Cue to your face so forsaken
Crushed by the way that you cry
Cue to your face so forsaken what a surprise

You try to break the mould before you get too old
You try to break the mould before you die

I was not opposed to mankind but only to man-centeredness, anthropocentricity, the opinion that the world exists solely for the sake of man; not to science, which means simply knowledge, but to science misapplied, to the worship of technique and technology, and to that perversion of science properly called scientism; and not to civilization but to culture.

The finest quality of this stone, these plants and animals, this desert landscape is the indifference manifest to our presence, our absence, our coming, our staying or our going. Whether we live or die is a matter of absolutely no concern whatsoever to the desert.

this all coming round in my story and connecting unbelievably to an afternoon arriving once at the old la plata city lake after previous backroad instances and adventures– mystery of another late august sun– the old wooden docks– the popsicle stand– wooden swings– busted merry-go-round– i look up years later and so far removed and still the scene exact and as tho just happened and i see somehow the tiny little maybe one and a half or two year old girls standing in water with popsicle in hand– making little reflections– the little boy with swimtrunk pockets flipped inside out running dear scattered barefoot on the gravel– playing by himself in childhood summer– trains passing– lilies blooming– perfect hillside clouds moving on and moving over and in the simple relax of living then feeling exactly a moment like poet ee cummings must have leaning once as he did in cotton shirtsleeves from new york city bricksill windows surveying gently and all to himself sweet scenes and balloons and games of other ten o clock in the morning children laughing crazy upward laughters and joking and shouting among jumpropes and hopscotches and kickball scenes below– he contemplates saylessness of little girl in little red dress on morning sidewalk– smiles to himself and turns round and remarks in attic notebook random poetries of his own which remind me in some way all this time later of old snapshots taken in old gone living rooms on some morning of some long ago sweet forgotten now sunday– myself four or five years old posed beside ancient encyclopedia case with my brothers also little and sister not even yet born so just the three of us then standing next to the window in little easter church clothes with baskets and bunnies and candies and looking up to camera (sigh) with that impossible sweetness and innocence of childhood which cant be duplicated here in words but remains tied up in mysteries so unfathomable it would take a million years to explain without ever really getting anywhere– impossible complexities– even the expression on my older brothers face never seen before by me as i get lost again in the mystery of the sweetness of the picture and remembrance and even say so looking at it what if even god is not after all a great old man in stone chair with stone tablets in palace of stone angels blessing and condemning scorns and heartbreaks of the world but really a little child– playing in orchards– saying to you and i and everyone also come play– falling petals– great soft immaculate heavensigh clouds passing over and god s there in bare feet and littleboy trousers eating apples and swinging his little bare heels thru eternity sitting on fences– we see him not– handsapockets walking past wrinkling instead sad human brows over bills and rents and insurances– timeclocks– newspapers– appointments– television shows– come play in little sad childs voice he says and we cant (having forgotten how) join him but only pass on to go home to sorrowing suppers on oldwood stoves and quilts on beds lonely- what for- he waits not understanding– looking after- i say bless the child– bless the little trying angels of the world– holy precious ever all

this conclusion and viewpoint making me wonder was it all only ever sid bechets sweet dreams of flowers– holy– fragrant– driftin down– no direction– no way to guess– no matter what happens tho or what anything seems still i hafta promise myself in my fashion i wont fear but only be afraid in ways that would matter– afraid in the end however i'm just a crazy poet idiot with ideas and responsibilities of my own that make me tear myself up and leave people and break promises as i try to figure out what i really wanta say in all these words words words now and how to write undisciplined and raggedy and pure the real inside conflict of me and craziness and abstraction coming in from under my own loss and recollection– difficult not to drown in the neverendingness and amazingness of it while lost in private ethereality– pain– tied into a million universes and mixing myself up and connecting to nothing except memories connecting to nothing except themselves- what a scene– who knows what its all gonna add up to finally least of all me laying armscrossed behind head there under the schoolyard moon– dreaming all this out and coming to no conclusion and ending as anything in fall leaves and desolation– quiet– looking up at the moon then real crazy and sad and having no idea what it means i am in this endless universe with this whole collection of strange fine thoughts in my head goin round but sinking and sickening and no way to recover anymore or remember what it was i started out to accomplish– on the other hand realizing if its all so forgetful and easy to figure out then why would i fuckin exist

