Friday, December 31, 2010

Random Word matrixes

I fall for those end of year word matrixes, then wonder why I bothered. Top 10 obsessive words posted were writer, poet, poetry, novelist, gods, love, God, Irish, author, languages, 

My Year in Status is a bit more of a word salad, so I'll pick out the interesting ones.
Being a writer requires an intoxication with language.
Some people become so expert at reading between the lines, they don't read the lines.
I said neither of those lines.

The Little Shits

When I was barely a teenager, my life was held hostage by the wiles of two Shetland fillies who went where they pleased, when they pleased—dubbed the Little Shits by irate neighbors. No corral could hold them. I even tried hobbling them, but they could gallop, hobbled at both ends and with a cross tie. Shackled like prisoners, they still got out to terrorize the neighborhood. I dreaded full moons and the staccato of tiny hooves on pavement. One spring the bigger one disappeared only to return with a colt. So cute! My heart melted all over again but I realized I couldn't deal with a third hellion. Then I was joined by a 4th Shetland—who ran away from a distant neighbor. Then all manner of ungulates began to appear in our lower field. Once a miniature stud horse with his sidekick—a huge horse. I may have been horse crazy but I was overwhelmed trying to feed them all on babysitter's wages.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Lunar eclipse on the Solstice

Would someone please tell the moon she's late for a very important date?
Manual for about 1.5 seconds, auto is too overblown.

 I set my weenie Nikon on manual, forgot to check the F Stop & was on F400 @ 4.6. Ironically, I blindly pointed the camera shot—and it was the best one of the moon. Of course, there was more light. Even when the eclipse was barely discernible, the amount of light drop off was hug.  

Someday I want a real DSLR camera that has a low F kills me to be stuck at F4.5. I tried Hi ISO too, and resorted to P (Auto for the red moon shots as Manual mode completely gave up with so little light. I had to lie down on the steps and hold camera to my forehead and not breathe—the movement is the moon itself. 3-4 second exposures.

I noticed journalists have been complete spazzes in reporting the actual time/date. Not knowing the difference between Greenwich and PST, for example. I'm sitting outside with my laptop. Chilly but noice.

It's looking a little nibbly at 6 o clock. And we have lift off!
the little rainbow tutu is the cloud cover—it was pretty thick so I held lens open for nearly 3 seconds...then I had to breathe...phew!

I've lost imagery—too much cloud cover. I'm shooting at 1/30th @ 4.5 (can't lower F Stop any lower—digital weenie camera. My poor little camera could barely cope. Seriously socked in now—a mooonbow! Ring around the moon...  

This cloud cover is killing me. I've gone & lost the frickin moon... Lunar eclipse on the shortest day, first time in over 400 years and it's hidden by cloud!

  I was going to use the binoculars to enlarge the camera lens...but one eyepiece came off the binoculars and bounced down the stairs and over the wall. So Neill was rootling around in the bushes for the lens during the time the sky was clear. Very Mutt & Jeff.

I have two very weenie Nikon 8.1 megapixel Coolpix P60s (one's CCD image sensor is better than the other—I keep the other one around as Plan B), and I have an older 7.1 MP Coolpix S200 which Neil was using. The P series, you can control the Fstop and shutter speed (sort of). The Automode was a bust until totality. Then it worked (sort of), but there was so little light, half the time I was shooting blind. 

I set the aperature on Mountain mode—as that gave me the greatest depth of field (focus) but even still, there were a lot of out of focus moons. I found that the 5x optical zoom was necessary—I even used the interpolated zoom vs optical (real lens).

My cameras failed, the noise dots are stars. You can see some of them moving.

I remember once we were on our way to see Tom Stoppard at ACT in SF ca. 1999 and between the buildings, hung a red moon—my digital camera couldn't cope.  

The first total lunar eclipse like this one that I remember circa 1972 or 73, I'd stopped off at the Forest Knolls post office to get the mail and looked up and shrieked—my first thought: it was a dragon's eye, then, blood. In that moment I understood why the Chinese called it a dragon's blood moon. The Aha! And another one circa 1986. Both accidental events. I had no idea they were on the schedule. I do remember earlier eclipses when I was a child—but none where the moon turned red. 

