Photographs for Sale

Photograph by Don Hunstein

"I want to buy your horse."
"Jeezus lady, the horse ain’t for sale, just these here photographs and frames."
"I don't want those things, I want to purchase your horse."
"Lady, for Chriss sake, if I sold you my horse, how would I get my cart and all my wares home?"
"That's not my concern, or problem.  Are you going to sell me your horse?"
The man turned away from the woman and leaned on his cart in disgust.
"Photographs, get pretty photographs." he called out of the side of his mouth to whomever was near enough to hear. "Framed photographs, get 'em right here."

The woman scratched behind the horse's ear as it stood patiently by the curb. She had her beaded coin purse clutched tightly in her hand as if she were making a wish.
"Really, sir, how often do you get an offer for your horse?"
The man slapped the back of his neck and hung his head below his shoulders.
"Jeezus, Mary and Joseph lady, would ya leave it alone already? I got a business to run here. If you don't want a photograph, then could you please move it along?"
"I'd gladly move it along as you put it, if I can pay for the horse and take him with me."

The horse stamped its hind leg and twitched a fly off it's flank. The woman crossed her sandaled feet and stood close to the horse, staring in the opposite direction the photograph vendor was looking.
"I mean it lady, Jeezus H. I swear if you don't quit askin' me to sell you my horse, I, I, I don't know what I'm gonna do." The vendor tugged at his craft apron.
"Well then, all your problems are settled, let me give remuneration for your horse, you can keep his harness and bridle and I'll be off, leaving you to conduct your business in solemn peace."

The man turned his head sharply and stared burning holes in the back of the woman's head. His horse just shook its mane and snorted.
"I'm callin' a cop lady, I swear I'm callin' a cop. I can't get no business on this street with you standin' here making a ruckus about buyin' my horse. Now, I'm gonna call a cop."
"Go ahead, he'll agree I'm offering a fair price for your animal." The woman rubbed the horse's muzzle and then very lightly shook her coin purse up and down so the vendor would hear.

"Here, lady, holy mother of- look, I'll give you a free photograph. Here's one of the Eiffel Tower in Paris no less. Or maybe you'd like an artist's, hand-colored photograph of Buckingham Palace... I'll even throw in a genuine imitation silver frame with it. "Sweat stained under his arms and down his back.
The woman took a slow, deep breath and sighed. She brushed off the yoke top of her yellow summer dress and kicked at a cigar butt in the street gutter.
"No, no, I think not. It's your horse or nothing sir. I have grown very fond of this beast while waiting here for you to make up your mind and release him to me. So if you would kindly complete our transaction- "

"LADY! Just stop, will ya? You're killin' me. I give up. I mean it, I really give up. Here, take the damn horse, AND the crumby cart too. I can't run my business without no horse, so just take it all. Horse, cart, photographs and frames. I'm through. You win. Are ya happy now?"

The persistent woman turned, looked the man up and down, handed over her coin purse and watched as he jammed it into his apron pocket and walked hurriedly away. As an afterthought she called out, "You may keep my beaded purse sir."

The man rounded the street corner and never returned.
The woman adjusted the straps on her sandals, pushed back her hair and gave the horse a kind pat on its rear flank as she walked back toward the cart. She dabbled through the ware on the cart. Her fingers browsed around the photos admiring their frames and casually brushed some dust off the cart’s table.
After an appropriate pause and contented sigh, she then loudly shouted,
"Photographs, fancy photographs, get your pretty framed photographs right here."

Baney's Predicament

Baney made a personal vow not to be late for class the rest of the school year. His mom and dad had lectured him about accepting maturity and taking responsibility for his choices and actions in high school.  Baney made his goal simple: he just wanted to get to class before the late bell. High school was difficult enough without having to complicate it with maturity and responsibility all the time.

So far, his Sophomore grades were average across the board.  He tried out and made the soccer team -although just second string- and he was pretty sure Jenny Corlis might, sort of, like him- but who could tell what girls like. Everything seemed pretty much teenage normal. His chronic tardiness was a problem that tended to get him into trouble with his teachers, which tended to get him in trouble with his counselor, which tended to get him in trouble with his parents... too complicated.

