Getty and the goats

The first time I stood before Van Gough's "Irises", I cried. As far as I am concerned, it is the jewel of the Getty. And I cried again yesterday. I don't know why. I don't cry easily. I tear up over animal videos on YouTube and am outraged when children are drawn into the gruesome atrocities we adults spool and strut but, beyond that, I am dried eyed. Fool's tale. But this painting makes me cry.




"Irises" is part of the Getty's permanent collection but currently the museum is temporarily hosting a very disturbing exhibit by photographer Graciela Iturbide and good for them. Otherwise, they are merely caretakers of a lovely, very expensive archive of safe antiquities.




One section, titled "The Goat's Dance", I found not just provocative but heartbreaking. It put me in such a very dark place. I am in Los Angeles with M. Lee and his mother and at this point, they had the good sense to go their own way. We decided to meet in an hour and a half and I sat in front of the photos and wrote for a while. Sometimes, it's the only thing left to do.








After the Getty, we stopped by New Dvaraka, the Krishna temple on Watseka Ave. I lived there years ago, and at the temple's original location on La Cienega Blvd. It is so strange going back. We were there for the 4:40 darsan with the dieties, (viewing). I bought a new pair of kartals (cymbals) then we went across town for falafel, which turned out to be too rich.






So tomorrow in our little excursion de culture , off to Santee Alley, Chinatown, the LACMA, Rodeo Drive, followed by a drive through in Beverly Hills.

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Halloween fire circle cast party

As it turned Mme. Nott and Wolfie kept an eye on

Straw Woman. The troupe convinced me that
Halloween is just too big to leave to an amateur.

Astoundingly beautiful, the seeds the pumpkin left
behind, tucked carefully away for the future.

The kids came for their candy
while inside the cast party got under way.

Confessional
a poem I wrote years ago
but read tonight at the
Invisible Theatre Halloween cast party.
Everybody loved it. Scared the stuffing
out of them, especially Little Bear.

02:15

Happy Halloween

It's cloudy today and the scene in the Bird Park is completely different than it was yesterday when the Buddha Bird was the first to arrive. This morning the magpies made it here first, around 7:30, which is a bit late for them but it's cloudy. They didn't stay long enough to eat though. A couple of them got into a knock down roll in the dirt fist fight, or I guess I should say claw fight or claw, wing and beak fight. It was brutal. They made such a fuss they scared themselves off and everybody else when with them. Dummies. The lone magpie who comes about 8, after they are gone, will be happy for that. More goodies for him. I'm pretty sure he used to be the early bird, until the gang started tagging along. Hard to cover your tracks in the air. Now he comes back after the boobs takes off and I make a point of having a bit of birdie brunch waiting.

And what's up with pigeons? They must have radar eyes. I tucked some chicken scratch away in Old Guy Hills for the quail but the pigeons were all over it this morning, with the quail perched on the fence just watching them. Now I have to cut everybody off for a while, until the pigeons go back to their regular routine of stopping by for a cold tub and the few sunflower seeds the finches drop beneath the feeder. Ah the drama.

Happy Halloween. I strung lights last night. Looks pretty good, even if I do say so myself. The stage hogs at the Invisible Theatre, headed up by Uncle Monkey and Rat Woman of course, are agitated because I brought in outside talent to be the greeter this evening. Now everybody is miffed. They consider Halloween their gig, exclusively. It's not in their contract but tell them that. I hope they don't decide to pull some Halloween tricks on me.

Tomorrow has finally arrived

Uncle Monkey welcomes you.

5th Friday photos & slideshow

There was a good turnout for the 5th Friday event at Comma Coffee in Carson City. The evening included dance, drama, poetry, weird fiction, comedy, and an open mic.

Comma Coffee before the show

Four Ash Canyon poets read during the open mike segment and they were excellent. I mixed a track for my reading. It worked out pretty good so I may do more of that in the future.

Lucky Pierre

The biggest event for me was that a long time friend from the Ashland days, Barbara Bonomo showed up with her charming friend Pete the dog. It was great seeing them. She made a special point to drop in for the show on her way home to Arizona. They were at the Comma when I got there that night. Pete sat up and watched Scot Sarni's rendition of Hamlet but slept through most everything else.