Sunday, December 12, 2010


My grandmother’s hands
were torn and speckled with pigment
fair northern flesh burned by the fierce California sun.
A rebellious knotted vein rose up like a stone.
Souvenir from a strand of barbed wire
strung to keep the deer out of the garden.

Her freckles were an archiplelago of islands
adrift on a moon-milk sea.
They were Brendan voyagers in curraghs
headed for the New World
with a warrior phalanx of shields
raised up against a common enemy, the sun.
But they failed to protect her children,
when the melanoma set sail for that country
from which nothing ever returns.

I remember her wide spatulate fingers
that rubbed floursack sheets against the washboard
that mended jeans, made dresses for first day of school
and how I was ashamed they were not store-bought.
I remember the way she weeded the gardens,
dug up the praties, stacked wood for coming winter.

From her, I learned the survival of hands.
No caresses were needed because her love
was as fierce as the sun that burned her skin
as she labored in the garden or at the clothesline
she kept us safe, and provided when no one else would.
As she knelt to pray in the Sunday pew,
the sun shone on that knotted vein
and it was so beautiful—the scarring and freckles,
a skin painting of faith and tenderness.

From Ellery Akers' workshop, Petaluma, CA, 8/28/10 rev. 12/12/10

Praties is from the Gaelic for potatoes, "pràtai", a loan word via the Basque fishermen who introduced the tuber to western Ireland in the 16th century, via a Spanish word that is a compound of Carib-Taino batata (sweet potato) and Quechua papa (potato). Introduced to Europe by Spain in 1536, potato was first attested in 1565.

Praties is known as the famine song—first printed in 1897. There was nothing else left to eat In Ireland as all Irish food was owned by and shipped to England—and all that was left to eat were oats and potatoes. Then the blight rotted the potatoes—even the seed potatoes for next year. And the English stood by and watched as millions died.

Is maith an t-anlann an t-ocras.
(iss mawt on tawn/lonn on tuck/russ )
Hunger is a good sauce

The Praties

Oh, the praties they grow small,
Over here, over here,
Oh the praties they grow small,
And we dig them in the Fall,
And we eat them coats and all,
Over here, over here

Oh I wish that we were geese,

Night and morn, night and morn,

Oh I wish that we were geese,

For they fly and take their ease,

And they live and die in peace,

Eatin' corn, eatin' corn.

But we're trampled in the dust,

Over here, over here,

We're trampled in the dust,

But the Lord in whom we trust

Will give us crumb for crust,

Over here, over here.

El Mensajero, Lorna Dee Cervantes Hunger reading, 1st Congregational Church, Oakland

12 de diciembre del 2010 | El Mensajero (San Francisco, CA)


Unos 50 poetas y escritores locales, como Francisco X. Alarcón, Lucha Corpi, Ishmael Reed, Reed Tennessee, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Ruth Schwartz, Cecilia Pineda, Maureen Hurley, Jack y Foley Adelle, y más, leerán su obra para alimentar a los más hambrientos de las calles de Oakland. Habrá venta y presentaciones de libros, además de venta de artesanía con tablas de datos y de artesanía. También habrá subastas que serán útiles para donaciones. En la Primera Iglesia Congregacional de Oakland, ubicada en el 2501 de Harrison Street. Este domingo 12 de diciembre. Consulta el sitio en internet:

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Mythopoetics, or why I write

The Pleasanton Poetry Poet Laureate asked me:
Why does Maureen Hurley write poetry? 

“I grapple with the unconscious dendritic history buried within the personal mythopoetics of my writing while keeping an ear bent to the myriad voices of landscape and memory.”

My poem & photos are up at Meusa's Kitchen blog: 

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Me and Dana Teen Lomax CPITS

Me and Dana Teen Lomax, Presidio, David Sibbit's office, CPITS event

CPITS workshop on pocket poems. She won the lavender. It looks like a pot plant.

