a taste for nitty-gritty mating

no wonder it doesn't come to me easily. look at my favorite movies on the subject: mifune, the warrior & the princess, and the secret in their eyes. all of them drag their lovers over the coals before the bond can be complete.

in mifune, for example, a rising business guy about to marry the big-city boss's daughter. his father dies and he has to go take care of his crazy brother on a broken-down country property. in parallel, a lively copenhagen prostitute gets into deep trouble. she reads the ad for a nanny and takes a bus to the very same farm. all the problems ensue, including the hero bound on the kitchen table and tortured by the prostitute's friends.

the warrior & the princess a wonderfully brutal and tortuous and telling tale of a girl who gets hit by a truck. a petty thief, running from the law, dives under the truck and gives her a tracheotomy with a pen-knife. she hides him out in the psych ward where she works. a foiled bank-robbery throws them together in the end.

and if you like the agony of postponed love, the secret in their eyes is for you. an older DA assistant loves the new, young, beautiful DA but feels he's too old and of another class. he retires to write a novel about a murder case they had together early on. a young man's beautiful fiance savagely raped and killed. her man can't give up the search for the killer. going to the gorgeous DA years later to get records of the case, the writer revives their early memories. the ending lovely.

if it's easy it's meaningless, that must be my underlying attitude. yet i'm the one who coined the phrase, 'put the drama into your art and not into your life.' as whitman said, 'i contradict myself, therefore i contradict myself', love only gained through multiple misunderstandings and outstanding inner obstacles can last. the heroes and heroines help each other conquer the fear.

EGGS

The games of love

are like baking a cake,

you can't cheat on

the ingredients. Trust,

for example, how can

you leave it out,

and as for humor, you

need to make the dough

rise. Never in a million

years can you reach

the heavenly destination

without cracking a few

eggs. As for the icing,

sweets go to the sweet.

If you wish to win

at the lottery of desire,

you must venture all

you ever hope to have.

What you get is what

you give, and in love

expect nothing less.

new photos at www.pbase.com/wwp/remains

www.pbase.com/wwp/pen

www.pbase.com/wwp/arson

going crazy in the land of opportunity

the poet william everson stated, "this is the land of opportunity and we're always looking for something better." all too true. we seek forever to be, do, and have something more, seldom satisfied with ourselves. this is not only the way to madness, but constantly unsettling, confusing. we play a computer game with our passions, hoping one will win.

i'm as dumb as they come, so how did i make some choices and stick to them? writing for example. at 13 i said to myself, 'you can either be a writer or an artist.' having been a bookworm since the summer after the 3rd grade, reading two books a day, i decided this the better course. alas, i couldn't draw anything realistically, though walking through the louvre as a teenager, i felt chills go up and down my spine as i watched a girl draw in pencil a picture of a greek statue.

so much for art, though it's been a passion from the day i read picture books. (alice, "what good is a book without pictures or conversations?") and i've haunted museums like a ghost of van gogh my whole life. writing it was to be and i pursued it for forty years, from high school sports editor to learning poetry from jack gilbert and josephine miles at berkeley. i decided to go to mexico at 20, taking all f's in my college classes to assemble a collection of american indian songs in the immense east bay library. (later indian lit became a big deal. not in 1960.)

damn, i toted a huge suitcase of books on the bus to mexico city - and back after 2 weeks, as i got homesick and transferred to san francisco state. there i used every assignment in class as a writing exercise, going in two years from probation to the dean's list. with one unit to graduate, i had a lookout job fall in my lap and i waited four more years before finishing.

on the lookout i read and read, wrote and wrote. after four seasons i absconded to europe for two years: a greek island, a berlin basement, an oxford rented room. forced to come back by the coast guard reserve, i resumed firetower work and haven't had a summer off since. yes, i decided this the best job for me. choice number 2, stabilizing my life. i'd already decided to not watch television at 17 (it was either be a couch potato or do something else with your life), nor would i buy a house or have kids.

decisions, decisions, decisions. when george bush got elected, i felt using words useless, nobody listening or reading. suddenly, digital cameras came on the scene. i'd always taken pictures, however this was something new. i dropped writing like a hot potato, going back to age 13 to pick up the other path of art. and i've been a lot happier the past eight years. people will look at photographs, even if they only glance at them for a moment. it's most satisfying.

it's a mystery to me how i made choices and stuck with them, especially from such an early age. those who grow weary because they can't pick a path and stick to it, how do they manage in this free-fall society?

a few new pics at www.pbase.com/wwp/droid i love my new phone. finally i have a communication device that will do everything.

the anatomy of selfishness

my god, how many times have we been accused of this: by siblings, parents, teachers, preachers. and that's cause everyone else wants a bigger slice of the pie. what hypocrisy. self-interest rules us all. (just read a quote from tolsoy to this effect.)

last nite a friend said she thought writers selfish. o boy, i love hearing this about artists, creative people, and never about bankers, lawyers, presidents. what makes her (and them) think it's so much fun spending time alone wrestling with angels and intangibles? almost as entertaining as slitting your wrists. i know i was very depressed during those forty years of the endeavor. who the hell reads anyway? i mean, anything that makes you think?

