Sonoma journal: war stories

After David Bromige and Gerry Haslam's reading, we all go to the Redwood Café and tell horror stories. David tells us of Jim McCreary's stint being William S. Burroughs' secretary.

Jane McPherson and I spin yarns about the guns we've met on the Gringo Trail. I tell Guatemala stories,  the war, the roadblocks, the Guatemalan army. Trying to find a decent place to sleep in Panajachel, it was either two dollar dives or three-star $40 digs, with nothing in between. Jane said she had a tantrum when she was traveling, her boyfriend traveled only on the cheap.

I tell Jayne of the Nazi place we stayed at in Panajachel, the bungalow was the only place available. But he gave us the creeps with his twin Doberman pinschers, his black leather boots, riding crop, and the eyepatch. We lasted one night as it was Gestapo Central.

Steve Tills is trying to write this piece entitled #69 and can't. And we become ribald. Maybe it's in context – the other pieces will support it as a title. As the complete poem. We segue off into personal tirades of bad relationships, love gone wrong in all the odd places. I don't mention how John liked his bondage. I can finally talk about Latin America without any mention of John at all.

I like Tom Kelly a lot, we have a lot in common. He's a married man with two kids. He tells Old Eureka stories, and we both went to church last Sunday—to our great surprise. Everyone turns to us and asks Together? We laugh and say, no we've only just met, no in different towns, Eureka and Nicasio.

Tom Kelly encourages me to write more of the old West Marin, saying he liked my Nicasio piece so much. I said I wasn't a writer back then, so I didn't hold onto the details in the same way. But here we are anyway, chronicling and channeling the past.


November 2, 1995 (excerpt)