Super Real

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This photo is from Jacmel, Haiti, which once upon a time must have been one of the loveliest places on the planet... now, like the rest of Haiti, one of the most desolate. Especially after four hurricanes in a row recently, and the season is not over yet. This photo appeared in a handbound collection of photos from the trip to Haiti, of which only one copy exists. The caption was " Super Real "

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The mention of hurricanes got me thinking of a piece written not so long ago, a re-make of the Band song "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down", so with all due respect to Robby Robertson and his bandmates, I submit this to posterity, if you can conjure up the tune from memory, feel free to hum along :

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The Night She Blew New Orleans Down

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Virgil Caine’s the name, and I lived near Pontchartrain
Until Katrina came, with her wind and waves and rain
Twas the summer of two thousand and five
We were on our roofs, just barely alive
By September first we were almost gone
It was a time I’ll remember oh so long…..
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The night she blew New Orleans down
And the levees were breaking
The night she blew New Orleans down
And all the people were praying
Aaahhh let it blow on by, ooohhh just leave us alive...
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Back with my wife on Canal Street, when one day she told me to hush
Virgil quick come see, I’ll be damned there goes George W Bush
Now I don’t like burying friends
And I can’t see where this misery ends
He’s got what he needs and he leaves us to rot
Good Lord why’s it so god-awful hot
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(Chorus)
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Like my father before me, I played in a Zydeco band
Like my brother above me, who drowned in Dixieland
He was just eighteen, poor and black
But Katrina laid him on his back
I swear by the mud that’s in these streets
We will build New Orleans back, she ain’t been beat
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(Chorus)
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Last Tango With Cookie Tin

Something akin to a painting whose title might be : Still Life With Cookie Tin , this is a Last Tango With Cookie Tin, and this is in fact the cookie tin in question, which once contained cookies guaranteed to be made with pure butter !

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Last Tango at Trorozec

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The last time we went to Trorozec
Was after the fire had ravaged the roof
The fire brigade poured so much water
Through the flaming windows
That all the plaster fell off all the walls
Even on the lower floors that didn’t burn
It was a disaster

We were able to enter
Someone had pried a plank off
One of the ground floor boarded up windows
We climbed in and poked around
Went up the treacherous stairs
To the third floor that had burned
A temporary roof had been hastily erected
To keep the rain out
But in truth there wasn’t much left to save
Might as well just tear it all down
Start from scratch
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It had been a beautiful old home
Not quite a chateau but almost
Many generations of distinguished family
Had grown and lived there
Acres and acres of woods around it
A chapel and long stone barn
Long ago it had been a fortified farm
Now it was a ruin
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In the desolate kitchen
Where cupboards had been stripped
From the walls
Even the sink had been stolen
I picked up the top of a tin cookie box
That lay in a corner neglected
I liked the picture on it
Although it was nothing special
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Going back through the reception hall
In one corner stood the old piano
A pitiful ghost of what it once had been
Too heavy no doubt to carry off
Damaged by the deluge of water
From the fire hoses
Missing ivory keys where they’d been pried off
A toothless grin in the dark shuttered room
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For no good reason
I took the top of the cookie tin
Which I was still carrying
And dragged it across the piano strings
To my amazement
It made a wonderful roar
I did it again and cacophonous sound
Burst forth and filled the hall
Bouncing off the four walls
Incredibly loud
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I kept dragging
The metal across the strings
As fast as I could
Each swipe amplified
The totally non-musical din
But it was wonderful
Better than any orchestra
This was my opera
Dedicated to Trorozec
After the fire
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With my cookie tin and ruined piano
I roared out a world of woe
That echoed and roiled around me
I could have gone on for hours but
Finally my daughter came
And told me to stop
I was scaring her
And her sister
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So I stopped and the sound died
Silence filled the space again
The smell of soot and damp plaster
Hung heavy in the air
The piano was just a shadow
In the corner
As we climbed back out
And went on our way
After the last tango
At Trorozec

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Nuclear Cows

Well, it would not be possible to get very far in an endeavor like this without the nuclear cows making an appearance... this painting was done by an incredible artist whose initials are R.E.K., which said out loud sounds like "Wreck"... no one else could have done these Nuclear Cows, which now hang in a private collection somewhere in France :




And this is what they looked like after Three Mile Island experienced a minor melt down... and the cows were looking at each other asking : Are you experienced ? Mooo.... Too bad it's not possible to easily insert a sound clip here... Purrple Haze might be appropriate...

























