I just can't seem to write today.There's a piece in my head about my first attempt at college that I can't get off the ground. Researching some specifics, I dug out an old annual. I was surprised to find that I had a fairly nice two-page photo essay. It won't scan well, but I may pull out a few images. It's hard to remember being as inept as I was then. Things haven't changed much, I'm still a non-winner. Just another geek with a camera.
There was a distinct division between the art department and the photojournalism department. I took classes in both, and worked as an assitant to the "professional" photographer who was a paid member of the administrative staff. There were three darkrooms on campus, and while I was welcome in all three, there was no reason to step outside my work area. Working for the staff publicity photographer, I photographed instructional materials (including pornographic magazines for the psychology department) and did darkroom work in a pretty much state of the art, all stainless steel, lab. The other photo labs had fifty year old equipment that was trash. They had no cameras to loan at all, while I had access to a variety of Hasselblads, Pentax system, and view cameras up to 8x10. Lucky me. Too bad I wasn't better at things back then, I was in equipment heaven.
The ads in the annual are the most interesting thing about this trip down memory lane, though
. . . moreTook my car in to get serviced; it looks like its going to be another hot summer next year. They want $1,100 to fix my air-conditioning. Not this time, sorry. I made it through this summer without it, so I suppose I'll do the same 4-60 air-conditioning next year. Rented a brand new Toyota Camry to get around while it's in the shop getting the brakes fixed and the timing-belt changed. It feels like driving a space-ship. I suppose I've just become accustomed to the rattles of a Ford.
I have a lot of writing to do, but I haven't had much sleep. I keep getting increasingly frustrated with language.
Pity philosophies of
daily exits and entrances, with books
propping up one end of a shaky table—
The vague accuracies of events dancing two
and two with language which they
forever surpass—and dawns
tangled in darkness—William Carlos Williams, Paterson 1:ii
It's great fun to play with the search engine at MPTV. Type in a star, any star, and watch the photos show up. They have a great marketing idea with this one. I'm not ready to start collecting photographs as jpeg's, but the offer of a 16x20 fiber-base print of John Lennon for $750 is actually fairly reasonable, given the apparent quality of the piece. I like it. I wish I had the cash!
I'm not familiar with Luke's favorite, Tintin, but while I'm putting up links I should note a new companion. Also, it looks like a nice show with David Hockney is coming up on BBC2. [via ALD] I'll never forget seeing some of Hockney's photo collages on the beach in Venice, California, years ago. One of my favorite painters, Warren Criswell uses his own bastard version of Old Masters technique in his paintings, and it's perhaps the last thing I would suspect Hockney of getting involved with; his works always seemed remarkable in their flatness to me. But what do I know.
I was a bit shocked to find that my robot equivalent was The Terminator. I've never been accused of that sort of aggressive behavior. I always thought I was more like the robot on Lost in Space: snide and fairly ineffectual.
Now I find out that my inner monster is nothing less than the Devil himself. Makes sense, that Satan guy is the best character in Paradise Lost anyway.
I suppose I just have trouble thinking of myself as an evil figure though; I just don't have that much energy. Those evil guys are just so active! I'm far more lethargic, actually.
I sat frozen until it became far too late to say much of consequence. Too many thoughts today: Paradise Lost— How do angels think? Adam’s farts don’t stink, and it is questionable if there were any latrines in the garden of Eden. etc . . . Ted Hughes perverted revision of the fall: Adam ate the fruit, Eve ate Adam, the serpent ate them both, turning them into a brown mass in his intestines. The opening of book 3 of Paterson will show up here soon as well.
For now, I want to save an odd moment in Composition Theory class. . . . moreZero Population Growth has a web site which rates how kid friendly cities in the US are. Is it just me, or does this strike anyone else as odd? If zero population growth is the desired effect, most of the west would have to stop having kids all together. But I digress.
It was interesting to compare the stats in different areas that I've recently lived in: Bakersfield and Little Rock. In education, Bakersfield gets a C- while Little Rock gets an A. Makes sense. Most of my education was done in Bakersfield, and I'm definitely below average. Of course, in public safety Bakersfield gets an A and Little Rock a C. Hmm, I was robbed at least three times in Bakersfield, and constantly had to lock my car and house. In Little Rock, I seldom lock my car and have accidently left my apartment unlocked on numerous occasions. . . no incidents. But the economic data seems reasonable, Bakersfield gets a C- and Little Rock a B+. I love statistics. There is no arguing that most people in Little Rock are pretty smart though, unlike the "dumb hick" stereotype.
This is the view out the window of my bedroom, when I was growing up. The car is my old 66 fairlaine, inherited from my Dad. The big pipe is part of our water-well. We were far enough out in the sticks that there was no city water for us.
Sort of desolate, huh? It wasn't quite as bland as this distressed polaroid implies, but it was pretty, uh, dull.
I was having fun with the depth of field on an old trash polaroid. Even the screen of the window was in focus. I guess you could say I was easily amused as a child.
