The Bathtub is Falling

The bathtub is falling, the bathtub is falling!

We live in an old house, the cracks around the tub and wall have noticeably widened since the last two earthquakes. There's been a permeable odor of mold that I can't seem to locate or eradicate. I scrub the tub and shower curtain, spray the cracked grouting with a bleach solution and think perhaps it's the walls or the sub-flooring that is rotting.

I had an odd thought while showering. Perhaps it was a dream fragment. What if the heavy enamel iron tub just fell through the floor to the basement below while I was bathing? I couldn't walk out the basement as the crawlspace is too low, and the little trap door below the front porch is locked from the outside.

I'd be barefoot, naked and wet in a crawlspace where I normally wouldn't want to be fully clothed. Spiders, cobwebs, small rodent carcasses. Maybe even a cat or an opossom...like under Brooke's house...

Even if I could get to the outside of the house, then what? I'd be wet, buckass-naked (not a pretty sight at my age) nearly 55, gimpy-kneed and dirty, standing outside on my front porch, locked out of my house. Then what? Wait for the mailman to come? And run away screaming? Though my hair falls iin a thick mane to below my waist, I was never exactly Bottacelli's Venus on the half shell. And at the rate my hair grows, it'll be another half-century before it falls to my knees.

Or I could just stand in the fallen subterranean tub and scream or wait. But then who would hear me or who would hoist me up? I couldn't crawl out. I'd have to wait until this evening when Neil gets home. Throw me a rope. Naked, vulnerable, unkempt—sort of like the process of writing. And why was I thinking of all this with myself in the third person? She. Sidhe, as in otherworld barrow—what is beneath the surface.

Back to an audience of one hand clapping, from what I can tell, not even the mice are reading my blogs. So who is my audience? From what I can tell, according to the Technorati and Google spiders and webcrawlers, I'm the only one reading my own work. I got irritated when Technorati kept listing my blogs as unclaimed. Hey, it's mine—even if no one but the spiders are reading it.

Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Do I invite people to read my blogs? Or do I remain hidden in the crowd behind the hordes of some 3 million bloggers out there? No, make that nearly 4 million. The Technorati count was 3 million mid- August. Who is reading all this stuff anyway? Technorati spiders seem to only pick up the pages with typos and even after I revise and correct them, the offending pages stay up for all the world to see my imperfect art.

No one leaves any comments on my pages. I actually put a site visitor counter on my blog, but, as I suspected, I was the only one who was triggering the counter with all that obsessive editing. I took the counter off, disenheartened. After all, it's better not to know who isn't reading this. And so I end this one on a double negative. But at least it's progress.

Gratitude list

Gratitude, Gracias, or grassy-ass as Kirk would say. How do you say thank you for a year that was unkind? I’m thankful for my lust for food,  ot diminished by age. The black checker at Costco lit up and lifted himself out of his robotic stance when he saw my excitement over a chicken sandwich. He said have a nice day and meant it. 

I’m thankful for my curiosity, a trait, that what has lead me astray more than once. Curiosity to spend hours on Google Earth trying to find geologic anomalies and standing stones. I’m thankful for the fact that Neil let me go on wild hunts, whenever I got a buzz up the back of my neck, knowing I was closer yet to something ancient. The unnamed stones at Girdle Toll, an abandoned coal mine turned into a folly park. 

We thanked the stones on the solstice and dressed them with holly, roses and rosehips, and Glen Fiddich. I’m thankful for the fact that Neil put himself aside just for a moment and entered into the solstice rituals without trying to take over—the way he usually does. 

He so generously sluoshed the stones with whiskey at Cloch-na-Derrick, Rhyderick’s stone, a glacial erratic, divining the full moon on New Year’s night. 

I’m sad that I had so little time for art, or for writing. I didn’t write my New Year’s Eve list. I’m sad that I am entering a decade of poetic silence. I am thankful that I still can craft words and make puns the few metaphors make it to the page.

1/19/2007 Writers’ Group?

LITERRATA or Veritas and the art of Memoir

As I explore the region of bloggerdom I am confronted by a few truths. A few questions: Namely, who is my audience? Who am I writing for, and why? After numerous revisions and trying to make sure I've taken care of my audience (such as it is—an audience of one?) in my first real blog, my Sausalito memoir piece (not yet posted at Blogger as I'm jumping ship from the cyber chaos of Myspace, blog by blog), I found that my first blog had swelled to a whopping 2500 words, even after vicious pruning and revision.

