Silent Light, a film by Carlos Reygadas, 2007.
If you have two hours of life to give, give it here.
Gorgeous. Devastating.
Gorgeous. Devastating.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
SINGER ~
printed & published as a poem card by Bob & Susan at Longhouse 2010
FARAWAY, LIKE THE DEER’S EYE
for Victor Jara, Chilean folksinger
Ah yes, now I believe I know —
A cool breeze and very early morning
A wood thrush breaks from the pasture,
Fences have all been mended,
Here and there animal hair.
I think of Jara; Victor,
By jesus as they busted your fingers
And you kept to the last moment
Something loving, say your sister, far in your belly.
Then they beat you like the backside of a horse
And it all fell — my chore bucket spilled
Suddenly in Vermont.
I may still have the gathering of birds,
The pull of this long river
Where I wade to my waist, undo my hair and wash slowly
Strong sweat and black flies,
A quiet day with the saw
Now near its end.
But Chile stays — forever.
How in the hell can you ask me to forget
A father dragged down from an attic
And pumped into a scream
In front of his huddled family?
The blood goes everywhere
And they live with it
And the killers — shit,
Something the raccoon wouldn’t even wash.
Daylight goes.
Evening is soon.
My friends, we are to become
The last light in the pond.
Bob Arnold
from For Neruda, For Chile ed. Walter Lowenfels (Beacon)
See more Victor Jara at A Longhouse Birdhouse here
victor jara: democraticunderground.com
home: photo © bob arnold
home: photo © bob arnold
Saturday, August 21, 2010
BO DIDDLEY
Some days rock 'n' roll seems to begin and end for me with Bo Diddley. Today is one of those days.
The master inventor — as a matter of fact known and called "the Originator" for his forceful transition from deep-rooted blues to rock 'n' roll. He played about everything: guitars (most often rectangular-shaped), violin, keyboards, drums, synthesizer. Born in 1928 in Mississippi with the name Ellas Otha Bates...how'd I go this long before telling you that? There's been a million stories how he came upon the name "Bo Diddley", from the Bo Diddley one-string instrument, to something Leonard Chess at Chess Records concocted. Just listen to his songs — that insistent and steady driving rhythm and edge — most likely first influenced as a young man by seeing John Lee Hooker perform.
Like Bob Dylan, Bo Diddley managed to get himself banned from The Ed Sullivan Show for not performing exactly what the squire wanted. Jim Morrison did the same thing. Those of us watching the shows in real time were raised another notch by the electric insubordination.
Bo Diddley passed away in 2008, not exactly recognized for all his charms except by his peers who adored his music. The British Invasion of the 60s came over to the USA fueled on propane called Bo, Chuck and Muddy. But Bo Diddley blazed his own path, including a stint for almost three years in Valencia County, New Mexico where he was a deputy sheriff. His own cruiser and all.
SONNY BOY WILLIAMSON II
Because of his chin hairs and maybe demeanor he was known as "The Goat". By whatever name, and there were a ton for the fabled and foiled and ever self mythologized Aleck "Rice" Miller, better known as Sonny Boy Williamson II, not to be confused with the slightly younger Sonny Boy Williamson I from Chicago. Both dyed-in-the wool bluesmen. No one goes wrong with either.
Sonny Boy II was such a mystery to folks, no official birth date has been given. His gravestone in Mississippi (he was born in Tallahatchie County) states 1908; researchers persist with 1912; the Goat says 1899.
He played with Robert Johnson, Elmore James, Robert Lockwood, and his sister was married to Howlin' Wolf. He appears as "Big Skol" on Roland Kirk's Kirk in Copenhagen.
I think of him as the sidewinder by his movements on the stage, with other performers (including Led Zepplin and various white blues bands from the sixties). The bowler hat. His way of maligning and abiding. It's a toss up which version of "Help Me" smolders and eventually burns the house down late at night — Junior Wells, or Sonny Boy's. I love them both, but when I hear the latter's, every time, and not planned and linked up and all ready like this, but sudden, sneaking up...it stops me cold.