Monsieur La Chance and Lucky Pierre

Rita Geil was Mistress of Ceremonies. Poet Susan Botich read. Dave Fritz performed original music. Ellen Hopkins, Lindsey Stoeberl, Roman Valenzuela, Zach Trippiedi read from Impulse. Susan Priest did a performance art piece as Palisades. Also, every time I turned around, Lucky Pierre was sitting somewhere else.

Ellen Hopkins and Haley Bennett reading from Crank.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was how much June Joplin, the proprietor of Comma Coffee, liked the show. Afterwards she emphatically encouraged us to go on but at this point, it doesn't look like we'll be doing another show. Too many personality clashes putting it together. I'm just not into that kind of thing. It got to be a big drag. Anyway, glad we did it. Glad it's done.

Barbara, Pete the dog, Lucky Pierre and Monsieur La Chance

Barbara posted photos and a slideshow from 5th Friday on her blog The First Chakra. Check it out.

Clocks

I brought the clock back in from the garage today. I put it out there last winter because I got sick of listening to it tick. The sound of its blunt second hand goose stepping circles around the face bothered me. It still does. It's a cheap plastic clock I bought used for two dollars. It would be a better clock if it stopped all together. Nicer yet if Time stopped with it for a while so I could get off the train and stretch ... limber up ... flex my knee a bit.


I had a friend in Oregon named Joey, an old Sicilian fellow who grew up in New York City. Hard life. Killed a man in prison in a fight over a loaf of bread. Nice though. Joey wouldn't hurt a fly willingly. He paid me to clean his apartment just before he died. It was filled with clocks, mostly pendulum clocks, small ones, wall models, desk models, and a couple of grandfather clocks, all in a very tiny place. Joey was a dealer at an antique mall and found them on his rounds through flea markets, yard sales and second hand stores, but they we nice. He had an eye. The clocks were unsettling though because they all ticked very loudly and no two were set exactly the same. This was especially puzzling because Joey was a fastidious fellow, not one to miss the fact that each clock marked a different hour with its chimes or coo-coo. What made it even more strange was that during his last year I kept sensing that Joey was getting ready, wanted to die, nothing specific, just something about him and the clocks reinforced that impression. It seemed they were busy measuring, from their different perspectives, how much time he had left in an effort to synthesize a universal hour from all his overlaps and contradictions.


In that last year Joey had reconnected with an old lover from Paris, Queenie. He met her during the war when he was a deserter instead of going to Normandy. He went back to France determined to finally face the beach and the ghosts that had haunted him all his life but, although they hadn't talked for 50 years, hooked up with Queenie instead. She still loved him. They made plans for her to come to America and live with him. And the clocks. Instead he died. Pneumonia. Dead in a week. It didn't surprise me. Tomorrow I'm going to put that clock back out in the garage.







clocks normandy paris ghosts

Babyhead.01

babyhead

Autumn Equinox

Summer's End

Happy Autumn!

Boiling mud pots and the Golden Shadow.

Mt. Lassen summit

We took a new route home from Oregon today, California Hwy. 89 through the Shasta Cascade region. The road took us right by the base of Mt. Lassen, an active volcano with a summit of 10,500 feet. It is the only mountain in the Cascades besides Mount St. Helens to have erupted during the 20th Century. It was not only a beautiful drive but a way to avoid road work in the mountains and traffic in Reno and Carson City. I made a short video for you of one of the mountain's many boiling mud pots. Over the sound of the wind you'll hear the mud bubbling in the hole. Don't worry. You're not missing anything from this angle. You can't see anything looking directly into the pit because of all the steam.





Okay. That's it for tonight. Now I've got to rejoin my little band of friends currently gathering in Otherland's City of the Golden Shadow. Things are very tense there at the moment. I've only got a few pages left in the book out of a four part set but I've got volume two ready to go.







Boiling mud pot - Mt. Lassen








mt. lassen otherland

Off-road dreaming

Today Mr. Lee is working on the off-road trailer he picked up a couple of months ago in Idaho. He's going to take the tent off the top of the jeep and put it on the trailer. That way we can make a base camp and explore further with the jeep without having to break camp to do it. All the birds are pissed. The little ones keep darting in and grabbing a few sunflower seeds but even they can't take the noise and comotion for long. It's causing me a bit anxiety as well, but not because of the noise. Fixing up this trailer means that now we will be able to get deeper and stay longer in the Great Basin than ever, a prospect over which I have mixed feelings.

