Letter to Herb Gold

Herb Gold, c/o Letters to the Editor

Image Magazine

110 Fifth St.

San Francisco, CA 94103

It was interesting to read your reminiscences of the other Sausalito; I found myself looking for the other story, the characters and places I remember as a child: The No Name habitué, Lew Welch, and bartender/novelist Don Meredith. The Gate Theatre (my mother was an actress, costume/set designer); where I first met Sterling Hayden—one of my favorite babysitters. I liked Tommy Smothers better because he was so goofy.

At The Gate Playhouse Theatre, I sat through countless performances of Pipe Dream, Of Thee I Sing. My mother was the wicked witch in the Hansel and Gretel matinee. After the performance, we birthday kids were nervously lined up on stage, the audience singing Happy Birthday to You as the cake was carried out by my mother—while still in costume. When she hugged me, there was pandemonium; all the other kids ran off the stage crying and screaming.

No story about Sausalito is complete without some mention of Juanita Musson, the legendary restaurateur who, to my horror, kept a fawn in the back of her white Ford Falcon station wagon. Meals at Juanita’s (the Bridgeway parking lot on weekends) were always a surprise. Juanita’s wrath was legendary; customers quickly learned to shut up and eat, even if what they got wasn’t what they ordered.

Instead of pancakes, Juanita brought me runny eggs and rice. I was crushed, my mother (the waitress) signaling, Let it go. . . When I burst into tears, Juanita exploded, Fer Chrissakes! her cursing louder than her parrot or her muu-muu. The more experienced patrons instinctively ducked as she charged back to the kitchen. Juanita pysically endorsed the clean plate club; for my crocodile tears, I got a lovely stack of pancakes the size of dinner plates, and as tall as Everest, my work clearly cut out for me. . .

Juanita’s apartment above Bridgeway was a realm of filtered pink light, with beaded curtains, gizmos in every available space—and the menagerie—a monkey who might pinch, pee on us (or worse, fling shit), if we didn’t feed him the grapes Juanita handed us. At least one big rooster strutted his stuff in the living room.

At the Village Faire, and the Trade Fair, a converted ferry boat, we were regular little filching Olivers with our five-gallon wide-mouthed black naugahyde purses. We’d sit on the retaining wall outside the Village Faire, pool our money for fish and chips, and compare the day’s catch: wooden mice and cheap silver Navajo rings that we later mailed off to Micaela’s parents’ puzzled friends and relations.

My friend’s father, Patrick Wall, was a retired art dealer from Carmel, and his wife Betty, a potter, so we ran wild through many an artist’s party including one on Varda’s ferry boat. The Charles Van Damme was so rakishly angled that Varda had to nail his cobalt and vermilion montages to the walls. Caught stealing food in the kitchen, and compounded by a case of mistaken identity—as some guest’s brats—we were sent upstairs to the captain’s deck, prisoners with nothing to do but watch the Spreckles House slowly sink further into the mud.

When we were 86ed from another party, we balanced on the thin warped boards that threatened to toss us into the raw sewage as we peered in the portholes of Piro and Alice’s houseboat at Gate Five. Piro Wolfe, who founded the successful Anchor Steam Beer Company, once made legendary history when he and Alice, dressed to the nines, took a dingy to the opera—neglecting to check the tides—only to arriving hours after the opera was over.

The first major influx of tourists came hard on the heels of the flower children. Comedian Robin Williams (with whom I went to school) was right to repeat the Marin adage early and often: If you remember the ’60s, you weren’t really there. I will forgive you for bungling a few facts. We’ve all had to reconstruct our past from the literary fragments that followed. We had no idea we were living through a significant era until after it was over and done with, dead and anthologized, taken from us by the coffin of time and by the tide of eager hordes that followed.

Maureen Hurley

Letter to John Oliver Simon

Dear John: 9 Aug. ‘91

I was so sorry to hear about Frances. I’ve been thinking about her lots lately. Coincidentally, my uncle is also dying of lung cancer. He’s chosen chemotherapy so we don’t know how long he has. Oddly enough, the night before the eclipse, it was around midnight—I’d just fallen asleep—when some presence with a green glow came through the door. I awoke screaming, as usual, but thought I recognized something familiar about her.

Most definitely female, short in stature, old, and at peace—I thought perhaps it was my grandmother, I knew it wasn’t my uncle. The energy wasn’t right. But as your know, I seem to only have these “dreams” when someone is dying or newly dead—not from someone who is four years dead. I haven’t really had any major memorable death dreams since San Cristobal de las Casas—the harmonic convergence, remember? So, as usual, I’ve been berating myself, saying “oh it’s just a dream” while deep down inside I was waiting for the news.

I was just writing about it yesterday when your letter came. It was vaguely familiar, as if I’d already dreamed of receiving it. I always knew I’d get the letter of Frances’s eventual death, linked with poor old Raineycat. But these images stay hidden in the shadow world and thankfully, I remember very little until something sparks off a memory. Sometimes I am able to record them in my dream journal, sometimes I’m only left with a fleeting impression of something not quite seen as if beyond the range of the corner of the eye.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve had a whole series of disturbing death dreams—and I didn’t know if I was dreaming of my own, or of someone else’s death. Housesitting seemed to help ease the burden, so I just chalked it up to stress—until I got the urge to call a friend. As it turned out, right before I called, she was debating to call me, thinking I was still in Hawaii—the next day was her mother’s memorial service and wake. 

I guess the reason why I sent you the postcard early in July is because I was plagued with the notion that I must call you, and I was resisting the impulse. And three nights ago, I had a long narrative dream. It seemed there were at least two shadowy figures—pale blue transparencies—making ready for someone who was dying. They were unaware of me—working madly at the foot of my bed. 

I thought it odd (how rude!), but it looked like they wanted to use my Mac—as if they were putting together a book or something. It was as if I were awakened by their commotion—though the were silent. One of them couldn’t find something, so I interjected a statement—I can’t remember what, probably something inane like where the gluestick was—but then my own voice woke me, and I felt stupid giving instructions to an empty room. 

For the first time, I had no fear of these dream beings—probably because I wasn’t the center of attention. Usually when the green presence comes, it most definitely comes for me and I cannot handle the intensity of it—that’s why I scream—to make it stop. I always awaken, screaming, shaken and out of breath. It seems, if they’re going to find me, they will—it really doesn’t matter where I am: Switzerland, Mexico, Hawaii. It’s too easy to dismiss them as nightmares—my fears manifesting in a pale green shape in the form of a human torso. It takes more guts to explore the possibility that they’re NOT dream beings conjured up by my psyche because it opens up a whole new realm of possibilities:1). I’m crazy, or 2). They really exist.

Our literature and oral tradition around the world points to the presence of other beings—whether in the shape of gods or ghosts—though modern science and psychiatry prefers the tangible, testable world. I love the analogy in “The Gods Must be Crazy” where the little Bushman maintains his belief in the gods. His task—as Campbell would say, the hero’s journey, and his belief are unswerving right to the end where he throws the offending coke bottle off the edge of the world—in spite of co-existing in the white man’s explainable 20th century world. It’s not the little Bushman, but the gods themselves who are crazy! Of course, in the movie, we “civilized white folks” seem a little crazy too.

Then there’s the notion that if you believe in one kind of reality, you will find substance to support your beliefs. Think of the rivalry between the clergy struggling to maintain one world view contradicted by the scientific and philosophical notions of Galileo, Copernicus, and Descartes. Sometimes I think we’ve come too far in the opposite direction—that of scientific logic verses belief. (Odd hidden pun in the very word logic, logos, the Word/belief.) 

The Bushman knew the coke bottle was an evil object because it disrupted the harmony of the tribe. He doesn’t change his world view but the journey and trials serve to test his “belief.” He returns home the hero. Who are we to destroy his belief with our 20th century notions of facts? 

Myth is the expression of spirituality and our western gods are dead. There are no more quests, no hero’s journeys to take; we cannot live if we don’t feed the psyche. Perhaps the dream world is the only thing that’s really ours—and even that world has become “polluted” by the technology of a given era. I’m thinking of the decoding process of the metaphor. 

A hunter-gatherer certainly wouldn’t dream of driving a car. Maybe a horse or a bison. Think of the quantum leap when someone first dreamt of riding a horse. Was it before the domestication of the species? Probably, it was the dog-wolves, the first domesticated animals, who led us into the tecnological era when they pulled the dogsleds. I’m not too sure where I’m going with all this. . . That’s it, blame Man’s best friend for our lack of faith—or our belief in ghosts! 

I am so pleased you are doing oral history with Frances. Oddly enough, I was reading of German woman photographer Handsel Hagel, aka Meith, of Mark West Springs, who worked for both Time and Life magazines. She got a grant to put her photos in order–and thinking of Frances, I’m sure Frances knows her—her work is nearly as famous as Dorthea Lang’s, and she seemed to have had progressive leanings in the ‘40s. 

I’m so sorry I wasn’t up to the task of taking more notes—better yet, audio tapes of my grandmother. I didn’t yet have the skills or the strength. Maybe you should also (video)tape her. Just to have her voice again. That’s one of the things I miss most. Please keep me informed. Give her my love and greetings. Tell her I’ve been thinking of her a lot, and am so pleased to have known her for those three short years. She’s a very special lady. I admire her fire and guts. Is it appropriate for me to write or come and visit?

Maureen

P.S. Joseph Campbell waited for an auspicious day, Oct. 31, to pass on, and my grandmother very nearly made it to All Soul’s Eve. It seems that even while facing the ultimate deadline, death, there are still choices to be made.