It may be the greatest ambush blues song alive.
rollingstone.com
thehoundblog.blogspot.com
Friday, August 20, 2010
Okay — I'll be here & away over the next few weeks as I rebuild an old roof
and put on long steel sheets for a new roof. Sweetheart's left the garden to take
a snapshot of the kid in his balancing act. Thirty years ago I put on the asphalt
shingles you can see I am strapping over with spruce. The country style method
of burying one style with another. Under every old household with a steel roof
in the country, it's a good bet it is hiding something. Or attempting to straighten
up something else. I have a roof line with a bad slump which isn't too bad for a
house raised timber-framed in 1790 — by farmers and sawmill workers. Go
across the road with me and I can show you the mossy stone foundation where
the mill was, abiding the river. They raised this house of chestnut and oak,
axe hewn, notched and pegged. We're going to do our best to save the old roof
frame and allow the steel to tighten up ridge-to-eave with anchoring screws.
Shed the softest snow. And tolerate whatever else, since whatever else always
comes.
and put on long steel sheets for a new roof. Sweetheart's left the garden to take
a snapshot of the kid in his balancing act. Thirty years ago I put on the asphalt
shingles you can see I am strapping over with spruce. The country style method
of burying one style with another. Under every old household with a steel roof
in the country, it's a good bet it is hiding something. Or attempting to straighten
up something else. I have a roof line with a bad slump which isn't too bad for a
house raised timber-framed in 1790 — by farmers and sawmill workers. Go
across the road with me and I can show you the mossy stone foundation where
the mill was, abiding the river. They raised this house of chestnut and oak,
axe hewn, notched and pegged. We're going to do our best to save the old roof
frame and allow the steel to tighten up ridge-to-eave with anchoring screws.
Shed the softest snow. And tolerate whatever else, since whatever else always
comes.
photo © susan arnold
Thursday, August 19, 2010
EDEN ~
At last I fell to my knees
in the middle of the field
not because I was tired
but because my soul was burning
RUSSIAN FOLK SONG
CROSSING
In the real world people gather in crowds of sunshine on chilled spring mornings — smoking cigarettes, in hoods, cheap slacks, puffy sneakers always white, they joke and use words like words were meant to be used — direct, homely, getting from point A to point B — which is just what they are waiting for the bus that is free in this rural state to do, where cows out number people, and where busses cross over mountains.
MY LOVE. . .
wonders every winter-to-spring about a garden that grows on the way to town. This year she is worried about the man who plants and tends that garden every year. She hasn’t seen him at all out there working. Ground unplowed. She remembers him in the fall looking frail. There is a small pickup truck in the driveway. The gardener has no idea about my love’s thoughts. The space between the road and the house is maybe one hundred feet and within that space is a possible eden.
ADORE
I adore the concentration! A woman walks on the sidewalk toward me and tries the locked door where I am waiting. We both hear the lock hold. We’re strangers but she looks at me and speaks as if I am the door, “No...Wait. Oh, wrong door.” She moves down fifteen feet to another door and where things work.
STAIRWAY
I climbed the cement stairway of the four-tier parking garage — on the first tier I met up with a man who carried a large box down the center of the stairs, and he apologized for this. On the second tier I came face to face with a cherry condition F-150 pickup, turquoise painted stem to stern. My dream truck. I hesitated awhile there and just looked. On the third tier a man I’ve seen before was rattling on the parking ticket machine dreaming of loose change, and on the top tier of the parking garage a blond ponytailed woman in a soft pink sweater was stopped in her tracks and offering no eye contact. As I politely stepped aside she softly murmured, “Sorry.” It’s sunny on the top. The pigeons like this place. A man was leaving his brand new car to fetch himself a ticket. Nobody up there on that moonscape except him and me and the creaking sounds of his parked car relaxing.
THERE HE IS. . .
Nosferatu, his figure, painted on the cement wall of the parking garage when you descend the stairs after crossing all the top tier, pigeons, full sunshine and all. At the very bottom he is waiting. . .