Baney's tardy issues stemmed from how easily he got distracted. Almost anything going on in the school hallways like Nerf Frisbee challenges, text book hockey, watching the janitor buff the lunchroom floor caused him to be late to class. Running a gauntlet of varsity bullies -showing off for their cheerleader girlfriends- made him late to gym class however was a slightly different problem. His distractions varied from day to day and usually got him into hot water that ended with him being sent to Mr. Hammer the Vice Principal's office. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to achieve any on time goals this day. Sliding quickly up to his locker, between first and second period, he smacked his friend Detrick- the German exchange student- on the back of the head.
"Jah, you gonna be late again Baney." Detrick laughed.
 Ignoring Detrick's banter in an effort to save time, Baney deftly thumbed his combination and flipped open his locker door. Everything was the way he had left it, in alphabetical chaos. A quick grab of his science book, a one-handed mouth-zip of his folder cover and he turned to kick his locker closed. That's when it all happened. Things went sideways like reflections in a carnival fun house mirror. Then flashing light, magnified to solar flare intensity blinded him. Baney heard a loud sucking sound as he was pulled into the narrow opening of his beige school locker.

When he finally regained partial eyesight he tried to stand up and failed. He didn't fail standing, it was the up part he failed. He sort of stood-up sideways, not really standing on anything. The space he occupied reminded him of his mother's famous molded pineapple-lime jello dessert. Everything was all tinted green, wobbly and sideways. Baney stared at what resembled pineapple chunks in his mother's dessert, only these shapes were the size of Volkswagens and had red, neon glowing eye. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered he was on his way to Mr. Jergens science class.

A quick survey of his surroundings revealed a narrow slit far behind one of the pineapple life-forms suspended in front of him. Could that bright slit be the opening to his locker he thought? Not one to think too hard, Baney began to make his way through the jello-like substance. His forward motion was like running-in-a-dream slow. His pace afforded him enough time to contemplate maturity and responsibility his parents had spoke of, but not the inclination. Each move forward attracted more of the pineapple-chunk creatures. They started to converge on him. This bizarre situation resembled a whacked-out video game.

Baney stretched out his arm and miraculously grasped the edge of the slit he believed to be the opening to his locker. With effort only a second-string soccer player could muster, he pulled himself through the opening while noises -similar to air escaping from a stretched balloon mouth- accompanied his efforts. He fell from his locker, flat on his face with wobbling chunks of green jello and pineapple bits splattered around him. During his ‘inter-dimensional’ escapade, Baney had accidentally broken open his brown lunch bag.  He sat and wiped himself off as a hallway packed with students laughed at him. Looking up from the floor, he saw Jenny Corlis sail by mouthing the words, "you're late for class, AGAIN." She giggled and hit him on the head with her thick science book.

That cinched it Baney thought, Jenny did like him. The late bell rang, Mr. Jergens began to salivate outside his classroom door, Detrick stole his sandwich and Baney couldn't find his science folder. It looked like his attempt at maturity and responsibility would have to wait until next period.

Quartet

A quartet of musicians casually gathered in a park at a long, wood-slatted bench constructed around the base of a monument. It was warm for June and the shadow from the granite base of a huge equestrian sculpture provided the performers some cool shade.

The quartet consisted of a violinist, two cellists and a bassoon player. They dressed alike: White long sleeve shirts, white gingham pants, white socks and white canvas shoes, contrasted with black four-in-hand ties. Their appearance was neat and uniform as thought customary of classical musicians.

The violinist placed his foot next to his open violin case on the bench. He fussed with some grass and leaves stuck to his shoe. Seated about two feet away, cello out and bow rosined, the next musician sat legs surrounding his instrument, preparing to tune it's strings. About six feet further down the long bench sat the other cellist, slowly drawing his horse hair bow across his instrument’s wire strings, sounding long, sorrowful notes. Then sitting very close to him was the bassoonist, fumbling with wetting and shaping his double reed. He tried repeatedly to bring the long cylindrical instrument to life but only succeeded in honking like a barnyard goose, much to his frustration.

