i grew up in a coastal village – only just a bit bigger than yellow springs – dominated by two industries: the puget sound naval shipyard and the united states navy. neither my friends nor i were interested in either. we weren’t interested in much the northwest offered. it might be one of the most beautiful landscapes in north america, but all those fir trees and mountains literally blot out the horizon. you hear northwestern depression blamed on the weather – don’t believe a word of it. it’s a strange thing to be from a place in which you can’t see very far into the distance. it fucks with your sense of perspective. we used to all pile into bee’s car — she had a license and the wheels — and not wanting to be home and with no place to go, we simply drove around all night long, around and through the pitch black forest roads listening to dark music. early robert smith and ian curtis were our staple singers, but there was also siouxsie, peter murphy, dave gahan, alison moyet, shane macgowan, joe strummer. it’s not surprising we listened to a lot of david bowie, but also lou reed. i’m not sure who decided it was cool, but the entire twisted, magnificent and sobering ouvre of lou reed crept into our hearts and took possession of whatever warmth we had to offer. of course, we didn’t just drive around. there was drugs and liquor and sex and vandalism. there were suicidal ideations and friendships you believed could never be broken. there were promises and heartaches. jealousies and respect. secrets and lies. confessions and trust. they were dramatic days and heady times. every little thing seemed to matter, and everything was something to get riled up about. that’s what happens when what you really want to do is to be some place else, just we didn’t know how get there. the car, the tape deck, the cassettes passed around, the people loved, and all the songs long since lost to memories.
unless you grow your own or are friends with a farmer with a sense of humor, you never see a potato or a carrot like these beauts. that’s unfortunate. in our modern mediated globelife we decry fakery in all it’s forms. no matter the field — consuming, political or social — we demand a semblance of honesty. and yet we also require the best, from everything and everyone. no matter the nature of things, we believe it’s natural that some things won’t make the cut. at some point fairness, candor, probity, bluntness, and integrity take a back seat to whatever we deem fine, fitting and just. easier on the eyes and all that. there are times though when it’s just plain considerate to pull back the veil to see a bit of what goes on when we aren’t looking.
Father Pinkney’s preparation for very bad sore eyes: Castile soap, scraped fine, and half the quantity of very finely pulverized chalk; wet them up to a paste with strong juice of tobacco; when desired to apply to the eye, drop two or three drops of brandy into the box of paste; then take out a bit of it where the brandy was dropped, equal in size to the fourth of a grain of wheat, to the diseased eye; wet it on a bit of glass, and put into the eye with a camel’s hair pencil.
Apply twice daily at first, and from that to only once in two days, for from one to two weeks, will, and has cured wretched bad cases, so says Father Pinkney, of Wayne Co, Michigan, who has used it over fifty years, he being over ninety years of age. His only object in giving it an insertion here is to do good to his fellow creatures; and also for animals, it being equally applicable to horses or cattle.