Letters to Celia Woloch

c/o Vins van Neerven, 

Hogerbeetsstraat 97 III, 

1052 VV Amsterdam, Netherlands 

   
Celia, my grlfrnd—                 Aug. Sept., 1992-93?

In the weightlessness of space, an astronaut’s heart shrinks. —Omni

AUG 20—Even in between sobs, it’s good to hear your voice via the Ma Belle satellite. And yes, I’m not writing much, lacking the focus. Where are the poems hidden? Why won’t they come?

Maybe this letter will open up the dam (Amster-dam: the 16th c. dam on the Amsterele river is real, not a metaphor. I’ve given into the timelessness of being at loose ends—with no agendas, hidden or otherwise—in a country not my own, seeking what oddities life has to offer.)

Where do poems come from? Page One of my notebook documents the oddities of The Final Frontier: After fighting nearly three years with Soviet bureaucracy for permission to hook up a computer telecommunications system with the Ukraine for a cultural exchange program, I finally let go of the idea. 

Then, shortly after April Fool’s Day, I received my first E-mail message from Oleg via GlasNET. Was it incongruous to read a satellite message transmitted half-way around the world that began with: “Cosmonaut lands, doesn’t recognize his own country?” 

Ex-lovers aside, how ironic: my first message from the new independent nation, Ukraine, is not about freedom, but about space, the final frontier. O-oh K.!?

Yes. Forgotten during the 1991 August coup, stranded Soviet cosmonaut Sergei Krikalev helplessly watched his country disappear: changing its name, anthem, and political order. The abandoned space program was officially broke with no way to get him home. 

Secret calls in the night; someone trying to sell Soviet space ships for hard currency. When Krikalev eventually returned to Earth after ten months in space, he didn’t recognize his own country. It was then discovered in the weightlessness of space, an astronaut’s heart shrinks. 

Moral: be careful of hasty conclusions and hearts stranded in space. Complex metaphor swiftly approaching from the starboard side. Will I regret not going to Russia after the Fall, and seeing for myself, the changes?

Letter to Alberto Blanco

¡Querido Alberto! Feb 13, 1994

Mirable dictu—at long last I have found you! My letters and cards to you in Mexico City remain unanswered these past two years. By chance, I just saw your name in an ad for the Univ. of Texas in Poets & Writers. Congratulations on your new job! 

You, Pati, and your niña have finally left the world’s most polluted city, and resurfaced in El Paso, of all places!. 

In Sept. John Oliver Simon told me he’d lost track of you also, his registered letters to you returne d unopened. . . Funny, I was just in Texas in Sept. and in Feb., driving cross-country with a friend—Amarillo, where the Cadillac Ranch (13 caddies planted nose-end first in a straight line along Route 66, like an American Stonehenge). 

Not close enough to El Paso for a visit. I tried to get your phone number and address from information, again, no luck. Please thank Leslie Ullman for phoning me, and telling me it is indeed you, my Alberto!

I wrote to you in the fall of 1992, and again in the summer of ’93 from Holland, because there was a Latin American focus at the Poetry International festival, June, ’93 in Rotterdam. I had recommended you as a reader to the director, Martin Mooij. 

I also recom-mended Jórge, and Otto Raúl Gonzalez—though at this point, I have no idea if any of my addresses are current. The 12-day festival was wonderful—I met someone who knows you, Victor Manuel Mediola. Homero Aradjis was there—& many poets from Brazil.

God what a fall, the fall, as it were; my woes serious enough to desire Prosac (I’ll elaborate later), lacking prosaic skills, yes, I’m remiss in answering your letters, and you’re probably wondering if I fell off the face of the earth! Very nearly! How I miss you! I am so sorry I didn’t get a chance to write back to you—certainly you’ve been foremost on my mind, but I guess you can’t feel my thoughts! 

It’s taken a long time for me to find my way back to the world, coupled with the fact that California is slowly going broke, it’s been hard earning an income on CPITS work. I will probably need to get out of teaching in the schools, finish my Master’s degree, etc. 

What I need is a scholarship/ fellowship at a university in order to afford graduate school. I understand part-time teaching pay at the university level isn’t a whole lot better than in the schools, but it’s time for me to move on, find the next path of my life’s work.

Oh! we did an art and poetry anthology of Sonoma County children (tri-lingual—English, Russian, and Spanish) and since you were part of my project at Mark West School, you’re listed in the book. It was over three years in the making, and we had to raise enormous amounts of money to complete the exchange—but I’m very excited about the book. 

I was able to include others in the project (though you may recognize my book-making style). It’s one thing to create something on your own, but to pass on the seeds, and to network with others creates something larger than what I could have previously imagined—the vision far afield. 

Though I’d started my project long before I met up with John, in a sense, I owe him for the seeds of the vision from the Mexico City exchange—and how I met you! Funny, I was the one who went to Russia three times, but he was the red-diaper baby.

Now that that project’s done, I’m wondering what’s next on the list. The Soviet exchange program seriously depleted my energy, I’m still gathering in, but I’m interested in taking the seeds of the model afield. I spent over 6 months in the Soviet Union since Aug. ’89. 

In 1992 I was supposed to go a 4th time—perhaps permanently (someone wanted to marry me), but I got cold feet and chickened out at the last minute; I stayed in Amsterdam 3 months with a college friend. 

Last summer, I did a workshop in the Netherlands, training mental health workers to use poetry and art with their patients last spring. All total, I spent 6 months in Amsterdam as well—searching for myself away from the familiar busy-ness of home turf, searching for a new voice, a new vision, expanding my horizons.

Ideally, I’d like to be able to live part-time in the US and part-time abroad. I’m becoming increasingly detached from my country, my homeland. But I also know it is a part of me, and I cannot sever the connection—nor do I want to. I’ve had offers to live in Russia, Ukraine, and even in Holland, but, the relationships are not right, I’m still not ready to commit to anyone. 

I like to think of the heart, like cats, as having nine lives. I believe there is someone out there for me—blind faith? I’m surprised at how deep the scarring goes, but understand that time is the only answer. Sometimes I feel I’ll never fall in love again, not like that. Sometimes I get scared, thinking, at the age of 41, my life is slipping out from under me. What do I have to show for the sum total of my life but orphan poems swirling in a neap tide about my knees?

Careerwise, I seem to do well in national poetry contests, consistently coming in third place, or runner-up, or honorable mention, but that doesn’t bring in the prize money, nor the book I’d hoped for. 

And still I resist the well-founded notion that it’s all in who you know . . . a friend of mine who won the 1992 National Poetry Book contest—the judge already knew of her work, and told her to submit. Also I’m working with senior citizens, Elderhostel, teaching California history through literature, & creativity workshops, which I love.

Perhaps more interesting is the fact that I learned to babble in Russian, I thought to myself, what use is it to know fractured Spanish and Russian, when the rest of the European world speaks Italian, French and German. . . it seems I’m always in the wrong tongue. 

Last summer, it came of use, in all places, the Netherlands. At Poetry International—don’t ask me how, but I was simultaneously translating from Russian into Spanish—forgoing English completely. 

The Russian poets, Dmitri Prigov (I published him in Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost) and Ilya Kutek wanted to talk to the Mexican poets; no one else was around. I admit conversation was pretty limited. 

A Hungarian gypsy poet, Karoli Barri, and I managed to get by on some Russian. I always find myself apologizing for speaking in the tongue of the oppressor, but when it comes down to it, English is equally the tongue of the oppressor. 

James Joyce had the right idea to use the language of the enemy against the enemy. If the Cromwellian hadn’t been so successful in annihilating the Gaelic, would Irish literature be available to the English-speaking world? Imagine no Yeats, no Swift, no Synge, no Joyce. . These, my roots.

To digress, I have another story of family roots for you—not as wild as John’s, but close. Briefly, I was the product of a divorce, my father said if he couldn’t have custody of me, he’d have nothing to do with me. And very nearly kept his promise—except for when I was in my early teens and 20’s. On Dec. 12th, he died, the day after his birthday, and as in life, in death, his heart failed him. 

I was notified Dec. 22 by the Public Administration of San Francisco. I buried him, and meanwhile I found out he had money all this time, but my name wasn’t beneficiary on the accounts. Some sleuthing, I discovered that after retirement (he was a streetsweeper) he spent his mornings at the church, then, the local bar—a serious alcoholic. 

More family background: my mother was crazy (I won’t go into that here, suffice to say she is manic-depressive; the joys of lithium hadn’t been discovered when I was a child), my father blamed himself for her going crazy, and couldn’t bring himself to face us.

In spite of it all, I had a happy childhood, raised in the country by my Irish grandmother, who raised 8 kids before my half-brother and I. We didn’t name it poverty, but her meager pension didn’t go far in Marin County. I was a expert in not talking about my family, because my own family experiences had no parallel among my peers. 

To shorten the story, we went on welfare and I was ashamed. Thank God the Summer of Love, and the hippies came about, who could tell what was what? The ’50s values of America washed away. 

My father always told me if anything happened to him there was money for me. He told my mother and my uncles as well there was money for me. So, my father died, I’m sole heir and next of kin, responsible for his estate, and to cover his shame, he left $100,000 to a co-worker he didn’t even know all that well—outside of the estate (two cars: a Jaguar xjc with a chevy engine, and a Volvo sports car) my inheritance. 

At the wake and funeral, first, the co-worker was surprised to learn of my existence, then he told someone I hadn’t seen my father since I was a baby. (I talked with him 4 years ago, Christmas.)

Friday night I met some of his friends, including a woman (Mimi) he almost married—they all knew of me, some had met me when I was young, knew of my grandmother. Said he talked about us all the time. (There were photos of me by his bed and in his drawers.) Mimi told me that if she married him, he made her promise that I was to get money. . .all the stories corroborate. 

