the past changes every day

the past changes every day

though i read first five don juan books by carlos castenda, i could never agree with the indian sage on this point: erase your personal memory. i can't remember his reasoning and only the opposite has worked for me. most often i float in the i amniotic fluid, not know whence i've come or where headed. the events of the world cover my tracks. someone sleeping under a bench in the public park always reminds me of myself. 


did proust give his rational for writing a remembrance of things past? alas, i only read the first book and that was so long ago... if i may venture, perhaps he hoped recover himself, ie. become a solid body in the physical world. whenever i stumble on a kernel of my past, or listen to the four and a half hours of my mother describing my childhood before she forgot who i was, i feel immensely better. old letters, diaries, i've tried to lay cement in my footsteps. someday, maybe, when my  mind slips into oblivion, i might...

the schoolhouse above a case in point. i remembered it pretty well, though i hadn't seen a picture of it in sixty years,  it stood right across the street from the church and parsonage.  on a second grade spellingu test  i couldn't  spellof and pooped in my pants. right after class i waddled home and my mother threw me into the bathtub.  she and i once walked past the brick edifice on a schoolday as i had a doctor's appointment. firemen were up on the roof, breaking through the shingles to reach a smoke, an early premonition of my career. 

hmm, yes, the second grade momentous. finger-painting, loved it and have only recently taken it up again. i remember looking up at a train made of punch holes, exhibited in the county fair, red on green and mine. true, i didn't stand out, five waynes and dewaynes in the class. saying the pledge of allegiance, i think i objected to it even then. and when the teacher played a record of japanese singing, i rankled at the other kids' shameless laughter. 


fox and geese in the snow, wet fur and wool, my smells less elegant than proust's, appropriately so, considering i rose from middle-class riff-raff. and i may not need the pill recently advertised in wired magazine which can target specific memories and erase them, expunging their pain. if i gave all those up, i'd lose my common inheritance of humanity. sometimes friends say they're worried for me, i express myself so bleakly. i tell them, better memory aches than no feeling at all. let's face it, if you don't wake up after sixty miserable, you're dead! 


the androids seeking enlightenment agree with me: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/enli

am i changing into my opposite?

             in my time the presidio little theater where i started my illustrious                             career. upstairs typing up a script when kennedy shot.


two days ago i had the unimaginable urge to run off and join the air force. no wonder tolstoy died in a train-station, escaping his family at eighty. i realized, of course, i yearned to have an unquestionable security. the military is the severest form of socialism. i know that for a fact, having grown up on army bases. with the post exchange, gas fifteen cents a gallon, cigarettes five cents a pack. housing, moving, everything paid for, including all medical expenses. as a young woman recruit said years ago, all you have to do is give up your freedom and you get all this stuff. 


what's crazy in my case: i loved being a dependent, roaming the wide free spaces of old ww2 training grounds, listening to machine-gun fire coming the practice fields, a general pattern of change within sameness. okay, that makes sense. yet forced to make a choice in 1963 by the draft, i joined the coast guard reserve. i have to tell you, boot-camp like the marines and i hated the itchy uniforms, non-coms yelling in my face, rising at five in the morning to do calisthenics. usually i rate this time as the worst in my life, and at the same time i landed a soft office job on board ship and enjoyed the trip up the inland passage to alaska. 


as always, everything's a mixed-bag for me. i've experienced paris as a charming, colorful, romantic place, and also as a grey terrain of doom, very like baudelaire. imagine my surprise when i even had pleasurable thoughts of my green bunk in the barracks, the quiet delight of reading thomas mann's joseph trilogy in the base library. in fact, those book shelves had been my refuge since the third grade. i'm like a nation after a civil war, all i want is calm and quiet, a cup of tea and my computer. this is really disgusting.


yes, for a little while the world seemed crazy and disordered, people wandering around without a purpose, the way it felt during my first day off after five weeks in camp. i'd become completely acclimatized to the routine. at a party i had to go into the bedroom and lie down, freedom too much for me. ultimately, i did escape the ships and chevrons, returning to the lookout a free man and not a slave. 


all i can say in my defense is the moment of desiring prison passed. this morning i'm happy to put up with the turbulent winds and passing clouds. winston churchill said, a young person who's not a liberal has no heart, and older folks not conservatives have no brains. well, i'm definitely on the left side of the line, all the while knowing the ironies of the position, that i would deny others what i already have, using a certain sophistry to justify it. 