I also realized that an essay of 2500 words was far too long for the art of blogging. A blog needs to be of necessary length, but what is it? Most blogs seem to be 500 words or less. A good art form.

The challenge: Can you tell a story in 500 words or less? Probably not—as I like to gab on, and I love specific, concrete details in writing—that's what sustains and slays me. Maybe 750 to 100 words is of necessary length. But does it have a beginning, middle and end or does it begin in medias res?

Blogging is a continuous, serial medium, that builds upon its own momentum, but like TV reruns, each piece should also stand on its own. Blogging also offers freedom in that it doesn't have to be a finished piece, a poem, polished to death. It can be process as well as product.

I began to see that as I wrote and revised my blog. that discrete stories buried within stories emerged. But when I lifted them out of context and created separate little blogeens—Juanita, Lloyd Bridges, Sinatra/Darrin— that they too needed revision....explanation, etc., in order to stand alone.

Then the journalist within took over. Research the facts, bring in background information to anchor the piece in time and place as well as to sustain its platform/stance. Does the timeline hold? Phew! I existed, therefore I am. Then I began to fear that with all this attempt at truth or veritas, that I was killing off the lively integrity of the original pieces. Authenticity of voice is important to me.

Why blog? Blogging offers a social distance so that I may view my writing objectively. It's bad enough that I'm dyslexic and think circuitiously, my narrative, a Celtic knot, so writing is a constant unwrapping of layers and tangents, like peeling an onion. Revision is hell. Seeing a blog published offers objectivity. How is it different than seeing your work privately published on your own desktop? Imagined audience. The pressure is on.

And then there's Authenticity: I nearly went crazy trying to authenticate my story within a story that I've since extracted from my first blog, about Lloyd Bridges because the actual events I cannot corroborate on the internet. But I do have my memories. But does it serve me or do I serve it in order to tell the story?

Which led me to ponder the concept of the art of memoir. In my modern Celtic Studies class at UC Berkekey (2002), Professor Melia had us read Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes." I hated it. I felt I was being manipulated but I couldn't quite put my finger on what was bothering me so....it wasn't the specific stories that disturbed me so much as the meta-language behind the stories.

He made us read every word on the cover...it was quite some time before we were able to pinpoint it. The significance of the word "Memoir." How we view ourselves within a given specific culture (Irish), against a larger culture ( Irish American), and finally, against pop culture (American). That's three mistresses to appease who are at odds with each other.

When was it written? Who is the audience? What is the slant? Point of view? What is truth?

Memoir: An account of the personal experiences of an author.

Is memoir based on fact or is it by very definition fiction posing as truth? Or is it a bit of both? As a poet and writer, I strive for truth. This is why the concept of writing novels is so alien to me, though I've certainly been encouraged to try my hand at stories. I seem to be stuck on telling the truth, no matter how imperfectly I might remember it, I continues to obsessively excavate, revise and rewrite until my head fairly hurts.

In some languages, the word poet either means liar or teller of absolute truth, In Irish and other Celtic languages, a filidhe (file), or poet, was considered to be a truth-sayer, if not a soothsayer, or seer. In the Germanic languages, especially the Scandinavian branches (and ultimately English), Poet or scop, means teller of tales (as in tall tales), or more specifically—liar, or truth-slayer. So if I write in English words with an Irish sensibility towards my art form, is it truth or lies? Yes to both. As in Memoir.

Ironic too, is the urge to write the memoir after age 50, when memory serves one less well than it once did. At 70, my aunt collapses the past into the nearest equivalent storyline. It is hard to separate her truncated timeline into sequential uniits. I am lucky in that I've been writing a daily journal since I was 30) with the exception of the past ten years—Death took a holiday) so I can go back and verify many older events. When I do, I am astounded to find my memory serves me quite well. My memory is like an elephant's. Scary.

Let's get back to point of view. It reminds me of the story of the three blind men feeling different parts of the elephant variously describing it as a rope, a tree, a wall, etc.

So much depends upon our perspective and life experience. I write the truth as I see it. I try to encompass the larger picture while remaining true to my vision. When it is at odds with others' view of truth, do I revise it or let it stand? Stet?

