Aime-moi

Over the bridge – an open lock

fear of being loved…

*My first attempt at a modern photographic adaptation of Haiga – haiku art.  There will be more to come about this subject.

Karma Control

I’m currently working on an outdoor/travel/adventure/photography show and have been spending a lot of time looking for local characters in Alaska.  As I was browsing an air taxi service website that offers glacier landings in Denali, I came across a photo of two old men sitting on a couch with the following bio:

“Ted Gannon and Fred Beckey – Karma Control.  Ted spends the off season in Nepal and Seattle.  If you need counseling re: climbing or women, see Ted or Fred.  Ted “the Head” Gannon is the man behind the whole climbing operation situating tents and tarps.  Though Fred Beckey does not work for us, he is usually here every year scouting for new ascents and new names for his little black book and chasing the women.”

Excited that I found some great local characters I started calling around asking for Fred Beckey’s contact info.  I finally “googled” him.

I had stumbled upon a living legend.  Fred Beckey has been referred to as “The Old Man of the Mountains.”  He is an American mountaineer and author who has made more first ascents than any other North American and has been referred to as one of the most accomplished climbers of all time.  At 85+ the man is still climbing and still holds the following reputation: “Beware of Beckey:  He will Steal your woman, and steal your route.”

Photo: Popular photo of Beckey found on internet.

Portions from a Wine Stained Notebook

My head aches like a cocoanut rolling over the rocks.

He’s full of eggs and doughnuts.

The Arts are candy cream, no problem.

I am too much a saga of a certain type of person: fuzzy blackness, impractical meditations, and repressed desires.

…Oh, I should have stayed at the hospital, tinkering with people, painting at night.  I could have made my own world at night.  But I wanted to stir the whole pond, shake the base.  Oh hunger-hunger.

I hurled myself toward my personal god: SIMPLICITY

It was the time for jazz and oranges, shaking buttocks.

Let us not leave life to the idiots to spill like some poor porridge, or the girls on gin.

Could I but wash away meaning like a sore, and would that the animal in my wisdom eat and disgorge my tender brain.

The animal-drive and energy of my fellow man amazed me: that a man could change tires all day long or drive an ice cream truck or run for Congress or cut into a man’s guts in surgery or murder, this was all beyond me.

Do you want an ending? write it yourself.

*Compilations from Bukowski