                                                              my father's chapel


i've taken a few more pictures of the presidio off the web: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/presidio

why did the academy awards make me want to kill myself?

in the wake of the academy awards i wanted a beer, always a bad sign. and then i wanted to die and never grow old. how does hollywood do that to one? as an avid movie fan, i've always lived in fantasy. yes, i got restless at the pageant theater, even with all the folks dressed up and the champagne. i took a walk to the local used bookstore and bought a book on japanese netsuke, using the last of my cash. downtown deserted on a sunday evening and eerie, i must say. 


back at the pageant, i grew increasingly bored, yet i knew if i deserted  the enterprise early, going home alone, i'd feel abandoned. persistent to the end, i left more or less satisfied a silent movie had won the biggest prize. of course, i felt like nora desmond in sunset boulevard, abandoned by the tide of time. i'm ready for my close-up, mr demille. as host billy crystal said, 'watching multi-millionaires give each other gold statues,' put me in a strange state. after the glitter and glamour, snuggling up to beautiful movie stars, i found my little room confining and rather bleak. all i could do was go to sleep for a couple of hours.  


to quote ts eliot, i'm not sure how much reality humanity can stand. you're surprised, films the real reality? certainly, look at those readers, mostly women young and old, reading the fan magazines in the bookstore cafe. as a i guy, i sit there wondering, what the hell do they get out of it? i'm not against a fantasy life, having led my own version, however that's the answer: i've created my own dream world. at seventeen i decided you either watched television or did something else. i'm not sure i made the right choice. other people have a communal history i don't.


o yes, i watched the planes hit the towers, jfk assassinated, and oj simpson chased down the freeway, all the high points. i seemed to be in the right place at the right time to see the kids mowed down at kent state and caesar cross the rubicon. headlines, like trailers for movies, pretty much tell you the whole story. better to browse than flounder. upstairs above my tiny domicile in santa cruz, california, many years ago, gunshots rang out constantly as the little lady watched rawhide and flipped cockroaches off the arm of her chair. no wonder she lived like a badly traumatized pilot of vietnam, hiding in the bushes, once back home.


still, i love to sit in the back seat of the pageant and laugh my head off at midnight in paris, a send-up of everything i've lived and hold dear. 


these days i derive the most satisfaction from doodling on my ipad. no wonder i'd like to get drunk and imagine a harem all my own. http://www.pbase.com/wwp/evo

                                                     eden abondoned

why did the academy awards make me want to kill myself?

in the wake of the academy awards i wanted a beer, always a bad sign. and then i wanted to die and never grow old. how does hollywood do that to one? as an avid movie fan, i've always lived in fantasy. yes, i got restless at the pageant theater, even with all the folks dressed up and the champagne. i took a walk to the local used bookstore and bought a book on japanese netsuke, using the last of my cash. downtown deserted on a sunday evening and eerie, i must say. 


back at the pageant, i grew increasingly bored, yet i knew if i deserted  the enterprise early, going home alone, i'd feel abandoned. persistent to the end, i left more or less satisfied a silent movie had won the biggest prize. of course, i felt like nora desmond in sunset boulevard, abandoned by the tide of time. i'm ready for my close-up, mr demille. as host billy crystal said, 'watching multi-millionaires give each other gold statues,' put me in a strange state. after the glitter and glamour, snuggling up to beautiful movie stars, i found my little room confining and rather bleak. all i could do was go to sleep for a couple of hours.  


