being in the now means you get left behind

yes, you miss the bus, he gets the girl, she wins the prize. i've often been tempted by this philosophy, and it's gotten me nowhere. i stop to smell the roses, as i did yesterday, and fog rolls over the sun. i meditate and am too tired after to stand up. i think this path a ploy by the ambitious to get rid of the rest of us.

the hypnotherapist milton erickson said, 'always have something to look forward to.' the psychologist cg. jung maintained, 'westerners operate on a system of action, not contemplating the navel.' today, i passed the tents of those occupying our town and a ragged group sat in a circle, eyes closed, hands palm up on their knees, chanting om. i waited for the town square to levitate into heaven. it didn't happen.

usually i discover when i'm depressed i have too much unused energy inside me. instead of sleeping, the route i most often take, i need to bounce on my trampoline, jog in the park, anything to get the circulation going and to burn off the excess fat of the mind. being here now, i run down at the heels, the floor goes unmopped. i thank buddha for killing all my desires. alas, that includes the desire to live.

so what am i to make of this? californians the most ambitious people in the world. they want to talk with everybody, that's how silicon valley happened. and they love to run with wolves, until the wolves get hungry. at the same time we've spas, meditation centers, the exhausted go to the beach, trying to recover. yet we hop back on the freeway and gun the engine. we fly by the flowers planted in the median strip without a shred of attention. we're chanting with the beach-boys and conquering the opposite sex with our witty moves.

whew, i've worn myself out with this. i think i'll take a nap.  look at more of my contradictions: www.pbase.wwp/unified this is my contribution to einstein's last theory.

does the picture have mystery?

boy, in the last ten years it's become almost impossible for me to read a whole book. partly cause most books relate one idea from many angles, whether it's fiction or not. if i can browse a five hundred page book in two hours, i'll do it gladly and walk away satisfied. that said, i did finish watteau by the art critic jed perl just yesterday, and found it delightful.


can anybody look at a watteau painting and not wonder, what the hell is really going on? they're charming, beautiful, yet we don't know what stage of romance (or not) they have in mind. perl weaves together dozens of short stories of actors, movies, everyday scenes, in a magical way. his take: you will never know what's going on, the characters in the scenes themselves ignorant of what will take place next. in other words, these pictures leave you hanging (ah, the pun surprised me.)


have you ever been disappointed by a film where the first half hour keeps you interested without revealing the basis of the story and then when you know the trick, it's all over, you might as well go home? wings of desire by wim wenders struck me this way the first time i saw it. keep me in the dark, please, as long as you can. as for the surrealists, i find them witty, but don't they try too hard? di cirico, for example, simply jumps at our love of the mysterious without a disguise. 

i realized that's what i'm often trying to do: not give things away. and the best way i've found is the right kind of improvisation where i can't control all the factors. taking pictures in cafes, for example.  i don't really like to sneak pictures, i'd rather take them in museums and at parades. however, to catch people in private moments, nothing works better than the coffee house. and what happens, if it works, is the individual in a context where he/she emits unknowability. and that's the truth of us as human beings. whether a person bores me, angers me, excites me, or leaves me cold, other than my reaction to this particular person, i cannot really know him/her. 


i hope in this series sometimes two or three photos in the same scene create the mystery i'm trying to describe:http://www.pbase.com/wwp/sam and sometimes one by itself. 

does it matter who wrote shakespeare's plays?

at twenty i found berkeley a bore, the teachers and institution very conservative. students continue to rebel. i did it my own way, stopping class attendance, saving up money from  working the libraries, and preparing for a move to mexico city where i could be a real writer. i made the journey, but that's another story.  while waiting, i read all of shakespeare, a play a day.

what i discovered, a continuous voice, similar images appearing and re-appearing, used this way and that in different contexts. so, i've never really doubted who penned the scripts - until this week. have you seen the movie anonymous? i enjoyed it immensely. edward de vere, earl of oxford, writes the plays, tries to get ben jonson to be his front man, signing his name to them. alas, a greedy buffoon, booming billy, snatches them up and takes the credit.

fitting all the facts together, i'm sure the movie-makers had a great time. de vere certainly more sympathetic than wee willy, and as an unknown playwright, i sympathize with a man who can never lay claim to his creations. yes, it shook my faith, despite visits to stratford, seeing the plays done under all kinds of circumstances and in many interpretations. if you look at jan kott's shakespeare, our contemporary  you find him a post-war french existentialist. he can be stretched and bent, part of his claim to fame.

okay, how do i feel four days later? alas, the bookstore carries a book called contested will by james s. shapiro.  this author seeks to debunk the debunkers by showing how historical climates since 1800 have led people to not believe in governments, identities, professed ideals. 'lying is what makes us human,' advanced one university lecturer in my own time. and then at the end, the author says it does matter who.  bold bill could have interviewed plenty of foreigners about italy and any needed information. and  to doubt the authorship to undermine belief in the imagination with the necessity for realist experience.