At last I fell to my knees
in the middle of the field
not because I was tired
but because my soul was burning
RUSSIAN FOLK SONG
CROSSING
In the real world people gather in crowds of sunshine on chilled spring mornings — smoking cigarettes, in hoods, cheap slacks, puffy sneakers always white, they joke and use words like words were meant to be used — direct, homely, getting from point A to point B — which is just what they are waiting for the bus that is free in this rural state to do, where cows out number people, and where busses cross over mountains.
MY LOVE. . .
wonders every winter-to-spring about a garden that grows on the way to town. This year she is worried about the man who plants and tends that garden every year. She hasn’t seen him at all out there working. Ground unplowed. She remembers him in the fall looking frail. There is a small pickup truck in the driveway. The gardener has no idea about my love’s thoughts. The space between the road and the house is maybe one hundred feet and within that space is a possible eden.
ADORE
I adore the concentration! A woman walks on the sidewalk toward me and tries the locked door where I am waiting. We both hear the lock hold. We’re strangers but she looks at me and speaks as if I am the door, “No...Wait. Oh, wrong door.” She moves down fifteen feet to another door and where things work.
STAIRWAY
I climbed the cement stairway of the four-tier parking garage — on the first tier I met up with a man who carried a large box down the center of the stairs, and he apologized for this. On the second tier I came face to face with a cherry condition F-150 pickup, turquoise painted stem to stern. My dream truck. I hesitated awhile there and just looked. On the third tier a man I’ve seen before was rattling on the parking ticket machine dreaming of loose change, and on the top tier of the parking garage a blond ponytailed woman in a soft pink sweater was stopped in her tracks and offering no eye contact. As I politely stepped aside she softly murmured, “Sorry.” It’s sunny on the top. The pigeons like this place. A man was leaving his brand new car to fetch himself a ticket. Nobody up there on that moonscape except him and me and the creaking sounds of his parked car relaxing.
THERE HE IS. . .
Nosferatu, his figure, painted on the cement wall of the parking garage when you descend the stairs after crossing all the top tier, pigeons, full sunshine and all. At the very bottom he is waiting. . .
from A Possible Eden, Bob Arnold, 2010
photos © bob arnold
photo of Judy Dater's "Imogen and Twinka, Yosemite 1974"
photo of Judy Dater's "Imogen and Twinka, Yosemite 1974"
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
BABY BLUES ~
ANDREA ECHEVERRI
This song is maybe written to a lover, maybe written to Milagros the first child of Andrea Echeverri, Colombian musician, of Basque descent born in 1965, releasing her first record Andrea Echeverri in 2005. She also plays acoustic guitar in the group Aterciopelados. "Baby Blues" is dedicated from the Birdhouse to all friends having babies born this year as mothers, grandparents, or expecting.
This song is maybe written to a lover, maybe written to Milagros the first child of Andrea Echeverri, Colombian musician, of Basque descent born in 1965, releasing her first record Andrea Echeverri in 2005. She also plays acoustic guitar in the group Aterciopelados. "Baby Blues" is dedicated from the Birdhouse to all friends having babies born this year as mothers, grandparents, or expecting.
photo : nacion.com
Monday, August 16, 2010
FRANCE ~
Ah, the French couple, Margaux and Gregoire.
She 25 long auburn soft curls to her hair.
Gregoire age 32 and looks ageless. Same with Margaux. Wonderful youth.
I had to slowly write out their names when they told me so I had it just-so when I signed over one of my books to them. Gregoire has an accent over his name, but I haven't yet figured out how to place that with my keyboard. Forgive me Gregoire!
Newly moved in romantically after knowing one another 3 years, both in Paris, both connected with the cinema and music, as French as French can be. If this is Paris, give me more of it.
Stepped right out of a Eric Rohmer delicacy.
Gregoire the step son of Paul Kahn, once of Bezoar the small press stapled in one corner publication, later a book on the Mongols from North Point, now married to Gregoire's mother in Paris. Paul edits and publishes NEW.
