Life in the City of Angels: When Words Fail Me… It’s Music.

Like a still image, a song can transport you back to a moment in time that has been forgotten. For instance, during the wild fires of Southern California in 2009 I had a very real flashback when Shakira’s song; “Whenever, Wherever” blared out from the radio while driving on the Glendale Freeway. The smell of a burning hillside mixed with fumes of diesel, the thump, thump, thumping of the helicopters overhead transported me immediately back to Bagram airbase in Afghanistan. Music is sort of a synthetic acid, which enhances flashbacks of one’s own memories. Scans of the brain show that when people listen to music, virtually every area of their brain becomes more active. Which may explain why I have overcome a learning disability with dyslexia and attention deficit disorder. 

Strange as it may seem, when I listen to music as I am doing right now, it forces me to focus and keeps my ADD at bay. Growing up, my parents could never understand why I would play music when reading or studying. They would just shout at me to turn the record player or radio off. But, instinctively I need this learning aid to focus .. go figure! Music helps me concentrate. Once I sit down, play my music I fall into a Zen like zone and my brain slows down to a crawl so that I can concentrate. If it were not for music and the computer I would probably be selling used furniture in Tulsa, Oklahoma. 

But when you combine music and dance it can bring back the passionate fire of our youth and the peacefulness of our softer and more graceful years – maybe they are never expressed more fully than through a song and a slow dance. It is the medium of music and dance that is tangible to our soul and expresses to the world who we truly are and who we can be. The best part of music for me, is when my arms are wrapped around a woman and I can feel the beat of her heart to the tempo of the music. We become lost, yet together in sync as the lyric’s nourish our souls. Unaware of time and space we dance losing isolation to become a bridge of kindred spirits as a karmic connection begins to blossom between us……….would you like to dance? Hit it Bobby.

BOBBY CALDWELL – What You Won’t Do For Love (1979)

Life in the City of Angels: Jesus, Spider-Man and Jimi Hendrix

Busking impersonators portraying super heros from Marvel’s Cinematic Universe and coexisting with numerous Captain Jack Sparrow have worked on Hollywood Boulevard for decades. They collect tips posing with sightseers for pictures and performing along the tourist filled corridor of the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Grauman’s Chinese Theater. In recent years competing for prime location in front of Grauman’s has become very contentious. Recently, Los Angeles paramedics responded to a battery call when a fight between Catwoman and an Ozzy Osbourne impersonators had ended with Ozzy getting pepper sprayed. It was reported that Jack Sparrow of “Pirates of the Caribbean” as being the victim but that report turned out to be false. Even superhero’s have been arrested, Spider-Man was arrested on outstanding criminal warrants after an incident in which he allegedly slugged a man. When LAPD officers arrived, they encountered four different people dressed as Spider-Man. The officers eventually got their man. 

 For Ritchie Rodgers who captures the spirit of Jimi Hendrix his challenge is to clam a spot away from the  mayhem just west of  Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Ritchie relies on the power of his music to bring the tips in and he has nailed Jimi Hendrix not only with his guitar licks but in Jimi’s vocals.

A trips to Hollywood Blvd is a wonderful opportunity to study American culture – I have never been disappointed for the lack of subjects.

Related story : Jesus of Hollywood, https://davebanks.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/jesus-of-hollywood/   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crossing Borders: Afghan Polaroid

Kabul, Afghanistan

My Afghan Polaroid

Wandering the back streets of Kabul I found myself on Passport lane where Afghan citizens go to have their photos taken for government ID’s. After watching the photographer at work with a couple of subjects, I fell in line to have my photo take as well. The process was slow, about 10 to 15 minutes to shoot, develop and print a photo for each customer. Which gave me the time to study and admire the work of this real street photographer. The Afghan box camera is a giant handmade wooden box known as the kamra-e-faoree, meaning “instant camera” – I call it the “Afghan Polaroid”. Working with only natural light the photographer uses a 35-millimeter camera lens attached to the front of the box and instead of clicking the shutter, the photographer removes the lens cap for a second and replaces it. Inside the box camera is an entire darkroom – paper, developer and fixer. After the latent image is exposed to a sheet of photographic paper, the photographer inserts his hand into the box through a cut-off pants leg designed to keep out light that would ruin the print.

He develops the image by moving the paper through two trays, one holding developer and the other fixer, to create a paper negative. He then makes another exposure, which converts the negative image into a positive print. It was truly impressive to watch how smooth and precise the photographer worked.