and one of the funniest things i've read lately a review on amazon of the Art 1 videos, people doing all kinds of strange things liking sticking pins in their tongues and calling it art. here's his review:

what a pretentious load of $#!+ !!! WOW, these people are so great, so important, & so much better than you. It is incredible: the arrogance of these people. They think that the world would stop without them. They are so smart; there is nothing they don't know. They work harder than anyone. They are more imaginative. They immerse themselves in some sort of long-lost aesthetic. "they way I approach photograhpy is spontaneous". well, whooppdy-freaking-doo for you. I want my money back. in fact, I think someone owes me a few million dollars for pain & suffering. I can't stand it. seriously. I'm going to cut these discs into a million pieces throw them into a toilet that has just been used for some #1 & #2 action, & I will call it art & that piece will be featured in the next installment of this series, & they will interview me, & I can talk about how inspired I was & how important I am.

amazing how energetic people can get when they're writing out of disgust! and in some sense he's right. these disks used in an art history class a couple of years ago, and i felt a bit of shame myself. on the other hand artists are 'scientists of the imagination.' this requires at times very odd stances and activities. i've written wild, disturbing fantasies in notebooks simply to clear myself of shadows. whether it worked or not, i'd love to call it art.

no, i'm not going to repeat any of it. that was years ago and in another country. however, critics like our reviewer don't understand the creative process. it demands a lot of day dreaming, idle walking, while the brain does a lot of rambling, connecting, doing what logical thought could never do. logic gives us answers we already know, nothing new. often a poet/painter looks back at what she's done and doesn't believe she did it. how did it come about? it feels like it was a vision from another world.

and it was, the world of the imagination. as has been said, 'if you can imagine it, it can be done.'

added many more photos to www.pbase.com/wwp/wada maybe you can see what idleness on a mountain and days of looking out the window can toss up on the shores of time.

the judge who dyed his socks

all you elders know this story - the foundation of our society - but maybe your children have forgotten it.

long, long ago in the distant, primitive past a judge of the high court found himself glum. his work seemed to be going splendidly and he was good at it, very conscientious. true, he would hang a man as soon as look at him. that was part of the job. yet whenever he shifted his gaze out to the parking lot, he'd see a pile of ashes and bones. those of himself or another, he didn't know.

deciding he needed a pick-me-up, he visited the local prison, where he had incarcerated so many. everything looked tidy: the cells, the halls, the noose. order reigned. usually this buoyed his spirits and he'd say to himself, 'i'm doing the right thing.' this time, unfortunately, it sent him into a tailspin. the lovely jail seemed sterile. maybe if he sent some flowers?

an inmate with a pail and mop, whistling and smiling, came up the corridor. for a moment, the judge felt he was having an hallucination. a happy jailbird, not to be countenanced! someone was not doing his job. 'old man,' he said, 'how long have you been here?.' 'seventy-five years, ' said the convict with a laugh. 'you take it so lightly,' replied the judge. 'yes, i stumbled on the secret long ago.' said the glowing fellow. he pulled up his pant-leg, dismaying the judge, who thought grey the correct color for such things.

good gravy, the socks glowed with all the colors of the rainbow: iridescent blue, green, yellow, red. the judge told himself, 'there will be a new rule around here.' and he asked the man, 'the secret?'

'ages ago, after i killed my wife and her lover, i arrived here in the deepest despair. i tried to kill myself in every way possible. no luck. and one day, assigned to the kitchen, i had to make popsicles. damned if i would do such a thing, if it made other people happy. i threw my dirty socks in the mix and declared, "that will poison the brew!" unfortunately, a guard came along and i had to rescue my socks hastily. they now looked as you see them. that night, sitting in my cell, i found myself staring at the crazy-quilt feet. suddenly, i felt better. i forgave molly and joe, the two who soiled my bed. and ever since then, whenever i feel merely blue, i gaze at my socks and recover.'

'and the mechanism of this great discovery?' asked the scientifically minded judge. the smiling jailbird scratched his head and said, 'near as i can tell this action switches my consciousness, from judging to pure perception, from the past and future to being here now. i think this must be the reason we have art.'

the judge left the prison heavy-hearted. however, unable to shake the tale, once home, he dyed his socks, dried them, put them on, and stared at them as he lay on his bed. suddenly, he felt a deep peace and dropped into a loving slumber. the next day, as he faced another callous thief, a weeping face, a mouth of decayed teeth and black clouds began to descend, he'd sneak a peek at his feet and feel revived. his judgements became less cruel, even-handed, and sometimes he recommended probation instead of the electric chair.

and that was the beginning of true civilization, the one we live in today.

see more pictures accompanying this story at www.pbase.com/wwp/wada

the mechanics of abandonment

hmm, a friend said last nite she'd always been the one to be abandoned. and, alas, i have to admit, most of the time i've been the one to run. yet these two forms of action may not be that far from each other.

first of all, as julia kristeva says in the black sun, depression comes from never mourning the loss of the mother. and let's face it, we lose our mothers, to distance, to death, to time. and the psychologist winnecott wrote we learn independence by playing at the feet of our mothers, crawling away, and coming back for the reassuring presence, over and over again.