There they were, getting ready, positioning their feet, straightening their ties, brushing their shoes, turning pegs and tuning strings while the bassoonist kept honking now and then.
"What shall we play today?" asked the first cellist.
"What ever everybody else wants to play, I don't mind." replied the violinist now rosining his bow.
"Well, I think we should start with Brahms today." offered the first cellist.
HONK "Damn." cursed the bassoonist.
"Really. Can't you get those reeds working?"
HONK
"Well, now after thinking about it, I think we should begin with a little Mozart. He’s so fitting for June” re-suggested the first cellist.

The second cellist continued to drawn out sorrowful pitches on his instrument, ignoring the suggestions of the first cellist. With head bowed to the neck of his cello, directing his comment to the cement walk surrounding the monument, the second cellist spoke, "No, I think Schubert better befits the month of June." 
"Oh really?" asked the first cellist with a slight tone of distain.
HONK
A flock of sparrows barnstormed the equestrian statue overhead. A passing senior couple holding hands momentarily lingered near a landscaped bed of tulips in hopes of maybe hearing a private concert.

The first cellist shifted his feet, putting his right foot forward and drawing his left one back, then pulling at the crotch of his gingham trousers behind his cello.
"Maybe, but on second thought, I don't think we should play either Brahms or Schubert now. I think for the park at this time of day in front of this monument we should play Mendelssohn. That's what I think we should start with." He ended his suggestion by bouncing his bow staccato against his strings.
The violinist tugged at the ironed crease in his pants.
"I think Mendelssohn is fine, I really don't mind, whatever anyone else feels like playing is perfectly fine with me."
HONK "Damn it." cursed the bassoonist.
"Really could you stop that embarrassing honking, really." exclaimed the first cellist.

The second cellist bent his head closer to the scroll of his instrument and scratched his head with the top right key peg.
"I think your thinking about this all the wrong way you know. I think the first expression should be a Saint-Saens or Taneyev, that's what I think."
The senior couple shrugged and continued their leisurely stroll, only to be replaced by a group of strutting pigeons bobbing un-rhythmically in search of errant bread crumbs or sod grubs.

"WHoosh, such high-brow tastes you have. Don't you have any consideration for the common public that just wants to hear some serene music? I think I'll stick with my original suggestion, Brahms." concluded the first cellist.
"Whatever everyone else wants to play." said the violinist in support.
HONK
"If you can't adjust that hollow log to play with some modicum of sonority, I'm afraid I can't contribute my part." complained the first cellist.
"In that case," said the second cellist, "maybe we should begin with a trio, a Sibelius perchance?"
"If that's what everyone wants." stated the violinist adjusting his necktie.
"I don't know how I've put up with you gaggle of prima-donnas this long." huffed the first cellist.
HONK
"That's it. I'm leaving. I'm tired of working with amateurs."

With that declaration, the first cellist packed up his instrument, pulled off his tie and threw it on the ground before leaving the group.
"I'm sorry fellas, this reed is shot. It was the last one I had too damn it. The music store is only twenty blocks away, I could purchase a new one and be back here in about an hour or so." said the bassoonist apologetically.
“No, it’s alright, I guess we could just do a few impromptu duets. Some Dvorak perhaps?” The remaining cellist asked the violinist.
"Well," began the violinist flipping his comb-over hair bang with his bow, "do you happen to know any Welsh Mining songs?"
A choir of squirrels chattered in harmony as the sun lowered a curtain on the musicians as they packed up their instruments and headed back to their homes.

Porcelain Dimension

In some obscure circles a discussion about meeting strangers in public washrooms invariably leads to the hypothesis that the strangers are from alternate dimensions.  Some astute members of these circles go so far as to insist that portals to other dimensions are prompted by the abundant accumulation of porcelain in these locations. The laid back, open minded members squeeze their chins and nod in possibility. But that’s not sufficient evidence enough for the more aggressive debaters who gesticulate absurdity in the ceramic hypothesis. Those overbearing individuals, and individual they are, seem to regard strangers from other dimensions, who lurk in public washrooms are there for the same reasons as the strangers in their own dimension- that being, an obvious urgent need to use the facilities.

This popular discussion can go on for hours. Temporary conclusions that chemical analysis of the room’s tile grout need be taken. Assertions that the chrome plumbing be tested for radio activity and Ph reading of the urinal flush water be measured. The chin squeezing, open minded of the group will vigorously nod their heads. A uniquely persistant member will remind everyone of the effect of the sheer weight of porcelain involved, at which point much face-palming ensues. Another well read member of the group will quote that, “The devil is in the details.” And a respectful pause is observed.