to quote ts eliot, i'm not sure how much reality humanity can stand. you're surprised, films the real reality? certainly, look at those readers, mostly women young and old, reading the fan magazines in the bookstore cafe. as a i guy, i sit there wondering, what the hell do they get out of it? i'm not against a fantasy life, having led my own version, however that's the answer: i've created my own dream world. at seventeen i decided you either watched television or did something else. i'm not sure i made the right choice. other people have a communal history i don't.


o yes, i watched the planes hit the towers, jfk assassinated, and oj simpson chased down the freeway, all the high points. i seemed to be in the right place at the right time to see the kids mowed down at kent state and caesar cross the rubicon. headlines, like trailers for movies, pretty much tell you the whole story. better to browse than flounder. upstairs above my tiny domicile in santa cruz, california, many years ago, gunshots rang out constantly as the little lady watched rawhide and flipped cockroaches off the arm of her chair. no wonder she lived like a badly traumatized pilot of vietnam, hiding in the bushes, once back home.


still, i love to sit in the back seat of the pageant and laugh my head off at midnight in paris, a send-up of everything i've lived and hold dear. 


these days i derive the most satisfaction from doodling on my ipad. no wonder i'd like to get drunk and imagine a harem all my own. http://www.pbase.com/wwp/evo

                                                     moses found in the bulrushes

"i go with my strengths and forget my weaknesses" (willy mays, baseball icon)

at this point i'm driving myself crazy. my lower back stiffens and i'm sure i'm finished. i yawn too wide with a tight jaw and the bones crack every time i chew (400 lbs of pressure). every body in the house tells me a loud, high whine coming out of the stove fan and i can't hear it. deafness around the corner. the problem is: i could live to be a hundred like my grandfather. do i desire such a fate as a crippled clown?


okay, i can come to terms with all this. by evening my body's straightened out, but what about my desire to further human evolution? have i done my little bit? i'm convinced we accomplish  the most when we do what we do best. yet...i'm always concerned with my flaws and trying to fill in the cracks. not only that, i love doing all kinds of creative activities and i have no idea which might count. so, i've asked two of my oldest friends, laurie and marilyn, what do i do best? both surprised me. laurie feels i'm happiest directing plays. that may very well be, since i spent forty years learning how to do it and it draws on all my knowledge of language, visual art, music and sound, people. 


alas, at this moment in time i don't simply want more satisfying experiences, nothing to show for it after. theater feels this way. what's left: photographs! no wonder i've focused on taking pictures of other people's shows. and i weep when one of mine ends, the family scattered to the wind. truly, i should promote productions of my own plays. trouble there, they exist in my imagination and on paper, already tangible. i no longer have the urge to tell their stories, even as i flagellate myself, attempting to reach a reliable level of motivation.


marilyn surprised me even more, though she quoted the thoughts of her friend elaine. he likes to wander around, gathering bits of information and passing them on .wow, i had to believe her, since i'd had just such an urge at the bookstore cafe. a mother and teen-age daughter read two tables away. the girl looked miserable, as though she'd lost her vampire lover. i decided the problem was her nose, a nice shape except for the bulb on the end. kind of cute, and not what would make any women happy. i remembered a french movie from years ago. the heroine had just such a nose, a dormouse, then she had it fixed, pared down by a plastic surgeon. suddenly gorgeous she now had new and better problems.


boy, how could i tell the mother to get her child's physiognomy repaired? should i slip the daughter a note? just before they left, they separated as mom tossed out the trash. this my golden opportunity, and i couldn't take the chance on be jailed as a weirdo. the point is, elaine right. i like passing on the strangest stuff. i did tell another young woman reading about amanda knox in the italian prison, the victim herself had just signed a contract to write her version. we'd a delightful and enthusiastic exchange. not quite like telling her, get thee to a hairdresser, you look like hell!