I love and hate disappearing into Nevada's outback and disappear we do. I love it because it's fun, breathtakingly beautiful and it's a great cleansing for body, mind and spirit. A few days out and I finally get out my head and to my heart. Even Bush, if I think of him at all, resumes his true form, a mere bloodsucking tick painfully embedded in world's collective ass.

And I love seeing, being, knowing that I am walking on the living planet, not property. People who don't understand the desert think ugh ... brown dead wasteland. All the better. They must stay away. Go to the lovely beach resort. The clean, fun campground. Go visit relatives. Even those that do understand the glory of this wild solitude should go somewhere else. I want it all for us. It's fun pretending to be the only people on the planet ... explorers of a lost, living world in a universe far, far away. It's a great fantasy and finding thousands of years old human artifacts coughed up by spring flooding only adds a post-apocalyptic thrill of it all.

The problem is that we really are out there and, if we get hurt, break an ankle, wrench a knee, run out of gas, food and/or water it might as well be true.I think about these things. Of course Mr. Lee is a savvy outdoorsman. We are fucking prepared, I'll tell you that. And he reminds me of that when, after a day or two, I stop writing and snapping photos and begin silently staring at the horizon ringing us fifty miles out and start talking about how we are bugs cupped under a foreign sky and locked in a vanishing point were, if the slightest thing goes wrong, we will surely die. He reminds me we have food and water for a month but I'm never convince that's enough, that probably we'd die long before some desert rat or drunken hunter happens by. Which is to say I'm a chickenshit but it's been so long since we've camping that these days I catch myself visually following a dirt road up into the nearby hills. I don't talk about it much. Don't want to appear too eager. We'll be there soon enough but the truth is I miss it. Where else will I meet a team of noble Great While Pyrenees caring for their flock? They were so cool, I just wish I'd had some food handy. They seemed hungry.

Image doping

I took this photo of Mt. Shasta on our way to Oregon this weekend, but as people are touchy lately about doctored photos, I want to warn you that I doped the image. I didn't change it much, just cleared up the haziness and brought out the color of the mountain a tiny bit, but photo isn't the "way it was", whatever that was.


I have to laugh though about all the fuss over doctored images. What do people expect? Take televsion for example. Seconds of TV time cost tens of thousands of dollars but "news" items air for free, courtesy of the sponsors. Truth in reporting? My god! How naive is that? It blows my mind. What are people thinking? That politicians and multi-billion dollar corporations are honest? When the White House releases a photo of Bush it's as staged and phony as any Hollywood poster ever was. It's called Perception Management ... Truth®. "Photo ops"? Come on. It's the fine art of using the camera to lie. Yes! Cameras lie. Movies lie. We all know it but want to believe the news anyway, as though somehow Big Media holds our trust sacred. Viewer beware. If that blows your cookie, wah-fucking-wah. Sober up.


I've always preferred Eastern Philosophy because at least it gives main stage to the idea that so-called "reality" is maya or illusion. But materialists don't want to know that, spoils the fun, plus it's a lot of work using your brain when you're hypnotized. Then add the extra difficulty of facing reality when you're an idiot in the first place. People like nice, spoon-fed American Dreams, pablum for the lazy mind, so now we're up to our eyeballs in lies and outraged when we notice that fact. Crazy, but as the saying goes, "nothing changes if nothing changes" and I must say, harsh as it sounds, change is a hell of a lot harder when you're hooked up to the brain drain.

tv images courtesy of TurnOffYourTV

media perception management news tv photography politics

Aftermath

Yesterday was my birthday. It was also the 9th anniversary of William Burroughs' departure to Interzone. I really like Burroughs and as far as I'm concerned August 2nd is our day. I even wore my Burroughs' tshirt with the quote, "We intend to destroy all dogmatic verbal systems". My kinda guy.

The day started out on a low enough key with a trip to physical therapy. Still working on loosening up that knee. After that, it was a non stop party. The birds got the last of the scrumptious veggie Marvel Meal and a special mix of various seeds and Mr. Lee and I poisoned ourselves with mammoth helpings of lemon-strawberry cake and too much ice cream. My friend Susan even dropped by with a couple of cool gifts, which was totally unexpected. I offered her cake but she wisely ate watermelon. In the evening we went to a second birthday party. Big day.