Susan and I saw immediately how enriched these two were, modest, curious, absolute sweethearts for the world.
Traveling with old stage coach driver Jim Koller, in his neat slouched hat, gray long strand ponytail, beatific grin, the warm crinkled eyes. He brought a small box of cheap beer in brown bottles that he shared with Gregoire, a dozen bottles. Two left at midnight. Bob, Sweetheart, Margaux happily sipping lemonade in our Rohmer film. Two quarts of our fresh picked blueberries being passed around. Music playing in all our ears.
Margaux and Gregoire almost pleading with the stage coach driver they would give anything to spend another day in Vermont. Ward Bond smiling and saying they were expected in Evanston "tomorrow night". Nothing but nothing standing in the way, not even NY State, Ohio or the width of the Hoosiers. He'll definitely get the mail through.
We were all asleep at 1 AM and up at 5 saying good morning and tally-ho by 6. Koller will take them everywhere on a USA trip they'll never forget. Poets, relatives, old sites. Remembrance.
Sea to shining sea.
Ah, the French couple, Margaux and Gregoire.
She 25 long auburn soft curls to her hair.
Gregoire age 32 and looks ageless. Same with Margaux. Wonderful youth.
I had to slowly write out their names when they told me so I had it just-so when I signed over one of my books to them. Gregoire has an accent over his name, but I haven't yet figured out how to place that with my keyboard. Forgive me Gregoire!
Newly moved in romantically after knowing one another 3 years, both in Paris, both connected with the cinema and music, as French as French can be. If this is Paris, give me more of it.
Stepped right out of a Eric Rohmer delicacy.
Gregoire the step son of Paul Kahn, once of Bezoar the small press stapled in one corner publication, later a book on the Mongols from North Point, now married to Gregoire's mother in Paris. Paul edits and publishes NEW.
Susan and I saw immediately how enriched these two were, modest, curious, absolute sweethearts for the world.
Traveling with old stage coach driver Jim Koller, in his neat slouched hat, gray long strand ponytail, beatific grin, the warm crinkled eyes. He brought a small box of cheap beer in brown bottles that he shared with Gregoire, a dozen bottles. Two left at midnight. Bob, Sweetheart, Margaux happily sipping lemonade in our Rohmer film. Two quarts of our fresh picked blueberries being passed around. Music playing in all our ears.
Margaux and Gregoire almost pleading with the stage coach driver they would give anything to spend another day in Vermont. Ward Bond smiling and saying they were expected in Evanston "tomorrow night". Nothing but nothing standing in the way, not even NY State, Ohio or the width of the Hoosiers. He'll definitely get the mail through.
We were all asleep at 1 AM and up at 5 saying good morning and tally-ho by 6. Koller will take them everywhere on a USA trip they'll never forget. Poets, relatives, old sites. Remembrance.
Sea to shining sea.
fading light photo © susan arnold
Sunday, August 15, 2010
PETE'S BEST SONG ~
Pete Seeger, that is. Taking one of his old songs that helped end one war (believe it or not) with the help of many younger musician friends, singing it into the next war and the next. They say there were only seven years without a war in the history of the world.
Keep singing.
Keep singing.
photos:
freemuse.org
freemuse.org
hilobrow.com
(IF YOU LOVE YOUR UNCLE SAM) BRING THEM HOME
If you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
It'll make our generals sad, I know,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to tangle with the foe,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to test their weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But here is their big fallacy,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But I got a right to sing this song,
Bring them home, bring them home.
There's one thing I must confess,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I'm not really a pacifist,
Bring them home, bring them home.
If an army invaded this land of mine,
Bring them home, bring them home.
You'd find me out on the firing line,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought their planes to bomb,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought helicopters and napalm,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Show those generals their fallacy:
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
For defense you need common sense,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right armaments,
Bring them home, bring them home.
The world needs teachers, books and schools,
Bring them home, bring them home.
And learning a few universal rules,
Bring them home, bring them home.