I don’t know the circumstances leading up to his giving the money to this man, but it may be hard to prove my father was incompetent, or unduly influenced. We don’t know if there was blackmail involved, or what. I can’t find a lawyer who’ll take the case on contingency—not enough profit in it. If I had money, I could hire a lawyer to get the money. . . 

Then, I found out I have another half-brother in his 20’s up in Washington! Another trail to follow. Chances are I’ll never see my inheritance. I can’t help but think what I would’ve done with the money. 

It’s been difficult in getting work (I’ve gotten some, all’s not lost), this, at a time when everyone in education is saying how marvelous my programs are, and that I’m such a gifted teacher, blah, blah, blah. . . but the bottom line is, that the state of California’s broke; I need a new career (& my Masters). Other than the unfairness of it all, I keep thinking there must be a moral buried somewhere in this story, and I’m just too daft to figure it out.

Today is better than yesterday, sunshine, after rain. It washed away the pun of the cat’s investigative paw prints off the hood of the Jaguar. A glimmer reaching into the place where the concept of soul dwells; today is the first day I’ve had the initiative to do those things that must be done, pay bills, answer letters. 

It’s so strange to me to have to be out in the open about all of this family stuff, but I can no longer keep it inside. There’s a creature called the sea cucumber, who when threatened, literally vomits his stomach out to fool the hunters. I’m used to keeping the shame of family secrets buried, but to do so now requires a psychic death, and I’m not willing to be a victim. So this is an intense time of growth and change for me. 

I am, excavating the basements of the self, uncovering old pieces of art amid the debris, the source materia is preferable to the illusion of artifice. I am alive, my father gave me life, I am restoring something of myself to myself. The Spanish saying, The best revenge is living well, we are among the living; dare I say, it’s our duty to make the most of it?

On some obtuse level I am reminded of when I went to Russia to see Malevich’s paintings, but none were available to the public, though Glasnost was in full swing. Malevich may have been reinstated but his paintings remained in the basements of the Russian State, and the Tretyakov museums. (Moscow’s Tretyakov is where the statue of Swords into Ploughshares is). 

Why, because it was easier to go with the system than to change it, though the means to do it was there. I couldn’t understand the Russian psyche, and the posters that stood in place for the real art didn’t fill the need, they didn’t satisfy the hunger for what was real. 

Paradoxically, there was a time when I fell in love with the paintings by Matisse and Gauguin (or so I thought) until I saw the real paintings at the Hermitage in Petersburg. They were raw, the pigments different—I was shocked until I realized it wasn’t a question of like/dislike; I was using the wrong vocabulary, but the rawness, the power, direct source/link, versus the glossed over second generation candy-colored posters. The original paintings had the ability to move me to tears. I seek truth, and write very little these days. 

Are you still painting? Music?

I did a series of poems to collages on the Gulf war by a friend, Marsha Connell—and received a small fellowship for them. One of the poems was runner-up in the Kalliopea/ Paper Mache poetry contest. I’ve also been editing a magazine based on Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, a sort of international journal in tabloid format called Mother Earth, with regional inserts. 

I’ve completed Eastern Europe and Africa; we’re just now starting Latin America. Send me some translated work by mid-March? Also, if you’re in touch with other Latin American poets, please ask them to submit as well. 

Right now I’m collaborating with a modern composer, Kirk Whipple, who is writing 11 nocturnes—elemental portraits. I know so little about music, but it’s interesting writing to music. They’re due on Mother’s Day, at the premier concert. Kirk is married to pianist Marilyn Morales (una Cubaña) and they founded the Unconservatory. 

They have Yamaha pianos you can put a computer disk in! I’m blown away by the technology. He can program a piece, have left hand play, and ad-lib with the right, re-record, etc. Magic! We’re planning an international CPITS conference in Oct., perhaps you can come?

Other news: my neighbor, the potter Joel Bennett (with whom you stayed with) had an accident with a filet knife. He didn’t think anything of it, but later he discovered he’d severed the nerves in his hand. He’s had two major operations; they took pieces of nerves from his legs to repair the damage—but he still can’t grasp things. 

I don’t know how he’ll be able to continue making pots. It’s been a hard year all around. I hope you are all well and happy. How old is your daughter now? I’ve forgotten her name. . . are your parents still in Mexico City. How is Pati? Happy Valentine’s Day. Muchos besos! I miss you, write soon.

Feb 13, 1994

Letter to Richard Benesevich

Dear Richard—   8/93

God what a fall, the fall, as it were; my woes serious enough to desire Prosac (I’ll elaborate later), lacking prosaic skills, I’m remiss in answering your wonderful letter, and you’re probably wondering if the reply got lost in the mail—one reason why I’m writing to you on the computer—I learned to make copies of everything in Russia. (My laptop computer blew up (as did my truck) this fall—the mother-board—it’s working by sheer luck at this point, as long as I don’t unplug it. When the batteries go, I have to find another laptop to recharge them). It’s lucky I even got your letter as it was glued to a completely frayed envelope, open on all four sides like two sheets to the wind! If you hadn’t reglued the flap, I’d have gotten what once was an envelope with some stamps on it—is this known as pushing the inside of the envelope out?

My dearest proletariat, I hope you’re surviving well, in spite of everything. Shall I send you a phone so you can wander around looking for a place to hot-wire it to? I was under the impression Poland was slipping off the sexy wrap of communism. . . Well, after Hungary, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised by Eastern European concepts of reform. All of the former Soviet Bloc is construed of paradoxes. Try Romania, Ukraine, Hungary, and the story’s always the same. Push the inside of that dox out and what’s left? An urge for Ken’s awful Hungarian pear brandy? So what’s the latest commerce in baksheesh besides bad puns? Anything you want from the states? Yes, I would like to hear from you, but, gulp, did you say collect? Hey, with some serious discounts, my Dutch phone bills still run about $50 a call! That’s a lotta zlotii. Hell, one of the reasons why I got this ATT single country plan discount was because you were in Leiden, and then you had to go and move!

Letter to Charles McGeehan

Dear Bertaijn & Charles—Happy Holidays!

It’s been raining steadily for a week, a slow, gentle rain, drumming fingers of rain on the moss-green scalp of my cabin roof nestled beneath live oaks. I’m cozily curled up in bed with the flu, playing with my computer.

There are flash flood warnings in Northern California, Oregon and Washington and record feet of snow has fallen in the mountains. I’ve been lax about writing to anyone since I’ve been back home. A kind of lethargy creeps over me. I do what’s necessary, read, and little else. Perhaps hibernation. . . Of course, it doesn’t help that I have an injured wrist.

Right before I left Amsterdam, I got into a bicycle accident. As I was returning home to Linde Voûte’s on Oetgenstraat from Westerpark, some idiot took a curved wrought-iron flower trellis (the arch that goes over a gate) out of the back of his double-parked car on Prinsengracht (near Utrechtstraat), and swung it in front of me, cutting my right hand. 

I tried to protect my face but smashed into a parked car, bruising my left wrist when I hit the back windshield. It was either smash into a parked car or fly into the canal—which would you choose? It was raining, and the bike’s brakes were no good on wet cobblestone & brick. 

Anyway, I’ve been ignoring my wrist for the past 2 months—until it hurt so badly (I was smashing a clove of garlic with the flat of a knife; the little bones in my wrist made a crunching sound like potato crisps!). I finally went to the doctor who put it into a splint to rest it—a bad sprain. 

I’m slowly typing (two-fingered pecking) this letter wearing my stupid wrist brace—which looks (& is beginning to smell) like an old gym shoe, and as winter’s chill creeps in, my bones ache (snow in the Sierras); injuries don’t heal quite as fast as they used to.

I’m finally finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation. I can’t believe it took me so long to write it, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something. 

Besides, if I knew what I was going to write about, I wouldn’t write at all. What’s the point? The essay & footnotes is nearly 10,000 words (verbose), and it was very difficult for me. It’s long overdue, I hope J.L van Schaik Publishers (South Africa) will still use it!

It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. You know how it is, the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. In Autumn I never have much ($) work: I’m teaching a poetry class to children, ages 6-8; I finished 3 “Elderhostel” classes (California history, poetry, art, etc.) to 60+ year-olds—and my strangest job yet—was as a naturalist leading a group of businessmen on a day hike to the headlands near Sausalito (& the Golden Gate Bridge) last Friday (probably when I caught this cold). 

Did Paul Evans do another issue of ORAL magazine? Charles, you haven’t sent me the second batch of poems that I typeset—you were going to proof them, remember? As soon as I get them, I’ll make corrections ASAP and send you a clean copy of all that I’ve typeset so we can see where the “holes” are. 

Herman got a letter from Guillermo Gelacio, & some photos. Guillermo was concerned with, among other things, Herman’s general sloppiness in the Asian issue. I’ve tried to tell him to take care, he’s losing credibility. 

A good thing we’re near the end of the project. He’s truly incorrigable, and becoming worse with time, impossible to work with. I want to make sure we get our issue together soon so send the corrected poems.

Here’s a letter fragment I never sent:

19 Sept., 1996 (midnight insomnia) Home, I am—and after a week of sunshine, I need dark shades—unused as I am to so much concentrated light. The weather’s turning cold. Fingernail moon (and a total eclipse on the 26th—the last one of the millenium—which I doubt you’ll even see, Dutch weather being what it is. 

Still suffering from acute jetlag, tunnel vision & disorientation by late afternoon is typical (for 6 pm is really 3 am—and I wonder why I have no appetite for dinner!). 

Driving is excruciating (asleep at the wheel is a virtual reality). My cousin Dave’s having the same symptoms. We may have jumped into this culture/time zone but the bio-rhythms aren’t yet shifting. 