the lucky few feel the earth as the source and comfort. in modern times most of us don't have the capability. we depend on others, fallible human beings like ourselves. yes, until puberty our parents tower over us like gods. suddenly, we look down and see they have clay feet. my god, we have to go our own way. how will we protect ourselves?

that said, the seeds sown much earlier. perhaps through traumas of divorce, or we have a sibling come along too quickly - in my case my sister in one year - and we're kicked off the throne, abandoned. i remember cutting off my sister's blond curls which every one thought so cute. and i returned to babbling baby talk to rival her. we'll do almost anything for attention, and i was hell on wheels.

jumping ahead, to those fateful romances of the future, it's well known we'd rather be the dumper than dumpee. however, as one of the first, i must say i do it when i feel overwhelmed by dependence on the object of my affection. she begins as a goddess and ends as a fallen angel. i experience a loss of self, and though i've deserted her, it's myself i've lost first.

and i wonder if it isn't the same for those who wait to be dropped. have they facilitated it in some way for the same reason, to avoid the feeling of having given up too much. perhaps they withdraw, giving less and less to the one who asks for more and more?

i don't really know. we desire support and protection, yet at times it comes at too high a price. hard to know our own limits. we learn through experience, dumped and dumping. one of samuel beckett's characters exclaims, there's no cure for life. as our friends leave as we grow older, it feels an awful lot like he's right.

a new series of pictures. i decided titles might help you see what i see:

www.pbase.com/wwp/wada

when icons collide, history's longest war

boy, do people get riled up when you talk about religion (politics, money). it's like you're always doing something right or wrong and have to hide a bunch of stuff. me too, i felt lots of times when my thoughts went against dogma i'd be struck by lightning. that's simply part of the preacher's (and chaplain's) kid's existence.

true, when i was six, we did steal parents' cigarettes and smoke them in the furnace room of the church basement. and my father caught me about the same time pilfering from the collection plate. not to mention the time he marched up the grocery aisle to where i was stashing candy bars in my pocket.

all because of this i had to give up lying and thieving. both make me feel bad about myself, even if the temptations haven't lifted after a lifetime.

watching lectures on the northern renaissance last nite, i wondered, influenced by so much christian art, in what the power of this religion lay? to people of other persuasions it seems full of blood, betrayal, battle. a series of stories, not the stuff of a religion. yes, all the major religions have these elements, spread ultimately by fire and the sword, even buddhism with it's zen ninjas. they're meant to protect you and help you sleep peacefully. more often they've led to most destructive wars in history. (the present no exception.)

the last time i read the first four books of the new testament, two things struck me. first, each of the books detailed a different person: the healer, the warrior, and so on. you could take elements from each and create the christ fit for you. this gives the icon universal appeal. second, the poet-performance artist set up the show and wrote the script. when he rode the donkey into jerusalem, he sent his point man ahead to arrange the scene. he knew his old testament backwards and forwards and cut his cloth to fit history.

it's the drama and poetry of his work we experience today. other reasons have been given for the success of christianity - it gave a central place to women and focused on the family, from which all theater descends - however, what a great piece of literature gives is an image you can't forget. think of the old book: jonah in the whale, david whirling his sling, delilah slicing off samson's hair. and none has been as powerful as men hung on a cross.

i hope i have been worthy of your attention and not offended. all things to do with our visions of ourselves must not be refined without expecting hoots and boos.

here are recent pictures from mt. hough. you can find all forms of art and moments in history up here:

www.pbase.com/wwp/wada

who's in charge here?

as black oil gushes up from the gulf to soil pristine beaches, i think, 'my god, that's like my life.'

yes, i seem to have no control over my moods, optimistic one minute, desperate the next. true, i like to pretend i've self-mastery, the survival instinct, even common sense. alas, the opposite remains a fact. i tumble from dawn til dark. yesterday, worn out from moving to a new (old) house, i could barely crawl, sleeping for hours. nothing interested me. i'd drunk two glasses of beer before going to bed. bad tactic. it drained me of every bit of energy. the depressant canceled the anti's.

do i need to counter-act the stuff making me feel good, just so i feel normal? or do i need an excuse to be a layabout? i forget tired muscles can be appropriate, instead of an indication i'm digging my grave even deeper.

who is really the boss? the only answer i can give is 'nature.' what the hell does that mean! i suppose it's the lazy man's way of escaping the paradox: life is completely illogical. my only temptation and refuge: the imagination, fantasy, they make sense of what is ultimately random.

that said, i should have been dead a bunch of times, especially in my car, falling asleep and drifting across the line, a coming truck five seconds away. or looking one way and turning another, just barely making it in front of a bus rushing from the left. at such times i assume i must have a guardian angel and immediately i thank it. nonsense? better than no sense.

what i love about the oil spill: they're going to dig two more to relieve the pressure on the blown one. what irony! they get two wells for the price of one. and more chances for disaster. nature? we're a crazy as it ever is.

see what i mean with these few pictures of a hypnotist at work:

www.pbase.com/wwp/hypno