Robert Bechtle is Dead

I never met Robert Bechtle. I admired his work in museums and at the San Francisco airport where I saw his painting, "Frisco Nova." He was a local guy, born in San Francisco three years after my father. Through his work with hyper-realism, he taught me a valuable lesson about seeing. Seeing what we always see but never see. In photo-like paintings of ordinary places and people and things, Bechtle, a quiet man, yelled: LOOK AT THIS. There's nothing better than this! Look harder! What do you see?

I say to you: Look up. Bechtle's triptych, "Sunset Intersection," is the image and title for this blog. Not to mention the title of my latest novel. I think that's the street I grew up on in the Parkside/Sunset district. Anyway, it's a fascinating work because it seems like the ultimate representation of reality, a painting that takes weeks of hard labor to look like a photo. But it is also mere lines and shades and colors. Turn one of the three upside down to check. It is ultimately abstract art trying to tell you something. Do you get it? Everything we see every second is lines, shades, colors. It is all two dimensional until we touch it. Until we make the first move. So what is real? What's out there, what's in here?

Robert Bechtle died this week at 88. We lost an artist, we lost a teacher. His work, his vision, his wisdom remains. And his "Alameda Gran Torino" over my desk.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 100.

DAY 100: LAST QUARANTINE CHRONICLE

Balance sheet -- 100 days.

I spent 77 days indoors

never going out, not even onto

the safe balcony -- then unavoidably

7 days in Milan, coronavirus capital

of the world, then 14 days in extra

quarantine, then a swab in the car

then negative results, lockdown is

over, lockdown is over. Safe to reopen.

Whatever.

I disagree, I strongly fear opening

everything up again: is it better

to have a catastrophe to confirm

my dark opinion? or fewer deaths to

show that the business leaders

and their politicos were right?

virus, what virus? we're back in

business, baby! cranking it out, pumping it

assembly-lining it, harvesting,

dishing it up -- down @ Peet's:

what's your name? Covid.

Covid, your coffee's ready!

Right on.

The Great 2020 Distraction -- We

had 12 years to work non-stop to 
survive, then 10 while we discussed it 
at the highest levels -- then we lost a year 
to the bug, civil unrest, sports, elections, and so on.

Online classes ruined education. Fear

of neighbors ruined socialization. Fear
of science ruined our minds.
Fear of death, well, you know ...
So, we've got maybe 9 years left 
until our collective climate suicide --

point of no return, is that ambiguous? --
and we've already declared infinite boredom

with the topic -- We are undeserving; we
are weak, ignorant, helpless children.

After this crud, we think we've survived 

but look ahead, unless we get our 
human being on natural planet Earth
act together now, right now,
turn around the iceberg-bound
Titanic right now ...
We think we have survived
-- we haven't, we won't --

We Thought Wrong.

THE END.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 99

DAY 99: Well? It's almost over -- the

pestilence, no that's going along fine, killing

methodically like a grim reaper machine, the quarantine

the lockdown, the hunker down, the hibernation

the hiding at home hoping the boogerman

won't find you -- did he? we'll know soon --

when they let us out, can we party?

they say no but we will anyway --will we

be animals running in a stampede

like shoppers on Black Friday?

I'll wait for you in the car -- can we eval-

uate, give ourselves a grade -- Cabin

Fever or Hermit Syndrome, which won out?

for me, the Hermit Syndrome won and is still winning

but I've always been an agoraphobic-introverted type

for you, though, it was Cabin Fever the winner

you're ready to fly, got plans for fun with friends --

no end --no end to fun, no end to friends -- no end 

to our nation-states, our human rights, our health

wealth and sanity -- all we wants is NO END

in sight -- and to see this we have to go outdoors

to check on who's left to look into the mass graves

and watch the lucky leave the wards, look up,
thank the stars -- if you keep hiding in fear, Hermit 
the Frog, you'll never know, never know any real news 
from the street, never know your friends, yourself,

your sanity.

