The me I was born with
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XI There are times when beauty pleads the pen to silence. Times when the senses blend into a single organ receiving life. Times when time, for a moment, ceases to be time, in the lost and found again cry of wonder; cry of life. 6/17/89 I’ll be meeting with my agent in a few days in San Francisco at St. Frances Hospital where I’ll also meet with the doctor who will perform knee replacement surgery on my gimpy knee, to be followed, possibly, by hip replacement. (Such things often happen to those of us fortunate enough to outlive the usefulness of decrepit joints.). My agent has been working with me for nine months and only managed to secure one gallery for a show, and it’s a rental gallery at a considerable cost. Such an arrangement might be compared to a ‘vanity press’ which published books, at an inflated cost, for authors unable to secure legitimate publishers, but are compelled to see their labors in print. I’m not yet certain if I am anxious enough to pay the bucks to see my paintings on the walls, particularly in this economy (2008) so am withholding, for the moment, my judgment on that issue. My agent has made a number of connections during our months together, but only this one has born fruit. I call his initial connections ‘shallow diggings’, or ‘small holes’. I have and must continue impressing on him that we must eliminate the ‘small holes’ if they show little promise and dig deeper those holes which are more promising. I’ll give him another three months and if nothing more develops must let him go. Finding an effective agent is a thankless task. Most gallery owners know what artists they want and don’t appreciate a salesman pitching unknown artists. A huge amount of art being shown with regularity is garbage. But as several gallery owners have told me, in defense of garbage, “people aren’t buying art these days, they’re buying signatures.” A sad commentary of the art scene, but in opposition, there’s also a lot of creative and outstanding art being shown and sold to collectors who are not buying art for profit, signatures, but buying art for its intrinsic worth. Enough of my prejudices for now. Let’s return to the late 80s. I’m a presence on Haight street. My books, at least, in a dozen shops, some selling, some just being stored. My paintings hanging in at least three locations in the Haight. Noticed and unnoticed, exposed and overexposed. Anything better than the dank, dark storage of closets and basements. 6/25/89 Here again with mom in Santa Barbara. Her decline more apparent with every visit, but a good sport always. Mom is in the other room fixing me breakfast. There’s not much she can fix, but she needs to be able to do something for a son; she needs that kind of respect. She says she is failing but wants to wake up every day. 7/8/89 These past months I’ve been a victim of slippage. I’ve got to get back on the boil; back to the rhythms of my voice and soul; light and refuel the fires of indignation. A celebration through the actions of myself at my finest. 7/13/89 Back to the regulars of this street. Back from Reno where teachers and bored students applauded me. Back from Carolyne; the Feather River. Back from passion and tenderness to another kind. 8/18/89 (The idea of going inside one’s self to discover the universe. So we go inside to discover the universe which is ourselves which leads us outside again.) 8/26/89 I will always honor this body which has, so well, cared for me, but I will not prevent its natural course, as I reach to spirit and soul, for they will carry me beyond when it is time to let go of earthly pickings. 9/7/89 My mother teaches the process with gentlest radiance. Her eyes articulate what her lips are unable to say. There is no anger or fear. Dear lady, do it your way. You’ve been the best possible person, the best possible model for living a life, and though we say goodbye we will never let go of you. 9/12/89 (My mother: a spirit and force this planet was privileged to know.). 9/16/89 I’m weaning myself from my journals as they approach present time, at least a time of clearer memory. This year and this month was the time of her passing. I know of no one more respected and loved than this lady who lived three months short of her 93rd birthday. So much of her spirit and energy was passed on to her children and the best of it came to me. I say this in all humility. She gave it to us; we were fortunate enough to receive it. During her final days at Cottage Hospital my brothers came with their wives. I see them clearly by the wall at the foot of her bed, fumbling with their car keys, distressed and uncomfortable. It wasn’t that they didn’t love her, but they never learned how to express that love, other than in their way. That’s the way it has been with them all of their lives, and it’s hard for me to understand, growing up, as we did, in a family where our parents were such outstanding role models in the art of expressing their love for one another. The most touching moment for me during her final days was when she started calling me by my dad’s name. She couldn’t have given me more than that. 9/22/89 I believe one reason I’m comfortable with most of my journal entries is because I was already a man in my early 60s when I started journalizing and had made reasonable progress with my life. I had been living alone over ten years so had a good opportunity of getting to know myself. I was completely committed to living my passions, paying careful attention to servicing them. To be free is certainly a high-priority passion of mine. To be free in the finest way possible, which is to become a fulfilled person. And my passions for writing poetry, painting and performing have been well realized. And finally, not least of all, my passion for those I love, and they know