the wind i had for breakfast
the wind is shaking my house. it’s brick. every window is rattling like a freight train is practicing parallel parking in my attic.
i finished my roll of film in my 1935 agfa plenax. while i do dishes tonite i will develop it, see what comes out.
(note, it was full of light leaks from the bellows)
i spent friday wandering baltimore, where i used to live, these slums, this white trash lower section of town, which was really blue collar when i was living there, but now of course my old house has been transformed into some sort of mini-shit mansion, with ornamental grasses where there used to be concrete, cracked and stained. a brick walkway, a deck on the roof, but peeling paint on the trim. its quite an effect. it looks out on the train tracks. which are maybe 25 from the front door. so a train really did practice parking there, and it was less noisy/shaking than this wind, which is just tearing thru the town, making trashcans disgorge thier contents like drunks in an alley and spin thru the streets like new years revelers the wrong side of sober.
but back to baltimore. these back alleys i used to travel, on foot, with camera, 8 years ago, ages ago, the alleys are maybe 2 feet wide, covered in trash, backyards butting up with chainlink fences and worn out tired toothless wooden fence slats with huge dogs so mean they dont even bark restrained by the concept of the fence but clearly not its actual structural properties. backyards piled high with random cast offs from a plastic consumer society, broken childrens slides, rusted grills, broken bikes, disassembled mopeds, kites, rolls of astroturf, broken lawn ornaments. its rich in texture and decay. i grew up in dusty antique shops and going to yard sales and stealing from junkyards with my dad, and this is just an extension, instead of buying or borrowing i just take photographs of these backyards with my vintage camera.
the alleys twist for miles, you basically just emerge to cross a street, and are back in this warren of undulating passageways, forgotten and neglected and disused except by stray dogs and bums, who both use it for the same purpose, scat strewn over the refuse and broken concrete. i round a corner and suprize a bum pissing on a brick wall, the urine running around his foot, deep yellow. around the next corner i look around futively and do the same. 3 cups of coffee…
the air is clear and clouds are scattered, the wind has whipped away the smog like an old lady shooes a cat. i wind my way back to a lunch counter of the old school, neon sign, abrupt waitresses. i met an old guy, tom something, with a beret and long fingernails and a faded jean jacket. before he speaks i peg him: old photographer. he sees my yashica. names the model just by seeing the back of it. i try to keep the conversation short but get pulled in, and soon am in a 20 minute conversation about photography, art, art school, we both went to the same place, albeit 30 years apart… we parted on good terms, my wallet is .3 grams heavier due to his business card.
a brief car trip north of the city brought me to hamden, a street of shops and foodie places interspersed with antique shops. i got a hot tip on a vintage camera store, knock and enter and up some dusty steps and casper, 18 years old in 1941, bombing of pearl harbor and a draft notice as an 18th birthday present, stands there with infinite knowledge of movie and still image cameras, definately almost blind with cracked yellow fingernails and a worn red cardigan over a red plaid shirt, he holds my(starmers actually) rolleicord from 1950 and without even looking down knows what lens it has, what its aperture is… we talk about the war, about how to dispose of vintage film (which turns into nitrate, powdered dust, explosive on contact with air, so he would take excess/cut movie footage and dump it into the river at midnight), how 35mm was invented, tube amplifiers, white people in advertising, and wood paneling.
i buy a 7 dollar vintage dark room timer from him. it works beautifully and has a much nicer alarm ring than my soulless digital timer..beep beep beep beepppp… which makes you feel like you are dying in a hospital everytime you change the chemicals.
Yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe’s a-pourin’
And the lightnin’s a-flashing and the thunder’s a-crashin’
And the windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops a-shakin’
And yer whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
“I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born”
since when did you like dylan?