He said “I have to keep moving around, flapping my arms, just to keep awake at work.” I laughed at the idea of Dave flapping his wings in an airplane hangar with all those dismantled planes. 

At a lively Brazilian party in San Francisco, I made the mistake of sitting alone on the couch for a few minutes. My eyes may have been open, but that’s all. I couldn’t even speak, let alone understand the Brazilians’ Spanish (who speak with a Portuguese accent). 

I drove Herman Berlandt & his girlfriend, Verona home to Novato, literally cross-eyed, thinking “I’ll never make it home” and slept on their couch. They say it takes a minimum of 1 day of suffering for each time zone. 

I remember how it took me weeks to recover from Russia. How long will I suffer this time? Someone said that in a Concorde jet, you travel so fast, you arrive before you leave—earlier, that is, in New York than when you leave Paris! Where’s Einstein when you need him?

My cousin Sínead (Dave’s sister) and I went huckleberrying last weekend out at our secret spot on a hill near Tomales Bay, where we used to go with my grandmother. (They’re like tiny blueberries with 50 times the flavor.) 

From the isthmus, we could see Point Reyes in the distance, like a comma against the shining sea, separating Drake’s Bay from the raging Pacific—a misnamed ocean. 

Offshore fog rising up like a vast wall where tiny fishing boats disappeared into its maws, made me think of the painter, Turner. The pine forest took a beating from last year’s severe storms—so many uprooted trees met an abrupt end—we used them as aerial pathways up the hillsides. 

Since it’s all part of the Point Reyes National Seashore, we’re not supposed to gather anything—even huckleberries, so I stole an antler. We were hiding from the rangers but we had Sínead’s 22-month-old nephew, Séan to lug through the undergrowth. I had the odd sensation we were re-enacting an age-old ritual, gathering berries before the fall—no matter that our skin is white, not red. 

My aunt will make pies and ice cream, our teeth will be indigo-stained for days (like my fingers). How Pictish! The berries are so labor-intensive (cleaning takes longer than picking) we make jokes, compare them to caviar. (We went to an equinox party at Albert Straus's—a local ranch and made gallons of huckleberry ice cream).

I spent my flight over the Atlantic being terribly sleepy but wide awake with fear. Unfortunately my airplane dessert had hazelnut filling in it, tho they said it was jam. . . and I had to take antihistimines, the stewardesses coming by periodically to see if I was still breathing. I was trying to figure out a place where I could hide to inject myself with adrenaline, if it came to that. 

I’m such a coward around needles and every muscle in your body contracts at once on adrenaline. The one time I had to take it, I could hear my scull crack as every muscle in my scalp went into shrinkwrap overdrive! Zip!

What struck me most about returning home is the sharp, aromatic odor of bay laurel, poison oak pollen, and sun-burnt hay, flavored with the acrid, thirsty dust—the smell of late summer making me nostalgic (like Proust and his madelines?). 

Seeing all the lovely, steep hillsides against a cerulean sky, cloaked in tawny blond oatgrasses like sleeping lions, and the thick green-black oaks roiling in their crotches—so sexual, it surprises me anew each time I return. 

I’ll never forget how the mirrored San Francisco Bay and Mt. Tamalpias (our Mt. Fuji-san) from the fire-ravaged Oakland hills takes my breath away. The Sonoma-Marin Coast Miwok Indian word for the shining golden gate, Yulupa. 

All that’s left of the Bay Area Ohlone Indians’ stories of this landscape is: Dancing on the brink of the world. 

I love this landscape, but not the culture. I hate the vacuous American loudness, the lack of body awareness, the shallow chrome and Formica existence, the urban sprawl. . . the ultimate loneliness. I try to be somewhat tolerant, but I guess it’s not within my nature. And so I am alone, dancing on the brink of I know not what.

My 2nd night home, I was invited to a Sebastopol Arts Council meeting for the promotion of poetry in west Sonoma County, and I felt so jaded. “Been there, done that. Got the shirt. . .” 

Guess I should be glad poetry is so “in” but it just makes me bad-tempered and ornery—especially when they dream big, and haven’t a clue as to what goes on in putting on reading series and workshops, wanting more volunteer labor to make it happen. . .and I’ve got that shirt too—in several sizes. (And it’s got bloody holes in it by now!).

It feels a bit like a mausoleum here, in this poetry mecca of the world (and in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough. 

I saw a bizarre English movie, The Draughtsman’s Contract, by Peter Greenaway, the director of The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover. At the end there were all these Dutch references—someone speaking Dutch which I could almost understand. It had the peculiar effect of making me homesick for the wrong country. 

They say you always leave a part of yourself behind when you travel. Does that mean there’s less of me returning home each time I go away? (Heminway said: Travel broadens the mind. Writing broadens the ass. I write standing up.)

I’ve got to find a new home for our poetry reading series—book 20+ readers thru Dec. & do a newsletter /mailing on my own (done!). I’ve got a few 2-day teaching jobs with Elderhostel (open university for retired folks) in Oct. One on creativity and the arts, the other on early California history—I’ve got to start cramming the info. in soon. It takes me a while to re-establish those kinds of facts—I teach through telling lively stories and anecdotes—otherwise my elderly “students” will fall asleep.

* * * * * * *

Charles, today’s the anniversary of day President Kennedy was shot. The proverbial question: what were you doing, where were you? (Not on the grassy knoll, I presume!) 

I was in 3rd grade, sick with a flu (like today), sitting with my grandmother with my feet propped on the warm sides of the stove firebox (we have a gas stove with a wood burner for heat in Forest Knolls—not that newfangled modern heating! 

Bertaijn, my Grandmother’s house in Forest Knolls reminds me so much of your wonderful farm house in Rogny! Thank you again so much for inviting us, it was a highlight of my summer). Actually, she was sitting by the stove, I was wallowing around on the floor in my quilted robe like a red and yellow paisley dust-walrus. It was a dreary day, much like today.

My aunt Canice’s husband Bill (Dave’s father—they were staying with us a while. At one time or another, my grandmother’s house was a second home (a flophouse?) for three of her four daughters in various incarnations of distress). 

Bill Dinsmore (a sloppy drunk) came bursting through the front door, mid-afternoon—full of news. He was so excited, I mistook it for joyousness or frivolity. “The President’s been shot!” he shreiked. In retrospect, I think it was merely excitement and shock enhanced by the booze. 

My grandmother’s reaction of anguish (she who had buried a husband, a son and several brothers and sisters by this time), such a bizarre foil to my uncle’s giggling, I didn’t know what to think, only that Kennedy was akin to being a relative in our household. The Irish Catholics have elevated him to secular sainthood.

When visiting my relatives in Ireland in 1973, I was struck by how every house had its altar niche with Jesus and/or Mary (rarely Joseph) and Kennedy illuminated by a (red) votive candle. The sacred heart. Later, in 1989, when I visited Peru, it was like being in Ireland—Kennedy’s half-mast eyes blankly stared out at me from every niche. What do the dead still see from the eyes of photographs?

Of course, lots of controversial stories about Kennedy have surfaced since then. But, regardless of his politics and womanizing, he truly represented something as intangible as hope to so many oppressed peoples the world over. 

I can’t think of another American president that had that kind of global impact. Certainly not the Rosevelts, nor Eisenhower (course I wasn’t really politically savvy yet—born in 1952). Clinton’s been compared to Kennedy—but that’s a joke. Clinton couldn’t even fill the shadows of the soles of Kennedy’s feet. Still, I wonder, what would our perception of Kennedy been like if he’d run for office now, more than 25 years after his death; how would the world view him now?

Weird to see Fidel Castro on the telly the other night, Knnedy’s embargo from the Bay of Pigs crisis still in effect—we get little news of Cuba. I saw him on a Mexican TV channel—no voice of James Earl Jones sonorously announcing in that rich baritone: This is CNN! 

Charles, remember those radio emergency broadcast tests when we were kids? The piercing tones followed by the announcement, “This is only a test. If it had been a real emergency . . .” and we thought maybe the bomb was gonna drop? They’ve just eliminated them (I was surprised to hear them on the BBC radio broadcast you listen to in the morning). Now there’s new technology, just some computer chirps and clicks.

Charles, happy birthday to you too! I forgot the date, fellow Sagge.; my birthday’s in 2 days. I’ll be 44, or as my grandmother would say: Farty-Faer. Fulla hot air in more ways than one—nasty flubug!

1 Dec. Sun. Well, a friend (a student’s mother) whisked me away to the beautiful tourist town of Carmel-by-the Sea for the weekend, so I turned 44 beneath a full Gemini moon by the Pacific Ocean (we were 2 houses away from the beach, a painter friend of hers rented a house for a full month). 

I no sooner returned home (Tues.) and left again to spend Thanksgiving in Novato with Herman and Verona (his actress-girlfriend) and her 2 (adult) children, a Brazilian artist (Zoravia), and a Scottish actor (Neal O’Neill from Glasgow in a kilt (I think I’m in love!) played guitar, so we sang for our supper on full stomachs. 

Herman said he was going to call you, Charles, but every time we get the urge, we realize the hour you definately would not appreciate. There’s that little matter of time. He said he wrote to you but you never answered. He was worried about you, your health. Please write back to us soon.

My innards are still unhappy, so I spent the weekend back in bed reading after nearly a week of socializing. I’ve been reading more on the Celts—discovered that Laon was a celtic hillfort, and later, an Irish monastary until ca. 1500 to 1700 AD. 

My favorite mystery scholar whom I know little about, a founder of many of the continental universities, was Johannes Scottus Eriugena (John, the Irishman b. 810). He taught 25 years at Laon and at the Paris Court School for Charles the Bald (when he wasn’t being accused of heresy—which was often—for his radical doctrine preached the concept of free will. 

