the decisive moment

I just read some of Henri Cartier-Bresson's biography and a small section of an article in Harper's by Wendy S. Walters about slavery (I'm about six months behind on Harper's - I read them when I have short snatches of time).  While I was reading, I was listening to Ornette Coleman's first album with his electric group Prime Time and Charlie Parker's Best on Verve. Before that, I ate what one of my daughter's refers to as "a monk's lunch" - peanut butter on a few slices of fig anise bread and two glasses of water. I ate this after I took a walk outside to check the apples and grapes for ripeness (both were ready to eat - I ate some of both). I had already cleaned the sink & toilet in one of the bathrooms after I had fixed a stubborn(m0nths) leaking faucet in that bathroom. (At this point, you can probably figure that I'm moving backward -actually I'm sitting in one place, but I'm moving the time sequence in this blog deeper into the recent past, but don't worry I will not include a graphic description of my conception. I'm pointing this out to relieve myself of trying to figure out words/phrases/etc. to make this time orientation obvious.) I made a list of stuff to take on our trip next week: dog bowls, olive oil, the wire that connects the digital camera to the computer, earl grayer tea, garlic, yoga mats - all the stuff the out of touch elite take on a trip. I read the paper - the big stories (Iraq, financial collapse, Palin accepting #25,000 in gifts in her first two gubernatorial years), the local (the university's quarterback was in a car with two other players that crashed while they were racing on a street by Gateway shopping mall - the quarterback bruised his elbow but will be able to play, one of the others got 75 stitches and won't make the trip to Pullman with the team. He was driving and was arrested. I'm not sure if that was before or after he went to the hospital), the business (layoffs at a local tech firm, a big bank taken over by the Feds/part of it sold to another bank), the comics (the nerdy husband in Sally Forth may be getting involved with a woman at work/Rex Morgan breaking up a drunken quarrel between two elderly yacht clubbers), the sports (the Beavers beat the Trojans, Lance Armstrong is going to ride for a team from Kazakhistan(sp) and hire a drug tester who can test him at any time - maybe even while he's trying to seduce a female celebrity; that wasn't in the article). I walked two miles listening to a playlist I titled "music for hipsters" including Pharoah Sanders The Creator Has a Master Plan & John Coltrane's Every Time I Say Goodbye. I walked our dog to the end of the drive way & back (n0, that should be "back & to the end of the driveway"), stopping every three or four steps so she could perform intense olfactory inspections of spots where she might urinate - two were deemed worthy. I did 65 half push-ups, the ones you do with your knees on the ground (I'm fuckin 63), a 17 breath plank, a yoga bridge,fifty crunches, a yoga bridge, 20 bicycles, some sort of lower abdominal leg exercises - I don't know the technical name for them - & some back stretches. I did twenty minutes of Tai Chi. I peed, put on the kitchen light, put on my sweat pants, rolled out of bed, turned off the alarm, stretched my left arm out, squinted,  & heard the alarm. Cartier-Bresson believed the truth was in the detail, the decisive moment. He once went on a ten day assignment and took 10,000 negatives (pre digital - it's no wonder he didn't develop or print his own work). One hundred years before my greatgrandfather  immigrated through a port in the Northeast from Italy to avoid military service (that's the family rumor - a draft dodger), Newport, Rhode Island was an important port in the slave trade. Many of the oldest houses were built by slaves (see Wendy S. Waters in Harper's March 2008).  

postscript: I can't figure out how to delete the photo of the two chefs from this post, so ignore them or turn your head sideways to the right to see. Let me know how to delete it.

decision

Due to the overwhelming response, both written and monetary, the author of this blog will continue to post his musings on the minutiae of his experience. A more developed statement will appear after he resolves the looming threat of financial meltdown at his credit union. He will not appear in any televised debates nor on the Miley Cyrus show. He will also continue to collect donations at public phone & photo booths. He asks that you all pray for his daughters who have been captured by the illiterati. May the big dog find a good home, and may the cats rest in peace.

day two act now

There are rumors that this blogger is asking for financial incentives from readers to continue his brilliant ruminations. The exact price tag has not been released,  but it is said to be in the neighborhood of $700,000,000,000. There is also some talk about a lucrative book and movie deal. In return, he will continue his incisive and thought provoking commentary in prose and poetry on the state of the 63 year old male psyche. Of course, there will be no oversight required. The fact that he regularly experiences long dry spells should not be a reason to doubt his will to fulfill any agreement, the terms of which will be kept secret in Al Gore's locked box and can not be opened till the world becomes completely energy independent. He also promises to inundate your blog with sophomoric musings like this if his readership does not increase significantly. Incidentally, he has been a POW (prisoner of writing) for over 40 years, so he is qualified to be the poet laureate of the world or President . Leave your contributions in plain brown bags(no plastic) at your nearest public phone booth. If there isn't an accessible public phone booth, a photo booth will do. Questions can be directed to The Committee for Concerned Writer Concerned About HIS Lack of Readers. 

a long time gone

almost 4 months since my last missive. Why? A sense of being overwhelmed, of feeling the creative pulse but for some unarticulated reason relentlessly drawing back. Working the garden, time in the darkroom, reading, wavering over the internet, posting brief replies on others' blogs, watching TV politics, playing my bamboo flute, but little writing. I looked at my journal today - the beginnings of a few new poems, the last one about a month ago. even now, thinking about the laundry on the table that needs to be folded, the wood that needs to be stacked. When I took up writing seriously in my twenties, I'd write hours at night after work, after kids were in bed, after all the lights blinked off. I was chasing the same feeling that's lurking, no, lingering on the edge of my consciousness now here at noon as summer moves in & out of autumn clouds. Then, I'd drink, smoke, play music, dance myself into the writing trance. I'd walk a few miles back & forth to work through the old cemetery, chanting new poems, working on line breaks, rhythms, the final phrase that turned the words to music. The writing life is weird, sometimes the daemon takes possession, sometimes an almost manic avoidance. My mentor taught writing till he was in his sixties.  Up to that point, he had published one book. Since he "retired" 15 or so years ago, he's published about ten more. Every day he writes. Maybe today is day one, maybe not.