Dana was my CPITS protégée, I trained her during the 1980s at Mark West School in Santa Rosa, where I had my California Arts Council grants. Poet-teaching became her life's work. Though I've trained many CPITS poets, if I had only one person to choose to pay it forward, it would be Dana.

added 4/24/2016

Monday, November 15, 2010


              —for Bruce Moody

After the poetry reading, we sit on the balcony
it's sultry for November, real earthquake weather.
The lights of the new bridge glaze the bay
and the train hugging the shore wends its way
along the narrows, sounding a two-chord jazz note.
The frosted pink C&H sign sweetens an indigo sky.
We offer pinot grigio toasts, catching-up with the years,
myriad stars and the Big Dipper whirl above our heads.
Bruce asks, if you had a billion dollars,
where would you go? Not what would you buy.
Death will discharge our debts.
On the far shore of the Carquinez Straits
the new houses ring the hills like fireflies.
Mesmerized by their own beauty
they crowd the shore, a thirsty herd of wildebeasts
waiting for a sacrificial leader to take the plunge
into dangerous waters and force them into the drink.
Perhaps an earthquake will do.

Sunday, November 14, 2010


Yearning for another time
we strutted along Petaluma Boulevard,
once the chicken capitol of the world,
and clucked fuck-fuck-fuck-AFF
to a startled gaggle of tourists
aimlessly clogging the sidewalk.
We arm-wrestled them down
to the ground with our eyes.
Reclaimed our turf, and moved on.

Halloween 2010, Petaluma

first draft 

Walking Petaluma Boulevard,
once the chicken capitol of the world,
yelling fuck-fuck-fuck-AFF
at startled tourists
We arm-wrestled them down
to the ground with our eyes.

Remembering John Prine's Brother at Garbo's

Chicago Sun Times columnist and movie critic, Roger Ebert, wrote "John Prine is the poet of my life. People say he's great, but he's a lot better than that." I recommend reading Roger Ebert's Journal, a column he originally wrote in 1970, "John Prine: American Legend—A Singing Mailman Who Delivers a Powerful Message in a Few Words."

(Ebert's also updated the original story by posting some great John Prine YouTube links. The " Angel From Montgomery" backstory is worth the price of admission.) Bob Dylan once said "Prine's stuff is pure Proustian existentialism." I concur.

I have an interesting John Prine segue too via his brother. Circa 1980, John Prine's brother played John's songs for drinks at our Russian River Writers' Guild Monday Nite Poetry & Prose Reading series at Garbo's bar in Guernewood Park, CA. That's how I first learned to really listen to the words of John Prine's songs as poetry.

Ironically, it was songs—Irish ballads that first led me to writing. But that's another story. Prine always had such good angst-riddled lines: "You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness...How can you ask about tomorrow?" My kind of lines. I was living in a perpetually warped möbius strip time.

(In the 1980s, we were living under a dark cloud: many of the gay club owners who housed our poetry venues were succumbing to a mysterious disease. Nobody knew what it was. Or its name. But we personally knew the names of the fallen: Peter Pender, the pianist/gold medal figure skater, bridge/chess champ who owned Fife's Resort with partner Hugh Ross, Stumptown Annie's owner, decorated Vietnam Purple Heart veteran, Leonard Matlovich, the first gay man to "come out" while in the military—was no longer looking like Kevin Spacey. It was too much to bear.

There was also my neighbor, handsome Bill Dutra, the original Marlboro Man, his beautiful face ravaged... Note Bene: I can't find info on Bill on the internet but he may have been Christian Haren. The info on Christian (or Chuck) fits—he owned The Chocolate Factory in Guerneville. But I can't find a photo.

Bill showed me an old tear sheet photo of him as the Marlboro Man—which I recognized. Bill told us amazing stories of being an actor, working with John Wayne—how I found out Dr. Kildare was gay—and stories of Key West. So all the pieces fit—just not the name of the Castro Street Cowboy.

I could have confabulated the name—but I've an uncanny memory for details. Whoa! Now I've segued so far from my story, I'm even scaring myself. So sorry. Another story, another time. (The Russian River basin attracted many Hollywood types, Fred MacMurray, Raymond Burr, Irene Dailey all lived in its watershed.)