Note: this was long before Luther was a gleam in his great-grandparents’ eyes). In 486 the Loire was settled by Merovingin Franks, I don’t remember the dates at Marle. 

Do you have any information on the Abbey ring, Bertaijn? Suffice to say, there were probably still a few Gauls around—surely the Romans didn’t kill them all? Certainly most of the so-called “Roman’ troops were comprised of conquered Gauls—and with the fresh influx of Irish blood—well it seems to explain why everyone was wearing those Celtic beltbuckles! 

The thing is, no other group of people ever accomplished that kind of inlay design work. The Merovingian buckles were pretty crude workmanship though. Let’s all go back to Marle next summer—for a longer stay so I can scout out some history. 

Bertaijn, if you need some manual labor, I’ll be your slave. I’m very good at that sort of thing. Plastering, painting, gardening, etc. I’ve done all kinds of hard labor growing up in the country. Guess I’d better learn some French!

Here’s a little story about Eriugena: An emperor (Charles the Bald?) made a playful pun on two similar sounding words in Latin: sottum and scottum, and asked John what’s the difference between a fool and a Scot (Irishman) to which John replied, “Only the table.” (In Latin, of course: Quid distat inter sottum et scottum?).

The king must’ve been seated across from the Irishman. I bet he was flabbergasted by the answer—talk about turned tables! But then it is said in our myths, satire was the first art form invented in Ireland. 

I found this gem in my friend Vinz’s flat: Adversus stultitiam pugnare nil est laboriusius nulla enim auctonate vinci fatetur nulla ratione suddetor. Which goes something like: nothing is more laborious than to fight against stupidity for it won’t bend to any authority and it won’t be convinced by any reason. 

He must have had some very challenging students at Laon! If I don’t send this soon, it’ll be Christmas! Adieu. A’voir! Kisses & hugs!

P.S/ Well Christmas has come (the goose—well, actually, the turkey— is come and gone), and your package sat on the floor waiting for the last of my photos, and though the pieces were assembled, I forgot to mail this, so now I make another feeble attempt before year’s end. 

When I started this letter it was raining; would you believe it’s still raining! We have flood warnings for tomorrow, the Russian River is to crest at Hacienda Bridge in the afternoon, just 2 miles from my house. The power’s been threatening to go out all day, flickering—we’ve had terrible winds. Small branches falling on my roof and the hood of my truck. In today’s newspaper, a photo of ice skaters in Holland and in the Midwest—South Dakota, I think.

Charles, twice now I’ve tried calling you but no answer. Hope all’s well. I spent Christmas Eve and morning with my cousins Dave and Sinead in Nicasio; Christmas dinner and Boxing Day with Herman & Verona. 

Herman was given an old Mac computer, I have to find him a printer and a monitor. Did you ever get a better computer? What you really need is a letter quality printer ASAP! Your old computer programs might not be able to run the printer though, nowadays everything has its own special programs. 

You really should upgrade your whole system all at once if you can. Surely Anjum can help you? In the past two years there have been so many new chips (Intel, Pentium) invented, that the relatively new computers are now considered “obsolete” and if you can find someone who’s upgrading to a newer system, you should be able to find a deal somewhere. 

Since you only need a system for relatively simple wordprocessing and printing, it doesn’t have to be brand-new! You could get by with a small hard drive of 40 MB and 4-8 MB memory, both of which are upgradable. It would be nice to get a fax-modem too, because the telephone is so expensive. 

I realize you want an IBM style clone system, and they’re probably much cheaper, but if you should happen to come across a Mac system, Vinz has a Mac LC, and we can give you all the software and fonts you need. IBM’s highly touted Windows ’95 operating system (it runs the machine—you can’t get computers that run solely off program disks anymore) is merely a rip-off of Mac’s operating system invented circa 1989.

I don’t know if Dave’s sent you his photos yet, he’s been meaning to. Dave’s been working long hours on the “swing shift” (getting home at 2 am) in order to “buy” his grandfather’s house—an unscrupulous unrelated cousin managed to get her name included on the will and by California law, if property isn’t specifically bequeathed, it goes to whoever’s on the will. A real mess for him, but at least he’ll eventually own the house in Nicasio. 

The irony is that his so-called “inheritance” house will cost him about the same as if he were to buy it on the open market! But it’s a sweet old house—fraught with structural problems. That’s why he could relate so well to the problems of your house in France. 

(Do you think this is a long enough P.S.? I’m obsessed with filling the entire page with writing, I abhor the blank page in a letter, squeezing in as many words as possible, thinking I’m somehow getting my money’s worth at the Post Office. I know it doesn’t make sense, this obsession of mine, that’s why it’s so difficult for me to write letters—because once I get going I can’t stop! Enough already!!!)

November 22 - to Dec. 31?, 1996 

Letters to Paul Evans

Paul, obsessive ramblings, Lughnasadh, Aug. 2, 5 AM, 1996

Have you ever had the experience of making mental notes to say this or that to someone, some thing terribly important (or at least half-way intelligible) and in their presence (either in person, or via the phone), despite best intentions, you turn featherbrained on yourself, betrayed by a cheesecloth-that-stands-for memory/mind: whatever thoughts you had, driven clean out of your head, only to re-emerge at the oddest hours—say, at 5 AM, in a strange flat (and country) not your own—even the cats have deserted you because your tossing and turning like a crazed narwhal reminds them of the bilious sea, and water is not their favorite subject, unless fish are involved. (As the actress Tallulah Bankhead said, I nevah drink the watah, dahling, fish fhuck in it. By the time it reached the public, it was piss versus fuck. As if piss were preferable to fucking. You tell me why San Francisco society (or my computer dictionary) was not ready for that Anglo-Saxon word. My first and only opera I attended (Madame Butterfly), there she was in a peacock sequined gown, brandishing a cigarette holder longer than her arm, with a sotto voice that carried across the marble lobby into the streets. Fresh from the hills, I was wide-eyed in amazement, but that’s another story.)

In my case, this mental indulgence is exacerbated by bad cramps tempered with aspirin, cognac—one gets these images of wheels spinning in the muddied ruts in the backroads of the mind, and ends up having entire one-sided conversations that never actually reach their intended victims. Hence, the letter format. The good news is that I don’t write them often—who has the time to write to anyone—I’m a lousy correspondent—either dead silence for years, or a series of volumous ramblings like this one.

Letter to Poets & Writers, re. nonpayment for Don Meredith photo (no date)

Dear Debby Mayer,

Congrats on becoming managing editor of Poets & Writers. If my memory serves me right, I corresponded with you in regard to my listing in Poets & Writers.

I’m pleased that you used my photo of Don Meredith, page 19, July/August, issue, however, I’d love to also be paid as this is how I also survive as an artist. I do believe that Don Meredith mentioned this to you back in January when he sent you the story. Both Poetry Flash and APR pay me for my photos, as does the San Francisco Chronicle . Would you prefer an invoice?

I’ve been asked to review a video of Anna Akhmatova by video images, San Francisco, English translation is by Maryna Albert of Washington, also a poet. The video is very moving, and there are several story possibilities: a straight review, but I’ve never seen one in Poets & Writers, or a story in the making of the video which was banned in the USSR until last year year. 

I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience,

Letter to Linde—Leon the Pig Farmer

November 22, 1996
DearLinde & Dave—Happy Holidays (Solstice, Hannukah, etc.!)

(I tended to copy vast chunks of prose and paste it in the letters I wrote during this time—so I deleted most of it as it appears in other letters—though it was probably written to Linde. This is all that survived).

...Saw ’nother crazy movie, Leon the Pig Famer with tuff guy Brian Glover as a Yorkshire pig farmer trying to make his newfound adult son (an artificial insemination mix up) feel at home—the son’s kosher so the very mention of pig brings on paroxisms of guilt & fainting fits. Glover decides to make him feel at home—with Jewish guilt & Yiddishisms. Only if you know the intense shave-head thugs Glover’s played in the past makes it such a funny image. I also had a Yorkshire couple in a class I taught. The man insisted he could only draw bitters. The accent made me so homesick. I’m imprinted, Dave, I miss your voice (& the rest of U2). Have a loovely cuppa & think of me. It goes w/o saying I miss you too Linde! & the piddley puddytats. If I don’t send this soon, it’ll be New Year’s! Kisses & hugs

Letter to Wim Hofman

Wim's Weerelt, Summer 1996 Foto Maartin Hofman

Dear Wim & Toke—Happy Holidays to you! November 22 - Dec. 30, 1996

Dec. 29: I’m so sorry I didn’t write to you sooner, it was such a delight and pleasure to receive your wonderful letter upon my return in mid-September, but the whirlwind of returning, the myriad tasks to catch up on, and the pressure to finish a large article on the Poetry International translation project took up most of my time, and here it is, nearly the end of the year, and I still haven’t sent this (somewhat fragmented) letter. (Bad dog!) 

I loved the way you describe the events of the day, Wim, I loved visiting your family, and experiencing your hospitality, warmth and bone-deep kindness. It was like stepping into a precious jewel—if for only one magical day that will stay with me always, a day so much more than the mere measuring of hours, so, of course, it saddens me that you’re selling the house, for surely it is “the world.” I adore mussels but we have to wait for a month with an “R” in it (September) to eat them due to the Red Tide. Will I never be able to visit you in Vlissingen again?

Since I was able to spend some time at a friend’s dilapidated country house in France, in a tiny hamlet of Rogny on the Abbey Road (founded by Irish monks in the Dark Ages) between Marle & Laon, in Picardy, Ainse, I can also understand your urge for more land and a garden. 