there, i have an idea of what i do. however, who's to say what is best? having taking on the furthering of the species, i'm doomed to failure. i will say i am captivated by all forms of art. here's the last example: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/ob

15 minutes of fame is more than enough

for example, does the young woman married today really want to be known as the 14 year old kidnapped at gunpoint and sexually abused? or the 13 year-old object of roman polanski's lust appreciate a case that never ends? notoriety not quite the same as justified adulation! yet confusion reigns in my mind. people famous for being famous, only in our virtual reality could such a mismatch occur. only postumous honor can be endured graciously.


at least i know my limits, that's what i tell myself. last night i attended (briefly) my boss's retirement party. i sought out fellow workers among the humongous crowd, my nerves humming like electric lines in a tornado. whew, got through that and in the men's room relieving myself, i realized i didn't have the stamina to stay, plus i had to drive home eighty treacherous miles in the tortuous feather river canyon, something i avoid doing at night. too many people have ended up in the river. some attendees did recognize me by my voice. and just before i left, the retiree introduced me to a friend as a 'legend.' 


flattered and alarmed, i jumped in my truck and listened to dylan thomas reading a child's christmas in wales. what a fantastic voice! alas, he died of darkness and drink. out, out, brief candle. what would it take to be a leonard  cohen, singing into his late seventies? a good reason can be seen in the early documentary about him, Ladies and Gentlemen... Mr. Leonard Cohen where he makes fun of himself, and of course, he did try a long rehabilitation at a zen monastery in california, in the end deciding he'd have to go on being nasty. it was more fun. 


this last week a famous singer bit the dust from drugs, a familiar cautionary tale for parents to tell their kids. get a job, you'll live longer. and as i go down the list of '11 things you need to do to live to a hundred,' i wonder if it's worth it. never retire, eat the same hearty food every day, keep to a routine, and so on. most of us would rather hitch our wagon to a shooting star. 


and though most don't know the name hank williams, everybody's heard the songs. he expired in the back seat of his cadillac at age 26. see the pictures here of the local show LOST HIGHWAY: 

http://www.pbase.com/wwp/lost  and  http://www.pbase.com/wwp/hank  

can you create the perfect lover?

                                                          valentine's day 2012


o my, how i've tried! in the first grade we made a zillion valentine cards and sent them to whomever we could. in the fourth grade i began getting crushes, sneaking into the coat-room and putting anonymous presents in the pockets of the girl i loved. where the devil did this romantic impulse come from? religion, politics, and self-deception dominate american culture. the movies, is that the source of the virus? 


the irony, whenever a girl demonstrated a passion for me, i desired someone else, usually a plain jane. maybe that made it easier to project my fantasies. i've always liked tennyson's the lady of shallot, the story of a woman who loves the images in her mirror. alas, the shining knight, sir lancelot, rides by the house and catches her eye through the window. inflamed, her heart wishes for the 'real' man. and when she runs out the front door and pursues him, she falls into a river and drowns.  the poor lady couldn't cope with visions turned to flesh, any more than most of us can, now living in virtual reality.


yes, a man ahead of my time, i wrote valentine's to ladies i never dared approach, much less touch. this had enormous benefits for self-preservation. i couldn't be disappointed or disillusioned, worshiping perfection from afar, falling for actresses and dancers, artists and illusionists. european women, especially, seem to know how to project a constantly changing face, very much in the tradition of cleopatra. two german girls led me a merry chase, both proving to be mentally unstable. i constantly tried to rescue young maidens in distress!


st. george, superman, the shadow, they fattened my fantasies. and here i am, on the far side of valentine's day, facing myself on the screen. taking wellbutrin, the extra dopamine stimulates my searching. in the end i'll be satisfied with zombies, love beyond the grave. 

take a look as the androids search for enlightenment:          http://www.pbase.com/wwp/enli      those boxes of letters in old ladies' attics will certainly come back to haunt me.