Breakfast in a Grit City diner. What isn't in the photo is the picture of Elvis on the wall. Should have thought about that.
People say "experiences, not things." You know what I mean. People try to buy happiness, I guess. That won't work, but experiences are no guarantee, either. There are some pretty rough experiences out there. And I do like things. Yesterday I think I had an interesting look. Nothing special, just the way I like to look. Black t-shirt, white Oxford, jeans, a beautiful Ona canvas bag, a Leica, and some big, expensive sunglasses. I was on the boulevard, and as I was climbing on my Vespa, two boys in a slowly passing car shouted out, said love, and gave me two thumbs up. I think I looked like something out of an old Italian movie. It wasn't me, exactly, just the things I'd chosen. And none of it was expensive, I should say, but all bought at bargain basement prices. I just know what I want, and the things I carry shape my experiences. You see? They go hand in hand. Everything I buy, from the art on the walls to the books on my shelves and the 19th century nomadic tribal rug on the floor--all of it, is to shape the way I experience the world.
Yea, I'm a prick. But most of the time, I'm happy. And I have experiences. Lots of them. More than my share, I think, though not so many recently. It is that I hope to remedy. Soon.
Still, things define us. We are "thing" makers. Many of the things we make are shit. Most of them. But there are some things that are so beautiful they make you ache. Not so many, but enough.
My family were settlers. No, they didn't settle the land. They settled for what they got. Easter, for instance. I hate it. It is a bad memory of cheap, waxy chocolates and overly sugared candies and gaudy plastic eggs. It was so bad, it hurt.
Maybe one nice piece of good chocolate would have done it. Maybe just that. Or a nice pair of shoes.
Etc.
I'm not complaining about my family, but that was an experience that surely shaped me. Things, no matter what, define us, whether we live in a mansion or a dormitory or a commune. A hippie with a nose ring is proud.
Anyway, Wallace Stevens says it better in "Anecdote of a Jar."
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
ReplyDeleteI'm reading a book that I'm quite sure would not interest you - it is a book about how we can learn to live by embracing death. A friend sent it to me for Christmas - but I did not heed the first "invitation" which is "Don't Wait." Anyway, it is a frightening book. Death ever present - as the author would like us to embrace. Death is part of Life the two cannot be separated.
Last night I encountered a section in the book about "letting go of the "things" - that "make our personality" - be it our personality traits - our clothes - our "things." Timely, eh?
I recently sold one of my better pieces of art. I've always thought - "I love having these things to hang - but if I ever need money - I will be able to sell them for money." I am anxious about why I feel anxious about not "owning" that piece of art anymore. I don't like it.
But ... lo. I went to the Goodwill on Sunday as I do most Sundays. It is 50% off a certain tag color. And I bumped into a painting. It had a look that made me move in closer. Sort of Georgia O'Keefe-ish - quiet. Not overtly anything - really. It's called "Sand Blasted." But certainly what I'd call a "well-done" thing. Flipped it over and noted a tag from Kansas Art Week - my guess was late 30's to mid 40's.
Raymond Eastwood. I'd never heard of him and internet on my phone was still not working (the storm fucked things up big time here). It was $9.99. I put it down to walk around the "knick knack" aisles. No one picked it up. So I bought it.
The last painting of his that sold here on Cape - and oddly was owned by an art dealer friend of mine - sold for $3,400. Back in 2006. Who knows. He summered in Provincetown - was involved with the heavyweights - Charles Hawthorne, Edward Dickson - of the Provincetown painters of the time.
My son loves it. I could certainly use a cash influx. I will hang it for a while and ponder the koan of the lost and found.
From "Milton"
William Blake
And every Space that a Man views around his dwelling-place
Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount
Of twenty-five cubits in height, such space is his Universe:
And on its verge the Sun rises & sets, the Clouds bow
To meet the flat Earth & the Sea in such an order'd Space:
The Starry heavens reach no further, but here bend and set
On all sides, & the two Poles turn on their valves of gold;
And if move his dwelling-place, his heavens also move
Where'er he goes, & all his neighbourhood bewail his loss.
Such are the Spaces called Earth & such its dimension.
As to that false appearance which appears to the reasoner
As of a Globe rolling thro' Voidness, it is a delusion of Ulro.
From "Milton"
William Blake
Stuff it.
ReplyDeleteNo, death is the opposite of life. I’ll hold on a bit longer.
ReplyDeleteI’ll try.
ReplyDelete