What if my truth is the truth? And if others' memory is flawed, then what? Or if they don't remember, does that negate my truth as if it never happened? Do I ameliorate it? Change the storyline to make it cohesive? Interesting dilemma. Luckily, I'm stubborn enough to believe in my truth and to tell it as it is, but ultimately it is still all memoir. I'll probably be constantly revising and editing these pieces until I weary of them—or until they abandon me.

Hopefully, in the process, I will learn something new, uncover a gem—the constantly evolving Lloyd Bridges piece is a case in point. When I began writing down the memoy, I had little to go on, an image or two. I wrote what I remembered and the more I wrote the more I remembeered. Fragments began to emerge and form a quilt. I discovered that I saw Lloyd Bridges in "Guys and Dolls" in Sacramento. Wow!

In my attempt to post a blog a day, I will be posting some old prose (mea culpea) as well as generating new prose to see how the old work stands up to time. To see it with a new eye, as in re: vision. The ultimate goal of this exercise it to create a body of work for my MFA thesis which is due sometime next year.

© 2007 Maureen Hurley
On Blogger since January 2007
However, I didn't begin actually blogging until August 20, 2007. My grandmother's birthday—because I had stories to tell.

FYI In case you haven't started blogging yourself yet, read Guy Kawasaki's The Art of Blogging. I wish I'd known about it when I started this mess. It was ultimately Guy's evangelism that got me to create this blog in 2007. Then I let it sit fallow (the proverbial blank page—I couldn't bring myself to sully the perfection of the cyberpage—until August 20, 2008. Talk about a dry period.)

Varied Bios of Character

Some bios for anthologies....

Maureen Hurley who lives near Fort Ross on the Russian River in Northern California, never dreamed she'd travel to Russia. “After the Coup” was written in California (after a 3-day/nite marathon with CNN ), and polished in Russia during October. She returned from her third trip in December just as the USSR ceased to exist. And yes, the legendary Russian empty shelves and lines are a long-standing clichés. She has work forthcoming in both countries including Chaminade Literary Review, First Leaves, Tin Ear, and Maverick. Having been called a ho-bag, she's learning to speak self-defensive Kentuckyin’ from her friend, poet Celia Woloch, who knows the streets of Louisville like the lines on her own palm.

After the Coup was written during the fall of the USSR. A child of the Cold War, Maureen Hurley has spent considerable time in the former USSR as a cultural worker—before, during, and after the climatic events which unfolded Aug. 21, 1991—coming to terms with, and sleeping with “the ememy”, she discovered the stories were the same on both sides.

Maureen Hurley lives in Forestville, near the redwoods along the Russian River, less than 50 miles as a crow flies from her native village, Forest Knolls, Marin County, where her family settled in 1909. She still painfully recalls the ex-moviestar-governor-cum-president claiming, “When you've seen one redwood, you've seen them all.” About the only thing she has in common with said ex-politician is a love of quarter horses; but prefers her ex-presidents drawn and quartered.

"Tocaloma Road," & "Sixth of August" came out of early memories—California poet Maureen Hurley remembers how the words Korean War reverbrated when her uncle said he was going away. She learned other names: a second cousin had worked on the Manhattan Project; her neighbor's ship was bombed on the Meikong Delta. When choosing poems for this anthology, she discovered it wasn't clear where WWII ended and Korea began—let alone Vietnam.

A child of the Cold War, N. California poet Maureen Hurley has lived in the former USSR—as a cultural worker—before, during, and after the 1991 coup. Coming to terms with, and sleeping with “the ememy”, she discovered the Cold War stories were the same on both sides. A relative of hers worked on a secret Cold War project, code name, Manhattan Project, and subsequently died of cancer.

The poem Horseflesh came intact from a dream Maureen Hurley had one full moonlit night while traveling with former partner John Oliver Simon in Baja, California Sur, Mexico. The ancestors referred to in the poem are his.

Maureen Hurley lives in Forestville, near the redwoods along the Russian River, in northern California. Her poems have appeared in Maverick Press’s Paisano, Culebra! and numerous journals and anthologies including Atomic Ghost, & Hermit Kingdom. Poetry awards include Negative Capability, Chester H. Jones, Kalliopea, National Writers’ Union, National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and two regional NEA fellowships. “Feeding the Minotaur” grapples with the unconscious dendritic history buried within her personal mythopoetics.