now i really am blowing in the wind. in college i  took a course in shakespeare's contemporaries. no doubt he rode the wave of his contemporaries: marlow, jonson, etc. and a lot of his stage craft could easily have been picked up from them. however, couldn't a theater-going royal have done it all, including the grand tour of the continent and avid tutors? somehow i wish someone else would be proven, as this would knock the bard off his pedestal. imagine being a writer in english and everybody declaring, 'no one can match will, the greatest scribe ever!' wouldn't you be a bit resentful?

i haven't come to any conclusion, browsing thru the plays. many insights assert themselves. one, this guy creates scenes with incredible drive, energy, bold, blustery, characters ready and attempting to grab whatever they want. that's drama! also, he could be infinitely bawdy, down in the dirt funny. this really made me wonder if the earl could spatter himself so? yet, to say that demotes the power of his imagination. how much did high and low experience together in that time? the answer might provide an answer.

to prove my own credentials, i directed a one-person piece by susan aylworth, gertrude, hamlet's story from his mother's point of view performed by jodi rives. pictures here: www.pbase.com/gert  and here's my theater doctrine: www.pbase.com/wwp/laugh  

art as a respite from the tyranny of time

my friend susan said, 'it's an odd thing we do, putting pictures on the walls in museums.' hmm, i'd thought about this, having spent half my life in such places. my first thrill came in the louvre at sixteen, not from a painting on the wall, rather from an american girl sitting on the floor, drawing. watching her do so made chills run up and down my spine. the same had happened in the darkroom as i watched the photo form in the developer. 


these first orgasmic experiences appeared in the process, not the finished product. rarely has a work on the wall stopped me, though it finally happened last week. a late painting by manet of a woman and the scene 'susanna and the elders' by tintoretto. they made me understand  what i love about art. you see, the transitory nature of our existence plagues me. it's as if i'm always sitting in front of an hour-glass, burned to ashes by the falling salt. did this come from being a preacher's kid, the baptisms, marriages, and funerals? this too shall pass, a lesson i learned all too early.


different forms of art may seem to act otherwise. take the movies, for example. they've transfixed me from the beginning. and i know it's cause i escape the circle of my own thoughts, the  world i've constructed out of the 10 billion stimulae striking my eye every second. according to my mood, the color of the sky, the sound of airplanes or butterflies, i form a buzzing conglomeration of images called 'reality'. my reality and your's? well, they're bound to be different. how do we agree on anything, except out of necessity?


in essence, a symphony replaces my flow with another. a painting may, certainly a poem. my time disappears (and i insist 'my time' my own construction), the passing moments which terrify me, the falling of a sparrow from the sky. we plague ourselves, no other does it, not even the universe. we've discovered art as a cure for life. 


posted more drawings. too bad they don't show up clearly on the web. printed, all the green tints disappear and what i'm hinting at stands out: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/android3

thankfullness won't flow from a clogged faucet

jeez, not only did i wake feeling no gratitude, i felt absolutely resentful. why do i have to pull on my socks, straighten the bed, pour cereal in a bowl? can't somebody do all this for me? I mean, the president has a butler, clothes all laid out and he's helped into them. the cook brings the tangy coffee. his wife wipes his glasses and says, 'honey, is there anything more i can do for you?'


my anthropology teacher in college said, 'we live better than any kings in history before 1900.' and as i watch toddlers wheeled to the market in fancy strollers which could be  first class on an airplane, i think, 'enjoy it now. you'll never be royalty again.' so, i suppose i have to admit being spoiled. yet, it doesn't seem that way. the more i can buy, the more comfortable i get, the worse  my selfishness and ingratitude. 


i'm trying to cook up a little thankfulness. really, it depends upon vulnerability. when i'm injured and the doctor solves the problem, i feel relieved. that is his job, of course, thus i can't completely experience the indebtedness i should feel. or when my mother bathed me after i crapped in my pants during a spelling test in the second grade, stumped by the word 'of,' i experienced more pain than pleasure. however, now, i do appreciate the touch of her hands. 


okay, that's where i have to start. unless i can not only forgive my parents for bringing me into this world, i must muster some thanks. you see, life's a mixed bag. how can i thank them for the pain, the pleasure, the roller-coast of emotions and fortune, especially the tension i normally feel within me? and if i can't appreciate being born, how can i possibly be genuine in my embracing fate? 


hmm, so far it hasn't worked. let me try another route. what events, people, etc have moved me. i stumble across these pictures of 'hollywood babylon', a production by winston colgan. http://www.pbase.com/wwp/bab the show truly moved me and i still have the sensations. perhaps cause i loved judy garland in 'the wizard of oz'. maybe due to the father-son playing leads and the conflict true. and then again, most of us feel like dwarfs in a world of big people, particularly when we're children.