My personal John Prine favorites were the songs that had recently made the charts. I loved "Paradise," but we all called it " Daddy Won'tcha Take me Back to Muhlenberg County," a song Prine says he wrote for his father. There's some good backstory video on the song here.

When I was a senior in high school in 1969, the town of Paradise, in Muhlenburg County, was drowned by the floodwaters of the Green River when a dam was erected, so barges could get to the Peabody coal fields. All about progress.

For some reason, it was a story that stuck to my psyche like laden flypaper to the forehead in deep summer. Prine sang so beautifully about such horror. It reminded me of the backstory of the Tennessee Valley Authority Act, the dams displaced 15,000 families—hardscrabble farmers who were forcibly resettled.

I especially loved that John Prine song with the chorus that went: "...from the jungles of East St. Paul." I Googled it and found that it was called: "Sabu Visits The Twin Cities Alone" —a title about as cumbersome as an elephant in an elevator, I never could remember it, not in a million years—only the chorus line. The video link is from 1999 after John's voice was ravaged by chemo therapy in '98, but he still sings a good gravel road.

Probably the first John Prine song I ever learned was, "Hello in There," not from the lips of John Prine—but from Joan Baez. I was working for Joan's sister, Mimi Fariña back then—cleaning the Bread & Roses office in Mill Valley. The music was good, the pay was poor, but I adored Mimi. So I wound up donating a lot of time at the big Bread & Roses concerts she'd put on at The Greek Theater in Berkeley.

I met a lot of fine musicians in those days, but I never met John Prine. Yeah, yeah. Another story, another time. But my friend Luanne ran into him at a bar after a concert up in Oregon one night and—in polite terms—well, she dated him. Only she uses a stronger Anglo-Saxon term for it. So I'm one degree of separation for John Prine on at least three counts.

During the early 1980s, the West County poets and writers gathered at Garbo's Nightclub & Bar beneath towering redwoods. Just two miles outside of town (Guerneville), the pub was nestled on a thin sliver of land between a misbehavin' creek, the road and the raging beast of a river.

Once an old roadhouse, and a former bowling alley, Garbo's was a massive log lodge with hand-hewn beams, and a riverock fireplace crackling away. The stale odor of cigarette smoke, sweat and puke from the weekend traffic hitched a ride on the woodsmoke haze mellowed with an angel's portion of whisky. But the sound system was sweetness and light.

What I remember are the winter nights, the rain falling in torrents, the Russian River rising ominously in the dark. The river kept us preoccupied during flood season: would it leap its banks? Would we make it home if it did? Would the water-laden cliffs at Korbel's Winery hold as we drove down River Road?

Seems like the hundred-year flood plain was being inundated on a yearly basis—or it was just seriously math-challenged. With that as catastrophic background music, we'd tuck in for an evening of poetry and line up for Open Mike.

We were pretty much the only Monday entertainment on the River. Most places were closed—dark. So, after the poetry reading, songwriter-musicians would drop by to test their wares. Sometimes we'd stay after hours, we'd buy up several rounds of drinks at closing to last us through the night, Sam would lock the doors, and the folksingers would play.

John's brother always obliged me my requests. He'd play other John Prine songs–perhaps even a few of his own—I don't remember. They didn't stick. Perhaps he also sang "Angel From Montgomery." One of my all time favorite songs of John Prine's. John's brother would tune up his Martin guitar, step up to the mike and Sam the bartender would set up another round of liquid amber when I made my request.


The movie wasn't really doing so hot
said the new producer to the old big shot.
It's dying on the edge of the great Midwest
Sabu must tour or forever rest.

Hey look Ma, here comes the elephant boy
bundled all up in his corduroy
headed down south towards Illinois
from the jungles of East St. Paul.

His manager sat in the office alone 
staring at the numbers on the telephone
wondering how a man could send a child actor
to visit in the land of the wind chill factor.


Sabu was sad the whole tour stunk
the airlines lost the elephant's trunk
the roadie got the rabies and the scabies and the flu
they was low on morale but they was high on…


           —John Prine

I'm not sure why I was so enamored of this particular song, perhaps because because of its sheer quirkiness or because I was having a run of luck getting poems and essays published in St. Paul when no one else would publish my work.