Widely published poet & artist, Maureen Hurley has won many grants, awards and fellowships; she is finishing up her MA in Creative Writing, and plans to upgrade to the MFA program at SFSU this fall. "Entprophy" was a visual found poem of longing for a relative stranger's past, came from an empty house she & a Dutch photographer stayed in while documenting AIDS stories one bleak winter. An artist in residence, she teaches kids poetry & art, and and caters on the weekends.

Dreadlines

My plan to write a blog a day has long since run afoul of my blond ambition when I discovered that the act of prose writing is much more time consuming than I expected.

On average, each blog is taking me several hours to write a first draft. It's so labor-intensive that my head hurts and I'm becoming an Advil junkie. Plus, I'm so far behind on my quota, that one of these days, I'm liable to meet myself both coming and going.

On top of that, I'm an endless (if dyslexic) revisionist, so each story is edited several times over. I can't see what needs to be revised, or where the spelling/punctuation errors are during the draft process. I have to publish it, then reread it several times over.

But by then I'm so sick of the piece, that I can't read it. Skimming it is pointless. The only thing to do is to leave it be. Stet. Back off. Read it again in a few days.

I repeat this process at least ten times before I'm satisfied, and even then, it's only a first final draft once removed. Well, maybe a second draft. But now I'm so tired of writing that I'm reduced to writing about writing. Or I've run out of time and steam.

Meanwhile, does it have a beginning, middle and end? Then there's the Ur, the root-reason why I'm writing this particular story in that particular style or manner. Most are arrived at by the haaphazard approach. Just begin writing anywhere, hope a storyline emerges.

What new connections arise out of the intense labor of writing? If it's already written in my head, what's the point of writing it? In the act of writing, I have to discover sometrhing new, or make new connections between a series of unrelated memories and events (Mouse Wars). Otherwise it's merely self-indulgent. Are writers as self-absorbed with their own words as actors are with themselves?

And the larger question begs, why am I writing it anyway? Who is reading it? More on that later.

Meanwhile, I've fallen even farther behind on my blog a day promise because I'm endlessly editing my old blogs. I envy those who can write effortlessly. I can write copiously but everything has to be unwrapped and repackaged. At least with poetry the unwrapping and reordering process is easy, or, easier than with prose. I'm like a driver trying to pick up the right reins on a Wells Fargo stagecoach with a runaway team.


FYI In case you haven't actually (gawdess forbid!) started blogging yourself yet, read Guy Kawasaki's very informative blog, How to Change the World in 120 Days on the Art of Blogging. I wish I'd known about it when I first started. It might have saved some hassle.

Vita

(It looks like this was last updated in 2010. The odd placement in 2007, was once at the beginning of my blog, before I discovered I could backdate it.)

MFA, English, Playwriting San Francisco State University (thesis due)
MA, English, Creative Writing, Plays, San Francisco State University, 2003
Attended U.C. Berkeley Celtic Studies, and Folklore 1999-2003
BA, Art Studio, Expressive Arts minor, Sonoma State University, 1977
AA, Art Studio, Painting & Ceramics, theater minor, College of Marin, 1975 (Continuing education: Adult Ed. certification classes at SFSU 2009—2010)
                                                                                          