my mind so hapless and undirectional and at such a total loss to explain anything or how i feel so instead descending– returning– bottoming out as on one particular afternoon in childhood watching my grandpa closing in on the death of the dream of himself and petals fading– falling– he groans with the old nausea and mournfulness and sinking feeling already years and deaths and moons beyond me anyway as i'm looking on littlechild and lost and unbelieving but even then realizing and witnessing the unmistakability and confusion and disintegration of him as everyone as myself growing old in a world where everything is made so dieable and decayable and impossible to figure out why but impossible to stop the heartbreak of it either and in fact insane incredible heartbreak of thinking things over and realizing how everything goes away in time– realizing again actually– the revelation in itself not new but only the way it comes to me and what seems to trigger it and the sadness i feel underneath which is more elemental than the sadness even of falling in love rather tied up with the whole sadness of the universe and the stars and the fear i feel that i wont be able to die just once and have it over but instead will hafta go thru all that a million times and have already and will again- world without end– the thought even now terrifying as i try to express it and i see my face in the glass in the window and i cant recognize myself at all– i listen to same old pianoguitar outside and i think of the leaves in the schoolyard and the moon and my grandpa and (how?) some day i as he will no longer exist and this moment wont exist and whatever all these things meant and whatever happened wont be found again in the memory or construct of the universe but will scatter instead on water in an infinite somewhere and return in descension to unmemorize the sky

in the schoolyard by this point there are stars opening over me which only deepen the mystery- i'm distracted as always by something which i cant figure out but meanwhile anyway amusing and entertaining and distracting myself in the void with dreams- poems- personal kicks and freedoms which are headed nowhere actually and wasting time and nothin but a buncha postcards to the one i miss forever in a world where nobody is allowed to choose who they love or how or why but only what to do about it so now justlikethat sweet jesus tell me does it hafta hurt to die– o my heart– i wanta let go– there are roses in the room on the sill and petals of roses– shadows in doorways– blow out the candle– i cant solve the sorrow or the separation or the pain that impels so here i go again tangling myself into a million other griefs and instances since i hafta make plans and take care and keep busy with kicks and poetry so as not to get cut by the sadness and amazingness of the love i feel- i swear its too much– how can anyone stand it- i hang out in schoolyards to try and sort thru it but never get anywhere or figure anything out or even begin to understand what it is i want from this cutting world- rambling around in it anyhow during the great career of my life in midst of such unknowability and such beauty and also pain and experiencing all that in my fashion but to a great extent too all just bumkicks and denials as i'm just tryin to get by and keep myself here and get my story told so at least for me the impossibility of going out and having a regular day- theres always something happening– hard to explain or avoid the unexpectedness and craziness of situations as on one afternoon getting thrown out of an old barn out on backroads past south jamison for taking pictures of the missouri that i knew would explain everything to me later when i'd be sitting around in rooms of other sundays and removed and thinkin back on how all this was beautiful and all long over and how i might miss it somewhere but perhaps just as well– those fields– sky– curve of road disappearing- i hung out for awhile looking round at the view and getting the feel of all that and indications and slats of light going down between the hayloft boards- bent to focus– heard someone footstepping and coughing then all of a sudden below and knew something was about to happen and knew the moment for whatever it meant to me was over

sure enough came down the ladder and saw a whole collection of farmers and old ladies standing in the field muttering to themselves and yelling- what the hell are ya doin in that barn- yer libel to git shot– ya got no business bein in thare thats private property ya know and a few of them have shotguns over their shoulders to prove whatever they have to say- i dont care– i come out with camera in hand and hafta explain to them i'm just taking pictures and they dont get it at all but get meaner and enormously suspicious by this point and mad as hell- d'ya know what private property means that means no trespassin and we knowed someone was prowlin round– saw that bicycle– coulda called the law- the whole episode turns into a lecture somehow from grandma then who's shaking skinny hopeless finger at me telling me dont you ever trespass agin ya hear and git yerself on home and git back quick too fore dark and keep yerself on the public road and off land belonging to other people– i'm not listening but planning secret speeches of my own as mad as any of them and understanding how they can believe they own the earth and have rights to kick anyone off if they feel like it– the earth is the earth and thats all as i see it– belongs to itself alone– i look at them standing there in old saggy overalls with guns and property titles and even old pathetic dog in the grass who's more interested anyway in little moths and weeds– its enough to make me sick– wanting to call the law on them for interrupting my photography and moment in the hayloft and perfect state of wonder watching sun goin down between those old boards and piece of cobweb– wanting to yell back at them ay-you what are your images anyway but dust and your barns too– sad– you think since you got a gun you can do what you want but you only need one in the first place cause you're afraid and who cares and whats the point anyhow of owning the goddamn earth– it doesnt matter– i dont get your crazy old shotgun system– i never will– i only photograph things that are beautiful because they are beautiful because i am going to die and the earth wont care and i'll lie in it one day and so will you and will you own it (do you ever bother to wonder?) then

