Monday, October 31, 1988

Journal order, on the writing process


10/1988

The order of entries in my journal is more haphazard than usual. Too many major life traumas in September and October threw me off. Meanwhile halfway through the year, I started writing in another journal but I am unwilling to abandon this one with all its virgin paper patiently waiting for me to scribe it with knower's ink.

Wednesday, October 19, 1988

Cazadero benefit poetry reading for the Cazadero Academy


10/18/1988 Cazadero benefit poetry reading for the Cazadero Academy.
Readers include myself, Mike Tuggle, Susan Kennedy, Richard Garcia, Pam Singer, and Stephen Torre.

I very much like Stephen Torre's work. I think he would make a good guest artist for my CAC project. This poem about logging on the Navarro River is incredible. Here's the lumberjack I was looking for.

Sunday, October 16, 1988

NAMES FOR TIME



Names for time, insufferable on human terms
100,000 years. How does a stone
measure time and distance?
I've always wanted to see Lascaux and Altamira
(look up!). The first Greek goddess,
the great mother, was not Greek, but a meteorite
that struck the earth with sudden impact.

10/1988

10/16?

Saturday, October 15, 1988

BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE




Reina, a blind, dowager cat of 15,
who has learned to tell lies for more food
and has a paunch to prove her success,
ignores the catnip-stuffed mouse I bring her.
We can't tell her facts:
why it always rains outside each door
in the house at the same time, the dilemma
of eating tuna and the diminishing dolphin population,
or the effects of mercury poisoning.
Has it begun to manifest
its mad-hatterly ways in this idiot savant
well into second childhood?
Mornings, we find her upside down and drooling;
rubbing her whiskers and head ecstatically inside our shoes.
We make jokes about the narcotic effect of ripe shoes and laundry.
But when my new shoes are also
singled out for euphoric distinction,
I realize, slowly, how our conclusions are hampered
by our own anthropomorphic limitations.
It becomes clear, her need for scenting—
In cat terms, as we walk our daily rounds,
our shoes mark the outer boundaries of her territory.
Who'd have credited this blind old cat
with enough foresight to keep tabs on her realm—
She, who had us barking up the wrong tree all along?



10/15/1988  first draft june?
Berkeley

1995 CQ #22 California Quarterly
1991Poet Magazine, Fall issue
1990 Poetry USA
         Sparrow Grass
1989 Green Fuse
         A Night Full of Doves
         Outerbridge

Friday, October 7, 1988

PHOTO ALBUM


1. By the same white car
where my grandparents stood
sternly facing the camera,
was that me in my mother's arms
or someone else, milk eyes squinting
as she drools, her fat starfish hands
clutching a red and green tropical sea.
My mother's skirt, an island in paradise
and later, the jungle print will become
a pillow for my grandmother's couch
where I will wait years for my mother
to reclaim that skirt, and me.
All this fuss for a photograph.
who'd have thought those faded photos
marked the end of an era?

At the age of two,
that isn't me looking in.
I'm looking out of the photo
at a woman, older than my mother
who is still holding me in the picture.
She says she knows me but I know better.
I am cross without my nap
so I squint and sing and coo
to the sun in a blue sky.

Now she makes some other writing marks
but I swing my arm across the paper
and the table and the wall
filling the world with rainbow color
putting an end to all this writing.

2. That can't be me at 13
about to start high school.
That's someone else who looks like me,
who feels very grown up and eager to begin.
I'm looking out at myself, looking in.
She looks different, she isn't smiling, like me.
Are we related?

Her eyes glow red from the flash of the camera
making her look like an albino rabbit
while my eyes are brown.
My mother's skirt, a pillow on the couch
is now threadbare.

My red dress is embroidered with small mirrors
reflects a cloudy sky, like a pond,
a mirror full of algae.
I awake at night full of fear
I can't hear what she's saying.
a namelessness in the dark, like a sudden flash
that bleached the color form her hair, from her eyes
turning them from brown to red
like the rabbit who said yes.
All the times she turned them down,
every single one of my children.

10/7/1988

4th revision from some notes on Jorge Lujan's poetry workshop, Alexander Valley School? on 4/12/88. I need to type the first drafts.

Saturday, October 1, 1988

I Won $50 for Horseflesh at National Poetry Week


National Poetry Week, II
I won $50, second place for my poem, Horseflesh, poems on everyday experience.
Horseflesh was a dream fragment. John and I were in Mulegé, Baja. I was going out to the bathroom and I met someone outside in the moonlight. It was unnerving. Another guest at Nachito's.

I'm not sure if I was awake or asleep when the Horseflesh poem came to me. Whether it was dreamed before I woke up to go to the bathroom, and I added this skull image, or whether I was still in the dream state, as I stumbled off to the bathroom.

And I don't remember if it was happening and I wrote it down when I returned, or if I wrote it afterwards. What I do remember was the brilliant stars above. The broken bed, the sandy sheets, the abject poverty, all contributed to the imagery. And there were many more fragments which I wasn't able to retrieve.

10/1988
DATE?

HORSEFLESH