who they are, even those who have passed beyond. And now, a stunning woman, up from the beach, drifting my way. I think one could qualify this as instant love. She has no age; perhaps a teen-ager or a woman in her 30s. I see the innocence of a child and the maturity of an adult. Her body and face seem flawless and inarticulately beautiful. She pauses, for a moment, where I sit; exchanging friendly and warm conversation, then continues on her way. Such a practical and uncomplicated way to fall in love. And now back, briefly, to a new Journal, journal #11, dedicated to my mother’s final days. 9/23/07 There was a lot of love in that room: a son, two grandsons, a girl from Argentina. A lot of love in that room. My mother, trying to cut loose from her earthly bindings. Her hands were being held; her arms caressed, legs massaged, moistened towels to her forehead, smiles and tears strewn across her body. There was a lot of love in that room. This is not a death watch. This is a watch of love; a painful, tender ritual of passage. A ceremony we would never have missed. Being present at the beginning of a journey which we all will, one day, experience, of one so deeply loved and there is a lot of love in this room. 9/12-13/89 This life goes on and it will continue as long as there is memory, and there will be memory as long as there is life. 10/7/89 Yesterday the great and fearsome San Andreas rose on its haunches, smote the Bay Area and terrified thousands. Now lingering doubts and fears, some predicting a new calamity in the strange beat and silence of this day. Have we finally earned that reward? 10/18/89 I celebrate and sanctify this day of your arrival, 12/8/1896. I celebrate your spirit and humor. I celebrate your mind and humor; your loyalty, your generosity. You were so many things for so many people. And I celebrate your love for me and mine for you. 12/8/89 Two minutes away from 1990. (So suddenly arrived). Is it possible? I’m waiting. I’m ready. Madness on Time Square. One minute to midnight. It’s almost time. I love you all and you know who you are. Happy New Year. 12/31/89, 1/1/90 Fast forward to present time. Wondering as I never wondered before, the efficacy of smoking dope as a means of enhancing the quality of my writing. It’s been a consideration I’ve never considered over the forty-five years I’ve been imbibing, with greatest of pleasure, in the product. There was a time when I avoided doing anything creative , under the influence Doing anything creative other than improvising with my poetry and at piano was useless These activities seemed to benefit but my attempts at writing under the influence seemed failed. As with dreams which seem so profound when happening and so trivial when reviewed. But in recent years my writing and my poetry seem to benefit from a few tokes. This may have something to do with the aging process which has contributed to my increasing loss of language. The dope helps me find some of that misplaced verbage, and it seems to further enhance the creative aspect of my writing, giving me permission to explore outer boundaries, to cross over those boundaries into fresh, new territory, and upon revisiting my efforts the following morning I was no longer disappointed with what was accomplished; in fact I was delighted. But now, a reassessment. The dope has become significantly stronger and it seems to deliver me to a place where I am sometimes uncomfortable around people but less so with myself. I even seem to be experiencing hang-overs, not all the time but from time to time, so I’m at a place of reevaluation. I usually toke at night and write for a few hours, but I think I’ll cut back. Maybe the dope has something to do with my loss of language. Maybe, under this plan I’ll experience a resurrection of memory. Not to suggest that I’m going to completely deny myself that singular pleasure; rather cut back and become more recreational in my approach. Soon after discovering this magic weed I said, with relief, “Now I can grow old effortlessly and joyfully,” and as I advance in that direction that fact has been supported frequently. And I’ve discovered a number of people, designated as ‘old farts’, who are in full agreement with my premise. One thing is certain. I live in a village where one need barely imbibe. Simply stroll down Main Street, Fort Bragg and breath deeply of that pure, sweet, invigorating filtered aroma. It will put a smile to your face. 9/24/07 (My slight case of paranoia was short lived. No more hang-overs. I imbibe, with regularity in the evening and usually write for several hours, producing my finest work. At least I think so. I hope so.) 10/11/08 I’ve finally arrived in the 90s, more secure with memory, and less dependent on my Journals. We shall see. I do think it might be a matter of interest to review, briefly, my financial picture in the 80s and a few of the schools which stand out in memory in my black book. 1980; Two weeks in Spokane, public schools, two weeks in Chicago public schools and two weeks in southern California. Total income, $13,767.39. 1981: Bay Area public schools, two weeks in Illinois, about two weeks in California public schools including several reading conferences. (Carolyne discovered me at the Shasta Reading Conference. I was subsequently invited to her school. There we met formally, became lovers and were united.). Readers theatre, London and public schools London. Income, $17,701.00. 1982: Mostly public schools in California. Two weeks in Illinois, Illinois Gifted Conference. Tulsa State Gifted Conference, Colleges Southern California, Conference Okalahoma. Income, $11,889,33 1983: Public schools California, Chico State, first performance of my Symphony #1, St. Olaf College, Walker Art Gallery, first showing of my early paintings, Arts and Humanities, Tulsa, writers Conferences. Income, $12,287.97.
