In the sixties I was in Marin, busy as a conga drummer for S.F. dance workshop. Dug Coltrane, had one man show of photography at moma San Francisco. Played with lots of bands, never for money. Just gigged for free and sat in with all my friends, started quicksilver messenger service.
I mean played traps for them and Marin based bands.
I was writing lots and lots of poetry and painting in oils.
I was a happy go lucky dude with beautiful women on my arm.
One after another. It seemed as tho it would never end.
In the seventies I was on a mtop in Big Sur, again painting, but never selling, again no job, writing poetry, high above the hustling throngs below.
In the eighties, Big Sur squeezed me out, 1985 I lost my lofty perch and moved to Santa Cruz area, no job no work, no money, voluntary poverty and began long volume about John Stephens, the genius and suicidal guru. Hooked up with a girl 30 years younger and had a coupla kids.
1990 book on John up to six hundred pages, paintings getting very good. Do absolutely nothing for money. Music, playing piano, art, poetry, but can no longer afford photography... 1993, lost family, lived in the bush and on the streets, no money, depressed ... wondering what the fuck happened. 1994, 1995, still think I'm a great artist, but ready to join all my dead artist friends, I just held out longer and managed to live 61 years with no money, no money, no money.