Charles (Bert Schierbeek’s translator) McGeehan’s exwife/girlfriend, Bertaijn’s farmhouse needs so much work, I’d love to stay there next summer in exchange for working on it—it reminds me of my grandmother’s house where I grew up in Forest Knolls. A certain angle of light, red roses splayed against a wall, farm machinery from another era strewn in every nook and cranny. Triggerpoints of memory. 

Charles is an interesting character, a GI stationed in Germany in the late ’60s, on furlough, who never left Holland; he’d met a Dutch girl on a train: Bertaijn. Now he’s 60 years old, an expatriate, neither wholly Dutch nor American. 

Bertaijn was Bert Schierbeek’s sister-in-law; we met at Bert’s funeral my first day in Holland in June. We were 500 strong, the coffin, a barge dressed in flowers and sheaves of poetry—including our own Mother Earth Journal. Bert used to spend time at Bertaijn’s farmhouse. My cousin Dave & I felt his presence there. . .

I’m in the process of applying for an Irish passport (my grandparents left before Ireland became a republic, so I’m the last generation allowed to apply for a passport.) My uncle was in Dublin this summer and got his inside of two weeks. The passport allows us to work in the European Community, an important consideration. 

Wim, I guess I’m tired of having to always struggle to find work each year, with no future, retirement, or security—nothing at all, for this is the life of an “independent contractor,” outside the system, so to speak. This is life in America for the struggling artist. Brains and talent account for little in the land where the greenback dollar is God. 

I think I’d like to work at one of the American schools in Europe—Poetry, English & Art. If you know of anyone who can help me, let me know as I want a life where I can spend time in Europe, as I am always unhappy to return to the states, where I need to earn money.

Did you get my Dutch translations of the children’s poems via the Internet? I was in Liessel (Near Eindhoven) visiting a photographer friend (Jan Bogaerts), we tried to send the document to both your son Maartin, and Toke. I’ve enclosed a hard copy for you in case you didn’t receive it. 

As for the books I left, don’t worry about translating it if you don’t want to—only tell me what you thought. 

From my meeting with the workshop leader, Henk van Fassen, I got the feeling we were diametrically opposed in our approaches to teaching children poetry. I believe in what is possible, he believes children are limited by intellect and scope. 

I’m sorry I don’t have more poems for you in Dutch. Yes, I’ve been to those places in my poems, seen those sights, lived those experiences. All autobiographical. I can’t remember if I left you any Dutch translations of my work, so I’ll enclose another packet, if I’ve erred in sending you duplicates, please pass them onto someone. 

A funny connection—the translator of my poems, a college friend (and former boyfriend) of mine, philosopher Vinz van Neerven, stayed at your house some 20 years ago with his then girlfriend, Judith Smeur—I think she was house-sitting for you while you were away? Isn’t it a small Weererlt after all? 

I’m sorry I don’t have any pictures of your place, other than the scratchboard I did (I’ve enclosed a copy for you). I thought I took photos of you? Perhaps it was in black and white film—in which case, I have only the negatives. I don’t have a darkroom and have to set up a time at a photographer’s studio to make proofsheets. Yet another pressing item on my list of “things to do.”

I’m so relieved to be finished with my Breytenbach essay on translation. I can’t believe it took so long to write, but I didn’t have the background or knowledge necessary to quickly write something. 

Besides, if I knew what I was going to write, I wouldn’t write at all. What’s the point? The essay & footnotes (nearly 10,000 words—verbose), was very difficult for me. I hope J.L van Schaik Publishers (South Africa) will use it!

You said you had several computers. . . do you want to get rid of any of them? Charles McGeehan desperately needs something more modern than his 15+ year old (DOS) IBM clone and doesn’t know much about modern systems; he needs a more recent model CPU(with 20 - 40 MB storage space, 4 - 8 MB memory? I’m guessing), a worprocessing program with simple graphic layout capabilities and a letter quality printer. I think he’s using one of the very first versions of WordPerfect (on floppy disks). His address is Rustenbergerstraat 66 huis, 1074 EX A’dam 020-675-0778. 

Though Charles may have severe disabilities (a serious brain tumor was removed several years ago), he actually accomplishes more work—primarily poetry translations—more than most people I know. 

In August, my cousin Dave Dinsmore came over to Amsterdam to visit me—he works for United Airlines—Dave, Charles McGeehan and his girlfriend Bertaijn and I went to France for a few days—We took the coast route from Rotterdam to Zeeland islands—dunes marsh and grey sea—and the ferry at Vlissingen to Belgium. 

I saw the windmill and had that curious sensation of collapsed time, remembering our mad walk to the train station, wanting to come visit but we had so little time, having stopped overlong in Middleburg. 

Dave was so amazed, we wound up staying overlong, and had to hurry to Brugge—which was even more amazing—we were so exhausted, we spent the night (in an inn) beneath the tower on the main square. 

We got caught in horrible traffic in Lille—no road signs on the freeways, so we circled and circled the countryside for hours trying to avoid the toll roads and navigate our way east by following topographic clues and a certain slant of sunlight until dusk overtook us.

Lille, a real hellhole. Dunkirk ever to the west. The Battle of the Bulge was fought somewhere near here. You can still feel the ghostly reminder the blood-soaked fields at sunset when the light is right and the fog rises up like apparitions.

We wound up several times in a village where Reblais was born, Proust too. Closet hysteric Charles McGeehan forgot his passport (and his epilepsy pills) so we didn’t want to get caught up in a immigration control lines. Dave and I, having no French money, didn’t want to take the toll roads. 

Asking a Frenchman directions in a village square was a farce worthy of a Monty Python comedy sketch. Only Bertaijn spoke French.

 A 6-hour trip from Amsterdam to Laon took us nearly three days. Kafavy said the journey, not the destination, matters. 

On the way back, we stopped off in Antwerp; sat in the afternoon sun in front of that glorious Gothic cathedral quaffing strong Belgian beer. We earned the sight of spires piercing the blueness of sky. Odd, Laon’s hill fortress Gothic cathedral has no spires, just stumps.

* * * * * * *

NOV. 22: It’s been raining steadily for a week, a slow, gentle rain, drumming fingers of rain on the moss-green scalp of my cabin roof nestled beneath live oaks. I’m cozily curled up in bed with the flu, playing with my computer. 

There are flash flood warnings in Northern California, Oregon and Washington and record feet of snow has fallen in the mountains. I’ve been lax about writing to anyone since I’ve been back home. A kind of lethargy creeps over me. I do what’s necessary, read, and little else. Perhaps hibernation. . . Of course, it doesn’t help that I have an injured wrist.

Before I left Amsterdam, I got into a bicycle accident. As I was returning home to Oetgenstraat from Westerpark, some idiot took a curved wrought-iron flower trellis (the arch that goes over a gate) out of the back of his double-parked car on Prinsengracht (near Utrechtstraat), and swung it in front of me, cutting my right hand. 

I tried to protect my face but smashed into a parked car, bruising my left wrist when I hit the back windshield. It was either smash into a parked car or fly into the canal—which to choose? It was raining, the bike’s brakes were no good on wet cobblestone & brick. 

I’ve been ignoring my wrist for the past 2 months—until it hurt so badly (I was smashing a clove of garlic with the flat of a knife; the little bones in my wrist made a crunching sound like potato crisps!). I went to the doctor who put it into a splint to rest it—a bad sprain with injury to the ulnar nerve. 

I’m slowly typing (two-fingered pecking) this letter wearing my stupid wrist brace which looks (& is beginning to smell) like an old gym shoe, and as winter’s chill creeps in, my bones ache (more snow in the Sierras); injuries don’t heal quite as fast as they used to.

It’s hard to say exactly how I’ve been wasting my time as I’m never idle. You know how it is, the life of a writer is a proverbial black hole. In Autumn I never have much ($) work: I’m teaching a poetry class to children, ages 6-8; I finished 3 “Elderhostel” classes (California history, poetry, art, etc.) to 60+ year-olds—and my strangest job yet—was as a naturalist leading a group of businessmen on a day hike to the headlands near Sausalito (& the Golden Gate Bridge) last Friday (probably when I caught this cold).

Here’s a journal fragment: 19 Sept., 1996 (midnight insomnia) Home, I am—and after a week of sunshine, I need dark shades—unused as I am to so much concentrated light. The weather’s turning cold. Fingernail moon (and a total eclipse on the 26th—the last one of the millennium—which I doubt you’ll even see, Dutch weather being what it is. 

Still suffering from acute jetlag, tunnel vision & disorientation by late afternoon is typical (for 6 PM is really 3 am—and I wonder why I have no appetite for dinner!). Driving is excruciating (asleep at the wheel is a virtual reality). 

My cousin Dave’s having the same symptoms. We may have jumped into this culture/time zone but the bio-rhythms aren’t yet shifting. He said “I have to keep moving around, flapping my arms, just to keep awake at work.” I laughed at the idea of Dave flapping his wings in an airplane hangar with all those dismantled planes. 

At a lively Brazilian party in San Francisco, I made the mistake of sitting alone on the couch for a few minutes. My eyes may have been open, but that’s all. I couldn’t even speak, let alone understand the Brazilians’ Spanish (who speak with a Portuguese accent). 

I drove Herman Berlandt & his girlfriend, Verona home to Novato in Marin County, north of San Francisco, literally cross-eyed, thinking “I’ll never make it home” (an hour and a half’s drive) so I slept on their couch. (Wim, do you remember Herman at Poetry International, the little old man who is the editor of Mother Earth Journal—I’ve edited some issues too.) 