So if you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger
© 1966 Storm King Music, Inc.
If you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
It'll make our generals sad, I know,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to tangle with the foe,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to test their weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But here is their big fallacy,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But I got a right to sing this song,
Bring them home, bring them home.
There's one thing I must confess,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I'm not really a pacifist,
Bring them home, bring them home.
If an army invaded this land of mine,
Bring them home, bring them home.
You'd find me out on the firing line,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought their planes to bomb,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought helicopters and napalm,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Show those generals their fallacy:
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
For defense you need common sense,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right armaments,
Bring them home, bring them home.
The world needs teachers, books and schools,
Bring them home, bring them home.
And learning a few universal rules,
Bring them home, bring them home.
So if you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger
© 1966 Storm King Music, Inc.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
MUSIC IS LOVE ~
DAVID CROSBY
In 1971 I bought an LP unlike any other in the Sixties pie in the sky time.
This one had a series of songs that stitched together as one long chant, almost summing up, if possible, the persona of an era just passed through. Gathering together fellow musicians from the Airplane, the Dead, Neil Young et al., it was attempting to be sunrise and sunset at once. Very close.
At the time it was panned in Rolling Stone, which wasn't then what it is now: then it was nearly vital.
The LP sallied on. Ignored, taken on by a few and a few more, grown to be loved by later generations.
The performer, despite immaculate odds, even survived.
Being an August birth (August 14) — he was eleven years old when his Oscar winning father was the cinematographer for the film High Noon (1952) — close your eyes and listen and say we are happy you are alive David Crosby.
This one had a series of songs that stitched together as one long chant, almost summing up, if possible, the persona of an era just passed through. Gathering together fellow musicians from the Airplane, the Dead, Neil Young et al., it was attempting to be sunrise and sunset at once. Very close.
At the time it was panned in Rolling Stone, which wasn't then what it is now: then it was nearly vital.
The LP sallied on. Ignored, taken on by a few and a few more, grown to be loved by later generations.
The performer, despite immaculate odds, even survived.
Being an August birth (August 14) — he was eleven years old when his Oscar winning father was the cinematographer for the film High Noon (1952) — close your eyes and listen and say we are happy you are alive David Crosby.
image: modernguitars.com
Thursday, August 12, 2010
TARHEEL SLIM ~
Not many speak any longer about Tarheel Slim (Allen Bunn).
Born in North Carolina in 1924, he played the circuit cutting songs with various groups, under either of his names, and with Little Ann.
Unforgettable records, like Wildcat Tamer/Number 9 Train
on the Fury label from 1958.
Rock 'n' roll was never finer. Wilder.
Tarheel Slim passed away in 1977.
Here are a few songs (all dynamos) that run through my mind when in the presence of Tarheel Slim ~
Ben E. King after The Drifters and playing into the upper reaches of R & B ~
Shuggie Otis, son of Johnny Otis, teenage wizkid musician via dad's great act, Al Kooper, Zappa, his own solo recordings done the same youthful ages Rimbaud worked his poetry. If anything, Shuggie Otis is a prelude to Prince to come ~
James Brown takes a few words and a few chords and the party is on ~
photos
tarheel slim: pete lowry
ben e. king: areavoices.com
shuggie otis:soundunwound.com
james brown: philspector.wordpress.com
Not many speak any longer about Tarheel Slim (Allen Bunn).
Born in North Carolina in 1924, he played the circuit cutting songs with various groups, under either of his names, and with Little Ann.
Unforgettable records, like Wildcat Tamer/Number 9 Train
on the Fury label from 1958.
Rock 'n' roll was never finer. Wilder.
Tarheel Slim passed away in 1977.
