump that the Trumpited Trumps of Trump are a trump to be trumpened with. From Trumpifornia to Trump York, Trumpaska, Trumpwaii and Trumpington to Trumpida, the Trumpified Trumps have a single trump: to trump every trump in this sad little trump that we will trump them in the trumping trump, that we will trump them, as the trumpneck said in the trump “Trumpiverance”, “trump like a trump.” Now get back to trump.”

Bifurcation

I woke up, fed the cats, and (here is the innovation) went back to bed for another hour.
Here is one theory of multiple universes: every time you select one of two (or more) alternatives, new universes are created: one in which you did the other thing.
One in which I did not go back to bed, but instead moped around the kitchen for an hour, or went down into my room to write something in a journal.
Or this one: I was standing in front of the Vienna Observatory park making a movie of a tree. A young man nearby waited until I had finished and said, You’re a professor, right? Unfortunately not, I said sadly. (Although we just created an alternate universe in which I am, I did not add.)Undaunted, he asked me if this was the entrance to the Vienna Observatory. I said I believed it was. However it is locked although past opening time, he pointed out (creating an unlocked-gate alternate universe).
I sometimes go for walks in this park, I said, and this is not the first time the gate is locked past opening time. IIRC, there may be another gate up the hill at the other corner, I said.
The young man told me he was to attend an internship for school. Good luck, I said. He left and walked uphill. When I got there (I was dinking around with filters, uploading the film to Instagram) he was nowhere to be seen, and I assumed he had gone in the gate (which was open).
Or this one: in one universe you donate furniture to the Red Cross for refugees, in another you take the furniture apart and drive it to some refugees a friend knows and give it to them personally and you and the refugees and your friends who introduced you carry it up to their apartment (luckily the elevator is working in this universe because they live on the 5th floor) and there you sit amidst a pile of pieces of desk and wardrobe in their living room and realize that, in this universe, you did not think to label the pieces, trusting your memory.
A family of six people watch your every move. Plus two friends and their little boy. ‘No pressure, Mig,’ says one friend.
I took pictures, luckily, you say, unlocking your phone and scrolling through pictures until you find them. In another universe the pictures are really helpful.
You eventually get the desk assembled, or almost – when you are nearly done your wife calls you and informs you you forgot a piece at home. Luckily it is the last piece, so you assemble everything but that, and bring that by the following day.
Also luckily, the refugees are intelligent and observant, and watch you closely, handing you screws right when you need them, or pulling a drawer out so you can tighten a bolt right when you need the drawer pulled out, without you having to say anything.
Forking and forking, good old reality.

The top google result for “voice control” is “how do you turn off voice control?”

Anonymous man: Exits shower, dries off, sits down on toilet, looks at telephone.
Anonymous man: “Let’s see how many people liked that shakey picture of trees I ran through that brown filter.”
Anonymous man: Presses home button on phone.
Phone: Activates voice control.
Anonymous man: “No thank you I don’t want effing voice control.” Presses random buttons.
Anonymous man: “Christ how do you turn off voice control?”
Phone: “INITIATING FACETIME WITH RENEE DAVIS.”
Anonymous man: “Wut?”
Anonymous man: “No, Jesus, this is the worst of all possible times to facetime anyone. I don’t want to facetime anyone.” Pushes more buttons.
Phone: “INITIATING…”
Anonymous man: “Nononono.” Finds off button. Wonders if it worked. Puts phone into cabinet just in case.

Thistles

I had been kind of worried about these thistles this summer. I had meant to shoot them last year but never managed; this year we are having a heat wave and I was afraid it would happen again. Made time this morning though and did a few.

I really like these thistles. I planted them several years ago after someone at the nursery told me local bugs like them. They are popular with wasps and some black and yellow hornet-looking guys; I was surprised no one stung me when I cut a few to put into the vase.

Thistles, F8, 10 seconds, shade, hot day. Reh's new generation collodion

Thistles, F8, 10 seconds, shade, hot day. Reh’s new generation collodion

Thistles. F11, 20 seconds, Reh's new generation collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F11, 20 seconds, Reh’s new generation collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F11, 20 seconds, Reh's new generation collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F11, 20 seconds, Reh’s new generation collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F3.5, 1 second, Lea's portrait collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F3.5, 1 second, Lea’s portrait collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F32, 80 seconds, Lea's portrait collodion, shade, hot day.

