They All Just Went Away is an essay about the relationship between house and home, and the relationship between people of different social status. But it is much more than that. It depicts a slice of life as if it were a bit of bruised fruit, with all its seeds, and complexities, left intact.
. . . moreThe Inheritance of Tools uses carpentry as the centerpiece of a reflection on the transmission of knowledge from generation to generation. It violates conventional chronology, relying on memory as its central organizational theme. The tools provide only the point of departure to discuss deep emotional issues of family.
. . . more
I suppose there is a childhood root for my feelings of isolation. This was the view from my backyard, in my teen years. It looked pretty much the same in all directions. The nearest house was about 1/3 of a mile away. It was farmland, all the way around. This made it hard to sneak out, except after dark. I had to walk for at least a mile until I was out of sight. The trees that are visible in the distance are where I used to meet my drug connections. Lou Reed's "Waiting for My Man" had great resonance with me.
Much Madness is divinest sense—
To a discerning eye—
Much sense—the starkest Madness—
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail—
Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you’re straightaway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—Emily Dickinson, #435
Bought The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry tonight. I'm not familiar with much past W.B.Yeats, so I figured it was time to catch up. William Carlos Williams wiped the taste of T.S. Eliot out of my mouth. I still don't know why I hated him so much.
It’s amazing how the right poem always seems to pop up at the right time. Watched Hannibal earlier. I can empathize with the poor cop with the screw-top head at the end. It feels like I’m doing that sort of surgery, self-inflicted, trying to figure out which piece to carve off and fry up next.
Read a bunch of stuff yesterday ranting about "good" and "bad" blog design. To be honest, I really didn't see much difference among the examples. No taste. That's me. The reason why I don't survive long in groups. I can never really see what so many people are on about.
Woke up in the middle of the night trying to write a sentence. It wasn't a good one, and nothing I could do could save it. It went something like this: "If a tree falls in the forest and smashes your brains out, do you hear the sound?"
The teacher is urging me to submit a revision of Talk Talk to the school's journal. This happens from time to time, but I seldom do. I tend to think of these things that I "make" as gifts of a sort, and I'm careful who I give them to. Most people don't get me. I'm quite harmless actually; I'm not a writer or an artist really, I just play one on monitors across the globe. I hate the pretensions, the lies, the complacent nods as if people could figure out who I am, when I have difficulty with that most of the time myself. Firm convictions and curiosity, I suppose that sums it up.
And an irrepressible need to blather on.
There are just too many books out there I'd like to read. I remain largely ignorant about contemporary writers because I keep finding new stones to look under from the past.
Yesterday, I noted a citation from the C-18L list from The Spirit of the Public Journals. There was a deeper explanation of this source today: it was an anthology of writings from newspapers and magazines published annually in London from about 1798 for the next 20 years or so. Something tells me it would take a while to weed through. But, the author on that mailing list keeps posting gems:
On the subject of ‘starveling’ poets, The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1801 (1802), p.362, has this:These musings make me wonder. How often do we value fruits, strictly for the quality of their skins?
On a Library, where the Books were in Curious Bindings
With eyes of wonder the gay shelves behold!
Poets—all rags alive—now clad in gold;
In life and death one common fate they share, And on their backs still their riches wear.
On the same subject.
POLLIO, who values nothing that’s within, Rates books, like beavers—only for their skin.
The Mind's Eye is a great read.Even if you're not a photographer, it's filled with all sorts of good stuff. There are a few small, poorly reproduced photographs; this book primarily compiles a variety of writings by Henri Cartier Bresson from across his career.
My passion has never been for photography "in itself," but for the possibility— through forgetting yourself— of recording in a fraction of a second the emotion of the subject, and the beauty of the form; that is, a geometry awakened by what's offered.
The photographic shot is one of my sketchpads.
Bresson is a master, in the truest sense of the word. His powers of observation are second to none; his ability to express complex issues through simple means is nothing short of astounding. It took me a long while to unpack what he said about Kertéz. It was more like poetry than prose.
It was described as a “case history of public humiliation” on the C-18L list. I’ve not read anything by her, and she was described in the same sentence with Jane Austen so she might appeal to me. I like Jane, particularly for her sense of comedy, and Burney’s novel was mentioned in the context of rude comedy. Drat. It’s out of print, and abebooks is offline . . . oh well, another day. Another one that sounds interesting is Smollett’s Roderick Random.
Watching a weird program on PBS, I found out that Reuters was founded in the Victorian age, as a carrier-pigeon company that transmitted information between European stock exchanges. Learn something new every day. Ever hear of the Bonzo Dog Band? For something more contemporary, Ginger Geezer sounds like a rather funny biography.