Here are a few songs (all dynamos) that run through my mind when in the presence of Tarheel Slim ~
Ben E. King after The Drifters and playing into the upper reaches of R & B ~
Shuggie Otis, son of Johnny Otis, teenage wizkid musician via dad's great act, Al Kooper, Zappa, his own solo recordings done the same youthful ages Rimbaud worked his poetry. If anything, Shuggie Otis is a prelude to Prince to come ~
James Brown takes a few words and a few chords and the party is on ~
photos
tarheel slim: pete lowry
ben e. king: areavoices.com
shuggie otis:soundunwound.com
james brown: philspector.wordpress.com
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Bob Arnold's
A POSSIBLE EDEN ~
[click on image to enlarge]
Please go to Jacket #40 for four poems from the new book
Bob Arnold's new book of modern fables
With two paintings by the author
Three color text
Limited to fifty copies
Hand-sewn
40 pages
Signed edition $20
order here through Paypal plus $2 shipping
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
NEW BOOKLET FROM LONGHOUSE !
ALVARO CARDONA-HINE
there is the moment
when the water and the moon
surprise each other
~
her blackberry voice
tells me that the time has come
to know her body
~
they say
Grandfather can hear
the neighborhood
groan
with years
that Grandma's
oven
can bake
an apple pie
with its eyes
closed
Fifteen poems and one painting, "The Blue Barn"
by this author who lives in the
mountains of northern New Mexico.
Lovely three-color booklet with wrap band.
Your choice of either signed or unsigned editions.
order here through Paypal with free shipping
Unsigned $10, Signed $15.
(International orders kindly inquire)
by this author who lives in the
mountains of northern New Mexico.
Lovely three-color booklet with wrap band.
Your choice of either signed or unsigned editions.
order here through Paypal with free shipping
Unsigned $10, Signed $15.
(International orders kindly inquire)
Monday, August 9, 2010
WAY OVER YONDER ~
One of the many hundreds of songs Woody Guthrie wrote and left behind, picked up by the next rover and done in their own method and style. The Guthrie words are never lost, rising with a glowing common ground. Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island was the home made by Woody and Marjorie Guthrie and their four children, a very productive household at the time for Guthrie's songwriting and association with other artists. The goodness of Billy Bragg would come years and years later to mine the spirit of the spot.
"My theory is this; I'm not a political songwriter. I'm an honest songwriter. I try and write honestly about what I see around me now."
~Billy Bragg
Woody and Marjorie Guthrie
Woodrow Woody Guthrie (July 14, 1912-October 3, 1967) American songwriter; guitar, mandolin, fiddle, harmonica player; father of eight children; inspired by Dust Bowl, Leadbelly, American travels; dead-set influence on Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Bob Dylan. Encouraged to write his autobiography by folklorist Alan Lomax, the rambler did — Bound For Glory, published by Dutton in the center of WW2 — my G.I. father gave me his worn copy the year Guthrie died in 1967, (the same year Dylan returned to acoustic music and released his 8th album John Wesley Harding) — one of the great books handed down.
Billy Bragg: liveon35mm.wordpress.com
Woody & Marjorie Guthrie: memory.loc.gov
Bob Dylan & Ramblin Jack Elliott: John Cohen
Woody and Marjorie Guthrie
Woodrow Woody Guthrie (July 14, 1912-October 3, 1967) American songwriter; guitar, mandolin, fiddle, harmonica player; father of eight children; inspired by Dust Bowl, Leadbelly, American travels; dead-set influence on Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Bob Dylan. Encouraged to write his autobiography by folklorist Alan Lomax, the rambler did — Bound For Glory, published by Dutton in the center of WW2 — my G.I. father gave me his worn copy the year Guthrie died in 1967, (the same year Dylan returned to acoustic music and released his 8th album John Wesley Harding) — one of the great books handed down.
Billy Bragg: liveon35mm.wordpress.com
Woody & Marjorie Guthrie: memory.loc.gov
Bob Dylan & Ramblin Jack Elliott: John Cohen
Saturday, August 7, 2010
FAMILY ~
GIRLS ON RADIATORS
for everyone in the photograph
I happen to think there is very little to say about writing
except hug life and learn to live for it. Dialogue will be there.
I visited 20 years at a girls school from the late 70s to late 90s.
