JUKEBOX 66 ~

U.S. Route 66
Will Rogers Highway
Route information
Length:	2,451 mi (3,945 km)
Existed:	November 26, 1926 – June 27, 1985
Major intersections (In 1947)[1]
West end:	US 101 Alt. in Santa Monica, CA
Major junctions:	US 101 / US 99 / US 6 in Los Angeles, CA US 91 / US 395 in San Bernardino, CA US 89 from Ash Fork to Flagstaff, AZ US 85 in Albuquerque, NM US 60 / US 87 / US 287 in Amarillo, TX US-81 in El Reno, OK US-64 in Tulsa, OK US 71 from Joplin to Carthage, MO US 40 / US 50 / US 61 in St. Louis, MO US 51 in Normal, IL
East end:	US 41 / US 54 in Chicago, IL

(Wikipedia)

selections compiled by bob arnold

POSTCARD 9 ~

"Route 66"
photography by Andreas Feininger
Life Magazine
1955

A good friend just wrote after spending a day in Oklahoma on Route 66 ~
the possibility of having these same clouds from this grand photograph above.
This photograph always takes me back to the opening sequence of the outstanding film noir
 Out of the Past (1947)
directed by Jacques Tourneur
based on Daniel Mainwaring's novel Build My Gallows High
(revisions by James M. Cain) 
w/ Robert Mitchum, Kirk Douglas, and Jane Greer
up there in Bridgeport, California

FOOL'S GOLD ~

La Alameda Press
9636 Guadalupe Trail NW
Albuquerque, New Mexico
87114

jb@laalamedapress.com

Ever since the 1960s when so many were reading Japanese poetry translations, or Chinese, and if one delved back further: Korean etc. short poems of ancient masters, often translated by Kenneth Rexroth or Cid Corman, Gary Snyder, Burton Watson, Hiro Sato — mighty tasty — out cropped many American poets who tried their own hand at being outcasts, hermits, short order cooks with the specialty item of the short poem. Most of these poems were merely informative, quips, derivative. Some others were refined, formal, scholarly, elegant and eventually too fancy. It takes a certain riding by the seat of your pants sureness to get after this short poem pocket. Most poets are too self conscious and miserably poetical or philosophical when having to short-poem-it. I've spent decades looking for and finding poets who were good at it and publishing many, worldwide, in little shirt pocket size booklets. I could list their names but you don't want to give these poets too much recognition, it goes against the grain of being just a regular schmoe tooling away at their trade. That's what it takes, I believe — catching the short poem on the fly, the fancy. Philip Whalen was an expert at it. So was Cid Corman. Jack Kerouac wrote terrific dust bunny haiku, things you'd toss into the corner or tuck away into the glove compartment — ideal short poem magic. Lorine Niedecker wrote some of the finest 20th century elegant etched short poem jewelry. Today in the mail comes Norman Schaefer's Fool's Gold, all short poems, from Norman's years off his Sierra hiking trails, plus love poems and out-of-love poems and is-there-such-a-thing as love? poems, plus royal dud matter which is the heart beat and humility of the best short poem. 
A dog on the street would love this book.

   

                       

ANAIS NIN & HENRY MILLER ~

NOTHING BUT A MAN ~

 

(1964)

 directed by Michael Roemer

http://www.theguardian.com/film/2013/oct/01/director-michael-roemer-nothing-but

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/oct/02/louisiana-prisoner-released-41-years-solitary

SPENCER HOLST ~

The Zebra Storyteller


Once upon a time there was a Siamese cat who pretended to be a lion and spoke inappropriate Zebraic.

That language is whinnied by the race of striped horses in Africa.

Here now: An innocent zebra is walking in a jungle and approaching from another direction is the little cat; they meet.

"Hello there!" says the Siamese cat in perfectly pronounced Zebraic, "It certainly is a pleasant day, isn't it? The sun is shining, the birds are singing, isn't the world a lovely place to live today!"

The zebra is so astonished at hearing Siamese cat speaking like a zebra, why — he's just fit to be tied.

So the little cat quickly ties him up, kills him, and drags the better parts of the carcass back to his den.

The cat successfully hunted zebras many months in this manner, dining on filet mignon of zebra every night, and from the better hides he made bow neckties and wide belts after the fashion of the decadent princes of the Old Siamese court.

He began boasting to his friends he was a lion, and he gave them as proof the fact he hunted zebras.

The delicate noses of the zebras told them there was really no lion in the neighborhood. The zebra deaths caused many to avoid the region. Superstitious, they decided the woods were haunted by the ghost of a lion.

One day the storyteller of the zebras was ambling, and through his mind ran plots for stories to amuse the other zebras, when suddenly his eyes brightened, and he said, "That's it! I'll tell a story about a Siamese cat who learns to speak our language! What an idea! 

That'll make 'em laugh!"

Just then the Siamese cat appeared before him, and said, "Hello there! Pleasant day today, isn't it!"

The zebra storyteller wasn't fit to be tied at hearing a cat speaking his language, because he'd been thinking about that very thing.