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Jimi, may you rest in peace ! You were surreal !

Purple haze all in my brain
Lately things just don't seem the same
Actin' funny, but I don't know why
'Scuse me while I kiss the sky
Purple haze all around
Don't know if I'm comin' up or down
Am I happy or in misery?
Whatever it is that girl put a spell on me
Purple haze all in my eyes
Don't know if it's day or night
You got me blowin', blowin' my mind
Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?
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The End of the World

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In a collection of poems and photographs thrown together a while back with a very primitive printing and publishing process, only two copies exist, one of which is lost, this photograph figured in it with the caption : The End of the World

Something about this abandoned shopping cart lying in a flooded parking lot spoke volumes to me, and the notion that all things must come to pass, including shopping carts, has haunted me ever since; and years later, a poem of the same name was written :

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The End Of The World

We went today to clean out
Her mother’s apartment
The movers had already been
The place was nearly bare
And though it was not
The end of the world
I could see it from there

A place once full or warmth and life
Meals rolling out of the kitchen
Onto the long table
The family gathered around
Plants, and paintings on the walls
Armoires full of silverware and plates
Bottles of wine and dusty books
The tiny bedrooms harboring secrets
A crucifix on the wall
Proclaiming faith in something
Damp towels hanging by the shower
Combs and various brushes
All the odds and ends
Which fill our days
And hasten the passing hours

But now the place was bare
And yesterday’s rain
Still puddled on the empty balcony
The tiles in the kitchen
Which I’d never noticed before
Were looking weary and grey
Bearing the cadaverous complexion
Of the unwanted
The parquet strips
Were suddenly showing their age
In the most dismaying manner
Like a threadbare coat
On a public street
The walls which I’d never
Paid any attention to whatsoever
Were covered with sad reminders
Of every scratch and scrape
Over the years
Now naked they stood screaming
In the winter afternoon

How many coats of paint
Would it take
To hide
This sad history

Her parents’ rooms
Were at opposite
Ends of the hall
Perhaps toward the end
They called to one another
More likely the doors were shut

Now the rooms are empty
And the hollow echoes hang
In the cold winter air
And though it was not
The end of the world
I could see it from there