Thistles. F32, 80 seconds, Lea’s portrait collodion, shade, hot day. In the top-right corner you can see where the collodion started to dry out – it was thinnest at this spot, and the 80-second exposure was cutting it close in such hot weather. In the lower-left corner is a smudgy area – the plate got dirty before I poured collodion and I tried to clean it off with a paper towel that already had other chemicals on it – developer and silver solution, mostly…

Samsara

Dalai Lama: (puts a drinking glass over a wasp, goes back to chopping up a squash, finishes, gives pieces to wife.)
Mrs. Lama: Thanks, honey.
Dalai Lama: Don’t mention it. (goes into living room, checks facebook)
Mrs. Lama: Did you have anything planned for this wasp?
Dalai Lama: Oh, gee, sorry! I was going to let him go and got sidetracked. (pauses video of moose cooling off in a wading pool)
Dalai Lama: Wow, that looks like I set a booby trap for you, doesn’t it. (Gets newspaper, whips glass off counter onto newspaper, but can’t find wasp.) Er… (Looks around for wasp, spots it on the newspaper, puts glass over it, fumbles glass, catches glass.) Oh. (The glass is devoid of wasp. Looks for wasp. Finds wasp on his arm.) Fuck!
Wasp: (Stings Dalai Lama)
Dalai Lama: Son of a bitch.
Mrs. Dalai Lama: Is it dead?
Dalai Lama: (Rolls up newspaper, swats wasp, which is now on floor) Yes. (Picks up wasp with paper towel, carries out to garbage, stands in front of garbage cans looking back and forth between compostable garbage bin and residual waste garbage bin, opts for the latter.)

Ode to a fly at the window

Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzzzzzt!
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
Bzzt bzzt bzzt
For as long as it takes

Deprivation, isolation, floating

What say the slain?
One day, months ago, during a brief respite from political ranting during a drive into town with Gamma, we listened to a radio program about a sensory deprivation / isolation / floating tank business in Vienna.
“I’ve always wanted to try that,” I said.
Gamma filed that information away neatly and guess what my daughters gave me for Father’s Day?
This is how I found myself sitting on a shady bench in a Vienna cemetery yesterday evening. I was early for my appointment at the Sargfabrik, an apartment complex in Vienna with a theater instead of a parking garage, and down in the cellar a room with a floatation tank.
Floatation (or floating? not sure) tank is what used to be called an isolation tank, and before that sensory deprivation tank.
I prefer sensory deprivation tank, but understand one must market the things.
Like I was saying, I was early as always and took a walk around the neighborhood and disliked the park (too sunny, for one thing, and generally unlikeable, at least yesterday evening, for me, at that spot) so I continued onward and found the cemetery next door and went in and found a shady bench and watched the gravediggers work, and read the dates on the headstones, as one does.
Then I thought, Ah! Cemetery – Sargfabrik, I get it!
I guess the Sargfabrik used to be an actual coffin factory until it was converted into housing.
Then I texted the floating tank guy that I was already in the neighborhood, in case I could get in early, and I did and there I sat, no longer in the cemetery, in the cellar, in a dimly lit, cool room, being orientated.
Epilepsy? he said. Claustrophobia?
Nah, I said.
Goals? Hopes? he said.
Curiosity, I said. Father’s Day.
He looked a little disappointed, (but I might have been making that up, there in the dim light) so I added, maybe get an insight into this deep sadness I lug around all the time that is kinda the mortar holding my world together? Or into this yapping I have been doing with my wife?
Okay, he said. I dunno, he didn’t look real relieved so maybe it really was the dim light after all.
He said he’d knock on the outside of the tank when my time was up, and left.
I took a shower and got into the tank and shut the lid.
I spent a long time getting comfortable which is weird because what could be more comfortable than floating naked in a shallow tub of super dense saltwater in the dark?
But such is life.
I floated there in the dark listening to something hum. Something was fucking humming! What kind of sensory deprivation is this? Maybe it was the ventilation.
More of a buzz than a hum. And not loud, but still.
It wasn’t me.
Then either I got used to it or it stopped.
I listened to my breathing for a while, and to my heartbeat.
After a long, tiring day, I was surprised I did not fall asleep, or even get sleepy. After lunch I had been nodding off at my desk.
I sort of meditated for a while. I hummed a little. My mind was pretty blank a lot of the time.
At some point I woke up, or regained consciousness, or something. So I was out for a while, in one way or another.
Toward the end, trying out different ways of holding my head and comparing relative comfort, I got salt water in both eyes and was really glad the orientator had showed me where the kleenexes were in case that happened. I opened the hatch and wiped out my eyes and closed the lid again and eventually the stinging stopped.
One’s ears are submerged in the tank, so sounds are muffled.
I lay there listening to my heartbeat.
Thump-thump-thump! Then after three thumps it stopped again. Weird, I thought. I tried various positions to hear my heartbeat clearly again like that. Then I did, I heard it again. Thump-thump-thump.
After doing this a few more times I realized it was the guy knocking on the outside of the tank that my time was up.
He went away again and I lay there for a minute, thinking, Well that was an anticlimax.
No jumping out of the tank and running around like a caveman like William Hurt in Altered States. No hallucinations, no epiphanies.
It didn’t even seem all that different from my normal, daily life, I thought.
Then I thought, my normal, daily life is like an isolation tank.
Then I thought, there’s an epiphany for you after all.