I don't recall John's brother's name. It could have been Bill, not David (the song goes: "We lost Davy in the Korean war..." Younger brother riding on coattails seems to ring a bell. I'm hoping someone from the good old days will remember him and Sam the Bartender's last name—Russian, or Polish, I think.

The venue of Garbo's Niteclub was pretty amazing—one owner Margery Summerfield was a novelist with a new novel, "Compression Tested,"about existential life on the Russian River. She (and her partner Allen) were our literary angels, she let us have the space for free on Monday nights. Clubs were traditionally closed on Monday nights—called Blue Mondays because the lights were out (sort of).

I was asked to join the Russian River Writers' Guild (RRWG) by a lover, Lee Perron—that's how I met the RRWG coordinators Marianne Ware, Donna Champion, Pat Nolan & Gail King. Andrei Codrescu of NPR fame had moved onto the Big Easy by then.

I was fresh fodder. Newly arrived to poetry, I was snagged by open mike and and then reeled in for booking poets and emceeing, and before I knew it, I was doing much of the publicity/newsletter. How did that happen? Then everybody dropped out. Leaving me as the bagman, or the doorwoman.

When Garbo's closed, we bounced up & down the River into any joint that would have us, then we moved to several venues in Santa Rosa, and Sebastopol (Johnny Otis's Niteclub was one of the last ones)—with many co-coordinators along the way: Glenn Ingersoll, Joe Pahls, Jim Montrose, Craig ____?, Ann Erickson —even David Bromige & Steve Tills did a stint—but I was the longest running co-coordinator.

I met a lot of poets, good and bad. Some went on to worldwide fame: Michael Oandatje and Jane Hirshfield come to mind. We also booked local and traveling musicians: U. Utah Phillips, Rosalee Sorrells, Ed Balchowsky, Holly Near, Ronnie Gilbert, Nina Gerber, and the Beat poets: Bobbie Louise Hawkins, Joanne Kyger, Diane DiPrima

I'm sure I'll remember many other names—now that I've disturbed the relative harmony of age, distance and forgetfulness—and expand this piece as I go. (Or write another blogeen). This is merely a placeholder. But I'm wandering far from John Prine.

After her mother's funeral, Donna was cleaning house and offered to give me all the old RRWG newsletters and memorabilia. I said "No, not yet," not wanting to open that particular Pandora's box. It swallowed me whole then, and threatens to engulf me now from across the suspension bridge of time. When I look at the proof sheets, I am overwhelmed. (It really launched me into a lifetime passion of taking photos of poets, as I felt an overwhelming need to document our ephemera).

It took me almost 20 years to let go of that stick. I hardly ever go out much to poetry readings anymore. Can't seem to bear it. What can I say? Hello in there. You can't get much better than that.
For more video links, see also Roger Ebert's Journal, John Prine: A concert in Ireland

Tuesday, November 9, 2010


Ever notice how the really orange cats, the ones with the tiger stripes tend to be male? I know, this is supposed to be about the Buk. Bukowski was orange. Nothing to rhyme with that. Savior's a nuisance to live with at home as Joan Baez once said. Not that I lived with him. I was living out of my car at the time. A rusted blue VW Bug. Bukowski was crashing on a friend's couch at a farmhouse by the railroad tracks in Cotati. I was running the poetry center, trying to hide my backstory. Bukowski wanted to lasso a reading but he was always drunk on cheap red wine by 3 PM, and he stank of stale cigarettes. I was recovering from an illness and they called me a China doll, taunting me as they grabbed at me as if in jest because I was pale & wan. Little did they know I was near death's door. Anorexic. An abortion gone south. A river of blood raged in a flood tide. Redredred. The edges of the world closing in. My periphery darkened before the clamping down. And the will to live had something to do with it. But they saw my slender self as desirable. And so they, showing their stripes, grabbed at life, grabbed at me, but I was dead inside. I felt lucky to make it back outside‚ gasping for breath, I doubled over. Puking in the weeds. An orange cat frantically wove his way between my ankles as if to shackle me too. But it was a clear fall day, facing south, the sunshine cradling me. That was before Rohnert Park overran Cotati and there were still vast tracts of adobe fields and blankets of oat hay surrounding the campus. George Rohnert's seed flower beds bloomed in wide ribbons of pink and red. Waiting for the harvest, fields wrapped like a present.