He took a good look at the cat, and he didn't know why, but there was something about his looks he didn't like, so he kicked him with a hoof and killed him.

That is the function of the storyteller.

 

Selected Works ~

  On Demons (chapbook) (1970)
    The Language of Cats and Other Stories (1971)
    Spencer Holst Stories (1976)
    Something to Read to Someone/16 Drawings (with Beate Wheeler) (1980)
    The Zebra Storyteller (1993)
    Brilliant Silence (2000)



http://www.nytimes.com/2001/12/05/arts/spencer-holst-75-writer-and-teller-of-fables.html



http://academics.utep.edu/Default.aspx?tabid=58495



http://academics.utep.edu/Default.aspx?tabid=58496

THE "RECLUSIVE" ONE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD ~

Bob Dylan introduces Bob Dylan




Bob Dylan (above), during his admitted "wasted 80s" period, when he seemed to be having the most fun. He proved in the film Hearts of Fire he really shouldn't try acting and instead just be himself, which curiously he seems to do the very best when not on a stage but on the world stage. . .walking around in a neighborhood — whether in England (see "Don't Look Back"), or shown above in Hamilton, Ontario. The press conference below has always been a sly one hour of brilliance.







Bob Dylan's 1965 press conference
introduced by Ralph Gleason








"Don't Look Back " (1967)
1967 documentary film by D.A. Pennebaker 




http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/29/opinion/sunday/knock-knock-knockin-on-nobels-door.html?pagewanted=all

SUNDAY SERVICE ~

Campbell Brothers 
(Sacred Steel)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacred_Steel_%28musical_tradition%29

SECRETS & LIES ~

"Why shouldn't I work for the N.S.A.? That's a tough one, but I'll take a shot. Say I'm workin' at the N.S.A. and somebody puts a code on my desk, somethin' no one else can break. Maybe I take a shot at it, maybe I break it. And I'm real happy with myself, 'cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East. And once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels are hidin'. Fifteen hundred people that I never met, I never had no problem with, get killed. Now the politicians are sayin', 'Oh, send in the Marines to secure the area,' 'cause they don't give a shit. It won't be their kid over there gettin' shot. Just like it wasn't them when their number got called 'cause they were out pullin' a tour in the National Guard. It'll be some kid from Southie over there takin' shrapnel in the ass. He comes back to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job, 'cause he'll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile he realizes the only reason he was over there in the first place was so that we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used the little skirmish over there to scare up domestic oil prices. A cute little ancillary benefit for them but it ain't helpin' my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. They're takin' their sweet time bringin' the oil back, of course, maybe they even took the liberty of hirin' an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martinis and fuckin' play slalom with the icebergs. It ain't too long 'til he hits one, spills the oil and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic. So now my buddy's out of work. He can't afford to drive, so he's walkin' to the fuckin' job interviews, which sucks because the schrapnel in his ass is givin' him chronic hemorroids. And meanwhile he's starvin' 'cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat, the only blue plate special they're servin' is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State.
So what did I think? I'm holdin' out for somethin' better. I figure, fuck it, while I'm at it, why not just shoot my buddy, take his job, give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? I could be elected president."

Good Will Hunting (1997)
Director: Gus Van Sant
Screenplay: Ben Affleck, Matt Damon

PRISONERS ~

Do yourself a favor and take yourself out and go watch a good old-fashioned ghost story. A film. One is out there right now, Prisoners. With terrific actors boiled down to their wits.

It's the best film I've seen since Amour, and before that The Messenger, and before that The Yellow Handkerchief and before that No Country For Old Men (which was shot by the cinematographer Roger Deakins, who also shoots this film).

After working weeks on end with stone and wood and moving at a snail's pace, which is always good for a human to realize (speed kills), I took the day off with my true love and first went and worked over a stone cache for only one hour making ready for the next day's work, then went to a few small towns and did some errands, strolled in an old-fashioned neighborhood and looked around, climbed its nearby mountain and looked down into the soupy weather valley, hiked down and at the existing witching hour from 3-6 in the afternoon, better known as the "early bird special" (can you follow me? it really doesn't matter if you can't, I'm not worried) we entered a movie matinee in a downtown complex and sat alone in "theater 3" with nobody else coming (often our fate). Then one old couple (two women) showed up during the previews (very loud very bright) and sat themselves down a few rows ahead of us, followed by another elder couple of man and wife and she was too exhausted already and just plunked herself down in front of the first old couple, until the husband thought better and said aloud for us all to hear (a common trait amongst the old), "Move down a few seats so we don't block these people's view" and she did, and those people unblocked actually said "thank you." So far so good.

Now the film is going to start.

The handsomest man in the world at one time, Hugh Jackman, is in this film, and he's not going to look very handsome at all in this film. So much power and talent is going to be available in this film, and natural beauty and strength, like Viola Davis, and it's going to be asked by the script and director to go in the opposite direction. Tone down. Get real. Even boring.