The safe house was nice, but

it's time to leave. The sunlight
is bright, but it's alive.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 98

DAY 98: It's time to fight, it's time,

every generation -- Women's March,

Climate Strike, March for Our Lives -- 

every year, it's time to fight --

BLACK LIVES MATTER

no ifs, ands, buts, correlaries, addenda --

what a silly slogan, as if they didn't

of course they do

except to the fascists

they don't, so not silly, needed
so we take back the streets and shout

a million strong, not silly, take it seriously

they do, we take back the night

against racism, systemic and personal

-- the parasite on our soul --

we take the governor's mansion

against police brutality, militar-

ization, police murder, cover-ups,

white supremacy, white nationalism

lynching, discrimination, prisons for profit

the KKK good old boys in uniform

got their John in the big house so they raised

their poisonous serpent heads -- Whack 'em

back down, get 'em off the force, they won't change

out of the military, back into a sod-hut in the holler

eating dirt and making moonshine, wearing camo

head to toe

-- yet here I am in quarantine

can't go out for a while and when I do

I must wear a mask and avoid all gatherings 

to hide my identity from the Proud Boy cop thugs

until I'm arrested when the mask goes down

on me but also on you, turn your body-cam off

tape your badge -- but we see you! we know you!
we see your desire to bust heads glowing bright
your contact high for getting permission to do 
the Dark Lord's work, no limitations, like you're infected
with violence, with lust, with avarice and hate

I see the virus running through your veins.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 97

DAY 97: We're all huddled together

behind trees and parked cars trying

to cover our eyes and mouths as

soldiers or SWAT or stormtroopers

advance full riot gear shooting,

we think, rubber bullets, for now

we could cloister in the church, that

should be a safe haven, but they're

shooting the nuns and priests now

on orders from their commander

William Low Barr, eternally damned,

and other white supremacists --

Sons of Adolph -- because we are

committing the crime ... mass

arrests, ramming the crowds,

targeting journalists (all liberal

scum) ... the crime of mourning

a man we saw killed, we were there

we heard his last breath choked out

we sat at home, quarantined by the

contagion and we saw and said: ENOUGH!

We stepped outside risking our

lives to say ENOUGH not to the TV

or to inform political-social progress

like the smug commentators say,

we went out because we had to --

ENOUGH! -- in the face of the goon army

(ex-US Army), in the face of the stronger

more-frightening COVID-19, we had to face

the killers -- STOP, lay down your swords

and join us in peace or at least

get your knee

off my neck --

i can't breathe.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 96

DAY 96: Tomorrow the walls come down,

God ordered us to walk 6 times around

the city walls and on the 7th - pling - the walls

done gonna come a-tumbling down -- if

you got faith, if you believe

just a little more.

There's still sickbays full and

positives galore, no vaccine or cure

all that masking and distancing isn't

working, in the US the fascists

cause riots in the streets, cities on

fire, no masks can hide the cops

with their badges taped, we know

you, you will not reform

the KKK on our watch

society of segregation, no, 

our rights, human rights

civil rights, free speech,

the right to assemble

peaceful protest will prevail.

But the virus marches on too, in

town, in jail, in paddy wagons

police tanks, many will be touched

ruined, killed by COVID-19 and

TRUMP-20, the terrible double whammy

one-two punch, especially after

tomorrow, no holds barred, battle royal

last one standing gets a chicken

tomorrow we're free at last

free from death for the crime

of being black, free to rampage

for being a cop, free to kill

hands in your pockets, smirk

I don't want to go out, I don't

want to die, I don't want to

be invisible, mostly, I don't want 

to go on a ventilator because

the last words of the United 

States of America will be:

like George Floyd (murdered by

Derek Chauvin), Eric Garner (

murdered by Daniel Pantaleo), Elijah

McClain (murdered by Woodyard,

Rosenblatt and Roedema)

and so many more:

I. CAN'T. BREATHE.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 95

DAY 95: ¶ Everything will be okay --

You stand alone in a gorgeous

park centered on a deep green

lawn and your loves are coming

they run towards you (past and

present) to kiss and embrace, as do

your family members (dead and

alive) plus all your friends and

acquaintances from your whole

life including elementary school

all hugging you with warmth

revealing secrets
about everything.

¶ Everything was okay --

We lived in such a wonderful

world of restaurants and bars,

multi-screen theaters and churros,
economic security, college loans,

comfy cars, enormous supermarkets,

so much fun and goodness before

the dark plague hit

ruining everything.

¶ Everything is okay --

In the bathroom with the door locked

many things can happen

if you crouch on the tile floor

to feel its cold you can scrunch

in the corner to feel your own cold

the empty hole inside your belly

that all those snacks cannot fill up

because you just watched everyone

you know (with a couple exceptions)

vanish into thin air, so all you can do

now is vomit, bleed and cry,

expelling bodily fluids for nothing

in return.

Nothing is okay.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 94

DAY 94: Dazed, dazed, we're dazed

we go on with chores and interactions

we eat times 3 and sleep in fits

we remember to brush our teeth

or not but we're in constant shock

shocked, stunned, gut-punched, dazed --
it's not improving.