as i look thru my pictures, past and present, little bells of joy go off. http://www.pbase.com/wwp  i love the dancers, i remember the 11 year old hiking into the ruins of canyon de chelly and how good the oranges tasted in the heat. and my mother feigning great delight as i climb onto my christmas tricycle. aye, there's the rub. i got that vehicle stuck in the grass and wailed til she came and pulled me free. yes, it's mostly about mothers, all this, the ambiguities of thanksgiving. lucky the ones who've had a near-death experience and making the choice to come back, take responsibility for their lives. 

thankfullness won't flow from a clogged faucet

jeez, not only did i wake feeling no gratitude, i felt absolutely resentful. why do i have to pull on my socks, straighten the bed, pour cereal in a bowl? can't somebody do all this for me? I mean, the president has a butler, clothes all laid out and he's helped into them. the cook brings the tangy coffee. his wife wipes his glasses and says, 'honey, is there anything more i can do for you?'


my anthropology teacher in college said, 'we live better than any kings in history before 1900.' and as i watch toddlers wheeled to the market in fancy strollers which could be  first class on an airplane, i think, 'enjoy it now. you'll never be royalty again.' so, i suppose i have to admit being spoiled. yet, it doesn't seem that way. the more i can buy, the more comfortable i get, the worse  my selfishness and ingratitude. 


i'm trying to cook up a little thankfulness. really, it depends upon vulnerability. when i'm injured and the doctor solves the problem, i feel relieved. that is his job, of course, thus i can't completely experience the indebtedness i should feel. or when my mother bathed me after i crapped in my pants during a spelling test in the second grade, stumped by the word 'of,' i experienced more pain than pleasure. however, now, i do appreciate the touch of her hands. 


okay, that's where i have to start. unless i can not only forgive my parents for bringing me into this world, i must muster some thanks. you see, life's a mixed bag. how can i thank them for the pain, the pleasure, the roller-coast of emotions and fortune, especially the tension i normally feel within me? and if i can't appreciate being born, how can i possibly be genuine in my embracing fate? 


hmm, so far it hasn't worked. let me try another route. what events, people, etc have moved me. i stumble across these pictures of 'hollywood babylon', a production by winston colgan. http://www.pbase.com/wwp/bab the show truly moved me and i still have the sensations. perhaps cause i loved judy garland in 'the wizard of oz'. maybe due to the father-son playing leads and the conflict true. and then again, most of us feel like dwarves in a world of big people, particularly when we're children.


as i look thru my pictures, past and present, little bells of joy go off. http://www.pbase.com/wwp  i love the dancers, i remember the 11 year old hiking into the ruins of canyon de chelly and how good the oranges tasted in the heat. and my mother feigning great delight as i climb onto my christmas tricycle. aye, there's the rub. i got that vehicle stuck in the grass and wailed til she came and pulled me free. yes, it's mostly about mothers, all this, the ambiguities of thanksgiving. lucky the ones who've had a near-death experience and making the choice to come back, take responsibility for their lives. 

our investment in cultural icons

                                          their first murder (weegee)

using celebrities to stabilize our view of the world certainly a risky business. hence, our attention to scandal, especially sexual. i'm not surprised when a financier robs the bank. that's what he's born to do. however, if a president makes it with his secretary, big news! this, despite the affairs of jfk, the mistresses of eisenhower and roosevelt, and i find my interest (and more) aroused.

everybody likes to gawk at the mess of a car crash, the scene of crime, me included. i guess none of us can avoid three important questions: is it a danger, can i eat it, will it have sex with me? the survival of the species depends upon this awareness and taking immediate action. unfortunately, all kinds of sex illegal and threatening. no wonder fewer and fewer people marrying, both in the united states and in europe. why be prosecuted for having three husbands when you can simply live with three men? definitely, this is progress. if you can do without the wedding dress, maybe you can live modestly.

oscar wilde wrote: our servants will do our living for us. that's exactly the role of the public on pedestals we idolize. i sit in a bookstore cafe and watch men and women, young and old, studying US, people magazine, fan games day after day. the thrill only goes when one of them fails to behave - if it's a politician, he/she a dead duck. movie stars, on the other hand, cash in as long as they can. mea culpa gives them more covers.

and once a generation passes, new idols are born. each has its own. frank sinatra lives, as does elvis. we didn't depend on them at the bank. they get free passes. elect a poker-faced president on whom we can project all our hopes and desires and we're doomed to disillusionment, a huge disparity between promises made and promises kept. i, for sure, like to deny the complexities of the economy. print more money, that's my solution. why didn't anybody think of it?

you see how limited my resources and knowledge are. and i don't feel i'm alone. aren't you a one-issue voter? what matters most? mortgages, abortion, taxation? whatever we focus on becomes our god and we can do no wrong.

things can always be made to look different. here's a watercolor version of the revolving door: www.pbase.com/wwp/door2