They say it takes a minimum of 1 day of suffering for each time zone. I remember how it took me weeks to recover from Russia. How long will I suffer this time? Someone said that in a Concorde jet, you travel so fast, you arrive before you leave—earlier, that is, in New York than when you leave Paris! Where’s Einstein when you need him?

My cousin Sínead and I went huckleberrying the last weekend before the Autumn Equinox out at our secret spot on a hill near Tomales Bay, where we used to go with my grandmother. (They’re like tiny blueberries with 50 times the flavor.) 

From the isthmus, we could see Point Reyes in the distance, like a comma against the shining sea, separating Drake’s Bay from the raging Pacific—a misnamed ocean. Offshore fog rising up like a vast wall where tiny fishing boats disappeared into its maws, made me think of the painter, Turner. 

The pine forest took a beating from last year’s severe storms—so many uprooted trees met an abrupt end—we used them as aerial pathways up the hillsides. Since it’s all part of the Point Reyes National Seashore, we’re not supposed to gather anything—even huckleberries, so I stole an antler. 

We were hiding from the rangers but we had Sínead’s 22-month-old nephew, Séan to lug through the undergrowth. I had the odd sensation we were re-enacting an age-old ritual, gathering berries before the fall—no matter that our skin is white, not red. 

My aunt will make pies and ice cream, our teeth will be indigo-stained for days (like my fingers). How Pictish! The berries are so labor-intensive (cleaning takes longer than picking) we make jokes, compare them to caviar. We went to a party at a local ranch (Albert Straus) & made gallons of huckleberry ice cream.

* * * * * * *

What struck me most about returning home is the sharp, aromatic odor of bay laurel, poison oak pollen, and sun-burnt hay, flavored with the acrid, thirsty dust—the smell of late summer making me nostalgic (like Proust and his madelines?). 

Seeing all the lovely, steep hillsides against a cerulean sky, cloaked in tawny blond oatgrasses like sleeping lions, and the thick green-black oaks roiling in their crotches—so sexual, it surprises me anew each time I return. 

I’ll never forget how the mirrored San Francisco Bay and Mt. Tamalpais (our Mt. Fuji-san) from the fire-ravaged Oakland hills takes my breath away. 

The Sonoma-Marin Coast Miwok Indian word for the shining golden gate, Yulupa. All that’s left of the Bay Area Ohlone Indians’ stories of this landscape is: Dancing on the brink of the world. 

I love this landscape, but not the culture. I hate the vacuous American loudness, the lack of body awareness, the shallow chrome and Formica existence, the urban sprawl. . . the ultimate loneliness. I try to be somewhat tolerant, but I guess it’s not within my nature. And so I am alone, dancing on the brink of I know not what.

My 2nd night home, I was invited to a Sebastopol Arts Council meeting for the promotion of poetry in west Sonoma County, and I felt so jaded. “Been there, done that. Got the shirt. . .” Guess I should be glad poetry is so “in” but it just makes me bad-tempered and ornery—especially when they dream big, and haven’t a clue as to what goes on in putting on reading series and workshops, wanting more volunteer labor to make it happen. . .and I’ve got that shirt too—in several sizes. (And it’s got bloody holes in it by now!).

It feels a bit like a mausoleum here, in this poetry mecca of the world (and in my cabin too). I know I’ll grow used to it soon enough. 

I saw a bizarre English movie, The Draughtsman’s Contract, by Peter Greenaway, the director of The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover. At the end there were all these Dutch references—someone speaking Dutch which I could almost understand. It had the peculiar effect of making me homesick for the wrong country. 

They say you always leave a part of yourself behind when you travel. Does that mean there’s less of me returning home each time I go away? (Hemingway said: Travel broadens the mind. Writing broadens the ass. I write standing up.)

* * * * * * *

NOV. 22, continued: Today’s the anniversary of day President Kennedy was shot. The proverbial question: what were you doing, where were you? (Not on the grassy knoll in Dallas, I presume!) I was in 3rd grade, sick with a flu (like today), sitting with my grandmother with my feet propped on the warm sides of the stove firebox (we have a gas stove with a wood burner for heat in Forest Knolls—not that newfangled modern heating! She was sitting by the stove, I was wallowing around on the floor in my quilted robe like a red and yellow paisley dust-walrus. It was a dreary day, much like today.

My aunt Canice’s husband Bill (Dave and Sínead’s father—they were staying with us) told us the news. (At one time or another, my grandmother’s house was a refuge to three of her four daughters in various reincarnations of distress). 

Fresh from the Nicasio Ranchouse bar, Bill Dinsmore came bursting through the front door, mid-afternoon—full of news. He was so excited, I mistook it for joyousness or frivolity. “The President’s been shot!” he shrieked. In retrospect, I think it was merely excitement and shock enhanced by the booze. 

My grandmother’s reaction of anguish (she who had buried a husband, a son and several brothers and sisters by this time), such a bizarre foil to my uncle’s giggling, I didn’t know what to think, only that Kennedy was akin to being a relative in our household. The Irish have elevated him to secular sainthood.

When visiting my relatives in Ireland in 1973, I was struck by how every house had its altar niche with Jesus and/or Mary (rarely Joseph) and Kennedy illuminated by a (red) votive candle. The sacred heart. Later, in 1989, when I visited Peru, it was like being in Ireland—Kennedy’s half-mast eyes blankly stared out at me from every niche. What do the dead still see from the eyes of photographs?

Of course, lots of controversial stories about Kennedy have surfaced since then. But, regardless of his politics and womanizing, he truly represented something as intangible as hope to so many oppressed peoples the world over. I can’t think of another American president that had that kind of global impact. Certainly not the Roosevelts, nor Eisenhower (course I wasn’t really politically savvy yet—born in 1952). Clinton’s been compared to Kennedy—but that’s a joke. 

Clinton couldn’t even fill the shadows of the soles of Kennedy’s feet. Still, I wonder, what would our perception of Kennedy been like if he’d run for office now, more than 25 years after his death; how would the world view him now?

Weird to see Fidel Castro on the telly the other night, Kennedy’s embargo from the Bay of Pigs crisis still in effect here—we get very little news of Cuba. I saw him on a Mexican TV channel—no voice of James Earl Jones sonorously announcing in that rich baritone: This is CNN! 

Remember those radio emergency broadcast tests when we were kids? The piercing tones followed by the announcement, “This is only a test. If it had been a real emergency . . .” and we thought maybe the Bomb was gonna drop? They’ve just eliminated them (I was surprised to still hear them on the BBC radio broadcast in Amsterdam). Now the new technology is just some computer chirps and clicks.

1 Dec. Sun. Well, a friend (a student’s mother) whisked me away to the beautiful tourist town of Carmel-by-the Sea for the weekend, so I turned 44 beneath a full Gemini moon by the Pacific Ocean (we were 2 houses away from the beach, a painter friend of hers’ rented a house for a full month). 

I no sooner returned home (Tues.) and left again to spend Thanksgiving (Thurs.) in Novato with Herman and Verona (his actress-girlfriend) and her 2 children, a Brazilian artist, and a Scottish actor from Glasgow played guitar in a kilt; we sang for our supper on full stomachs.

My innards are still unhappy, so I spent the weekend back in bed reading after nearly a week of socializing. I’ve been reading up on my ancestors, the Celts—I discovered that Laon (where I was in France) was an Irish monastery until ca. 1500 to 1700 AD. 

My favorite mystery scholar whom I know little about, a founder of many of the continental universities, was Johannes Scottus Eriugena (or John, the Irishman b. 810). He taught 25 years at Laon and at the Paris Court School for Charles the Bald (when he wasn’t being accused of heresy—which was often—for his radical doctrine preached the concept of free will. Note: this was long before Luther was a gleam in his great-grandparents’ eyes).

Here’s a little story about Eriugena: An emperor (Charles the Bald?) made a playful pun on two similar sounding words in Latin: sottum and scottum, and asked John what’s the difference between a fool and a Scot (Irishman) to which John replied, “Only the table.” (In Latin, of course: Quid distat inter sottum et scottum?). The king must’ve been seated across from the Irishman. I bet he was flabbergasted by the answer—talk about turned tables! 

But then it is said in our myths, satire was the first art form invented in Ireland. I found this gem in my friend Vinz’s flat: Adversus stultitiam pugnare nil est laboriusius nulla enim auctonate vinci fatetur nulla ratione suddetor. Which goes something like: nothing is more laborious than to fight against stupidity for it won’t bend to any authority and it won’t be convinced by any reason. He must have had some very challenging students at Laon University! If I don’t send this soon, it’ll be Christmas!

* * * * * * *

Weeks later: This is just to sat that I’ve obviously failed my first attempt at a quick Christmas Greeting Letter, a generic form which I find impersonal, lacking in the very juices that makes a letter a letter. It got me thinking about various forms of writing—why the epistolary letter written to one person and available to all, is more interesting than a shopping list or the dreaded Christmas Letter. 

And I realized part of the problem of the Christmas Letter was a dearth of anecdotal details and the metaphors we writers so preciously cling to. There’s no place for interaction for the reader unfamiliar with those mundane facts that comprise our lives. . . 

I used to think those self-absorbed Christmas Letter scribes, like Scrooge, must live the most thoroughly boring and mundane of lives, but when all my writer friends began sending me generic letters, I had to rethink the genre (if you can call it that). 

At least writers tend to add in a few lovely bits of human dross. When we reduce our lives to statistics, what’s left to ponder? No magic conjuring up or acknowledgement of the other. On the flip side of the coin, we live such a frenetic lives, stacks of unanswered letters haunt us like ghosts of Christmases past. 