100,000 Americans dead in 2 months

so many more victims falsely divided by nation

united by horror -- the Black Death --

how can we work, how can we

study, how can we imagine a future --

even when we do it

we don't know how.

to live in a plague, to move here

to there, day to day, person to

person, with love, with kindness

with hope -- what hope? 100s

of 1000s dead -- a tragedy too large

for us to embrace and without an

embrace it will never

go away.

it's right that we're this way

the only reaction acceptable

the dazed generation

out in the street, with friends

pretending they're not

all pretending it will end
making jokes, smoking,

knowing that this is our life

now and always.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 93

DAY 93: 1990-2020 growth,

change, progress, hope.

-- I can't have AIDS, I feel great.

-- I don't need a mask, that's a hoax.

-- Is it transmitted by kissing or shaking hands, nobody knows.

-- I can't get COVID, I'm young and strong.

-- It'll be over soon and we can toss the damn condoms.

-- It'll be over, maybe already is, let's go out and get an aperitif.

-- No, I won't ever, I can't wear a helmet, it messes up my hair.

-- Seatbelt? No way! It wrinkles my shirt. In a wreck it'll cut you in two.

-- Airbag, why? Just another rip-off. Life is an adventure, live dangerously.

-- No. This mask makes my shades fog up, I can't see well. I want my freedom: I CAN'T BREATHE.

-- It's uncomfortable. I feel very uncomfortable.

-- I know several people who've died.

-- I know a lot of people who've died.

-- Here in the Castro, entire buildings were emptied of occupants.

-- Dying alone in a hospital bed, seeing only someone's eyes.

-- Let's build a movement.

-- Please give generously.

-- My friend died, my brother died.

-- I don't feel so good.

-- Let's build a movement.

-- Gay cancer, it's only gay cancer.

-- Only the flu with a fancy name.

2020-2050 growth,

change, progress, hope.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 92

DAY 92: How to Die -- let me count the ways

there's heart disease and cancer,

broken hearts, cancer on the presidency,

suicide and car wrecks (sometimes the same thing)

mass shootings and cop killings -- stay away from

crowded places -- there's domestic accidents

terrorist attacks, choking on steaks, poisonous

snakebites, meteorites and lightning strikes,

being pushed off your balcony by your ex-

and there's COVID-19, the novel corona-

virus, a worldwide pandemic that started

in 2019, that is so big-ass and bad-ass

that it's beaten all others in the ratings

-- The Rapture is here at last, now

we can all go out with a Big Bang

not like my cousin who just got news

that her breast cancer treatment (boring)

will take about 5 years (too long)  -- but that's 
here in Italy, in the USA (being made greater 
by the minute) healthcare is fun, everyone has a gun

so at any time, things get rough

don't get tough, pop one in your mouth

like medicine to avoid the agony of defeat

float into the clouds, angels play harps in skimpy

outfits with no underwear, goblets of 100-proof nectar --

bliss awaits, if you know how

to die --

Non-COVID-ly.

I don't want to die.
I don't want a gun.
I don't want COVID-19.
I don't want to be number one in the ratings.
I don't want heaven.
I don't want to complain.
Please let me remain.
Please help.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 91

DAY 91: La chiacchierata, that's a chat

about nothing in particular, less is more,

S.I. Hayakawa, my lousy university president

then lousy state senator, but a decent scholar

had a useful linguistic theory -- pre-symbolic language,

meaninglessness, words that don't stand

for anything, could just as well be grunts and

cooing, could be a language no one under-

stands, therefore we -- especially well-educated

white men over 50 -- stupidly maintain its

uselessness -- la chiacchierata doesn't serve

any communicative purpose, so we will not

participate -- Oh, but Hayakawa shows that

it does! The meaning behind meaningless

words is the most important of all --

community-building, relationship-building

-- I grunt and coo, I talk about what a shame

and where you been and did you see the game

-- I mean I like you maybe -- I want us

to be friends maybe -- even with neighbors

I don't like, even people I'd never choose ...

I must engage, in a chiacchierata, talking

from one balcony to another, from behind

masks or downstairs by the cars -- Italians

need this like air, they know that when

100,000 souls die and rise we'll need our

neighbors, even those with whom

we only ever talked with

about nothing at all

just to find the courage

to bear witness.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 90

DAY 90: Aw, screw it, let's just pretend

pretend our lives will never change

our climate will never change

let's get a spritz and gab about

our high school teachers with all

the beautiful people wannabes

we don't even like very much

(hoping always everywhere for sex

with almost anyone -- instinct rules)

every time, let's go into the street

meet and greet, get plastered, get

laid, live to fight another day -- or not --

at this point, who cares?