Having been briefly banned along with music and paper bags by the Taliban the kamra-e-faoree camera is in danger of disappearing again as digital cameras become more common place in Kabul.

Lukas Birk is well aware of the historical signifiants of the Afghan street photographers and their camera. Mr.Birk  has creating the Afghan Box Camera Project. For any photographer who appreciates the history of cameras and film this is a worth while cause. Link:http://www.afghanboxcamera.com/

I waited to see if the women was going to remove her burka for the photo, she never did.

Life in the City of Angels: “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation” – Henry David Thoreau

My aging process was not gradual or gentle. It rushes up, pushes me over, and then ran off laughing. No one should grow old who isn’t ready to appear ridiculous. I’ve been there, done that, and bought a T-shirt. I’ve never lived a life of quiet desperation. Now I replay all my adventures in my afternoon naps….bonum vitae,

Life in the City of Angels: Smoke ’em if You Got ’em

After a day of traveling aimlessly along Sunset Boulevard it was time to take a break. It had been a good day of harvesting cigarette butts. Joe had always felt it was his civic duty to help address this serious environmental problem by picking up this toxic waste. Now was the time to sit and enjoy the fruits of his labor. He watched for awhile the congestion of traffic and remembered the time he too lived that life…. but no more. The last few embers glowed at the end of the cigarette as Joe inhaled, and as the white smoke curled up in a spiral motion, he pressed lightly his shirt pocket to the fragment ends of tobacco to insure a reserve till morning. Taking the last drag the ashes glowed brighter and crackled as air passed through the cigarette and the smoke went deeply into his lungs. He dropped the butt on the concrete and stubbed it out in a rhythmical tapping of his right foot. How wonderful it would have been to have a cup of coffee to accompanied his cigarette break he thought. The sun had set, but he had decided to stay sitting on the bench and watch the world drive by and maybe have another cigarette.

Life in the City of Angels: Mood Lighting

There is something unique about Southern California light. Morning light is too short for the gold, midday leaves the gentle colors washed away, but at sunset when the blossoms close the alluring shades of light are flushed with an apricot tint with a lovely hue of lilac and pastels colors are reborn – or maybe it’s just the smog.

Life in the City of Angels: I Didn’t Chop Off My Ear

Maybe it’s that I have time. Time to explore digital art using original images from my own personal “B roll” while on assignment for others. After all I did go to art school (which I never finished) but photography stole my heart and I left the brushes, charcoal and blank canvases behind. I have been lucky to sell a few pieces of work, but that not why I do it. It’s sort of wizardry moving from my analog days to the computer screen. Scanning old slides and listening to music while lost in my own mind and letting go of what art is suppose to be.
Joy! That’s what I find in pursuing my art and reconnecting to myself and others. I also find joy when friends ask me to illustrate the life of a loved one who has passed or when an illustration creates awareness of societies forgotten souls. So, I guess you could say that regardless of what medium of art you practice, it represents not the outward appearance of an artist but the inward essences of our humanity.

Life in the City of Angels: Utterance

I believe that I am trapped in the thoughts of a writer with no say or way out, I’m terrified that at the end of the last chapter I will no longer exist. I can only hope that the author has a strong vocabulary and a bigger imagination to let me have a happy ending. This is my sentence, where I live life on the pages of white. The author writes words without risk as I am forced to walk his narrative day in and day out, but I forgive the author. I’m not sure if my story is being revealed to him or even if he has the final say. I can only hope that maybe, just maybe the author will let me know my fate. Am I fiction or non-fiction, I just don’t know.

“Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?”
― Cornelia Funke

All Things Must Pass

On January 28th I will be 73 years old and waiting with great anticipation to a happy spiritual ending when it’s my time to surf the celestial heavens. Unlike a quart of yogurt we just don’t know our expiration date. However I know exactly what is going to happen before I reach Nirvana; bed sores, bone fractured, bacterial infections, fluid in my lungs, incontinence, vomiting, dehydration, cracked lips, dry mouth, impotence, pneumonia, isolation, and a sensation of being strangled at the end with a final drip of morphine that’s what is going to happen. O’joy the pain of rebirth into the consciousness of the universe. 

So, in the meantime, I spend a lot of time reflecting on past mistakes or is it “cognitive distortions.” 

It’s accumulation of what if’s, could have’s, should have, shouldn’t have. I’m shouldn’t all over myself. 