1985: Public schools, Chicago area, Writers Conferences, Gilroy, Santa Clara, Chicago, performance Santa Barbara Art Museum, Colleges, Southern California. Income, $12,375.00. 1986: Two weeks Reno area public schools, Two weeks, Chicago schools, Illinois Gifted Conference. Income, $11,268.87. 1987: Two weeks, Chicago area schools, Two weeks Nevada public schools, Summer Arts Festival, one week, San Luis Obispo. Income, $10,290.30. 1988: Public schools, Nevada, Southern California. Income, $6,337.00. 1989: Public schools, Nevada, California, several teachers conferences. Income, $6,395.75
The ratio of income from books and painting increased year by year. I took Social Security benefits at age sixty-two, commencing in 1987 which helped with the slacking of my income, but clearly, I never made excessively, as indicated, but always made enough to satisfy my modest financial requirements. I wouldn’t have wished it another way. My freedom was far too important. I lived in comfort and denied myself nothing of real value. 10/11/08 I’m rarely down, but I’m down. Down because my body is not quite right. Down because we’ve entered a new decade, not my last but closing in. Down because my friends are down, and feeling great. Great because if this is as far down as down goes, then I’m close to feeling up. 1/10/90 I remember wondering if I’d make it to the millennium, and if I did would I have the strength to toot a horn or limp out on the porch and croak a short greeting to the world. Now we’re passing through ’07 and I’m still tooting and croaking and limping and making love. 9/24/07 She sobbed in my arms; a grandchild loved as deeply as my own. I will never forget the way she held my mother’s hands and eyes within her own. 1/29/90 Back in the saddle. Back on task. Stanford University. I’m an agent again. Agent on my own behalf. I hate it; I love it. Nancy wants me next year. Exhibit my paintings with full-bodied performance. The choral director wants me next year; my sympnonies for spoken-voiced-orchestra, and Carl, in drama, adored my work. Wants it in his curriculum next year. And so, gloriously, this year, year of the horse. Next year, year of the Me at Stanford University, but I don’t believe it. 2/24/90 A new Krishnamurti who declares that all prophets are false; all religions false; all enlightenment false. The only enlightenment is to realize the truth of these proclamations. The disillusioned are rushing to him, and he says, “Leave me alone, I have nothing for you.” I believe I have finally found me a guru. 2/27/90 There is always, for me, the question with my writing. How much should I tell and how much should I leave for the reader to discover? 3/11/90 Again up to Feather River. Again the soft, dense, pure nights; sky bursting. But our pine forest has been cannibalized; proud trees murdered. Norm claims they were infested with pine beetles, but what remains reflects only carnage. Carolyne cried when she saw the destruction. Like a battle field, the grave-stones rising stumps of trees. An evidence of greed. These centuries of growth wasted and destroyed in moments. 3/23/90 Recapture innocence through forgetfulness; total rapt attention to nothing, which is what everything becomes. Then one is completely present in present time. 3/27/90 In retrospect, it was fortunate for us that Norm took out those trees, because they had protected our favorite cabin from the traffic of Highway 70. Now we were entirely exposed and lost all interest in purchasing that property from him. Had we owned it, we would have lost it all in the devastating floods of several years later. 