I'm fed up and don't need an excuse

-- some girl, some skinny girl

is talking about change, life-style

change (masks indefinitely, distance

forever -- what a crock!) and something

else I can't be bothered with -- climate

change -- I mean I'm pissed off about

price change, I just paid $10 for an Irish

coffee that last year was only $7, so there --

this bullshit about climate change --

let somebody else deal with it -- fossil fuels,

big f-ing deal! -- let governors and captains

of industry take care of it -- I'm sure they will --

I just want to talk to that blonde and

offer her a $10 drink, chat and hope

to get lucky.

Live or die, luck, good or bad,

that's all.

Bitter Pills, ready to swallow

The book that I announced months ago has arrived in my hands. Corona-quarantine caused a short delay, but it is now out and available and hungry for your eyes.

How to get a copy?
1. Amazon.com or Amazon.it has the book (see E. Martin Pedersen, Bitter Pills) for $15 or 13.81 euros. Shipping is extra unless you're lucky, then it's free. I'd love to get some sales here and even a review or two to boost the work. Gotta keep the editors, Dr. Agrawal and Dr. Kumar, satisfied.

2. CyberWit.net is the publisher, located in Allahabad, India. Go to their site and order from them. No idea what shipping might be. Ask them, they're very nice. And a very respected publisher of poetry from around the world.

3. You can get the book from me, martinpedersen1255@gmail.com, at a slightly reduced rate. Send me your address. Shipping in Italy will not be charged, but I may have to add something for shipments abroad. PayPal is easy, but we can work out payment somehow.  I'd be happy to hear from friends and strangers, just to chat too. Plus, I'll sign your copy if you'd like.

What is this book anyway? It is a small book, so you don't get your money's worth page-wise. Poetry-wise I hope so. It is a book of small poems, contemporary Japanese forms, haiku and mostly senryu. That means that you take a pill and then wait for its effect. Don't take too many all at once. Digest them slowly, make them last like candy. The mini-poems in this collection (52) were all published in international journals, so somebody thought they were okay. Let's see what you think.

I wrote these haiku for people to read and enjoy, even with their varying degrees of bitterness. I hope you will. In fact, I'd be thrilled.

Stay healthy, stay strong, stay safe,
Martin

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 89

DAY 89: In Milan I had to go out in the

street, I encountered human beings

there, I did not want to meet them, we

looked at one another suspiciously

over our masks, cold eyes only

met, connected and then disconnected

quickly as we passed going elsewhere.

Eyes over masks, no facial expression

to give a clue, it could be this way

for the rest of our lives, eyes

over masks, a smile so hidden, maybe

a hint in the little lines, it's hard

to hear 'I love you' whispered under a mask,

hard to see clearly when it brushes

your eyelash, eyes only then

until there's a cure, until

a vaccine liberates our primal urge

for connection, interaction, reciprocation

if it ever does, until the next virus,

maybe this is post-Aquarius, an Age

of Subtlety, of picking up on the

barely expressed, look into my

eyes/soul, can you tell what I think

as I speak in a foreign language,

or else we judge others by how

they dress, I hope not, make

eye contact sustainable.

I hope we learn to dive

into the deep pool in

another's eyes to swim

there for the time of

a glance, to understand

who is who, who is attracted

to you, who is true and who

wants to cheat you, only to eat

to beat you, to use you

I hope we can know each other

passing in the street

by eyes only peeking over a mask

as expressionlessly

we greet.

The Quarantine Chronicles, Day 88

DAY 88: There's so much screaming

so many important people pretending

to do something, doing nothing, screaming
kids blocking the roads a beer in each hand,

fatcats blocking the roads begging for

handouts after a life of tax-evasion,

politicians arguing but they don't

remember about what, children

crying that the ice-cream's run out,

mourners bent over fresh graves in

prayer -- what if we cut out

all the noise, all the news, it's

winter time 2019, let's all, us

bears, go into hibernation, a

natural instinct we cannot ignore,

dig a hole and crawl inside

snore

lose some excess body-fat

hug our cubs

spend a season underground

sometime, I presume, we'll

come back out

into the sun

but we're not thinking about the

future

just getting lazy

and shutting down

systems to conserve power

no strain, no expectation

curl into a ball

it's easy

underground, almost like in a grave

but one that you will emerge

from in due time. To a

different world.

Peace.