To wit, the lowered literary standard of the Christmas Letter at half mast, or no communication at all? Dog-eared choices. Though I dislike the Christmas Letter, or any generic letter, I’ve come to the conclusion I’d rather hear some news than no news at all. This longwinded missive, a strange hybrid of journal entries and letter, I hope you haven’t found too tedious to read. The alternatave is either no news at all or generic Christmas Letter! So please forgive the amount of time I took to reply to your letters.

Dec. 30: Well, to paraphrase an olde English song: Christmas has come (the goose—well, actually, the turkey— is come and gone), all our pennies are in the merchant’s hats while we haven’t even two half-pennies to rub together—and your package still sits on the floor waiting for me to finish this letter. 

Though most of the pieces were assembled, I forgot to finish this letter, so now I must make another feeble attempt before year’s end. When I started this letter over a month ago, it was raining; would you believe it’s still raining! We had two clear days: Christmas eve and day. 

I think we got our entire 1997 rain allotment in November and December of 1996! 

We’ve just had both a flash flood warning at 2 p.m. (right now—wherever roads and creeks or culverts intersect, the water can rise several feet within minutes because the ground’s so saturated with water, and the rivers are so full, they can’t carry all their water to the sea.)

We also have a major river flood warning for this afternoon: our Russian River is to crest at about 36 feet above its summer banks at Hacienda Bridge—just 2 miles from my house. I’m above 100 feet; thank god for small favors called mountains. Of course, they’re the reason who we’re getting so much rain. 

I imagine this equivalent would put most of Holland underwater (we crossed that Zeeland dam, saw the flood photos of’54? Unimaginable.) The power’s been threatening to go out all day, flickering on and off; my computer’s not a happy camper. We’ve had terrible winds. Small branches falling on my roof and the hood of my truck. Another storm due in New Year’s Eve. 

Think I’ll practice growing webbed feet and feathers, or build an arc! In today’s newspaper, a photo of ice skaters in Holland and in the Midwest—South Dakota, I think; -40 (that’s Fahrenheit, not Celsius) in Montana where I just got a two week poetry job at a school in Feb. Brrr!!! Luckily the post office is nearby, though I may need a snorkel to get there! Or devolve.

Jan.7-15, 1997, Little Christmas aftermath: Our New Year’s storm is officially the worst recorded storm in California’s history, and the worst storm of the century, a warm, tropical storm, they call it the Hawaiian Punch. The Russian River crested at 46 feet above its summer banks (about two stories high? 32 feet is considered to be flood stage, but 1986 at 49 - 51 feet, and 1995 - 6 at 49 feet were much worse).

When the rains moved east, they restored ancient shorelines of the Great Central Valley Laguna that once extended 700 miles from Redding near Mt. Shasta to the Tehachipi Mountains near Los Angeles, to its original pre-1850s goldrush state (before hydraulic placer mining in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range silted the Delta, and land reclamation drained the Delta). 

How soon people forget the land was reclaimed, thought “reclaimed” isn’t exactly the right word, since they claimed land for the first time within the past 100 years. The Delta region is flooded: most of the “islands” (they’re really polders) are 15 feet (I’m 5 feet 2 inches) or more below sea level, then 7 foot tides and high winds created 28 breeches along 1000 miles of levee (dijk); the ungirded rivers: the Sacramento, the Feather, the American, the Mokelumne, the Stanislaus, the Tuolumne, the Merced, and the San Joaquin mingle and wander where they please. 

Each day, a new catastrophe. From Lake Tahoe, the tentacled Truckee River in Reno went gamboling into all the casinos at once. The streets had rapids! Yosemite is a lake, not a valley. Whole campground have floated off, the bears wakened early from hibernation, are partying on food abandoned by fleeing winter campers.

Meanwhile, on the coast, the Russian, the Eel, the Gualala, and the Napa rivers have meekly climbed back into their beds after a few days’ freedom. The Russian River has now had three 100-year floods within one year’s time—January 1996-1997. 

As one man put it, “How many 100-year floods can we have within a decade?” The theory, of course, is that the river only floods disastrously once every 100 years on the average. We’ve had nearly a dozen floods since 1950, 1955, 1964, 1981 - 2, 1986, 1995, 1996 - 7. 

This year (1997) Santa Rosa got 20 inches of rain in 7 days, 2/3 of its annual rainfall. In 1996, a very wet year, it received 9 inches. We get nearly double the rainfall in Forestville averaging 40 - 60 inches, only 12 miles away. Cazadero, near the coast, at 90 - 100 inches, is an official “rainforest” receiving more than double our annual rainfall. 

Remember the scratchboard drawings I showed you of the flooded river? I’ve added some new ones this flood season. Did I leave you a copy of my flood prose-poem? Building an Arc in the Dark of the Year.

They now estimate the damage at $2 billion; 44 of our 58 counties called disaster areas; more than 200,000 acres underwater. After 40 inches of rain in 1 week (14 inches in one day), the Feather River crested an amazing 70 feet above its banks, carving a new channel (or reclaiming a prehistoric one) across the Great Central Valley. Boulders the size of micro-buses boomed and clattered down the Feather River Canyon sounding like giant pool, or bowling balls. The canyon vibrated all night long. 

Hydrological numbers are staggering. They estimated the river at the Oroville Dam flowed at nearly 100,000 gallons a second (imagine filling six Olympic-size swimming pools every second), and downstream it was even faster! 

Within the first seven days of the New Year, the Sacramento River, at 500,000 fps carried enough water to meet the needs (89,600 acre feet) of the entire city of San Francisco for 33 years. One acre-foot equals the equivalent of one football (soccer?) field flooded one foot deep; a family of 5 uses less than that a year. 

All rivers have either reached or exceeded their highest recorded flood levels recorded in modern times. Needless to say, most of our major highways across the state have been closed at one point or another. The smaller mountain highways may be closed indefinitely. Highway 50 to Tahoe lost 39 miles of roadbed.

Row crops washed out to sea: asparagus beds, wheat, rice—gone. The orchards & vineyards will probably survive. After the water receded in Forestville, cabbages & “yuppie designer” lettuce floated across Guerneville Road at the Santa Rosa Laguna; like dense mats of colorful leaves, unharvested red chili peppers and enormous yellow squashes floating atop the orchards & vineyards on River Road; you could mark the high water mark by the chilies dangling in the treetops on this last day of Christmas! 

Massive livestock losses. The surviving cows refuse to leave pastures and spend their days looking like spotted hippos in a chocolate sea. No way to milk them, creatures of habit, they resist rescuing. The legs of the unlucky ones pluck strands of barb-wire fences until they drown. Or hypothermia kills them. No arcs or hot tubs in sight. 

Now ironically, we have blue skies, sunny days, and an Arctic cold snap, black frosts, snow on the way (very rare by the coast). It was 18 degrees Fahrenheit (-5° Celsius) one night; my outside plants survived summer drought & winter flooding only to die from frost. My fingers numb, this time from the cold. You might not find it cold, but we’re not used to such weather in this “Mediterranean” coastal climate zone.

California reminds us that it’s still a wild untamed animal, a sometimes dangerous land of extremes. Important reminder as we continue to mindlessly grow (31 million) develop and build on fragile land that should be better left for agricultural use for that very reason. 

Once again I’m under the blankets, this time just to keep warm! The kitchen heater doesn’t heat this part of the room, it escapes through the uninsulated knotty pine walls of the summer cabin, never meant for year-round habitation, nor severe winter cold spells. 

Unfortunately only my poor refrigerator freezer is warmed by the heater’s valiant efforts, and keeps melting faster the colder it gets. If only I could train the hot air to enter through doorways and lay low like groundfog instead of uselessly rising to the ceiling like the floodwaters. 

Sometimes I stand on a chair to reach the heat just to and thaw my hands and nose! (I over-exaggerate! hyperbole thins the blood. I’m never too sure where one paragraph should end, and another begin, I fall victim to runaway sentences and ideas, switch thoughts mid-stream. . . all this coupled with a miserly compulsion to fill every page.)

And I never even mentioned the event that derailed me from finishing and mailing this letter: the rain falling in sheaves New Year’s Eve practically on the stroke of midnight! It was as if the sky had opened a vast drain, water flooding the roads so fast. 

Driving home from a friend’s in Santa Rosa (I left at the stroke of midnight, as a severe thunderstorm began voicing a warning of more rain, the Russian River was already at 36’ above flood stage, any new rain meant getting stranded in Santa Rosa). I nearly went off into an embankment twice, skidding out of control when I hit invisible pockets of water. 

My New Year’s resolution was to find my driveway, which became an impromptu creekbed; I think we had something like 7 inches of rain. A 20 - 25 minute drive took me nearly an hour to get home. I went down to the river, it was about 40 feet above its banks and rising. I knew we were in for a big flood, but I had no idea the Central Valley would fare worse than us. A big surprise. 

I understand you too have had your share of cold weather. When we haven’t been preoccupied with water, we’ve seen photos of frozen waterfalls in Hungary, skating festivals in Holland, some 200 dead from the cold? Welcome to 1997? Dare I ask how you’re faring? I’d best send this soon or I’ll feel compelled to report on yet another catastrophe of biblical proportions like pestilence or famine.

Note bene: (2/18/2012) apparently my missive and care packages laden with poetry never arrived to De Weerlet, a house built in 1606, with De Weerlet and clamshell stucco over its door lintel—in Vlissingen, Netherlands, as Wim had moved. Sixteen years later, Wim found me on the internet via an article I'd published on Antarctica on RedRoom. Small weerlet indeed. So for the first time, I've got a photo of me painting Wim's garden, and the image on the same page. Circles colliding. A gift. It's rare that one gets closure, a circle of time completed like this.

Here's a Wiki entry on Wim.

Wim Hofman - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia