A Sumtyme Blog of Knowthing

What is it that makes any of us think we have the right to decide what is Right for others to the point where we under take violence.? Are these forces of history that are manifested in our actions or just ideological rationalizations we use to give ourselves meaning in a world that makes little sense—but only if we try to understand it.

Hamlet, born on the very day his father killed Fortinbras and took that piece of worthless land or Hamlet, living in the very  “home” of  the man who killed his father, and took his mother (she accepting her position in life as just another worthless piece of property?) —which is the spite he must make right?

Sometimes the job of policeman is to protect the spites of history from those who would seek to set them right while on the other hand it is law, also protected by the same police, which in Western society (post Magna Charta) which enables us to set spites right without bringing into being a new spite. Here the law looks one way and the young man looks another—I wonder if both don’t see the same goal.

Or maybe we are just seeing an “activist” who believes his point of view is so Right it gives him the right to break the law, and we should all appreciate him for his contribution to society which is more than our own. What spite is it in his history, be it in his personal experience  or in the common experience, that brings him here.

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I would like you to meet Frank. He lived in Salem,  Maine  and I took this photo in 1969. He may be passed on by now and probably this is the only photograph of him on the internet. If you don’t see him now you may never get another chance. Frank was a big boy, I am over six feet tall and Frank stood taller  than me. In the winter he could pull out a cord of wood on a sled. When I was in Maine a cord of wood was measured at 4′x4′x8′ (128 cubic feet).  Here in the San Francisco-SiliconValley area a cord seems to be something less than that, often at best a pick up truck full, but Frank was never less than that.

Empty homes—or maybe they are just empty houses—when I see them I wonder what kind of stories are inside. In Maine our driveway was a mile long and on the left you would see the top of this two story house. Just before the house the ground dropped off very rapidly giving this unusual visual image  juxtaposing the foregroundight up against the background of the second story of the house and the upper parts of the trees. It was the only building on the road until you got to the bottom. For me it was able to have a real story to tell.

The owners lived in a trailer on the corner  where  we turned left for them mile long driveway and this parcel of land included this old house now used for storage. One time he put a barrel of salted fish in storage for winter. Naturally a bear found it and just kind of took ownership, coming and going, and eating at will, much to the frustration of the owner. Many a fruitless night he stayed there until dawn with his gun hoping to catch the bear, who of course never showed up. And whenever he would return home early to the trailer or did not go at all, the next day he would see that the bear had visited, eaten what he wanted and left.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a barrel of salted fish but needless to say it evolved into a contest of wits—man against bear— he became committed to catch the vandal and I think that winter he went through three barrels.

This one was off from the main road, it had a big field next to it with some junk farm equipment  and a few old cars and trucks laying around and by August the field was ablaze a beautiful golden hue and the house was stark white with green trim., The big pine tree, a soft summer  breeze, I  thought maybe something would happen when I went there, but it was always the same, emptiness, but comfort that I came.

I saw this one on the hill from the road on the way to Lincoln, made the photograph and made a painting, One day someone was over and said “That’s the house my grandmother grew up in.”

A deserted house is like mu shin, the empty heart (mind) of Buddhism. Like Shaka under the Bodhi tree, who brought all of his memories, his past experiences, his feelings and his irresponsibility (Shaka is a man who deserted his wife and family for his selfish desire to become enlightened) and sat there commited to decay or become enlightened, the house will sit there decaying until becoming enlightened or, I guess unlike Shaka, until it just goes away— entropy.

I think when I see an empty house I am hoping to feel something which has been left by the people who lived there that can, perhaps just for a short time, the moment, or later each time I selfishly use the image, fill an empty place in my own heart that is never satisfied by my own experiences. Emptiness is by itself something  full.

The monk asked: “Does a house have Buddha-Nature?”

Joshu answered: “Mu.”

Simple photographs that show everyday things, stopped at traffic light next to a couple on a motor cycle. I don’t know who they are, or what is their relationship to each other. Maybe this is the only time the two of them rode on this cycle together, maybe its the only photograph of them together (but now they are together forever), maybe they were lovers since parted or have been married now for over forty years. Perhaps she died of cancer or he was killed in a an automobile accident. Whatever, at this moment they are simply looking at something, probably the same thing, and sharing this moment together.

Or two girls in a day care center circa 1968. Both girls are involved in my life for a few minutes, we never see each other again, they have changed but for me they are still the same. And its a simple image also, their faces seem to me to contrast different feelings maybe nor more than about who I am to them at the moment.