all this craziness in my head and crazy speeches going round and arguments which i didnt ever say because i knew they wouldnt get it about the images of dust or the cobweb or the perfect state of wonder and of course they were too busy anyway muttering about trespassing and property rights and shaking their heads- completely uninterested in my reasons or philosophy– saying git on down the road now and git outta here and dont be seen round here again or we'll call the law fer sure ya hear– whatever– took my time leaving and stood around in the road getting my things together and giving them the finger and photographing them all standing there in the yard with their dog and old car and old barn that no one not even a photographer of barns is allowed to take pictures of– by this point theres this star over the silo so perfect i just choke in myself to see it– cant believe the holiness of the scene and feel so profound and glad i pulled off the shot despite everything of that light goin down all crazy into the fields from atop a ladder in a hayloft– they dont care– they dont even notice the start or slant of barn roof or edge of gold into dark where the sun has just ended and why make such an issue of owning the earth i wonder if you miss everything that happens on it and just go back into house to pull dark drapes and sit down again to dinner- i walk away with the start and walk bicycle down long country road tryin to make some sense but still furious over the whole incident especially old white man notion of owning property- throwing out artists for photographing loveliness of sun on afternoon hayfloor and not disturbing or mistaking anything but amazed only at the scene and abstractions and making pictures for the sake of the light alone– i'm still all mixed up– i cant see what the problem is

took a long walk around town that night trying to get it all out of me tho and calm down before something else happened and bang i wound up of all places on sidewalk outside old beards gallery looking at pictures– one black and white print in particular of child in beads and leathers leaning on tree stump in evening new mexico– twisted branch in the foreground– moon rising behind– perfect lilt face and sweetness and darkness of his eyes and i'm caught in the life of him and believability and that certain forsaken look that comes thru even in children and shows the mercy and the hopelessness that proves wisdom and makes it plain there is something to untouchable about the sadness and sorrow grace of indians– their profiles– postures– mythologies– contemplations– way they raise their heads looking straight into sky without blink or excuse or attitude and finding in their own race consciousness the pride that is born of absolute humility why cant i belong to a race like that– i see other pictures hung in window also of other indians and situations and behind all those eyes and faces that beautiful holiness that makes me cry in myself to look at them and makes me ashamed to be white and ashamed to live in an america bought with the blood and tears of indians– i think about all that and i dont understand the meaning of freedom– white man nonsense laws and fences and rules and whatevers of private property– if thats the case we're all trespassing on the indian earth– i dont get the whole thing or the idea that land can belong to anyone or be protected with a gun or a paper from some government- i dont know what to think– i see the look in the eye of the indian and i dont understand the meaning of oppression

Whenever any technology is used to mediate our experience of the world, we gain power but we also lose something in the process. The increased productivity of assembly lines in factories, for example, requires many employees to repeat the identical task over and over until they lose any feeling of connection to the creative process – and with it their sense of purpose.

obvious at this time now there is so much to tell its hardly possible to find anyplace to begin– in fact everything like a dream– rain– on corner of pierce and davis there are soft frontporch talkings and guitar playings– cardgames– cigarsmokes– dusk and lamps lit exactly as always and i’m standing at the window amazed at the lostness and peaceful wonder of the scene– curtain in hand– candle on sill– somewhere over rooftops a tiny heartbreak piano (whose?) lingering on top keys making me feel inside all strange and queer and sad and jokey and like i miss something but i dont know what and like i wanta talk to someone but i dont know who and like the moment might last forever but i know it cant and i’m just an innocent lostheart and take too long explaining

life complicates and multiplies into itself tho

now words take too long and complicate and multiply just trying to get things said and there is too much to ever remember– who knows where to begin– in the perpetual nowhereness and at the same time everywhereness of life (o love did not hold back the reins) but instead tangled everything into everything else until i dont even know anymore what happened first or next or after but all seeming to have taken place at once in all directions of forever so i’ll hafta follow in new aimlessness and poverty trying to take care and keep myself alive in order to tell a story which is the story of a leaving and begins where this begins in those first after college unemployments on the morning i came into possession of a completely tragic desk