oh, and, its a great quote
such a little piece doesn’t really do it justice though…
When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb
When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When you’re laggin’ behind an’ losin’ your pace
In the slow-motion crawl or life’s busy race
No matter whatcha doin’ if you start givin’ up
If the wine don’t come to the top of your cup
If the wind got you sideways it’s one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slippin’ and the feelin’ is gone
And your train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood’s easy findin’ but you’re lazy to fetch it
And your sidewalk starts curlin’ and the street gets too long
And you start walkin’ backwards though you know that it’s wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow’s mornin’ seems so far away
And you feel the reins from your pony are slippin’
And your rope is a-slidin’ ’cause your hands are a-drippin’
And your sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And your sky cries water and your drain pipe’s a-pourin’
And the lightnin’s a-flashin’ and the thunder’s a-crashin’
The windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops are shakin’
And your whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’
And your minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
An’ to yourself you sometimes say
“I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born?” And you start gettin’ chills and you’re jumpin’ from sweat
And you’re lookin’ for somethin’ you ain’t quite found yet
And you’re knee-deep in dark water with your hands in the air
And the whole world’s watchin’ with a window peek stare
And your good gal leaves and she’s long gone a-flyin’
And your heart feels sick like fish when they’re fryin’
And your jackhammer falls from your hands to your feet
But you need it badly an’ it lays on the street
And your bell’s bangin’ loudly but you can’t hear its beat
And you think your ears mighta been hurt
Your eyes’ve turned filthy from the sight-blindin’ dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterday’s rush
When you were faked out an’ fooled while facin’ a four flush
And all the time you were holdin’ three queens
It’s makin you mad, it’s makin’ you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin’ around a pinball machine
And there’s something on your mind that you wanna be sayin’
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin’
But it’s trapped on your tongue, sealed in your head
And it bothers you badly when your layin’ in bed
And no matter how you try you just can’t say it
And you’re scared to your soul you just might forget it
And your eyes get swimmy from the tears in your head
An’ your pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion’s mouth opens and you’re starin’ at his teeth
And his jaws start closin’ with you underneath
And you’re flat on your belly with your hands tied behind
And you wish you’d never taken that last detour sign
You say to yourself just what am I doin’
On this road I’m walkin’, on this trail I’m turnin’
On this curve I’m hangin’
On this pathway I’m strollin’, this space I’m taking
And this air I’m inhaling?
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I’m playing, on this banjo I’m frailing
On this mandolin I’m strumming, in the song I’m singing,
In the tune I’m humming, in the words that I’m thinking
In the words I’m writing
In this ocean of hours I’m all the time drinking
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking?
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make your heart pound
But then again you know when they’re around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
‘Cause sometimes you hear ‘em when the night time come creeping
And you fear they might catch you sleeping
And you jump from your bed, from the last chapter of dreamin’
And you can’t remember for the best of your thinkin’
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that’s somethin’ special you’re needin’
And you know there’s no drug that’ll do for the healing
And no liquor in the land to stop your brain from bleeding You need somethin’ special
You need somethin’ special, all right
You need a fast flyin’ train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That’s been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows your troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don’t bar no race
That won’t laugh at your looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rolling long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it’s you and no one else that owns
That spot that you’re standing, that space that you’re sitting
That the world ain’t got you beat
That it ain’t got you licked
It can’t get you crazy no matter how many times you might get kicked
You need something special, all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope’s just a word
That maybe you said, maybe you heard
On some windy corner ’round a wide-angled curve But that’s what you need man, and you need it bad
And your trouble is you know it too good
‘Cause you look an’ you start gettin’ the chills
‘Cause you can’t find it on a dollar bill
And it ain’t on Macy’s window sill
And it ain’t on no rich kid’s road map
And it ain’t in no fat kid’s fraternity house
And it ain’t made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain’t on that dim-lit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Rantin’ and ravin’ and takin’ your money
And you thinks it’s funny
No, you can’t find it neither in no night club, no yacht club
And it ain’t in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you’re bound to tell
No matter how hard you rub
You just ain’t a-gonna find it on your ticket stub
No, it ain’t in the rumors people’re tellin’ you
And it ain’t in the pimple-lotion people are sellin’ you
And it ain’t in a cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star’s blouse
And you can’t find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can’t tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain’t in the cream puff hairdo or cotton candy clothes
Ain’t in the dime store dummies an’ bubblegum goons
And it ain’t in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knocking and tapping in Christmas wrapping
Sayin’ ain’t I pretty and ain’t I cute, look at my skin,
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow,
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry,
When you can’t even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No, you’ll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made of paper maché
And inside of the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain’t in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who’d turn you in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind your back, my friend,
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can’t find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all the rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain’t in the ones that ain’t got any talent but think they do
And think they’re fooling you
The ones that jump on the wagon
Just for a while ’cause they know it’s in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down your hat
Saying, “Christ, do I gotta be like that?
Ain’t there no one here that knows where I’m at
Ain’t there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty, that stuff ain’t real”: No, but that ain’t your game, it ain’t your race
You can’t hear your name, you can’t see your face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that you’re seekin’
Where do you look for this lamp that’s a-burnin’
Where do you look for this oil well gushin’
Where do you look for this candle that’s glowin’
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you go to Brooklyn State Hospital You find God in the church of your choice
You find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it’s only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You’ll find them both
In Grand Canyon
Sundown
i enjoyed this post. i had a darkroom eons ago (early 80′s); all scavenged and donated stuff that was “old” at the time. i had a timer very similar & agree; with its ticking and bell…so much more a human experience than the LCD beeeep-beeep.
scott, i didnt put this in the post, but for some reason, i cant really explain this… but time seems to move faster in analog. my film seems to get developed more quickly. hmmm…