The Canadian director, Denis Villeneuve is quite a mindset, and with courage, as he makes an almost nonAmerican film with many popular actors for Americans, turning the thriller on its head to almost the last half hour. It's purposely plodding, dead-ended, frustrating, tedious, and quite human because of it and the director reshapes the viewer to find his way. He's got a way. I like this about the film. Unlike, the three most popular tv series that really do something: The Sopranos, Breaking Bad and Homeland, this film has nothing to do with MONEY. Take a look. There's no money happening. All of those popular tv shows, and everything else, can't move and depend on either repulsive money, repulsive stupidity, or repulsive gore. Even Stephen King is now speaking out against it. When Prisoners is ready to take off (you may be asleep), it does. . .with Jake Gyllenhaal's's character (a detective with an eye twitch) almost acting as a modern Japanese actor directed by Takashi Miike — blood head wound, garish traffic, speed, bleeding lights, a little girl in the backseat hanging by a thread. Exhilarating! We watch in a matinee with four very old codgers mumbling their way in and out of the film depending on what is happening. One of those old women ahead of us sighed "Oh My" aloud and sincere when things were looking desperate for someone.

When the film is done, and it ends on a whistle in the dark (giving away nothing), the lights come on and you're left to your own devices. What a gift from a film director!

The old fellow who asked his wife to move ahead and seems to have built a long life on being outspoken and polite, sees us huddled at the back row and asks, "Were you scared?"

I said, "Not with you here."

former Putney, Vermont resident Melissa Leo is also in the film.

Leo is scary in this film. Leo is scary outside of films. Melissa Leo is scary.

Someone should team Leo up with Jennifer Lawrence and make something special.

POSTCARD 8 ~

Peter Blake

"The Masked Zebra Kid", 1965

acrylic, collage and assemblage

Tate Gallery



http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/blake-the-masked-zebra-kid-t01877/text-catalogue-entry 



http://percivalafriend.com/friend111201.htm

gone forever, the wrestling we all watched in the 50s-60s on tv
the great names, the great acts,
Saturdays

ROBERT LAX : POEMS (1962-1997) ~

Robert Lax

one stone

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

and i am

thinking



i am

thinking

as i lift

one stone



one stone

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

and i am

thinking



i am

thinking

as i lift

one stone



i am

thinking

as i lift

one stone

one stone



i am

thinking

as i lift

one stone



one stone

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

one stone



i lift

one stone

and i am

thinking






___________







the air

and the dream:



the dream

and the air:



the flow

of the dream:



the flow

of the air.






_____________






"are you a visitor?" asked

the dog.



"yes," i answered.



"only a visitor?" asked

the dog.



"yes," i answered.



"take me with you," said

the dog.

______________

Here comes one more modest tome from the good hands at Wave Books — modest in design and a no frills beauty all its own. The size and dimensions of the press' books are often hidden, until you begin reading. Reading are what books are all about — a funny, yet knowing statement for sure. The above selection of poems by Lax is a mere touch into the scope of this collection, rounding up nearly forty years of the poet's work. . .some of which I once received decades ago from Journeyman Press, in elegant simple pressings. I haven't looked at those booklets for years but I was struck by the starkness, brief color and resonance all at once. The Wave collection is handsomely edited by John Beer: he presents, gets out of the way, but not before a heady introduction. 

No poetry library goes far without this book.

Wave Books
1938 Fairview Avenue East
Seattle, WA. 98102
wavepoetry.com

LORINE NIEDECKER'S PERSONAL LIBRARY OF BOOKS ~

 

This is a very good start to things — someone should now dig into this study and added commentary, perspective and contact to Lorine Niedecker's life and poetry.

Imagine one day the availability of having individual photographs of many of these books, plus the geography of the text and annotations, marginalia, since the poet was a careful reader.

Once upon a time I stood with this library in its stout bookcase and just the surrounding aura of a poet's personal library, the over used spines and sore edges, is some of the context missing so far from understanding just what we have here. Poet as auto didactic, poet as self-learner, poet in the remote reaches (where she still remains).

There are three books listed by Lorine Niedecker's then literary executor Cid Corman, more than twice that by Louis Zukofsky, and maybe the most titles by William Carlos Williams. No, hold on, he's one short of George Santayana.

The value of this start is invaluable.



________________________________

Friends of Lorine Niedecker

209 Merchants Avenue

Firt Atkinson, WI. 53538

http://www.lorineniedecker.org/



http://uwpress.wisc.edu/books/4779.htm

CAROLYN CASSADY ~

Carolyn Cassady with her children Cathy and Jami and a visiting Jack Kerouac

“I kept thinking that the imitators never knew and don’t know how miserable these men were,”  “They think they were having marvelous times — joy, joy, joy — and they weren’t at all.” 

~ Carolyn Cassady told the novelist Gina Berriault in 1972. 




Carolyn Cassady
April 28, 1923 ~ September 20, 2013 

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/24/books/carolyn-cassady-beat-generation-writer-dies-at-90.html 

top photo: Neal Cassady Estate
bottom photo: AP