having lost all previous borrowed furniture to circumstance and geography i’d been living in empty woodfloor rooms awhile when a friend as poor as myself but also lucky arrived with things he’d saved or stored or collected from attics or picked up from yardsales or found in his tremendous basement mess among them the already mentioned desk which first time i laid eyes on it was exactly what i needed for composition– a tragic old schoolday desk in fact– stick rickety legs and crazy compartments and topslant scratched front missing all kinds of knobs and drawers– truly a weird piece of furniture– what to make of it showing up on front steps along with an equally strange unmatched desk chair and a tragic horrible checkercloth armchair which was exactly the sort of armchair perfect for reading in some rainy saturday night lamplight the great gatsby or some such book and listening to street traffics and becoming sad in a way only f scott fitzgerald can make you or anyone sad– with white rose

anyhow those three knockabout furnishings set up in the front room and the scene in a minute sweet in an odd sort of way– those falling apart chairs with bookshelf on floor beside which was of course typical milk crate old board bookshelf of impoverished rented room with in fact– yes– dimestore copy of the great gatsby crammed between schoolfolders and saved letters– postcards– remembrances– there the great wine bottle filled with fresh flowers– there the old radiator– the ceiling fan– the woodfloor– all exactly right together and exactly right among them the desk at the window with stacks of writing notebooks and pencils and perfect midnight candlestick so i knew then i could really begin all i wanted and needed to say and set to work immediately untying old griefs and tensions which can be hidden awhile but resurface with that special unknowable pain that impels me and makes me crazy despite much advice from sources on all sides saying stop all this tearing around directionless– settle down and dont think so much about things– it’ll be alright– we’ll all get through

of course but all a matter of how– theres the mystery– what to do about it however in all this world of intricacy i swear no one ever knows how to tell you how much it might hurt you just to be here with so much happening all around and suffering and no way of knowing what any of it is supposed to mean so there i sat three a m at the desk in the enormous despair of bending head over typewriter without money or plans or prospects or even any real hope of ever being published– just an artist– already hearing the arguments which raged later between myself and others concerning my chosen (true or false?) profession

voices crossing and recrossing in my head whoever heard of just being a writer– just sitting around all day writing things– unnecessary really but if you hafta do that then why cant you write something at least semicommercial and get it sold and pay your goddamn rent for once that would be different but no you write six hundred pages about the moon over the garage and all such long telling and insignificance and nothing happens so what of the moon or the garage or the dusty summer corn or the patched jeans or the washroom sink or the blue october or whatever it was you thought so important and went thru all that college to learn (life is those things) (but ah) ya cant pay your rent with blue october so stop tryin to make such a go of it and stop all this lazing around and get a decent job and buy some decent furniture and calm down and live same as everybody else (who doesn’t need blue october to get along in the world but can instead pay rent as tho october werent happening here or anywhere how?)

i look at them all with dissipations of a million roses in my head knowing it doesnt matter– i wanta be an artist or nothing– i swear i dont even know why tho when i think of tennessee williams in frayed clothes under the hitchhikers moon or eugene o neill drunk on his greenwich village parkbench or how i picked up a copy of the complete short stories of ernest hemingway once at an old used bookshop for a dime actually the complete sum and subtraction of his grief shoved in a wire wrack forgotten because nobody wants to hear about it which is what happens to literature in my country where everbody worries about rents and furnitures and its hard enough even to get anybody to notice a blue october let alone convince them a certain sky or a certain leaf or a certain moon over a certain garage is more important than money for sure and all tied up with and belonging to that pain as i said that impels me so lately sifting again through old notes and sketchbooks wondering at the private mystery in eternity doomed to woodfloor rooms and tragic desks and sadclack typewriters truly not having any choice at all when it comes down to it except to be a writer (if i have to be hurt i have to write) so standing at the window likewise amazed at the old pierce and davis scene and that guitar and somewhere piano and all this going on in my head

how complicated and goofy and creepy and erratic and sad everything seemed that night i remember the rain and the candle and those curtains moving in the wind and feeling like somehow i’d seen them move in that same wind in that same way before but all of it tricks really and part of the ethereality of living and what was that old pastor talking about anyway the morning i wound up nextdoor in the middle of a giant discussion concerning religion all of us sitting on the woodfloor arguing in a sad brown living room over nothing while he reclined in flowered armchair with bible and glass of iced tea in hand saying quiet and bored and tired and nonchalant of course the world is real– pain is real– love is real– you are real– i am real– scoffing in fact at the very idea (o dreamer) it could all be maya– illusion