It’s a while before the discussion turns it’s focus on the strangers themselves. A new member of the group suddenly gets an epiphany, “What makes these strangers from another dimension strange?”… Several lower lips are extended and heads slowly move up and down. The definition of strange needs to be defined. Where are these other dimensional strangers from? What truly is their purpose there? When are they most likely to appear in the public washrooms? Who can positively identify them? “Why are they here?” Someone from the back of the group pipes in. He is tersely informed that the why of the matter was long ago agreed upon, because ‘they too need to use the facilities’. “Why don’t they use the washrooms in their own dimension?” asks the same discontented speaker. Eyes roll, arms are folded and heavy air is exhaled through multiple sets of nostrils. Another mandatory pause is observed.

An interlude of childhood memories about public washroom experiences is shared.An open minded participant remembers going into a washroom in the basement floor of an old department store, the washroom also happened to be connected to the subway by a dark, tile-lined tunnel shaped stairway. He remembered a strange man who wore a thick wool suit and a large hat who stood back from a stain etched, vertical floor urinal, pulled one panel of his jacket aside and without touching his male genitalia, urinated into the receptacle and then spit a loogey in after. That definitely in the speaker’s opinion was a stranger from another dimension.

Not to be left out of the lively discussion, another group member recalled how during his tenure in reform school, he and a group of his fellow juvees were loitering in a school lavatory when they heard the most grotesque sounds and smelled the most offensive odors coming out of the last toilet stall. The noises and smells were so horrific they had to wait and see who occupied the stall so they could later torment and forever embarrass and the kid. They waited for over half an hour and endured the most disgusting bodily excretions until they agreed not to wait any longer and kick the door of the stall in to find out. Much to their surprise, just before kicking the door, they all heard a gushing flush. But no one opened the stall door. The fellow telling the story had jumped up on the seat of the neighboring stall toilet and peeked over the metal divider. He swore he was never so surprised in his entire time at the reform school. When he told what he saw, his mates didn’t believe him and kicked the door open anyway. They discovered the stall empty.
Eyebrows raised at this point of the story. Then in the back of the group, someone suggested, “Maybe the guy flushed himself into the next dimension.”… A smattering of repressed chuckles jiggled the group.

“It’s all about the porcelain.” repeated a member tired of the stroll down memory lane. Yes they all agreed. All the porcelain fixtures and tiled walls and floors seemed to form a sort of crucible for electro-magnetic waves to transfer matter from one dimension to the other. All elements conjoined played some role in the frequent appearance of strangers from other dimensions appearing in public washrooms, but none of the group could conclusively come up with a solid explanation why.  With the discussion winding down, the group finished up by washing their hands and drying them under hot air blowers- then one by one, they all left the confines of the washroom via a paranormal method of their choosing.

Coffee Rant

I had to give up the one thing, the first thing I looked forward to each morning. A cup of coffee. It seems my over-stimulated, urban-abused body just won't tolerate the cup of joe anymore. Well I thought, maybe now things will slow down, go at a more recognizably human pace. Not even close. Without coffee, I feel like I'm in a time warp as seconds drag like hours and I stumble around in an opiate state. The old television commercial that said, "Coffee, it picks you up and calms you down." like hell. I've always known the effects of coffee, one cup leads to two, leads to a coveted pot that you won't share with anyone. The addictive affection for roasted beans and home grinding and french steeping. But it's so much more than that. Everyone silently claiming allegiance to the coffee club by aimlessly stumbling through their morning commutes while mallet-clutching a paper Venti. Young office hipsters slouching a anonymously in the back of meeting rooms acting like totally "in" while they barely keep a grasp on their personalized mugs. Yeah, coffee, the syrup that fills the cracks of virtual reality to make it all seem real in geophysical reality. The stealth speedball. The ubiquitous heroin. None of this comes as any surprise to me, I've cold turkey-ed the caffeine tar three times, so I figure, once more into the maw of oblivion is no problem, right? It's not so much the actual abstinence, but the timing. It's like being in the high-speed-car-chase-of-life and suddenly just opening the door and getting out. Folger's doesn't come with skid leathers. It's not a matter of red pill or blue pill, that's just Hollywood psychosis. You just make a choice between brown liquid or clear liquid. It’s all a matter of perspective. I thought maybe I'd lose my razor edge, that I wouldn't have that anime katana like mental prowess. Then I imagined how brutal and Caligula-like trying to cleave a winter squash with a dull butter knife is, and my caffeine deprived ego was marginally eased. Coffee doesn't make you see goddesses or machine elves, you're moving too fast, way out front, standing on the accelerator. Funny car, formula drag racing is like nursing home bingo compared to a java jag. "But it's all for the best" the tea totaling suffragettes sing-song and we all know what happened to prohibition. Remember the ad campaign against drugs, with the egg, "this is your brain on drugs" hook line? The one for coffee would be a nice juicy bug splat on the windshield of a Bonneville Flats speed record vehicle, THAT's yer freaking brain on caffeine dude. 