TEACHING EXPERIENCE: Artist in Residence (AIR—poetry, art, performance) at Bay Area schools including: Monte Vista HS, Mt. Diablo HS, Dougherty HS, Amador Valley HS, Oakland School for the Arts, Oakland Military Institute, Deer Valley HS (Poetry Out Loud); Archway ES, Lakeview ES, Buri-Buri ES, Alexander Valley ES, Willard MS, Montera MS, Wornick Jewish Day School, Beach ES, ER Taylor 2009-10; Longfellow ES, El Dorado ES, Olinda ES Cleveland ES 2006-09; Complete list available on request. AIR (silk painter & storyteller—adults & kids) The Queen Mary Scottish Festival, Long Beach 2010, 2011; Ardenwood Tartan Day 2010, 2011, Ardenwood Celtic Festival, Fremont, CA 2006; SF Caledonian Club Highland Games  2004—present; awarded an Oakland Cultural Arts grant in 2009, and two (PBS) KQED/SPARK AIR grants (visual arts and silk [painting) at Cleveland Elementary School, Oakland (2006 and 2007); Teacher training facilitator, Sonoma County Arts Council, 2006; teacher training, KQED SPARK/ SF Arts Educators; and KQED/SPARK & Young Audiences. Mentor Artist, ArtStart, Santa Rosa, CA 2005. Memoirs group/oral history with senior citizens, Merrill Gardens/Westlake Country Inn, Fremont, CA: 2004—present Poetry, Unconservatory School of Music, readings in Cape Cod, MA, 2008; Sebastopol & Santa Rosa, CA, 2006, and Miami-Dade schools, FL, 2004, 2005; Storyteller &  AIR (silk painting) at the SF Caledonian Club Scottish Highland Games, 2004—present; AIR: Young Audiences of Northern CA 1998—present; Storyteller, Oakland  Public Library; 2004; Storyteller, Oakland Unified School District’s Family Reading Night, 2002—2005. California Museum of Art, Santa Rosa, 1992. Area Coordinator, California Poets in the Schools (CPITS), 1984—1997. Poet-teacher 1979—present. California  Museum of Art, Santa Rosa, 1992. (See attached schools list). Guest Artist in Residence: Hancock Park School, Los Angeles, 1992. Six California Arts Council (CAC) Artist in Residency grants, Mark West School, Santa Rosa, CA, 1983 - 86, 88 - 91. Also taught workshops at the Los Angeles County Museum, CA, School Number One, Cherkassy, Ukraine, USSR 1990. CAC Artist in Libraries grant, Napa State Hospital, Napa, CA, 1987. Taught institutionalized patients. Director, "Poetry Across Frontiers" heritage project, Rincon Valley School District, Santa Rosa, CA 1987 - 88. 1980 - 1997; Montana Arts Council grants, 1991—1995. Residencies & teacher in services in 50+ schools (pre-school to university level) in N. California and abroad, with a variety of populations including Bilingual, Learning Disabled, Gifted & Talented, incarcerated students; teachers; Adult Ed; Elderhostel. Classes and seminars taught include journalism, creative writing and visual arts workshops, California history, natural history, science and art, ancient civilizations, folklore, storytelling, etc.).

PRESENTER/LITERARY & VISUAL ARTS CONSULTANT: 1980—present: Clients include Poetry Out Loud coordinator, Alameda County; poet-coach: Alameda County, Contra Costa Co. (student placed 3^rd in state finals) 2010-present, ArtStart (Santa Rosa), KQED’s SPARK inservices SF Arts Education Commission; SF Art Educators Alliance, Cultural Arts Council of Sonoma County, Wells Fargo Center for the Arts, The Unconservatory School of Music, FL; Ardenwood 2006, 2010, 2011, Caledonian Club Scottish Highland Games 2004—present, Westlake/ Merrill Gardens Retirement Center, 2004-2006; U C Berkeley Celtic Colloquium Conferences, CA, 2001, 2003: Young Audiences of the Bay Area Talent Showcase, 2000—present; National Poetry Association; California  Confederation  of the Arts, CPITS; California Literature Project; California Arts Project; California Media Librarian's Association; California Association for the Gifted; California Art Educators Association; Rural Arts Services; Northern California County Offices of Education & many regional Arts Councils; Sonoma Gateways & Santa Clara Reading Councils; Pi Beta Lambda Society; Bahamas, & Napa College Poetry Conferences; Sonoma State University English, Art, & Education Depts., & Soviet schools.

Places where you can find my work online

Myspace: see pics: 4 albums (art & photos)
Elemental Portraits (12 poems) :
Small View (poem) :
Mary TallMountain (poem):
Mantra for the Mujadeen (prose) :
Raw at Creation (prose) :
My America (chapbook-anthology) :
Speak Memory (poem) :


Maureen Hurley is listed in Poets & Writers
CPITS
Maureen Hurley's student poems online at:
Young Audiences, Vince Cianci
Joshua Terry, Silence of the Heart
Glenn Ingersoll

Cybernalia

What stands between my self and my e-self is a blog, a bit of cyber-literatia, or maybe cyber-inventia—maybe dementia—something I've resisted. A gimped knee has me web bound, Resistance is futile. The time is present. No time like...