Here is a couple I met in  Toledo Ohio circa late 1960s,  from a set of photographs I took for Model Cities. I guess its ok to show this image publicly now, its forty years passed, hopefully their lives improved. Everything they owned was in their old car outside, no money, no job, no place to stay and they were asking for help. (Excuse the roughness of the image, the only copy I have is an old print made on some kind of textured paper which made the scanned image out of focus and gave it a texture even though I have cleaned it up some. I still like the image.) When I see it I remember thinking here they are sitting in at the desk of a person who’s job it is, i.e. who is being paid for this  time, will decide if they can get some financial help, and then I remember I am being paid to take these photographs.

One more, this is the only couple  I knew personally in this set. We shared the first floor of a house in the Old West End of Toledo, in one the old  large houses. There were  big fluted wood  columns in the living room and one part of it I often used as a studio of some sort, with a tie-dyed backdrop.

These four images, each of two people have an order. In the first the couple does not know they are being photographed. In the second they know it and I have posed them, but they are too young to really understand it. In the third they know I am taking the photograph ,they have given permission, but still, clearly the purpose of this photograph is not to record a meaningful moment in their life, and they know that too. In the fourth image model and photographer are spontaneously interacting together to create the image.

Sometimes its not what’s in the photograph that is important but our feelings about the image that can tell us something about ourselves. In that way looking at photographs, and even more so, taking photographs, is very selfish—me keeping these images around to better know myself  or to feel good, at the expense of someone else. I am grateful these people gave me this opportunity.

My photographs from the 1960-early70s are snapshots of my friends, moments about  which I had feelings and sometimes managed to get an image of that feeling. Here is  such a a moment, walking around the front of the car, catching this in my eye and feeling how wonderful it was to be with her, never telling her of this feeling, just selfishly keeping it as  a personal treasure for myself like a memory, as if the feeling of the photograph, which never changes over the years, is easier than having to do the work to maintain the relationship.

Chicago, fall 1969.  The Days of Rage were the “official” split between SDS and Weather underground. A gathering occurred, speeches were made and the event finalized with thrashing in the streets and the disappearance of some to the underground. Here in the East Bay last week , over 40 years later, there was more violence in the street over the Johannes Mehserle court decision.

“Violence in the street”  regarding political and legal disagreements is a common response around the world, but I think here in the US we have less of it and what makes us different is not that our “leaders” are better but that we are better. Still violence as a senseless response just goes on and on.

These are a few of the images I made in Chicago, October 1969. In the first everyone is looking at something else while one young man who appears to be looking at me is actually saying something about what am I doing on the other side of the car. The second is electronic news reporting a little later in the afternoon and the third is a look at some fces in the crowd. After  many years of loyalty to the Democratic Party and the liberal cause, Hubert  Humphrey, as regards his personal career, did take a fall for his Vietnam policy.

What is it that brings violence to people in the streets? Just like days the rage goes on and on and on.

You can see more images of the Days of Rage here and an interesting book review here.

One night, summer of 1969, we are driving through Vermont, I have hitched a ride with some friends who are driving around and they agree to drive through  Maine and drop me at Tom&Nance’s house. Its late evening, just getting dark, we are still about 7 hours from my drop and someone says “I know someone who lives up that road, let’s stop.”

I remember we make a right turn, go up a few houses, “I think its here” and another right into  a driveway, its a small little place, a knock on the door, its answered, and we are invited in—Bobby and his wife or girlfriend, I cannot remember, both are refugees from hard times in the Village cleaning up their act. He’s been built up as a poet, I don’t know.

We are invited for the night, we smoke some pot. Bobby reads ”Asphodel, that Greeny Flower” by William Carlos Williams (Pictures from Breughel), it takes about 20 minutes, we are guests, we are stoned, and we are quiet listeners.

Since that night, I have read that poem, out loud, to  invited or forced others to listen, maybe 20-25 times, I cannot remember. Its a fine poem and hearing that way for the first time, read by someone who  could read a poem out loud was one of the precious experiences of my life. Here is a small piece of it:

Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you!
My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men.  Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
Hear me out
for I too am concerned
and every man
who wants to die at peace in his bed
besides.

(from Asphodel, that Greeny Flower by William Carlos Williams)

Later, Bobby pulled out a crystal ball, and told me about “crystal ball gazing”. I don’t remember what he said now, but when I returned to school a friend  made me a crystal ball and I spent the next few months “gazing.”