9/24/07 Quick run through Journal #12, making only a few short stops. There was a vacancy in its middle of about five months. These spent in Denmark where I arranged for two gallery showings in 1991. Then down to Greece with Christian after purchasing a car in Germany. It was a fascinating drive with a dear friend. Stopovers in Yugoslavia; magnificent falls in the north, some invigorating hikes into the costal mountains. Montenegro. Meteria; The amazing forest of stone rising hundreds of meters, one crested with a monastery which took years to build. Where supplies and people were transported by a huge net. The graveyard of Metoria aglow with the illumination of fireflies. (I was to return there with Carolyne later that year, to her amaze.) Christian and I put the car in storage in Athens and continued on to Smos and Patmos where I was to remain after he departed. After a few months I went back to Athens to meet Carolyne, and after a few days in Athens we picked up the car and started on our journey through Greece, Italy, Germany, France and Holland, to England where we spent a few weeks before returning to America where this journal picks up again in mid August, 1990 This might be a good place for an interlude. A respite from the drudgery of being swamped in the self-serving, self-deprecating, aggrandizement of this persons life. So I’ll find an appropriate entry and compose a trio for spoken voices. I had a dream last night about doing this and the idea appealed to me. And so. a three part fugue. LET GO 1 Such a simple plan---so well understood---so dependable 2 Such a simple plan 3
3 Such a simple plan 1 But the fear-----the fear of loss----- exceeds understanding 2 so dependable Simply let go 3
2 in order to receive But the fear of loss 3 So well understood 1 of loss tightens the grip-----Simply let go----- 2 exceeds understanding Simple let go----- 3 so dependable Simply let go-----
2 and the mere suggestion 3 in order to receive
2 of loss----- tightens the grip 3 but the fear of loss
2 and what might so easily-----so easily have been-----have been 3 exceeds understanding
2 what we deserved 3 and the mere suggestion of loss
2 (Such a simple plan so well understood so dependable 3 (Such a simple plan so well understood 1 Simply let go)-----that we let it slip away----- 2 Simply let go) vanishes----- 3 so dependable-----Simply let go) tightens 1 If we could only substitute 2 and the consequence 3 the grip----- and what might
2 is the idea 3 and what might so easily have been
2 that we let it slip away slip away----- if we could 3 what we deserved
2 only substitute for desire 3 vanishes-----
2 confidence and ease and the consequence is the idea that we let it 3 and the consequence is the idea that we let it slip away
2 slip away slip away----- Too much fear 3 slip away-----
2 too much uncertainty----- 3 too much fear----- 1 2 to much memory----- of failed history----- 3 too much uncertainty to much memory 1 Such a simple plan Simply let go---------- 2 Such a simple plan---------Simply let go---------- 3 of failed history----------Such a simple plan Simply let go----------
2 let go----------let go… 3 let go----------let go…
Our building has been sold and now I’ll have to pay a reasonable market rent. A home in suburbia. Impossible, me in that medicated atmosphere. A yuppified loft in a converted warehouse south of Market, graveyard of decay. Expensive beyond my means; impossible. Time of decision and I’m uncertain, but forget about making mistakes and revel in change. 11/28/90 This year is fast being sucked into the vacuum of memory. How to slow it down, be present in every moment, denying past and future. Then, ‘now’ becomes eternity which passes in the next moment. 12/13/90 Carolyne sleeps in Chico this final day of this year. The communist world has fallen but what can replace it. Our president is blind, our vice-president is stupid. Why do we inherit such fools? We are too culpable. I will awaken Carolyne; we will go to breakfast. The world will somehow survive another year. 12/31/90 The year just passed saw a reduction in gallery showings and poetry in the schools. I struggled with the loss of my mother. I spent over one third of the year in Europe and dealt with the crushing details of handling my mother’s estate with an ass-hole lawyer who drove me crazy. I inherited a reasonable sum of money from her estate, divided equally with my brothers who let me handle all the details. They didn’t offer to assist and I was grateful.