everyone paying fixed nodding attention then and praying heads solemn bowed at last in agreement but myself apart thinking of previous afternoon laying on the junk backyard couch beside the garage going deep end over my own imaginary conceptions– watching dandelion seeds in june drift winds and those faint white clouds and rain puddles– dogsabarking– sound of radios and churchbells and little children joysad– windows open– whitelace breezes– old schoolbooks laying forgotten on the sill across the alley and that old tree tangling sun and those tinslant trash cans dear and peaceful leaning one against the other as great dreamycloud june passed in fact over fences and rooftops and washlines of the world drowsy lonesome and impossible to describe how it felt in lost scenes and afternoons to be there armscrossed behind head wondering sad to myself ay– you world what is all this great goneness of living then that makes me break my heart to realize the key to love is the key to grief and grief to love again and both (what to do?) are illusions only and petals of the ethereal flower unfolding

all this having been said before in a thousand words and directions but brand new to me in those days figuring out my soul and beginning to believe i had many souls and levels of souls rather than just one only– not knowing what to make of it however looking at the sky with sadlook and wanting to ask everything and having no words for the holy emptiness of the sorrow of not understanding the change always no change of it all– that wind in the curtain tied simple with a lace sash– those books on that sill– the paint peeling in garage eaves and gutter rusts and sun warmths and all the while those giant soft lamby clouds moving through the trees but at once seeming never to move and how to guess what is real on an earth where you cant even tell for sure if its yourself or the sky passing over– all strange and uncertain so there i sat once amazed in the reckless old abandon of things– the blood at my wrist– the sun in my eyes– truly not having any answers whatsoever of my own but anyway disbelieving wholeheart the pastor in the armchair thinkin to myself of course its all a dream– even the color of the sky is a dream– theres nothin there

still despite my personal misgivings and reveries the old man nextdoor coming over to talk to me– standing in backyard of birdfeeders and lawnchairs and roses and whitepaint fence saying i gotta go pick up mah wife at the beauty shop she’s been there two hours– and what’re ya doin all day on that couch– and if you see any prowlers round here over the weekend tell em to beat it out we’ll be goin up to ioway to see the granddaughter almost at the minnesoty border in fact til sunday take it easy and take care and do keep an eye on the house if you wouldnt mind alright see ya later

i nod and drowse and linger in thoughts of my own remembering first time ever having met him– crazy april circumstance– blue jeans on the clotheslines and magnolia over the alley fence and a heartbreaking new blossom gladness gathering in the world again- wind blowing in from somewhere another sorrow hope spring– screen doors banging– footsteps passing– upstairs laughter voices falling in among racket of tea cups and sugar spoons in breakfast rooms below and once more the wonder and first exceptional joy of walking in shirt sleeves down lovely old brick streets and leaning in doorways and breathing gentle softmix air of pipesmokes and lilacs and rainpuddles– that sort of day exactly– a wistful glory everywhere– everything happening and unfolding around me and children with front porch ice creams and jump ropes and lemonades making me wanta chalk sidewalks again which i did since all that bare pavement and morning and no one else in the least concerned but his wife noticing me bending over pictures outside their house of course suspicious and riddled and coming out to ask me what on earth was going on

that doesnt look very good she said sizing me up and sidewalk too with that eternal disapproval of old people who dont get anything or care but only sit all day on a porch watching traffics and reading magazines and missing the point– of april– these my first impressions– she said looking to sky maybe the rain’ll wash all that away– i hope it does– naturally i answered lively joyable of course it will thats why i do it after which she really didnt know what was going on and asked me where i lived– horrified i think when i said nextdoor– not realizing– then oh youre the one who rides the bicycle– of course– well i dont know if you’re allowed to chalk like that and she called her husband who came out on porch then too and asked same questions and looked at the walks and said he guessed it was alright– we talked awhile and they went inside– the whole air petalsoft wishful spring on the truly bizarre gentle morning– pictures anyways finished and later again and myself hanging off the backyard couch with laughters that day remembering the nonsense of the whole affair

sound of the old red pickup in the alley once more then and they’re home– he opens the fence gate– lets her pass thru first and i watch the two of them walking slowly sad cane walk past the laundries hung as ever on backyard clotheslines– pausing then– considering the great old childhood quilt and overalls and little tragic dustrags pinned limp there in dead sweetness of midafternoon– lonesome white sheets– a pair of socks– seeing me again he points and asks well does she look alright– of course– she smiles abashed and takes in the socks and i’m left thinking they’ll go in together now and start a pot of water on the stove and maybe coffee and have a regular supper tonight as always with television after and needlework and newspaper reading in the old front room rockers and they’ll go to iowa in the morning and see the granddaughter and come back next sunday and continue (how?) without ever having to wonder (they’re not dreamers) is it all only maya– illusion