Back to the 18th century, I found this snip funny as well:
On the late marriage of Mr. Cook to Miss Mutton.I love academic lists that aren't stuffy!
Miss’s prudence in marrying should not be o’erlook’d, Since the Mutton was useless until it was Cook’dThe Spirit of the Public Journals for 1805 (London, 1806), p.67.
It’s quite relaxing to get back to the really important questions, like “did Adam and Eve have sex before the fall?” Milton’s answer is eloquent and to the point:
Which God likes best, into thir inmost bowerAdam and Eve retire side by side, and Milton assumes [I weene] that only a hypocrite would think that they don’t have sex. Who would prohibit sex, except someone who wanted humanity to fail, like Satan? That’s a no-brainer. Puritans like Milton get a bad rap sometimes; Milton at least argued for less restraint of sensuality. I really like the idea of clothes as "troublesome disguises" and of sex in the garden of Eden. OF COURSE Adam and Eve had sex before the fall!
Handed, they went; and eas’d the putting off
These troublesome disguises which wee wear,
Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene
Adam from his fair Spouse, nor Eve the Rites
Mysterious of connubial Love refus’d:
Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk
Of puratie and place and innocence,
Defaming as impure what God declares
Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all.
Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain
But our destroyer, foe to God and Man?
I really love this stuff! I’d go insane if I didn’t have at least one literature class to look forward to.
My father, behind the wheel of the old 66 Ford. Can you tell it's Southern California?
I read Talk Talk to the class. I tried to explain that I was really uncertain about how it could be revised. I was told to shut up, cut the preamble, etc. The atmosphere in that classroom was one of the reasons why I wrote the essay. I then told the teacher that I didn’t want to read it. After a long rant by the teacher about not writing anything you wouldn’t want to read in public, I relented and read it. The resulting discussion really did little more than raise my blood pressure. I’m so fucking tired of being told to shut up these days. People ask what you think, but they really don’t want to know. Keep it brief. Small sentences. Don’t be too complicated now.
I don’t have any choice but to write what I feel. I believe that the teacher thinks that I’m a flaming egotist; when I said I said I didn’t know how to revise it, she interpreted that as meaning I thought the essay was perfect. Fuck that. It’s just another piece of trash. I write lots of trash. I’m not all that attached to it; it just seemed like something I needed to write at the time. After I read it, the teacher tried to imply that I’m a victim of child-abuse. Fuck that. My father is a great guy. I just used a small aspect of our relationship, rhetorically, to make a point about what happened to me later in life. It’s nobody’s fault. It just is. Don’t cry for me, you sanctimonious . . .
The main suggestion that came out of the discussion was that I should remove, or minimize, one of the piece's many themes. Uh, it’s fairly intricately constructed, that’s far easier to say than do. Mr. Wordsworth, could you cut that bit with your sister at the end of Tintern Abbey, it just doesn’t fit the entire theme of the piece . . . again, I find myself faced with the idea of trying to write down to people. Complicated writing can’t be good.
Just finished book three of Paradise Lost. Yoder offered his usually brilliant synopsis of God’s lines in the poem: “God only says two things in Paradise Lost: ‘I knew that’ and ‘It’s not my fault’” I feel that way most of the time when students in the rhetoric department comment on my work. It's not my fault that my references are sometimes a little obscure; it's a generational thing I guess. Mechanically, most people don't tell me much that I don't know. But the worst part is when teachers think they are doing me a favor by suggesting that I write down in order to reduce the complexity of the pieces. Sorry if I’m complicated. Deal with it. I’ve got lots of complicated stories knocking around in my head, especially the last few days. Trying to simplify them down to the level of class work (I can’t believe this is happening in grad school) is no easy task; simplification often means that misreading is inevitable.
Readers here, I don’t have to “dumb down” for. Thank you, all you silent folks. It’s okay if you don’t get it all; I don’t myself. I just write the stuff. I want to write richer stuff; rich stuff is sometimes hard to digest. It’s a really big picture, but it’s getting clearer. One project at a time. It isn’t an ego thing; people are complicated. I’m just another guy, not god. I don’t "know it all" like god. But I do know how to write; I wish people would at least give me a little credit for that. I want to write better; learning how to talk seems like a lost cause at this stage of the game.
Shut up, Jeff
It really sucked. Three and a half hours of meaningless logic problems. At the end, I just started clicking on bubbles without even reading the questions. It pissed me off. Just what does this crap show?