After some time when I was in the same place as a crystal ball I could feel it. When I got this feeling, if I looked I could find a crystal ball in the immediate area. Such as, I might be in a room, I got the feeling and found a crystal ball as a part of lamp. Another time I was walking down the sidewalk and I got the feeling, and there in the yard was  a bird fountain with a crystal ball, and so on. By October I was really keyed up on this and amazed, whenever I got the feeling I found it.

One afternoon just before Halloween, I was to meet Toby at the day care center which was in a basement of church in a residential area. I had extra time, so I took a walk. The house just behind had a front room converted into a store which rented Halloween costumes. The costumes in the window were  unique, like something out of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream”, the images were adult, referencing  literary and mythical  characters.

I walked up the steps onto the porch, opened the door  into the show room, there was a counter, no one there, except a bell and so I rang it. Around the corner comes a woman, she sees me, she says “I knw what you are here for” she  disappears, she  reappears,  with a crystal ball, which she places on the counter before me. I freak, I left, and when I returned home I threw the crystal ball I had out, in the garbage,  and never did “gazing” again.

For many years I have thought about this  poem, often I read it but I never really thought about  Bobby  Richkin, why would I here in SiliconValley designing logos, ads and brochures,  but this morning  I came across this poem by Robert Richkin and a little later even a song about him and I remembered that I had the above image.

I have never seen the face of love
Or held the truth as near as you are.
I have never seen what dares to be seen
Or could bear the sight of my own Misgivings.

Though you knew me before I was awake,
or even sentient.
I could not see what was before my vain eyes
Or could hear the music of your heart
As it pleaded
For the undreamt of understanding…
In which desires are flowering trees,
Laughing, wondering, and crying
In all of their separate enchantments;

Bear the world, I wanted so badly
To be a part of,
Slowly revealed by your sacred advice,
And, for my own well being,
Taken away from me
Like the toy and the terror
That was and will be born again.

This poem was found on a site called London Ghetto Poets and its no longer available. I did find it but I cannot find it again, so leave it at that. Again for me to have heard that poem read by Bobby Richkin is a precious moment in my life.

About 40%  of the people on this planet do not have sanitary toilet facilities. When they go pee or poop it makes their environment more toxic. The PeePoo bag is a biodegradable bag that people can pee or poo in and then bury in the ground. The chemicals that make up the bag destroy any toxic parts and convert the contents to something reusable to the Earth in the ground. This is a product thatat mak the world a better place,, certainly a lot better than an iphone or an ipad or GoldmanSachs or Madonna or etc. Here is the link.

http://www.peepoople.com/

Circa 1971 living in Somerville we had occasions to purchase tires from The Morris Bellis Tire Discount Center. At one time Morris  Bellis had a tire store on the Northern Artery, a main road coming into Boston from the north with high volume traffic and I think that at that location he did a good business. But in the late 1960s Urban Renewal forced him out and he ended up in a nowhere place on a vacant corner somewhere in the hinterlands of Arlington.

Morris’s dog Chumley, who lived in the garage and had the job of securing the business when Morris was not there, was his only employee. Otherwise Morris did everything (except he did have an accountant but not on site).

He had leftist political opinions sometimes coloring his anger concerning the Urban Removal program and usually directed towards the federal government and those in private business who profited from his loss. Boston is the  home of politcal corruption and Urban Renewel was a great tool for politician to sell “blighted occupied  properties” to highest bidders (i.e. campaign donations) with government funded renovations. So Morris ended up in the middle of nowhere mostly selling used tires.

One day while we were there a man showed up with an expensive car, dressed in a nice suit to get four new tires, pre ordered by phone arrangement. While we were all waiting for Morris to finish the work we talked. It seems that the customer had come from Sudbury,  a suburb with many successful corporate families living whicvh was a very  long way to drive just to buy tires. He told us that he had been a regular customer of Bellis Tires when it was located on the Northern Artery, that he felt sympathy for Morris’s situation and so he came so far out of his way to remain a regular customer.

One would think Morris might greatly appreciate this concern of  this faithful customer. However he was a conservative Republican and though he was a regular committed customer, driving a long way just to buy tires,  Morris continually berated him for his political point of view. I don’t know if he did it just for our benefit, but then again, the customer took it with a sense of humour.

Another time we were there he got a call from his wife saying she was dropping by, she wanted some cash to go shopping. It took about 15 minutes for her to appear and all the time Morris complained about her (in a friendly familiar way of married couples). She showed up in a new Cadillac and dressed in expensive clothes but outside of picking up the money it seemed obvious she would rather be anywhere not associated with this tire business.