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Beached Boat Bleached Bones

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This washed up boat could very easily have belonged to the place between two islands, though I found it on the other side of an ocean from there... and soon it too will disintegrate into the marsh, the rib bones of this beached whale will vanish without a trace... in my lifetime, maybe, in my children's lifetime, probably...
The weathered wood with orange lichen was beautiful, this derelict boat is a sublime tribute to man's ephemeral nature...
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..Between Two Islands
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This has been brewing for a long time…
For centuries now ?
Or maybe just a minute or two ?
The span of my life ?
When was that ?
Since birth I have traveled in time
But I always return when it’s time to be still
To the place between two islands
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I know where it is
Those of you who know me
May guess where it is
You strangers out there
Who will never read this
And never know me
(Why would you want to ?)
Will never know where it is
Maybe it doesn’t exist at all
I dreamed it, dreamed it up, dreamed it down
But whatever the case, upper case, lower case, staircase
Mental case for a case worker
It is a place we all need
A place we should be able
To dream of, dream about
A place we should all be able to go to
However impossible that may be
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And I hope I never see you there
You hungry hordes hunched over your hotlines
Your coffee cups your super VGA monitors
Your newspapers your highways your movies
Your money your madness
I bannish you all to endless night
If you know not how to dream
If you yearn for nothing more
Than membership in the hungry horde
Good god, go take your gold card
And buy the membership
Membership has privileges you know
With every purchase you grow farther
From the place between two islands
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And that is how it should be
I don’t want to see you there
And there must never be a parking lot
No hot dog vendor on the site
Of my grandfather’s grave
He lies nearby and listens
When the mist falls on the marsh
In the breaking dark before dawn
He walks with the fog
He knows the cattail dance
And could show you the blackbird’s nest
Or where the turtle sleeps
He could reveal many such secrets
But chooses not to now
The long sleep was too enticing
My grandmother could tell you
She knows many tales
But spends her days dreaming
Of the long sleep
And is already more than half way there
The last time I saw her she hardly knew me
I had to tell her I am your child’s child
The child of your child
A faint light flickered of understanding
In her hazy eyes
And then she asked me if
I had graduated from high school yet
Me nearly thirty three
One day soon she will slip
Into the long sleep
And walk with the fog before dawn
That hangs thick on the marsh
Stirred by the whispering breeze
In the place between two islands
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What has always amazed me the most
For a short while each time I return
And follow the sandy trail through the woods
To the point where it forks and one side
The one hardly ever traveled by
Leads out into the marsh
To the first island
Which is where you first start to notice
How quiet it is out there
Your feet make little noise
On the sand and pine needles
Even the occasional call of a jay or cardinal is muted
The sense of stillness, the serenity, is stunning
But what amazes me given the proximity
To certain large cities
Is that once you emerge
From the cedars and pines
On the first island
Into the space between two islands
There is no sign of man
No road. No houses. No telephone poles.
No billboards, hotels, motels, restaurants .
Not a single fence.
Rarely a vapor trail follows a barely audible jet
High away above the islands
But the people up there
Are too ensconced in their martinis and novels
And fear of falling out of the sky
To even suspect what dreamland
Lies below them
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No sign of man
The eye drinks in the thick green bands
Of the pine woods on the far island
And the pine, cedar, and holly of the woods
Way down on the far side of the marsh
But mainly the golden sea of marshgrass and cattails
Broken only by the lone juniper halfway
Between two islands
The space seems vast
The sky above equally so
Vast and still and no sign of man
This may be the only place
I have ever known real peace
In houses there is always something
That needs doing
We become slaves at home
To all the trappings of modern life
That we have learned we can’t live without
Our computers and VCRs and ovens
The rented movies the phone that rings and rings
The mirrors and clothes and books
The nagging sense that time is escaping
Time that brings each personal reckoning day
A little closer
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The working world is an incessant nightmare
Driven by cancerous greed
Governed by constant stress
Full of days spent peering into haunted eyes
Faces where the pain is pathetic to see
People who gave up so much for so little
Apart from home and work
What else is there ?
I don’t go to church
I can’t stomach such monstrous lies
Pious fools steeped in pure invention
The world of entertainment is hollow too
Brief sustenance the stuff of illusions
We have become a race that lives
For the next movie
The next distraction to help us forget
The worthlessness of our age
And there is nothing you can buy
In any mall or mail order department store
That is going to help you
That will ease the burden
No drink no drug will make a difference
It is all still there when you come out of the coma
Great art will sometimes inspire
Calm and hope
That somehow things will get better
But unless you are very wealthy
You generally cannot surround yourself
With fine art and must observe it
Somewhere where you are not alone
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The only place I have known
True and rejuvenating solitude
Has been walking in the marsh
Between two islands
In recent years
I am the only one to venture there
The trail across the stretch of marsh
Before the first island is usually wet
And overgrown, not to mention
The mosquitos that could eat a man alive
In the hot coastal summers
But I go in the fall and winter
And spring, the cooler times
The frozen time in the winter
When you can walk
Out across the marsh away from the trail
Without worrying about sinking in
Up to your knees
Once while looking around
Out on the far island
I found an old spring trap
Sign that some other human had passed this way
But did he know it as I do
Did he love it for what it is
This place between two islands ?
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Did he ever sit by the juniper
In the middle of the marsh
And watch the sunset turn the sky
Over the distant woods
Into a blaze of molten gold
Riches beyond a bankers wildest dream
No gold card privilege
Will ever open the door for you
On such unequaled bliss
Get in your Oldsmobile and drive all day
You will never find a place like this
Between two islands
Give up go home
I don’t want to see you
Or any of the hungry horde
Set foot here, this is sacred ground
There is no McDonald’s
And Domino’s won’t deliver here
No cold beer to go
Nowhere to go from here
This is the end of the line
And the peace is overwhelming
In the place between two islands

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Secret Gardens with Magic Doors

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This is the magic keyhole mentioned in the title of this dog, whoops, I meant blog, jeez, I used to get "dog" and "god" confused, as each is the other spelled backwards, but now I have to reckon with "dog" and "blog", well I'll be flogged... let's start again....

This is the magic keyhole mentioned in the title of this blog, and this is one sort of photograph I love making, simple, but full of powerful provocation for the imagination . . .