for myself however constantly wondering and saddening and laying on old yard couches in the puzzle of time and eternity watching butterflies and alley traffics and cypress winds and meanwhile something about those great gone clouds moving over me making me drag everything thru memory– days of space and summer– the world so completely forsaken beautiful and i in it not understanding a thing about it and having to use all these words now to explain for reasons none of which are known to me i dont understand a thing about it– a strange situation for sure– somewhat lovely at times but then again not especially as in those days in my funks laying hopeless on the woodfloor staring whole afternoons at the ceiling fan– thinking its all going by– its all leaving– its all for leavings actually it must be else why am i breaking my heart for every detail of my presence soon-to-be absence entirely in a void– in a dream– with june roses

feeling exactly how i felt the night i went crazy in the ocean once end of an august standing there in the tides and the moon making all those crazy old pictures in the water and that little star above– no one else around– rather sitting in tall hotel rooms windows closed hunched over little blinky televisions on vacations at the ocean not caring at all about the ocean or anything in fact only not wanting to miss their programs and this being a great problem in america (no one ever wants to miss their programs) what to do as a blue october poet with no money or television or hotel room so instead in all those tides and stars below the hopeless moon looking round in private tenderness amazed– waist deep in water– breaking the ocean on my heart– feeling the great goneness and holiness and fragility of everything and having to express it in words words words now never really getting anywhere or to the soul of how it felt to be there walking in little white t-shirt and towel past the forgotten erasures of schoolday loves and crushes– strewn seashells– driftwoods– love stars all the time over me and so soft and all those moony tides coming in and leaving and coming in six hours i just went walking up and down in them and watching the shore lights receding and the lights of ships impossibly far away as if not really even there but myself dreaming only and listening in wonder and with amazing sadness to that little quick heart in my wrist– wow– laying down then in the sea night and the moon sinking and the constant back and forth softwash of waves all around and never feeling so small as that or like such a child so little barefooted playing among mysteries of impossible wonder– the tiny scattered shells– the salt darkness drowning– thinking last before sleeping what is this ocean after all and eternity of ocean and why the stars over it and pain of my finite heart between– impossible to guess– tides rose and fell regardless and never answered and o who is forever anyway

this whole night and situation tied up in a long unbelievable perfect moment until finally before sunrise getting kicked off a bench for sleeping in the open under the open stars listening to that all night sea on its shores and so beautiful too those dark shushing sands and tides and that crazyamazing moon going down somewhere gold on the other side of the world– no matter- this cop waking me up anyway with flashlight at four in the morning telling me trying to be nice about it you’re not allowed to sleep on beach property see those signs i’ll hafta ask you to leave and i’m sorry but theres rules and i hafta do my job– explaining all this kindheart tho sort of as an excuse and as if to apologize for whatever reason– i just look at him sleepy and nodding and go sandy barefoot with little sad towel and rucksack farther away from the lights and cops and complications of america where there are always rules and you always hafta leave but what if like me a bum river poet and nowhere to stay and no plans so ending anyway twice on hopeless old forbidden benches facing the sea

next morning then for kicks up in the lifeguard chair watching the red sun in fact the first sun coming up over america or anywhere or so it seemed bleeding in those tides and watching the rich hotel jags strolling in complimentary bathrobes after complimentary coffees and breakfasts and a million assorted room services glancing briefly at the scene and checking their watches and thinking entirely of something else– they’ve got paperworks– appointments– too busy for first light over the water for sure and almost as bad as the tourists in their crazy plaid shorts in the sand fumbling with cameras trying to video tape the ocean which counts to them as being there before piling into backseats again a thousand miles home to sit around in brown living rooms showing poor vacationer movies to friends who also dont care but ask anyway polite so how was your trip– vaguely– oh nice– the ocean was nice– and say did you catch the ending of that show last thursday night the one with antonio silvara or whoever playing the part of that private investigator