I could point to you just the time, the girl, the hour, when I saw
Reagan ruin America. When America decided not to listen to
Jimmy Carter and instead listen to a gimpy actor. Downhill.
I was coming into the school for two months of the year when
my work load for money was lean and mean (winter). I was splitting
wood across town for an elderly couple for those same 20 winters.
Carson born and raised. In the summer months I did the gardens
for the elderly couple. They left me cash under a tea cup in the
kitchen without fail, my paycheck. At the school I was hired to
help out our nearest neighbor at the time, a half mile down river,
who had no idea how to teach poetry (and that was because she was
trying to teach it). I was building a stonewall for her and her husband,
they had Sweetheart and me in one evening after work for supper. She shared
her plight. Her husband said, "Why don't you ask Bob if he can help?"
She said if I would visit the school with her she'd pay me her class pay
that day, $9. In 1979 $9 was $9. It still is. I sold 25 LPs and 5 CDs
yesterday for $54 cash-in-hand. Took Sweetheart out to lunch. When I drove
down to the school with my neighbor I met the kids and the kids met me.
Yes, a little wildfire rippled through the joint, this guy with ponytail and
big beard. The head of the English dept. came for a look, sleek boots,
technical skills, no literary lust. It turns out she was leaving and an
older and jolly sage was taking over. She came for a look, sat right in,
eyes sparkled and she laughed. I was hired for years to come. Not much
official academic decorum in my background, nor driver's lic. Dress the part
(black jeans, nice shirt, vest, boots) and I shot baskets in the gym for the next
20 years in my 1 hour break after lunch, always with the girls. Great games.
This is where I brought in the jocks who "hated poetry". My afternoon writing
session of young writers was crammed to the windows. Girls on radiators. All my
poetry books were bought by teenage girls. What can I say? We laughed a lot.
GIRLS ON RADIATORS
for everyone in the photograph
I happen to think there is very little to say about writing
except hug life and learn to live for it. Dialogue will be there.
I visited 20 years at a girls school from the late 70s to late 90s.
I could point to you just the time, the girl, the hour, when I saw
Reagan ruin America. When America decided not to listen to
Jimmy Carter and instead listen to a gimpy actor. Downhill.
I was coming into the school for two months of the year when
my work load for money was lean and mean (winter). I was splitting
wood across town for an elderly couple for those same 20 winters.
Carson born and raised. In the summer months I did the gardens
for the elderly couple. They left me cash under a tea cup in the
kitchen without fail, my paycheck. At the school I was hired to
help out our nearest neighbor at the time, a half mile down river,
who had no idea how to teach poetry (and that was because she was
trying to teach it). I was building a stonewall for her and her husband,
they had Sweetheart and me in one evening after work for supper. She shared
her plight. Her husband said, "Why don't you ask Bob if he can help?"
She said if I would visit the school with her she'd pay me her class pay
that day, $9. In 1979 $9 was $9. It still is. I sold 25 LPs and 5 CDs
yesterday for $54 cash-in-hand. Took Sweetheart out to lunch. When I drove
down to the school with my neighbor I met the kids and the kids met me.
Yes, a little wildfire rippled through the joint, this guy with ponytail and
big beard. The head of the English dept. came for a look, sleek boots,
technical skills, no literary lust. It turns out she was leaving and an
older and jolly sage was taking over. She came for a look, sat right in,
eyes sparkled and she laughed. I was hired for years to come. Not much
official academic decorum in my background, nor driver's lic. Dress the part
(black jeans, nice shirt, vest, boots) and I shot baskets in the gym for the next
20 years in my 1 hour break after lunch, always with the girls. Great games.
This is where I brought in the jocks who "hated poetry". My afternoon writing
session of young writers was crammed to the windows. Girls on radiators. All my
poetry books were bought by teenage girls. What can I say? We laughed a lot.
photo courtesy Bob & Susan Arnold: Friends & family together ~ Susan Arnold, Carson Arnold, Bob Arnold, Janine Pommy Vega, James Koller, 1995
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