The bushes at the bottom right were actually beautiful roses, but I had this big urge to make things ugly. The well wasn't automatic, there was a big switch to turn it on at the base of the power-pole. I used to love to play with it when my parents weren't home. The sound of the water splashing in the pipe, and the massive electric motor at the surface were great fun. Yup, easily amused, I tell you.
It's always something. I've been pondering a story that I need to write this week, which involves (in an odd and tangential manner) Ted Hughes. In a weird way, Ted Hughes became the last straw which caused me to drop out of school twenty years ago. I didn't know that much about him then, but I know more now.
Perhaps it's too much information. A story in the Guardian brings out something I didn't know. Besides the death of Sylvia Plath, Hughes may have also been a contributing factor in another suicide. I suppose it was the reverence that Fred Jacobs (my instructor in library science, of all things!) felt for Hughes that made me feel totally excluded from the pretentious world of snobby poetry. Tales of visiting Hughes estate, and small press books that mere mortals couldn't hope to own really galled me. I'm afraid to learn what a really reprehensible human being he might have been.
Pete Townshend turned one of his children's books into an album (Iron Man), but I just can't bring myself to read Hughes again. I just plain hated it the first time; I've had no use for ivory tower artists.
Just looking at his pictures in the Guardian article gives me the creeps. I can only hope that his fate as dead poet laureate will be closer to Southey's rather than Tennyson's.
Pam urged me to submit Stuffed in a Box to the school publication, so I thought I'd put it up here.
Thoughts, anyone? It's a short read, just over 1,000 words.
Russ noted the opening of a new Guggenheim museum in Las Vegas. The Guardian article also notes that the museum will be open until at least 11pm. This sounds great to me, and it's not unexpected. It's the only city I've ever lived in that kept what I consider to be decent hours. Nothing really closes, you can buy housepaint and furniture at 3am. I often wake up at night with art-cravings, it's too bad that Vegas is off my list of prospective residences.
This is oddly coincidental. I just started scanning some of my Vegas photographs a few days ago, thinking of a new gallery for this site. My photographs aren't what you'd call a typical view of Vegas: no neon. It's a very ugly place in the daytime, and I hadn't started photographing at night when I lived there. I did the neon thing later in my career. But perhaps the prime reason why I think this museum will be successful is that sex sells. The Guggenheim's experience in Italy, as relayed by the Art News article, makes me think that a museum in this city could become a new hot spot:
A lead article in the Italian daily Il Gazzettino exclaimed: "Who would ever have said that the corridors of the Accademia Museum in Florence were more erotically charged than the atmosphere in a discotheque? That Botticelli’s Primavera instigates hard-core thoughts and actions, and that the rooms of the Guggenheim Museum in Venice are more stimulating than Viagra?"Vegas is nothing if not "erotically charged," at night anyway.
They All Just Went Away is an essay about the relationship between house and home, and the relationship between people of different social status. But it is much more than that. It depicts a slice of life as if it were a bit of bruised fruit, with all its seeds, and complexities, left intact.
. . . moreThe Inheritance of Tools uses carpentry as the centerpiece of a reflection on the transmission of knowledge from generation to generation. It violates conventional chronology, relying on memory as its central organizational theme. The tools provide only the point of departure to discuss deep emotional issues of family.
. . . more
I suppose there is a childhood root for my feelings of isolation. This was the view from my backyard, in my teen years. It looked pretty much the same in all directions. The nearest house was about 1/3 of a mile away. It was farmland, all the way around. This made it hard to sneak out, except after dark. I had to walk for at least a mile until I was out of sight. The trees that are visible in the distance are where I used to meet my drug connections. Lou Reed's "Waiting for My Man" had great resonance with me.
Much Madness is divinest sense—
To a discerning eye—
Much sense—the starkest Madness—
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail—
Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you’re straightaway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—Emily Dickinson, #435
Bought The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry tonight. I'm not familiar with much past W.B.Yeats, so I figured it was time to catch up. William Carlos Williams wiped the taste of T.S. Eliot out of my mouth. I still don't know why I hated him so much.
It’s amazing how the right poem always seems to pop up at the right time. Watched Hannibal earlier. I can empathize with the poor cop with the screw-top head at the end. It feels like I’m doing that sort of surgery, self-inflicted, trying to figure out which piece to carve off and fry up next.
Read a bunch of stuff yesterday ranting about "good" and "bad" blog design. To be honest, I really didn't see much difference among the examples. No taste. That's me. The reason why I don't survive long in groups. I can never really see what so many people are on about.
Woke up in the middle of the night trying to write a sentence. It wasn't a good one, and nothing I could do could save it. It went something like this: "If a tree falls in the forest and smashes your brains out, do you hear the sound?"
The teacher is urging me to submit a revision of Talk Talk to the school's journal. This happens from time to time, but I seldom do. I tend to think of these things that I "make" as gifts of a sort, and I'm careful who I give them to. Most people don't get me. I'm quite harmless actually; I'm not a writer or an artist really, I just play one on monitors across the globe. I hate the pretensions, the lies, the complacent nods as if people could figure out who I am, when I have difficulty with that most of the time myself. Firm convictions and curiosity, I suppose that sums it up.
And an irrepressible need to blather on.
