The Fourteenth Ward

“To be born in the street means to wander all your life, to be free. It means accident and incident, drama, movement. It means above all dream. A harmony of irrelevant facts which gives to your wandering a metaphysical certitude. In the street you learn what human beings really are; otherwise, or afterwards, you invent them.

What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature”
Henry Miller – Black Spring.

When I was reading Henry Miller, he was considered vulgar, outrageous, and obscene. He still is by many. But for a creative person, he was a hero for me. His best work is the life of an artist who has already passed the age when such things are considered by sane people. Remind you of anyone?

* * * And on a tech note, this was one of those night negatives with just about nothing on it, that I ran through tone mapping and used every bit of skill to pull something from the shadows areas. I really should have had a tripod with me if I was going to be with a single camera, one lens, and it was medium format. Nevertheless, things are what they are.

* * * And what were my favorite Henry Miller books. That’s easy: Sexus, Nexus and Plexus.  If you only think – oh, he’s that dirty writer from the 50′s – do yourself a favor; get Sexus and find a passage where you talks about food.  Or the process of writing.  Or his time spent at the cosmococic telegraph office.  (He uses a different name each time he writes about it).  I used to do the same thing when I wrote about my time at the ad agency.

Yes, his style – personal and yet somehow managing to use a lot of great words, and at the same time wind up with a chapter that’s a story, even though he has to circle around forever to get to it.  That style, and also the style of writing in “other people’s voices” -  I use all the time.  At least when I’m writing well.

I might start with something that actually happened, like the closet doors sticking – but then go off down an avenue of imagination where I’m treading the line between making things up so that the story can have a nice narrative curve; and downright lying because the events are boring.   That’s really what this is all about, when it’s going well.

When it’s not going well, it’s just a depository for ideas, photos, and did I say ideas?  That maybe I will get back to and probably I won’t. And now my eyes are closing, and I’m happy I found the right image for this post.  The right image for any post.

I could go on and tell you another story – about how I recently got into smoking cigars – and how I’m getting a box shipped to me of Upmann’s tomorrow, which is really what I’m waiting for; and how it annoys the hell out of everybody; and how it’s impossible to smoke cigarettes in NYC unless you’re a millionaire because the state has taken over their action from the mafia, taxing our vices… and I imagine that there will be the usual cry of don’t start smoking cigars; but it falls on deaf, addictive ears, that need this sort of calming effect.  Best part of the day: sitting on the fire-escape, with the cat on a little rug I’ve placed out there; and me reading the paper on the iPhone with a good cigar and a vivid cross-wind in the fading light of the city caressing the one big elm tree in the backyard.  Okay, caressing might be going too far, but I’ll use it anyway.  The wind carries the sweet smoke towards the elm tree, caressing and inspecting it…. [snore...]

Cat jumps up on the bed when he sees I’m closing down computer and lights are going out; and my arm goes under the pillow; and the cat, now weighing in around 15 pounds – puts his head down sideways in the nook of my hand and wrist and purrs until we both fall asleep…

Next thing I know, something is tapping me on the forehead.  Cat wants attention. Cat wants food.  Cat wants something….