Like the Beat poet Bobby Kaufman, it's as if I took a ten-year vow of silence, but the trance was merely a purgatorial haven or hell of my own creation. Initially, I blamed the silence on a near-fatal car accident (no, my life did not flash before my eyes), or I blamed the silence on grad school. Someone said they quit writing poetry in grad school. It burns it right out of you. With my MFA thesis's seven-year grace period about to expire, I know that one all to well.

But it comes down to this: who am I writing to and what for? The what for is what haunts me. Nihilism raises its ugly head.

Everything is post 2001 now. My old voice has fled, a victim of the mujadeen or the al Queda. Tired of writing about lovers gone bad (BTDT, been there, done that, the tee shirt is a holy rag or more like a holy cow), I grew weary of the rhetoric that inevitably follows writing with a political stance, I turned inward and with a number two pencil eraser, began to erase the inner markings, the deliniations of the soul, that force which drives us to create, to send our prodigal names out there into the world. But even that imploded.

At first, I was physically exhausted from a near-fatal car accident in June of 1997. I hadn't counted on the post-traumatic stress lasting for so long. Or my brain to go south for an extended winter. But I found that a punctured lung weakens more than the breath —for breath, the source of inspiration, is the root of creativity. Not as in God has breathed into, In-spire as in spiritus, but not sanctus. I'm a recovered Catholic enrolled in a two-step program sacred and profane.

Then it was onto to grad school to waken my slothful brain. I was fulfilling a decade old dream. And then I took the deepening vow of poverty a la Dante's Inferno–a poet and a student replete with student loans. Which was followed by a rebuilding of a life, such as it was. A decade of reinvention of the self from Ground Zero has led me back to my first fragile love, art. Poetry has gone on holiday. All that's left are the unformed stories.

And so, couch-bound by a bum knee and stuck in time present, I began to surf. I surfed my name to see how I fared during that decade of near silence and I was surprised to see that I actually had a web presence, though I'd never actively sought one. In fact, I shunned it. All my co writers and classmates were deep into the publish or perish frenzy while I was happy listing in the doledrums. (Been there, done that. Even seeing my name in print no longer inspires or thrills the way it once did. In my 30s and 40s, I was driven by a dark ambition.)

Fooled into thinking I'd find the time later to do what I want—all those big, unnameable projects looming on the horizon—but the horizon is dressed in death's robes and the passage of time is akin to snake-wrestling with cobras. Spit in your eye. Leave you with a Homeric blindness and no story to tell. Life and relationships have a way of taking over. It comes down to who does the housework. Who does the dishes, or scrubs the toilet. Poor Sylvia Plath, I'm beginning to understand her dark fascination with the oven. Did Ted Hughes metamorphose into the sly fox of art and escape domestic responsibility in order to achieve a fragile immortality of words?

But even now, I am afraid to let my cybernalia loose into the world, This blogless blog is bogged down in its aimlessness. Shiftless. No point of view. No goal. Who will read it? And why? Get a job. Going to the bog. Full of shyte. Call it initiation. Baptism. Begin. Regardless. Or take the anywhere approach and see the music of what happens.

Poets Mike Tuggle and Sharon Doubiago each said to write the stories down, you're a storyteller, I said no to that, thinking my stories weren't worth much. But then I said no to poetry too and perversely, it said yes to me, then shamelessly ran off with a lover. I don't know where. I don't have a burning urge to file a missing poems report. But I have to finish my MFA theses. Write anything. See where it leads. Jilted prose redux is what promises to follow during these august daze.



© 2007 Maureen Hurley
NOTE BENE) This blog post was indeed written in August 2007, but I had so much revised and new material to upload there was a logjam so I reorganized the blogs as I had created this site in January and then forgot about it. There was all this perfectly good cyberspace going to waste and I found that I could move the files around by date. And so I did. Since most of it is older work being revised, it really isn't date specific. So I opted for the genre approach. It's still evolving but Feb-Mar is early memory stuff, April is poetry month, May is mostly USSR stuff, July is reserved for my many MFA plays and monologues... then it's sort of calendar specific. I imagine it will keep evolving and shifting until I find an organic order. Drive the Technorati spiders crazy I suppose.

Guy Kawasaki says to write a blog like it's a book, good advice but the physics of it are all wrong as people stumbling upon it are not going to begin at the beginning. They'll either join in by subject matter or by newest entry...no way to read a book. SO there's no chronological attempt. Merely thematic.



To see some of my art go to
Maureen Hurley at MySpace.