Only on occasion I think of my accomplishment to balance out the weighty remorse. But, I embrace my past shortcomings and the ones to come. After all, isn’t that why we are here in this life to learn?  

George Harrison put it best, “People have to have a desire within themselves to know who they are and the reason why they are in this body.It’s being here now that’s important. There’s no past, and there’s no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever is the now. We can gain experience from the past, but we can’t relive it, and we can hope for the future, but we don’t know if there is one.

At the time of writing a blog entry on March 19, 2021, Holy Jeans. I didn’t realize I was actually writing about my soul and it’s vessel, my body. 

Unapologetically, I publicly announce my love to my wearer….Dave. We are hard-wearing and tightly weaved in this life. Pay no attention to the transcending of receding cotton threads, or the lack of blue contours that have lost their constitutional condition. So don’t abandon me now Dave, for I too have toiled with you my friend. We have been down many roads and have collected many rips, bruises, soil and stains. Our souls are made of denim, I am your faithful indigo friend. 

Thanks for Reading. 

Crossing Border: Dog Biscuit and Noah’s Ark

Excerpt from Cue The Camels, Chapter Eight, Dog Biscuit and Noah’s Ark 

We waited another half an hour after the Turkish patrol had disappeared out of sight before we hauled ass off the apron of Mt. Ararat and on to flat ground. My knees were shot and my feet were thrashed. We crossed numerous gullies, sliding down their drops then trudging back up their inclines, which rapidly depleted our remaining energy reserves. 

Stumbling forward, my boots scraped against the rolling rocks as I repeatedly stabbed with the ski poles for an opening between the rocks to right myself. The flare must have burned out because it became dark again. I faltered a number of times but kept an eye on my fellow climbers Cronuck and Stublich and watched them move at a steady pace towards the faint yellow and white lights of Doğubayazıt on the horizon – which I affectionately call Dog Biscuit

My feet felt warm and soggy which was a sure sign of blood. 

It was at this point – stemming from many things, such as dehydration and sheer exhaustion – that I fell into mild delirium and David Byrnes of Talking Heads became my chaperones. 

‘And you may find yourself in another part of the world. And you may ask yourself: well, how did I get here?’

‘You know, David, you’re holding me hostage with that broken record. I mean, I can appreciate your words but after a while it gets a little old. Know what I mean?’

I didn’t get a straight answer from David; instead, he gave me his advice. ‘The sound of gunfire, off in the distance, I’m getting used to it now…’

                 At that moment, a second flare burst in the night sky. It was a couple of seconds later that we heard the low boom of the flare gun, which meant there was a good distance between us and the Turkish military. I made it to the edge of the stone field; Cornuke and Stublich stopped long enough to ask me if I was okay. My lips were cracked, my tongue was swollen and all my saliva had evaporated. I could only answer with a nod and a whisper: ‘I’m okay.’

Ahead, I could hear Dick slapping the iridium satellite phone repeatedly, trying to get enough charge out of the dead battery to make a call to Micah, our Kurdish fixer, so that he could meet us at the predetermined rendezvous point.

George grumbled. ‘This is fucking stupid. Let’s go to the main highway and catch a ride to town.’

Dick stopped smacking the sat-phone and directed all his attention towards George. ‘Shut the fuck up, George. The Turkish military use that road all the time. What do you think they’ll assume if they come across us on that highway with all our gear?’

George didn’t listen and relentlessly argued his point as the sound of the dogs’ howls grew louder. There was a gunshot in the distance followed by the hiss of another parachute flare. That was all the motivation we needed; the five of us turned and hauled ourselves across the plain. David followed nearby. ‘We make a pretty good team. Don’t get exhausted; I’ll do some driving. You ought to get some sleep.’

‘You know, David, it must be Mercury in retrograde with all the hurdles we’ve had to clear,’ I muttered.

There was no response.

We’d been tramping about in the darkness for hours and we were spent, physically and emotionally. We walked on autopilot, using the light of Dog Biscuit as our beacon.

‘You know, David, I could’ve stayed in L.A. picking up work shooting a mindless sitcom and watching a celebrity with two soft, protruding organs give us the local weather report. I could have, but I wouldn’t have had this wonderful field trip to remember. Know what I mean?’

David paused then caught up with me. ‘You may ask yourself: well, how did I get here? You may ask yourself: where does that highway lead to? You may ask yourself: am I right; am I wrong? You may say to yourself: my God, what have I done?’