whenever i think of the ocean now and america and all those highways in every direction crammed august with businessmen and tourists and backseats filled with drycleanings– briefcases– children twisting everywhichaway pinching and teasing and too hot while thru windows incredible scenes and stories taking place on practically every streetcorner and passing and no one paying any attention whatsoever or noticing the old man standing under the staircase of the los angeles roominghouse pulling on a cigarette with thoughts his own– too busy instead reading crazy sideways road maps– watching traffics– no time to wonder at the woman sitting in a chair in middle of a filed arizona and wildflowers and sun going down impossible soft around her– whats she doin– head bowed– they dont even wanta know– they dont see her in fact or the ramble shack house behind or little mexican boy in little torn trousers and cotton shirt crying (what for?) at the wood fence– bent only on getting there and how many miles an hour and miles a gallon and miles to go and all preplanned and prearranged and no reason to stand an extra minute in the indianapolis coffee shop watching the girl behind the counter who has the deepest eyes in the world for sure which say in a million signs and directions to anyone as she wipes hands on apron i am not who you think and this is not what i wanted– no matter– sad sweep of the clock and two hours remaining and she’s probably thinking why cant i just go home and take off these shoes and lay down and forget all this– she’s tired– blurred– lousy old fan in the background toiling groansick in the indy heat and she glances and picks up pad and pencil and calculates with the precision and downlooking expression i know since i’ve been same and watched also those timeclocks in big timeclock america ticking and felt inside dying too as then looking at her looking sideways at the counter and fingers twisting dish towel and hidden sad almost sigh

no time for her tho after bill paid and change pocketed and out the door for more map readings and road signs– gotta move on– gotta get there– this the way people travel in america constantly worrying to themselves what comes next and next and next and after and how to get there and how long will it take and how much will it cost to find that final crucial constructed moment which isnt really final at all but leads away and elsewhere and in all sorts of directions of its own if allowed but not realizing they press on until even the destination so kept in mind becomes just one more moment to get through and get over before going home and sitting around in living rooms talking about old television shows– meanwhile as i said all this time stories passing– for free and everywhere– the shoe shine– the train station– the park bench– the jukebox diner– the new mexico cowboys leaning crazy sad beautiful on that gas pump at sunset thumbs hooked in jeans pockets– the little girl in backseat long ago butte montana squinting eyes to the mountains without excuse– the old black man on new orleans streetcar with hand tipped nameless over the windowledge– the priest with tall white cross hurrying dusk along banks of the tallahatchie– how many poems could explain any of them or even begin to answer the mystery of the mexican with sad slickback hair in the vegas bar deciding with a quarter which song to play– the bar neons– the pool table– the old man against the back wall rolling a cigarette– all going on simultaneous and in all directions toward either ocean– what are the words of the poems such describing– the tiny gold earring– the folded shirt collar– the pair of shoes– the staircase railing– those three drag queens on times square streetcorner saying in their assembled attitudes and poses this is who we are in real life and if you dont like it we dont know anything about it cause we’re just livin our own lives our way– forget poems– their eyes are more than all poems– dark set in such tired limp drastic faces– petals in the new york night

meanwhile a funeral– san francisco– the trombone player in his sunday only suit with cheeks hollow and sad sucked in and handkerchief in front pocket carefully arranged– a boxful of cemetery flowers– pines in rainy fogs– inscriptions– wreckages of flags and other roses and somewhere over rooftops then down those incredible hip tragic frisco streets the heartbreakingest ride cymbal in jazz– tiny soft piano beat– a horn– making me think sudden of the night just arrived in new orleans standing lost on that sidewalk looking up at a statue of jesus unexpected there hands outstretched and head turned as if looking with a separate look someway on his own crucifixion– how– making that shadow of himself on wall behind silent and mystic and myself overwhelmed as once on corner of florence and harrison looking secretly in some night offguarded window caught completely by a particular light in a particular hallway where hangs a portrait of someones forgotten sweet christ– holy downtoward head– hands folded– downward praying eyes unanswering a million thoughts and indecisions among angels and lambs and heartbreaks and roses who knows in such infinite grief and intricacy what to believe– sacred violence of thorns and blood once long ago jerusalem and now holy bells ring in holy lands forgiving petals and prayers of sunday mornings– that spear and cross and pieces of silver– a chalice– a stone– a tear– a kiss– unbearable beauty making humble such pain til the idea of christ becomes more important than christ himself and at last so multiplied even a poor saint goof unbelieving artist as myself can stand on sidewalks once in new orleans sinking under the weight of the look of a statue or on rainy corners overtaken by the sadness of a painting and the eyes and the sad halo hung in backgrounds of deserts and light- secret wistful mona lisa smile– soft falling hair like a childs and like a childs also the almost prayers of lips and hands and not unlike that once jazzman in frisco softnight stepping up to examine his fate and attempt as well if he can to blow equal to it– little sweet soprano sax– unimaginable tiny silver cymbal beat inside– he stands and bleeds and mourns and breaks his own heart wide open like a rembrandt on streetcorner horn explaining the look of a girl leaning topstory from a window somewhere among impossible jasmines and perfumes of city night– armslaid holy on sill– head inclined– hand uptipped– wow the colour of the light of her face is the solo and poem and brushstroke of his art and whoever says jazz is not prayer has never heard jazz or felt the presence of a prophet musician seeing with hopeless gifted sight the roses of the unborn– the impossible love– the upturned face– the endless versions of the lonely heart– expressing all that with such longing and such intracacy of concern and even the little wildstreet combos away down the embarcadero picking up and following each other thru all sorts of complications and endearments and i’m listening and thinking to myself what must they have suffered to be able to stand now uninhibited playing from their own minds and tortures a riff of grief sweetness in the same way old sid bechet with his streetcorner doorway leaning curbside sitting midnight cabaret education must have been wiser than all the scholars to be able to blow as he did such ideas out of his horn and turn them into flowers which came drifting once upon a time down fragrant lovely all along sidewalks of south rampart street new orleans– educations aside– the world is flowers

