Archive for the ‘Existential Moment’ Category

“The More It Stays The Same.”   3 comments

Old Jules-artJack “Old Jules” Purcell — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In June of 2006 Old Jules wrote on his blog So Far From Heaven “The More It Stays The Same.”

I hadn’t watched Easy Rider (Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson, circa 1968) in three decades.

When I saw it again this past weekend I appreciated it again for the first time:

Nicholson: You know, this used to be a helluva good country. I can’t understand what’s gone wrong with it.

Hopper: Huh. Man, everybody got chicken, that’s what happened, man. Hey, we can’t even get into like, uh, second-rate hotel, I mean, a second-rate motel. You dig? They think we’re gonna cut their throat or something, man. They’re scared, man.

Nicholson: Oh, they’re not scared of you. They’re scared of what you represent to ’em.

Hopper: Hey man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody needs a haircut.

Nicholson: Oh no. What you represent to them is freedom.

Hopper: What the hell’s wrong with freedom, man? That’s what it’s all about.

Nicholson: Oh yeah, that’s right, that’s what it’s all about, all right. But talkin’ about it and bein’ it – that’s two different things.

I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace.

‘Course, don’t ever tell anybody that they’re not free ’cause then they’re gonna get real busy killin’ and maimin’ to prove to you that they are.

Oh yeah, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom, but they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare ’em.

Hopper: Mmmm, well, that don’t make ’em runnin’ scared.

Nicholson: No, it makes ’em dangerous.

Three young men searching for America who found it wasn’t what they bargained for.

Jack

I, Too   3 comments

Alabama2006-11-13-25Lincoln web-EditLincoln, Alabama (Old Downtown Lincoln Station By The Railroad Tracks) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

When my brother and I were in elementary school
we lived with my grandparents in Lincoln, Alabama.

My grandparents had sold the farm and moved into town.
Grandfather bought a two-pump gas station out on the Highway.

All the years since the person I remember most was Dacey Bell.
She was a young black woman who would help take care of us.

We loved Dacey Bell, and she loved us, therefore making it difficult
For us to understand why she was not allowed to eat with us.

We would ask why, but never got a clear answer — it just was.
Then one day, Dacey Bell stopped coming to be with us.

Again we would ask why — “Where had Dacey Bell gone?”
We were told Detroit, she had gone to work in Detriot.

Years later when I first read Langston Hughes’s poem, “I Too,”
The line that stood out was, “They send me to eat in the kitchen.”

. . . again I thought of Dacey Bell

— kenne

I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well, And grow strong.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed–

I, too, am America.

 

Girl Scouts Learn About Nature   Leave a comment

Girl Scouts-72Girl Scouts In Sabino Canyon (11/12/14) 

One girl looks

at my guide

another

at her own —

so much to learn.

Together

we share

nature’s beauty.

Never too early

or late to start —

some by

asking questions,

others speaking

without a voice.

— kenne

The Poet Is Sighing   1 comment

Jackson Square N.O. Dec 2014-2-Art-72A Jackson Square Morning — Photo-Artistry by kenne

The fog begins to lift
cobblestones still wet
from a passing shower —
the poet is sighing.

Cathedral bells ring
pigeons flying off
leaving their home —
the poet is sighing.

I can lose myself
in the French Quarter
in its endless embrace —
the poet is sighing.

Deep shadows in
alleys behind iron gates
guarding tropical courtyards —
the poet is sighing.

A lone musician
plays a jazz tune
not seen, but heard —
the poet is sighing.

Artists make their way
down to the square where
they hang their painting —
the poet is signing.

Morning life in the square
repeats again and again
the movement of generations —
the poet is signing.

A child of the mist
catches my attention
in my camera’s eye —
the poet is signing.

We bookmark each moment
looking at you again,
Renaissance and me —
the poet is signing.

— kenne

To Lean Back Into It   Leave a comment

Director-Edit-1-art-72Photo-Artistry by kenne

to lean back into it

like in a chair the color of the sun
as you listen to lazy piano music
and the aircraft overhead are not
at war.
where the last drink is as good as
the first
and you realize that the promises
you made yourself were
kept.
that’s plenty.
that last: about the promises:
what’s not so good is that the few
friends you had are
dead and they seem
irreplacable.
as for women, you didn’t know enough
early enough
and you knew enough
too late.
and if more self-analysis is allowed: it’s
nice that you turned out well-
honed,
that you arrived late
and remained generally
capable.
outside of that, not much to say
except you can leave without
regret.
until then, a bit more amusement,
a bit more endurance,
leaning back
into it.
like the dog who got across
the busy street:
not all of it was good
luck.

– Charles Bukowski

Thoughts Abound In These Times   Leave a comment

Thoughts Abound — Photo-Artistry by kenne

3.
OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies,
         wealth, scholarships, and the like;
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks
         away from them, except as it results to their
         Bodies and Souls,
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked;
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and
         mocks himself or herself,
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness,
         is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwit-
         tingly the true realities of life, and go toward
         false realities,
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has
         served them, but nothing more,
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked son-
         nambules, walking the dusk.

— from “Thoughts” by Walt Whitman

San Antonio, April 2009 Revised   2 comments

San Antonio, April 2009Joy with Grandchild Audry and James In San Antonio, April 2009 — Image by kenne

In the previous posting “Ready To Start Going Places” I used an image of the
San Antonio River Walk which brought to mind a video I produced of our spring vacation in April 2009.

— kenne

Ready To Start Going Places   Leave a comment

San Antonio, April 2009San Antonio River Walk — Image by kenne

As people in retirement, age, and cancer limit the risks we can take, which limits when
we can start traveling again. Before the pandemic, we were planning on visiting family
in Virginia and New Hampshire this month. We also hope to be able to attend Jerri and Justin’s
wedding in early August in Austin — we will see. Yes, we are ready to begin traveling,
but HOVID-19 might have another idea.

— kenne

Road Trip (Anywhere USA)   2 comments

Road Trip-72-2Road Trip (Anywhere USA) — Image by kenne

We feel a need to go

on a road trip,

till then

this image will

have to do.

I hesitate to say it,

but we have

pandemic fever.

— kenne

He Plays To His Shadow   2 comments

Tombstone & Bisbee May 18 2012He Plays To His Shadow (Afternoon Drinks On the Copper Queen Saloon Balcony)
— Photo-Artistry by kenne

On A Bisbee Afternoon

he plays to his shadow
devotedly on his violin
nobody listens
love torturing itself
to rise above conversations
lost in discontent
limits of self-expression
a saloon window reflection

there is no tragedy
on the Queen’s saloon balcony
the smell of lavender
lingers from the ghosts
of the hotel whores
who are not indifferent
listening to classical strings
becoming a delightful moan

— kenne

It Was She And Not The Sea We Heard   Leave a comment

Joy on the beach (1 of 1) blogThe Sea of Cortas — Image by kenne

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

— from The Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens
(Click Here To Read The Complete Poem)

Coronavirus Time   3 comments

Kenne Self-protrate art blog IIIImage by kenne

I am an old man
Each day sheltering in place
The damage is done.

Early morning walks
Many new walkers pass by
No stopping to talk.

Coronavirus
Still on a stubborn plateau
We fight off the stress.

In a new normal
Public places restricted
Times are abnormal.

Zoom and Facetime
The way we stay connected
Your time is my time.

— kenne

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