Today, I'm a bit depressed. Don't bother telling me it's the sugar. Susan already kindly pointed that out. Plus I'm beginning to hate the pathetic "Dear Diary" quality of this blog. I don't know why I do one. It's embarrassing. All well. I'm a chronic sufferer of symbol overload. Blogging is a overflow valve. I've been in the house too long, almost constantly since the Summer Solstice. It's evening. The quail have just arrived in their little hats. In case you forgot, they spend the day under Dwayne's sprawling Indian Willow Tree, or whatever the fuck it's called. They stroll over here to the Bird Park for an evening snack. The finches spend all day on the feeders spewing seed everywhere and the quail drop by to see what's left when the temperature cools.

In case you're wondering, the image at the top is of the front of the birthday card Mr. Lee made for me this year. I love his cards. They are always unique and delightfully disturbing. Circuses are my thing anyway and this year's card has circus images on front and back and under his signature a tasteful gif of twisted barbed wire. The image on the back is very faded and grainy, in keeping with it being of a small, Depression era traveling circus. I'm not posting a photo of the backside. I have to keep something for myself. He always nails it. I'm sure I spent many of past lives in various traveling circuses and wandering theatre troupes. The backside also has a wonderful quote from Anne Sexton. I like her a more than Sylvia Plath these days although Mr. Lee was quick to point out that poor Sylvia was over-exposed. What can you expect when you stick your head in the oven and gas yourself, what with the children and a big mouth husband. She is a fine poet though. They both are.

An dear friend of mine, Michael O'Rourke (himself a fine poet and playwright) wrote me yesterday and had some nice things to say about Driftwork... "Driftwork is like pure cold well water in the desert. My gratitude to all who contributed--it's wonderful to know that the universal loners, pit stop desperadoes and holy whores, pacifists with fists full of poems and diehard prose, can face down the high noon tactics of oil fume ghosts gurgling in the blood of the indigenous soul." Michael was probably thinking of me when he wrote "holy whore"; and probably "pit stop desperado". Both apply. Shit, it all applies. That's the problem with old friends. They know too much.

So that's it for now. No politics today.

"For God was as large as a sunlamp and laughed his heat at us and therefore we did not cringe at the death hole." - Anne Sexton

The last written words of William Burroughs

Lucky Pierre arrives at last

Lucky Pierre arrived today. Actually Roy kindly mailed him to me weeks ago (thank you again, Roy) but, because of my recent knee surgery, I have yet to make it to the post office. Mr. Lee went there today for me.

After living under Roy's house for who knows how long I must say, Lucky Pierre is in great shape ... physically. But he's despondent. I couldn't get him to look at the camera. I understand. He's embarrassed to be seen in public dressed in a Santa clown suit. You must understand, Lucky Pierre is actually an artist, a Parisian and a very proud fellow. God knows what brought him down so low but better times are ahead.

Perhaps it was the nipping of the wormwood, the absinthe, as was so popular among the surrealists when he was still known as Lucky Pierre. Perhaps he had too many Pernod Fils too many times at the dark and smoky bistros. Something sent him on his downward spiral. To gig as a Santa? Ah, Pierre. But now you are found, my friend. It will be slow. Everything around here happens on ashatime but things are looking up my friend. Things are looking up.

The change game

There's an excellent article at DailyKos today by Steve G. that digs below the surface differences between our political left and right and helps clarify why it's so impossible to penetrate conservative blockhead stupidity. As Lakoff pointed out in "Don't Think of an Elephant", we use very different criteria to select "facts" from the overwhelming, chaotic sensory overload (life) surrounding us.

In case you don't bother to read it, here's an excerpt that pretty much sums up the basic idea:

"Conservatives Look at "Who" and Liberals Look at "What"
Indeed, the terms conservatives and liberals are the wrong terms to use here. They indicate political left and right, but that's not what is at issue here. What we are really talking about here is authoritarianism vs. anti-authoritarianism.

authoritarian conservative liberal Lakoff

Invisible Event, Hank speaks