I divert his attention to the perfect impenetrable solutions of the ocean, the cliffs, the sunset. A nighttime walk with Abdullah to the cliffs. He is the most hopeless depression of all, but I am able to bring him home to nature. He tells me I have been blessed by God. His God not mine. 1/22/91 Most of my friends are in, or bordering on an existential crisis. If any of them had $100,000 in the bank, and a gorgeous blond in bed they would be 90% cured, and their condition would last as long as the money held out and the blond held in, after which time the 10% would have expanded exponentially and they would be back in the box, no exit. 9/26/07 Mournful, pitiful tracings of snow. Scattered waning fields of snow. Dwarfish drifts; diminishing footprints; fragile, frail snow webbings;; barren dry meadows. The ragings of winter have departed with barely a whisper. This feeble snow a no-snow. The terrain sucked dry, punished by an embittered Mother of Nature. This human species has done remarkably well in its quest for extinction. The utter emptiness of nothing at all; a baked fiasco. Las Vegas. 1/25/91
Because you blame no one except yourself for your failures. Because of your wisdom, generosity and loyalty. 2/16/91 Got my paintings together for shipment to Denmark. Plenty of words and music on canvas and masonite. My forms are growing and I must find a space, soon, where I can paint on canvas fifteen feet high and at least that wide. Soon---very soon, but now my energies to masonite, panels and plywood. 2/27/91 Another journal back to storage as this journey winds down. As I mentioned previously I never thought my journals would become such a resource. I figured I was creating a kind of history for my children that might answer some questions about my life, which might, in some measure, give my loved ones a deeper insight into their own. Not only to reveal myself as honestly as I am able, but to explain how I came to a creative life and what I did with it. I’ve tried to make a case for my extensive use of my journals, and realized, only today, that not only are my entries a more accurate account of my life than my memory, but they also jog my memory making it possible for me to go deeper on occasions. And this adventure has also brought me home to past lives, a journey which has always delighted my soul. I keep promising to limit dependency on my journals and I continue promising. My problem is being selective and I keep on finding entries that I feel should be included. That’s stuff for another book and that book, Harvestings, includes much more from my journals. It’s on hold now; has been for nearly a year, at about 700 pages and approaching my 40th journal. So that should be coming around, in time, for anybody brave enough to go that deep with me. 9/26/07 So it became on January 6th 1991, a two bedroom duplex unit on Seal Rock Drive, feeling much like suburbia, the last place I would want to be and I came to love it. My rent was three times what it was in the Haight, but I found a good roommate to take up the slack, and we had a fireplace. On 47th avenue, six buildings from the magnificent cliffs, part of the regional forests which afforded numerous perches to hang-out and feast on sunsets, the grand entrance of shipping through the Golden Gate and under the Golden Gate Bridge, an architectural marvel and the cliffs and headlands of Marin. The network of paths along the cliffs were several miles long, one of which led to the Palace of the Legion of Honor Museum. And the dense forest backed up to our row of duplexes, making it feel as though it belonged to us, and it did. On down the hill we were a five minute walk from the Cliff House which was to become a daily event in my life. I had my own table in the Crown Restaurant. Was generally the first to arrive for a morning ritual; a basket of Cliff House famous pop-overs, a selection of jams in jars and my Earl Grey served in a silver teapot nestled in a linen napkin. It was style. And on beyond the Cliff House, Ocean Beach spread like a blanket as far as this eye could see. And we had our village on Balboa Street. A few good restaurants, a cinema, grocery store and a delightful, funky coffee house, Simple Pleasures, which I frequented. I converted a formal dining room into a studio from which I could glimpse the ocean. It was an altogether easy transition from the madness and delights of Haight. I was home again. 