Look closely at how the rust is eating away the metal plate of the keyhole, can you see the seahorse? Rust, oxydation, simple action of water bearing oxygen uniting with iron molecules in the metal alloy that some human labored so industriously to fabricate a hundred years ago or more, thinking it would last forever, but now it is rusting away. And the texture in the flaking paint is lovely too, the magic door once was blue... and the remaining paint on the metal plate has been stained the color of rust...

What was it Neil Young said about "Rust Never Sleeps" ; or "There's more to the picture than meets the eye...", in the same song ? Or Joan Baez : "We both know what memories bring... they bring diamonds and rust"

But what I really like here is the slightest glimpse of sunlight on greenery through the magic keyhole, through the looking glass, as it were, hinting of a secret, well hidden grove behind the stout wood door set in a high stone wall... who lives there ? What goddess waits within ? Something straight out of a John Fowles story, a muse hiding in the trees, waiting to be coaxed into existence... and here is the whole door... it hasn't been opened in ages... isn't it tempting... I love the way the stone at the foot of the door has weathered a dark forest green... which reminds me of what follows below, a song with roots in traditional folk music which Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel made famous ... just step through the door :

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...............................................Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley sage rosemary and thyme

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine
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Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
(A hill in the deep forest green)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Tracing of sparrow On snow-crested brown)
Without no seams nor needlework
(Blankets and bedclothes The child of the mountain)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
(Sleeps unaware of the clarion call)
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Tell her to find me an acre of land
(On the side of a hill A sprinkling of leaves)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Washes the grave with silvery tears)
Between the salt water And the sea strand
(A soldier cleans and polishes a gun)
Then she'll be a true love of mine
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Tell her to reap it
With a sickle of leather
(War bellows blazing In scarlet battallions)
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
(Generals order their soldiers to kill)
And gather it all in a bunch of heather
(And to fight for a cause They've long ago forgotten)

Then she'll be a true love of mine

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(Not my photo, but don't know who did take it)

Complacent versus Searching

Although lying in a hammock in Guadeloupe drinking Caraibe Beer is a fine way to spend an afternoon on vacation while waiting for a tropical storm to blow through, the problem is that 9/tenths of the human race is lying in a proverbial hammock, kicking back, taking it easy, while the feces is hitting the fan, and splattering all around us ... and for the most part we are too blind to see, or too jaded to care, or too lazy to get up out of the hammock and go participate in the revolution that is urgently required...
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We need to start looking at what is happening, really looking again, and questioning our lives, and asking, "How can I make a difference?".

This cat was looking most intently....

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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This is a portrait of the artist as a young man :
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And this is a portrait of the artist from another planet :
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There may well be some other worlds out there in the deep depths of the universe, other planets where things may have happened differently than here on Earth (our Paradise, our Prison) ... can you imagine a planet where there were no guns no bombs no bloodlust driving creatures to rape, murder, and mayhem... because on that planet history happened otherwise, and there was no need for violence to solve problems... ? I know, I'm a dreamer...
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Here today, gone tomorrow, there is always more than one way to look at anything we encounter in life, as in...
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Both Sides Now ... by Joni Mitchell (a most wonderful songwriter)

And if you'd like to hear it too... just click here : Both Sides Now
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Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
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But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
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I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
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Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way
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But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away
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I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
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Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way
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But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day
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I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
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And I echo those thoughts daily... I really don't know life, at all, but I keep stumbling onward...
Through the fog...
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I've looked at eggs from both sides now
Although they're round, but still somehow
It's eggs illusions I recall...
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Genesis : The Origin of a Blog

Just as Darwin labored through his life to understand the origin of the species, a blog, I suppose, should be a labor of love, to help one find his or her way through the labyrinth of life, and in some small way discover origins, be it of species, of attitudes, of ideas, or simply the origin of a humble blog...

A blog that is born from the void, and that shall return to the void, but in the interim, let there be light, let there be music, let there be love, let there be neon, let there be life like the sap that rises in the Spring ; CARPE DIEM ! (Latin for : Seize the day !)

And remember, ILLEGITIMI NON CARBORUNDUM !!!

(Latin for : don't let the bastards wear you down... and that's about as far as my Latin goes, although for a supposedly dead language, there still seems to be alot floating around still...)