Normal…

... Normal
was always right around the corner
-- a 50's drugstore --
milkshakes for a quarter -- black
coffee in thick white mugs --
white boys in duck tails
pouring Crown Cola 
over black girls in white dresses --
newsreels just couldn't do it justice -- even
colorized years later --
the shock of red  -- how
you never saw their faces
in the same light again -- how
every year the price went up -- how
the trouble was never quite 
good enough
      to stop
the endless rewinds
the multiplication of names
on marble walls

Moved … ready to make art again ?






16 years ago, as Katrina was devastating NOLA and the Gulf coast, I moved into a first floor flat on the 1300 block of Morris in South Philly. I was there for 7 years–longer than I’ve lived anywhere since. A neighborhood dense with poets. I had a front porch, and a nice little garden. My walking stick spouted feathers and ribbons and can tabs. I made a Poem Tree on E. Passyunk. Wrote hundreds of poems. Both my son’s lived nearby in South Philly. We’d hang out at Lucking 13 at night, where Ben was the chef. Then the poets moved away. Ben and Gil left South Philly. Caught up in Occupy Wall Street, and Occupy Philly. In 2012 I moved to the Ox. For Woody Guthrie’s centennial birthday, I walked to NYC with the OWS Guittarmy. When I came back, I began to make art again–after almost 40 years. Each year since, has been more difficult. Not likely I’ll live another 16 years, maybe not another ten. Fifty-five years ago I sat on a second floor porch of our apartment in Wichita, daydreaming about what was to come… about to set off for Philadelphia on our Vespa 150 motor scooter. Late August, early September. Leaving Bass Lake at the end of the summer. It’s always been a season of endings, beginnings. This year… I think I’m running out of new beginnings.

Why I havn’t posted new art for a while..

No country for old men, unless rich and powerful (redundant), surrounded by sycophants and those who care for their every need (mostly redundant). I am neither rich nor powerful. I have wonderful friends, who, like me, are neither rich nor powerful, and in the struggle to survive, have limited time and resources. So, get to a certain age, and one is mostly left to hang (more gallows humor).

I should tell a story of how I came to be here. I lived on a 3rd floor flat with two men, one who ate Mom’s Meals, the other who thought cooking was putting bacon on a tray in the oven, thawing froozen food, or pouring jarred sauce over pasta they’d boiled. The second of two got it in mind to clean every surface of every possible utensil used in cooking. Being the one person dependent on doing my own cooking,

I protested — I can’t cook in a kitchen like this, I pleaded! With veins in neck bulging, and face red, he leaned over me (he being, tall, me being, short), and shouted I DON’T CARE!…at least he didn’t rip all his clothes off, like the last inspired move, because I’d come back two days early from visiting my dying uncle, because she wanted to have the house to herself!That is the moment I knew I had to move.

Both times.

I don’t know what the end of the story is… but it’s come scarily close to being the end of me. Anyone want 40 or 50 paintings? … They’re physical objects in the way here….the one thing I thought I was doing that had some value.

Anyone want some free art?

A confession


  • A meme on Facebook, how <… the sole purpose of homework, is to condition children into accepting, that unpaid overtime and ridiculous hours, and even not being able to escape work at in your own home, are normal things to expect in the future>

    So many variants of that. Like forcing people to conform to fixed hours when their brains and bodies do not and will not ever adjust to working fixed hours… and when these people try–in order to live, they are pushed to going manic, into disabling depression, or near suicidal panic attacks.

    I was never able–over 60 years of trying to support myself, and a family, able to stay on one job much over a year. The one time I worked, as a radiographic transcriptionist, for two and a half years–it pushed to being “flordily manic” (my therapist’s words)… and a year of my life… lost
    … or… on and on. And we are given pills to ‘fix’ us…and the Pharmaceuticals LOVE this, and get very very rich, and mental difference becomes a medical condition, a name in Big Book–that’s a lot like those books of Spells in films about witches and warlocks.

    People are not sick, they… we… live in a sick system. What we see, in so much of mental and emotional illness– is not individual sickness, but individuals expressing the symptoms of this sick, capitalist hell.

    That’s my whole fucking life. From 3rd grade till I retired and could live on Social Security.
  • For a long time I looked for the specific source, or sources of what looked and felt like PTS”D” … I don’t think there was any specific source now. I think what I wrote above… explains it all.

Remembering the Blogosphere

I printed out 43 pages of posts from my old blog: Jacobrussellsbarkingdog.blogspot.com. And that only from July to Sep, 2007, and a few older journal entries. On art, poetry, book reviews, politics. They’ve held up well, and the writing is strong. I have another 200 pages, maybe more.

What does one do with this kind of thing? No one would be interested in publishing them–unless you’re an academic of note, or have a name from some other field. In 2007, the blogosphere was still alive. I corresponded with some interesting people. That was about the time when newspapers ditched their book reviews. For a while, the blogs made up for it. We exchanged recommendations for new books, wrote reviews. Across disciplines. Levi Paul Bryant, of Larval Subjects, is the only one I’m still in touch with. There were some great science blogs, too–like Cosmic Variance, until they got bought out and they magazined the life out of it.

People leave 3 word comments here now.. every once in awhile. But there’s no exchange of ideas. An intellectual wasteland.

Now we’ve got Facebook. Thankful for Neil Patrick Doherty’s Poetry Hedge School. Closest thing to what we had with blogs, but about all that’s left.

I’m going to keep up with this project… wherever it takes me.