We all liked him, he was a good person and interesting to me because he was a person with radical left opinions, and seemingly well informed and well read, who was not an academic or a career activist. Its been forty years since these images were made. I think that its very unlikely that there is any other mention of Morris on the WWW and I hope these images and commentary will not be found to be disrespectful. He was one of the interesting people that I have met.

“If I knew the way, I would take you there.”

Ripple, Grateful Dead

In high school I was a mediocre student and I first attended college at a small midwestern university that was lenient in its acceptance standards to get a more geographicly diversified student body. I was looking for something and did not have a clue to what it was or how to look so I was just another smart ass. It did not work out, I screwed up another person’s life as well as my own, left school and returned to the east coast.

Living in Connecticut, I worked full time days and later for one year attended a local community college full time nights. On Friday nights I used to drive down to Port Chester, NY where the drinking age was 18 and visit bars. One night at a bar called Rapson’s I met Tom in the middle of some kind of animated political discussion with a bunch of jocks, we formed an instant affinity and we became friends. I still had not found what I was looking for but I felt that we were both looking for somehting similar. At that time he worked at the Scott-Meridith Agency, I am not sure doing what, and he was writing poetry.

Later he quit SM, got a motorcycle, a job at a flower nursery and we shared an apartment in Westport right across from the police station. Tom was like a magnet to “freaks” and there a constant stream of interesting young people passing in and out of our apartment. We smoked a lot of pot and pre 1967 did Oswley acid in New York City and later James,who was to become a lifetime friend of us both, came to live in our place also which is another story in itself.

Our next door neighbor Maggie, an alchoholic, lived with her straight arrow daughter, about our age, who had a boyfriend, equally straight, or perhaps even more so, who lived in NYC, had a job where he wore a suit and tie andon weekends visited in his Porsche 356. One of our favorite pastimes was getting stoned and visiting them.

In 1967 I left Westport and became a student at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion. It was a different place for me, why I went there, that’s a personal thing, but it doesn’t really matter. What happened is more important.

Supposedly I was enrolled in the undergrad B-school. On registration day I appeared at the doors of the B-school and they would not let me enter due to the length of my hair. So I went back to the main registration in the gym, met Dr Palmer, Head of the Sociology Department, we had a conversation and I became a student of Sociology. Later I followed him to Toldeo as a graduate student.

While at USD I was studious, got good grades, often Saturday afternoons and evenings were spent at the library where weeknights I also worked the 10 pm to 2 am shift. I met a lot of people on that night shift, had some great conversations and one day I met Nance who was kind of different herself and we were friends though never romantically.

I was living under a honky tonk bar popular with students in Vermillion, a very small town with a main street of about five blocks. At some point Tom appeared. I introduced him to Nance, certainly neither one of them belonged in Vermillion, they got together and after a few weeks due to some local resident complaints about how they were touching each other in public, they left to return to Connecticut, got married, got a VW van with a psychedelic paint job and later bought some land and moved to Maine.

This was in the late 1960s when there was a “return to the land” kind of feeling among many young people, looking for a simpler more meaningful life. A couple of years later I spent a few months with them and took some photographs, which make up this exhibit.

Tom was a very bright intellectual kind of east coast person, well read and educated while Nance, from a South Dakota town, not very intellectual oriented but very earthy, commited to searching for something missing her life and eager and willing to express her feelings about anything new.They both seemd to find a pleasure in behaving in a very uninhibited manner, but where it just seemed natural for Nance, it often seemed to me that for Tom it was pre thought intellectal choice.

All of us were searching for something similar, something not to be found in in the acceptance of the society. But Tom and Nance found something that they could both work towards together that was similar to that thing for which many of us were looking.

Looking back from here, the hopes many of us felt in our hearts, however poorly stated by ourselves or mistated by popular media, have not been fullfilled. So many of our generation who have had “succesful careers” in politics and business have not made the experience of life better except perhaps for themselves, and for the most part the world is not a better  place, bperhaps it never will be. To me it seeems as if its a broken record of the “King’s New Clothes” playing over and over again—the unending dialectical never finds itself whole.

But then again who is to say, there are no easy answers, and while I think that many people today who are considered “successful“ were not able find another way and ended up choosing success in the old way, I cannot really say that my effort was any better.

And Tom and Nance too, were not successful as they they were later to part. But It think these images, in a simple easy to feel way, reflect some of the things that they were going through as they were searching for that something that I too was searching for, and perhaps others— things that we hoped would generate a better experience of life.

NOTE: To see this exhibition click on any image.