Notebook 1971
I keep trying to figure out what it means to be an American. When I look inside myself I see Abyssinia, nineteenth-century France, but I can’t recognize what makes me American. I think about Robert Frank’s photographs—broke down jukeboxes in Gallup, New Mexico, swaying hips and spurs, ponytails and syphilitic cowpokes, hash slingers, the glowing black tarp of US 285 and the Hoboken stars and stripes.
I think of the ribbons I tie in my hair. I think of the red, white and blue rag I wrap around my pillow. Maybe it’s nothing material; maybe it’s just being free.
Freedom is a waterfall, is pacing the floor boards till dawn.
The right to write the wrong words.
And I done plenty of that...
Happy Independence Day to All.
for Robert Frank