Inspiration

Sunday, March 31, 2024

A friend of mine from the Eighties, whom I haven’t been in contact with since that time ago, sent me a photograph of photo booth images of me taken around that time. Which comes to mind? How many other photos I’m associated with are floating around the world without my knowledge? Photos of my late Dad and Mom come upon me unexpectedly, so do pictures of me, and seeing them the first time, because I have no memory of them being taken or having seen them at the time, is a disconnecting feeling of both pleasure and sadness. The two are always intertwined with how I see the world or whenever I look in a mirror or see a reflection of myself.

My world is small and goes as far as my imagination takes me. Unless I’m traveling, this is where I write the majority of the Substack pieces. I write sometimes in the daylight, and usually never at night because that time is devoted to dinner with my wife and a film on our TV set. My mind is shut off around Cocktail hour, and I don’t drink as much as I used to, only to extend what I have left of life within me. But it is here on my writing desk, in the living room, where I do most of my work. The photograph sent to me takes me out of the living room and into an area of memories that are not fully clear and unexplained, such as where I took that series of portraits in a photo booth machine. My hair is long, and I don’t recall it being that long in the 1980s, but such a small detail, and yet, the past throws me off the trail. I don’t remember that time and where. Nor did my friend give me any details. I may have left this strip of photos at her house, but even that is unclear to me.

The only living things in my house are three plants in the living room. Two of them are on my writing desk. Richard gave me one last week, and the other, I believe, came from Claudia when my Mom passed away two years ago. I kill plants almost immediately, but these two are sticking with me. I spend much time looking at them and wondering how long they would last if I didn’t water them daily. I like a schedule, and watering is part of my morning duties. When I focus on these plants, I usually get an idea for a story. If I were a millionaire or a man of money, I would have a room in the house devoted to my ex-lovers. I would hire various artists to do portraits of these women I was intimate with, and the room would be dedicated to this memory of life being enjoyed. The past is present, and the future watches the two plants on my writing desk as they slowly rot. If they die, then it won’t look good for me.

Everywhere I look or turn, I see my library in its various positions, either unread or recently read. Reading and writing is like hitting the stage, and one runs from the backstage to the front of the audience. I do a quick bow, but then what’s next? As an author, I think of the audience before me, especially when writing for Substack, where one can immediately see the results of one’s work. The numbers come in, the comments, and if there is nothing, it’s a bomb. If something happens, there is always the next post. Every day is either a success or failure, but the ups and downs of the business keep me on my toes. Reading Bertolt Brecht’s poems keeps me grounded because he has that common sense that runs through his work, and the exposure of those in power and those who don’t not only capture a culture at work but also the individual bees in the hive when they do their work.

On the left side of my chair and table, I have a built-in bookcase with a VCR monitor, my DVD collection of every episode of Naked City, and the ladder leading to the higher shelves where I keep my untouched books. I often look in this direction for inspiration when writing my next sentence. To the heavens, my vertigo awaits me, and here’s my inspiration. Don’t fall off the ladder.

Behind me is familiar to people who have watched my Tosh Talks shows on YouTube. I would sit by the round dining table and talk about whatever was on my mind at that time and place. Substack replaced the urge to make more videos, but lately, I have been thinking of going back to that series to focus on a subject matter that is deathly important to me: me. But what is more important, and why I prefer writing to speaking, is that it is a different communication medium. The act of writing is an enjoyable experience for me. I do my best to entertain you, the reader, but the enjoyment of putting words together on a page or computer screen is really the payoff of such endeavors.

So, it is in this room that I use to project outside the room, but the truth is, the room itself is the inspiration for my work. I have gone around the world here, and I can do this in my smoking jacket and slippers without confronting the temperature of the outside world. If everything goes to plan, I will expire here behind the desk, waiting for the next sentence to appear out of my imagination.