It's ok though, I'll just do a Miss America beauty pageant white-gloved hand wave as life now blurs by me, the rat race is more over-rated hype than pay-off anyway. Yeah, you guessed it, CHEESE is the next thing I'll have to give up. 

william calkins | Drawings

william calkins | Drawings

Corporeal

     Worldly events are bending and warping like a "Rubber Man" sideshow contortionist. Even an unbiased observer with 20/20 vision can't manage to focus the abstracting images into anything recognizable. A matter of mass hallucination. Hysterical, manic, machinations. That's what reality actually looks like. The only way to make it behave as something different is through aggressive application of mass hypnosis. The use of somnambulistic phrases and shiny objects to pendulum-swing before rose tinted eyes. Contact lens blinders superimposed upon self-hobbled victims. An easy enough feat exercised upon victims that want to be entertained, not held to the grail-light of truth. Looking behind the curtain wasn't part of their front row ticket price, and yet, jumping off cliffs is free of charge. 

Our planet still hangs suspended in a revolving universe, stable as a pizza box hiding a molten mozzarella core. Oceans of soda and forests of garlic breadsticks compose the flat-earth geography. Self-imposed celebrities perpetually chase themselves ‘round ninety-degree corners. All is as should be in the abyss of Dis-reality Complication. 

One way to simplify life is to stop looking under pillows every night expecting gifted currency from fictitious entities acting out enamel fetishes. 

"Now what?" is a question more people should ask themselves in lieu of sentimental, self-indulgent ramblings about what they used to do, or who they used to be, or worse, bragging about how they haven't changed. Gets old fast. The often overlooked secret is- it's never too late to start something new, even if it's only switching your morning breakfast beverage from frozen orange juice concentrate to artificial vegetable flavored puree. That one minute change could domino-tilt the entire universe on a different course. 

Observe and absorb. Rhetoric is meaningless. Your arsenal of senses are your best conduits for learning. See, hear, smell, taste, feel, then THINK. Search for answers to questions. ASK questions you’ve never thought of before. Questions are the catalyst for growth. 

It's folly trying to “teach”. The best hope, is to plant a seed that will germinate into action at the most opportune time. It's not about rote, but about comprehension that begets epiphany.

Physical world, physical reality.... gravity plays a big part. Imagination isn't affected by gravity. Freedom from that ankle-yank pull is what sets imagination to FLY....Quantum Theory is pedestrian compared to imagination. It's bogged down by numbers and formulas, never ending equations.... chalk scratchings on dull slate, a poor substitute for the velvet sheen behind the cosmos.... 

Time is a rudimentary construct of man to aid him in keeping events organized, categorized and hypothesized. Time is merely a measurement, and not a very accurate one. There is no such thing as time fueling thought or imagination. But there is pulse. Fast, anticipated pulse, slow bemused pulse, a brush swish on a snare drum, a pluck of a bass string, the flutter of a heart in love. Pulse drives everything. Incremented time only cheapens the phenomenon of moment. Each heartbeat is an infinite moment. 

Distraction is a terminal path. Pillar of salt stuff. Mind to ash. But moments filled with imagination, discourage  distraction-rot. 

The night sky used to be filled with rainbows and strings of pulsing color spooling across the naked universe.