tourists as i said however having no use for flowers or statues or prophet musicians but only pressing on and away and jazz to them no matter– they’re passing funerals and roses and trombone players with remarkable indifference and on thru san francisco and new york and everywhere in the american neon hiphop night in front seats of cars sixty miles an hour with folded cups and crumple maps and eyes blurred downbent to the road unseeing til finally from whichever direction arriving at the ocean to carry suitcases into big hotels and up elevators and drycleanings and briefcases and twenty minutes later all those crazy televisions lit in windows facing the sea– the moon rising for nobody– i swear i dont know whats going on– i walk already mentioned in tears on the shore alone realizing i cant explain myself to anyone or the craziness or goneness of how i feel– i never will– words cant do it– so lost instead inward a great mixup of self doubts and indirections i’m just a petallish thing in a sea night among shells and tides and distractions with no way to express the sadness of all that and in fact incredible inside sadness of being a writer and breaking myself down over a flower or a castle on a beach somewhere not even belonging to me as nothing (only death is and how beautifully given) belongs to me– thoughts and pain of thoughts no matter– a single breath– the world is gone– i look up at the same old stars unsaying and cant figure out the illusion of living on earth and getting crazy simultaneous and real sad too for some reason like i wanta go home and i dont know how forever– i seek which words– spend so much time– hafta remind myself over and again the whole world with its little cutting lights and indications is only a mind flower that keeps unfolding and keeps unfolding if i let it– all in my head tho– ethereal– mistaken– a poem joke– a movie– it’ll be over in a minute as well as its little shells and stars and tides and castles but meanwhile searching nonstop thru a million heartbreaks to get at halfstarts of the meaning of me and complications in middle of trying to remember how everything happened and what for– all these nowhere yellings saying same– life is very beautiful and hurts a lot– thats all i know

As my father was about played out an old friend insisted he take us to Yosemite for a vacation. This was in 1916. From that time on, things became crystallized in a far more healthy way. In making the choice between music and college, I still think I did the right thing, but others seem not to think so. Anyway, here I am in photography; most of my friends of earlier days keep stressing their regret I did not stay in music! My family said, "What!! you don't want to be anything else but a photographer!!" That helped, of course. I was talked about because:

I could play AND photograph (something immoral about that!!)
I did not dance
I dared to question the status quo
I had too many girlfriends
I did not have enough girlfriends (something funny there, YES sir!!)
I always did like women
I'm a radical
I like to be reasonably precise (this seems to create immense annoyance)
I should be free
I should have some real responsibilities
I live in an ivory tower
I am complex
I am simple
My work should be in line with my Tempo
I don't like people
I don't understand the BIG social problems of today
I'm precious

Nobody seems to inquire if I am actually any more or less happy than the average Homo sapien, any more or less adjusted to conditions, or figure out some objective appraisal. I have an answer which I think may suffice:

I know what I have in photography – what I have done, and what I believe I can do. Well, perhaps I am not ideally situated, personally, financially, creatively. But I am definitely NOT unhappy. I am always violently in love with something – an idea, a person, a job. I think I have been most fortunate; after quite a few years of adjustments I find myself stable emotionally – to all outward appearances – fairly well set in a routine of daily life – terribly fond of my environment. I do have distractions, worries, disappointments. But am I unique in that?

Ansel