9/26/07 And again I am home in present time. The sun is down, the horizon a tangerine orange. The air is still; a moon just turned around from full, will rise shortly and spread its ointment across the land. The shadows she creates are as real and etched as shadows at high-noon, before and beyond. Carolyne’s mother is watching her favorite T.V. show; Jeopardy. I don’t believe she has come with an answer in at least ten years, but she loves the show, after which, Wheel of Fortune, after which, bed. Carolyne is in the garage which is where she goes when the phone is for her and when she wants to light up, as does she when the telephone takes her there. This is a matter not to be shared with her mother who would drive her crazy if she knew that she smoked. I agree with that conclusion. And I am where I am taken almost every day to continue with this book, as well as several others; that’s upstairs in my studio and Evelyn is below, calling out for her daughter every few minutes. I call down and tell her Carolyne is on the phone and she is calmed. At least I thought so. It is at about this time that Evelyn becomes unreasonable; the sun-down syndrome is taking effect. How difficult a time for Evelyn and anyone with her. One must just remember that she is extremely forgetful and often confused, and remember kindly. My health is good; finally assured that the internal infection I once had is no longer with me. My knee replacement is far from perfect but far from lousy too and my new pigs valve has got the rhythm. So I’m well and confident in my body and my mind. I spend a few hours here at my computer most every day, bringing things to closure and continuing on with those that are not. My life is easy. I have a supportive wife who loves me and is not shy about letting me know. We are comfortable with each other. Working with a film maker to film certain activities including; painting, performing alone and with a group which I formed for occasional chamber concerts and discussing my life as a painter while painting, to conclusion on a 4’x4’ canvas. All of this to be reduced from about ten h ours to about ninety minutes. This to be a part of any archive I may have covering my creative life. I’m working weekly with an outstanding sound engineer and keyboard artist, Chuck Bush. We’ve been recording improvisations together for about a year. We just came out with a C.D. called, ‘Improvisations’. We are amazingly attuned to one another and our improvisations, as pure as improvisations can be, are at a point where we are responding to one another, sometimes without even knowing it is happening. This form of making music has arrived at a stage we couldn’t believe possible and we are basking in the pleasure of being here at the right time with the right thing. But this is getting away from this book so I will return there now. 10/13/08 I discovered a treasure in Journal #15. A third of the book consists of my mother’s writings, or verbal recall of her family and my dad’s family. I’ve been after her to do this for years and finally I knew it was now or never, and it would be now. During the last year of her earthly life she was embarrassed about the legibility of her long hand, so I asked questions and took dictation. I’d forgotten about this book which went back twenty years, so what a pleasure and surprise to rediscover it. Stop I’ll pick up where Mom and I left off, which finds me in Denmark for the two gallery openings arranged by my dear on-going friend, Christian.. I spoke of them earlier, a case of disconnected chronologies. but this version might be a little brighter. 9/26/07 Now I’m in northern Denmark, April 27th, 1991 My paintings in galleries in Aarhus and Copenhagen. The village where we stayed, our journey up the coast to Skagen, furthermost northern village in Denmark, our walk against a fierce blow to the furthermost northern reach of Denmark, Grenan, a fine finger of white sand, confluence of the Great northern Sea and the eastern sea. I marched into the water and straddled the fine line where they come together. In Denmark forests are called plantations, as new forests are planted row on row as precise as orchards in California. I wandered a country road to a park which carried me to the highest elevation in all of Denmark, 200 meters. There I stood long and long watching, listening and feeling this tiny magnitude. Tomorrow returning to Aarhus as the fallen days multiply, both shows to be taken down on my 66th birthday. 4/27/91 A mother and a daughter liking my colors, appreciating my concepts. They stop, spending substantial time before each painting, in earnest conversation. Maybe they are talking of dinner plans; how they might back out of the gallery without hurting my feelings. Mother moves on ahead away from Color Improvisation #3 to ‘Jimmy Carter’, Daughter remains behind, faithful to the cassette. (I’ve placed cassettes on the wall beside my paintings so that a viewer may become a listener as well). Then we talk and I learn that daughter worked in Chatannuga Café on Haight street where my paintings hung and she knew of my work. Daughter and mother saw what I had placed within my paintings; my joy and myself. 4/30/91
a solution to be avoided unless all other options have failed. We must do what we must do and a final option is to do nothing and suffer the consequences. At some point in the pain register that option is unacceptable. I’m not ready to hang it up and seek the solution of a rocking chair. I’m too young and full of it to surrender at this time. So I say, onward into life, into surgery. And onward into my next journal which I will reduce and distill by simply offering a few fragments from page one and perhaps one or two entries. 9/27/07 Yüklə 1,3 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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