Got my scores right away: 640 (or 650, I can't remember) on the verbal part, 630 on the quantitative, 550 on the analytical. I don't really know what those numbers mean. I did some searching, and found out (if I would have actually studied or something, it might have come in handy-- nah, screw that) that the last part of the test gets discarded anyway; it's "the experimental portion." So, I failed the lab rat phase, but the other scores are the ones that count anyway. If I would have read the material, I would have realized that I could have just blown that whole section off instead of trying during the first half.
None of this really matters now. I just had to take it, it didn't matter what I scored. Looking at the grad schools that require scores, the minimum is usually about 1200 combined; since half asleep and with no prep I scored 1800+, I guess I'm pretty safe. I may have to take it again for a Phd program, but if I do I'll have a better idea of what to expect.
Found this unprinted negative from around 1976. Also found the first "It's not you, it's me" letter from around the same time. A fucked-up evening as a whole. Shut up, Jeff. Press that camera a little tighter to your face.
Got a phone call from Tsyganka in Memphis. She has no computer these days, but she seemed like she was doing fine. I've been thinking about old friends, and the boxes of memories around the house. I want to try to make some sense of things. But it occurs to me that there are solid reasons to try to be remote from the past. There's a lot of hurt in there. I can't keep my mouth shut. I talk too much.
Too many people. Too many sad goodbyes. It reminds me of that Robert Frank piece in Lines of My Hand "Sick of Goodbyes." But I carry around the artifacts. Sometimes bridges were burned. Sometimes, the situation just changed and life moved on. Sometimes it's even hard to remember the names. I'm looking at negatives, trying to find positives. It wasn't all bad. There was lots of good.
I smiled when I found this drawing. It's an original Mike Patterson, from his Rene Magritté phase. I spent a long time without a phone when I lived in Oildale. Mike made me one, of sorts. He was sick of dropping by only to find out I wasn't at home. I spent some time without a TV as well. Mike never drew one of those for me. We were too busy listening to music to miss that.
In an odd coincidence, The Best of Hot Tuna just arrived in my mailbox today. I remember when Mike came over with Yellow Fever and Phosphorescent Rat to that very apartment. "We don't need no stinkin' TV!"I wonder about people who change the color of their hair often. On a book jacket, her hair was dark (black?). A review on the net claims that she is a flaming redhead. When I met her, she was a blonde. I sort of admire being able to change yourself like that. I feel like I’ve been stuck with the same old dreary self my whole life.
Duhamel described a class she took in media studies she took in New York. Dennis Leary was the teacher. The class was unconventional; it was before he “made it” and the class was asked to attend his shows at a comedy club and help with his material. She made the observation that comedy was found in the timing, more often than it was found in words. Maybe that’s my problem. My timing is all wrong. Weird character flaw for a photographer.
I wandered outside of the Bourbon Street Café (located on 7th street downtown) and noticed a building in the alley. It was a hotel under renovation, with empty windows that stretched to the sky. No glass. Each one identical. Bleak fluorescent lighting fixtures stretching to the heavens. It looked like a little hamster village, though it would be impossible to photograph adequately from the little narrow alley. Too much parallax, staring upward with neck bent uncomfortably. When I walked back inside, I couldn’t talk. I have noticed that this happens when my mind starts thinking about making a photograph. Words and pictures operate in different centers of the brain. Denise and the others were talking about dialects. She’s from Cannuck, Canada. French was frowned upon growing up, so she never learned to speak it. Maybe it’s all that time I’ve spent thinking about photographs that causes my synapses to misfire, making me such a crappy conversationalist. Photographs were always the privileged dialect, in my head anyway.
Writing is different. I can do that. Talking is hard. I keep wanting to revise what I just said. That doesn’t work; you can’t unspeak a foolish comment. You can only add, and add, and add, until people just don’t want to hear from you anymore. Shut up, Jeff.
Denise made the observation that the sexual difficulties of couples that are married for a long time may be related to the incest taboo. It’s somehow not right to have sex with someone you live with. It made a certain amount of sense.
The café served everything deep fried in batter. You couldn’t tell the difference between the alligator, shrimp, oysters, beef, chicken, or whatever. They were all gold. Except the gumbo of course, it was black. I figured out how to photograph the hotel, though I didn't do it: there was a parking garage across from it that would have allowed me to confront it head-on. That would do it. Cages don't look right in oblique views. You've got to look at them straight.
One of these days I'm going to have to change hosts. This is just to freakin' ridiculous being offline for days at a time. Wrote another story, I'll put it up when I get the chance. So, anybody know any reliable inexpensive hosting companies? Or is that an oxymoron?
