
4th Avenue Street Fair Musician (Tucson, 12/12/14) — Image by kenne
I believe that ignorance is the root of all evil.
And that no one knows the truth.
— Molly Ivins
4th Avenue Street Fair Musician (Tucson, 12/12/14) — Image by kenne
— Molly Ivins
Flashback, 1972 at SIU — The Pipe Smoking Days
In the early 1970s, I worked with Dr. Larry J. Bailey, my friend, and mentor, on the Career Development for Children Project (CDCP). Several of us worked on the project to produced a career development curriculum for elementary school children. In 1973 I went to work at McKnight Publishing Company to help produce project materials. Career development is not obtaining knowledge in preparation for living, but rather it is a process of experiencing living.
Before leaving CDCP, I prepared a paper titled, “A Theory of the Functional Self.” The paper reviewed self-theory that explores self a being a product of social interactions. From this theory, we have seen that self-information is a developmental process that takes place within the social system. A social system may be a peer group, a single classroom, school, community, occupational establishment, or any other organized group of individuals.
It is also assumed that a social system has two dimensions, the individual and the institution, and the patterns resulting from the interaction of these dimensions are social behavior. The individual’s inferences from his behavior define his self-concept, and a self-concept that has career relevance is the functional self.
The functional self, like the self-concept, is a self-process, a process of being and becoming. It is the functional self’s developmental process that should enable educators to develop a process career developmental curriculum, rather than a content occupational information curriculum. Career development is not obtaining knowledge in preparation for a living; rather, it is a process of experiencing living.
— kenne
“I think every man is his own Pygmalion and
spends his life fashioning himself. And in
fashioning himself, for good or ill, he
fashions the human race and its future.”
— I.F. Stone (1971)
Hiker On The Phoneline Trail (December in Sabino Canyon) — Image by kenne
Desert Photo Shoot, A Different Perspective — Image by kenne
— kenne
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
The nuances between us were scattered with the January snows of Peter's arrival. Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too Tangled up in Blue to Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had Broken. I'm not that young any more. "Get off your stagnant ass and do something." The scenario years later would speak. The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement Echoing out Denny's window Why I never got a job during all those summers. Only the facts she put to me. I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you Dreamed. We speculated endlessly in different directions Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed From inside so that the usual connection between lover And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but Paradoxically unchanging. (For my benefit, I suppose) Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary? Somewhere I glimpsed you Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . . Laughing comic confusion. Now I never see you anymore. The summers are much colder tha used to be In that other time, when you and I were young. I miss the human truth of your smile; The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things That you'll always be to me. Only thee is no comic relief Just a Curious translation of cracked nostalgia. But lets Skip the arguments. I already know how the story ends: A-not-so-crytic-message: Don't be naive You could only gaze into the distance at my life.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the fifth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
In the inerstices of "hold me," and "stop hovering," The symbiosis of us succumbed An anamoly had intruded The desideratum of my life found my eyes Bestial and sought transcendence through "appointments-only." The spontaneity of our quick was cheapened. (Funny how incredulity becomes more than a word) The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain; Recreation, utilitarian achievement and another sexuality Were the hidden Karmas of your soul. My recondite preoccupations rung-up as No sale. Impressions filtered through my extranceous fictions Single out shared neck massages and inept peeling of oranges. Her solipsistic soaking in the tub found me Speaking my love through Closed doors. Anxiety and discontent had obscured our moments Together. My metamorphosis was quixotic and debilitating Labor for the demensional person on which Her eyes tried to focus. Making love in the afternoon was an Extreme of ethos a sexual shadow world for her Yet the doctrine-of-discontinous-selves found a measure of Your accentance. Odd.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the fourth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
Closely watched trains came and went without me without us I somehow missed you Eyes have a way. After love with my caliban sweat and noises A vacant resentment would knife From glares askance First seen in the pain of Vanessa-labor. And this is what happens when you love someone? Progeny and sunburn haired sensualness Prefaced Rare-Earth and a student nurse. The ideology of lesbos intimacy had Clandestinely raised its latent head. But it doesn't matter anymore. (You were the poet in my heart) 91st street was the end Wasn't it? Curious how our windows are always steamed-up On Autumnal days. (Was ANYTHING central?) The "is-this-all-there-is" syndrome sums up the Period: Existentialist discontent With a walk-up duplex decor. A matter-of-fact sexuality Presaged a psychic-incarnation I couldn't see. Lisa brought home a metamorphosis I didn't Realize. They cut your "tubes" after she came and that was that. Funny how I thought even then that is was All a matter of hormonal imbalance. Shit! And what about you? Paradoxes betray the limits of logic Not of the reality we shared. Your "passion" was stillborn though so damn necessary. A dissolution of absence into substance sucked Screaming through a Rimbaud-Day-On-Fire. I could't laugh enough for the Frivolity she needed but detested.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the third of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
The metaphor Milwaukee-East-Side Found an oblique happiness on Newhall street and other avenues. A thirty-three-o-one flight walk-up Mingled with a sweaty montage of Walk-down circus parades: Beer with Richard punctuating assassinations Democratic conventions and Halloween readings. My movements in a not-always-silent Desperation enveloped the shit of a B.S. paperchase. (My illusions were so intensed christ I missed you) "Im Home:" used to reverberate through someone's contentment Of newhall evenings and milwaukee days. Introspective space refracted my looking-glass image and the Ennui of your self-esteem. The enigmatic fruit of our "intimacy" Was even then becoming spurious and estranged Yet continued to sustain me and confine you. Our spring had clouded into a season of Discontinuities. Snap-shot ambiguities cannot clarify Where we were Only echo tangents of truth Which negate explanations of a then with Allison: Lake Michigan shoreline Dr's Park Flag day Too much to drink We ate dogs with laughter went to bed at ten And felt safe. (I still see the scenes, but no longer see myself among those present no longer can improvise the dialogue)
Reflections In The Moment — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Everyone and everything that shows up in our life is a reflection of something that is happening inside of us.”
— Alan Cohen
California Primrose — Image by kenne
— kenne
Moon Man — Photo-Artistry by kenne
(This poem was originally posted a several years ago.)
. . . guilty.
Greater Roadrunner Sitting On Nest In A Cholla Cacti — Image by kenne
— from “On Photography” by Susan Sontag
Canyon Lands National Park Travel Scene (June 2014) — Image by kenne
Dry Wildflowers — Computer Painting by kenne
— kenne
“The whole content of my being shrieks
in contradiction against itself . . .
Existence is surely a debate.”
— Kierkegaard
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