Saturday, November 6, 2010



A painter of hollyhocks
a treatise of light 
where the laws of departure 
collided with mirrored chaos
 an apricot cloak across the sky 
but a departure of words 
ceaselessly scraping against 
the drama of ink.

Random nomads
A purgatory of treatises
whisper about the pleasures of the heart
a eulogy of delicate pointillism. 
So we have the words
we must shake them out of our heads. 

Susan Wooldridge workshop


If I was a container
I would hold the stars closer
If I was a source of light
I would burn at absolute zero
I'd be a constellation of chaos
I would write treatises of surrender
I would be a purgatory of fire
I would whisper an elegy of delicate smoke
against a horizon of bleakness

We need Joycean words to hibernate our shadow souls
Sometimes the words just start writing themselves
Sometimes we're just stuck inside  our own heads.


She was a painter of night-blooming flowers
She made color: apricot, tangerine, cerise
swirling around a dervish of bright pollen.
There was something profound about that act,
the brush spiraling in towards the center like a dancer.
Dawn was a treatise of light, a constellation of fire.
The lake mirrored the feathered cloak of the sky.
It was a departure of worlds, a murmur of words
ceaselessly scraped against a dark drama of ink.
Sometimes the poems just started writing themselves.
She was mesmerized. There was no turning back.

Write a metamorphosis poem. This is an excellent opportunity to use metaphors and/or show changes in a season, person, animal, plant, or whatever. (Also used Susan Wooldridge's word tickets.)


I am without flagrant words
the family transports 6 million pieces
of angst into every room, the hearth
I am not a bittersweet song of iron tracks
the oncoming train, or stunning constellations
a silver center deep in the mines
or a lone candle by the river
I am the forgotten pointallism
the ears of night listening to blue piano notes
I am the river of singing stones
I am the Apúrimac, while the Andes wept
an ancient glacier of rhythms melting
into dry sobs of the coming summer.


Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Gold star voting badge

In response to the prompt of a Facebook badge, I snarled, I voted days ago, OK? And I don't need no stinkin' badge to prove it.

Zana Darrow said: My dad held on to "Bohemian" as a descriptive for a long time. When we settled into the San Anselmo house for his project building BART, he knew we would probably stay for awhile. That we would not be living like bohemians anymore. We had been moving every 2 yrs or so. When I came to WI the summer of 70, I was labled a hippie. Just being from CA got you that, In the 90's the competition called me the hippy realtor.

Ken Bullock said: Bohemian. That one may go back to the Middle Ages ... but it essentially meant living like a student, a protracted adolescence. "Hippie" originally meant a white guy trying to act like a black hipster ... a derisive diminutive.

I said, Ah but you were a svelt young waif in 1970, Zana! No hips at all! It doesn't mean that we didn't absorb some of the hippie lifestyle, we were native northern Californians, and therefore, not hippies—who came from elsewhere—primarily NY or LA by way of NY.

Centa Theresa said: You are kind of a farmer/hippie/bohemian poet type, yet completely unique. Are you sure you didn't grow up in Berkeley?

I replied, Born in SF, and grew up in West Marin with the cows. We were a little too young to be true hippies! I was in high school during the Summer of Love. I wasn't a hippie—wrong income bracket/social class. Poor immigrant family. Irish Victorian era roots.

I just hate this Facebook badge thing. Reminds me of why I didn't like school. I'm like Ferdinand the bull seeing red with all these Facebook badges (in general). I appreciate the sentiment, I hate the concept.

Zana said: I ignore that stuff. I don't trust it. How about a gold star? I am waiting for my daughter to get moving so we can go vote together.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Brownie Mary

Brownie Mary

"My kids [people with AIDS and cancer] need this and I'm ready to go to jail for my principles...I'm not going to cut any deals with them. If I go to jail, I go to jail."
—Brownie Mary

I covered this story for The Western Sonoma County Paper as Brownie Mary was busted in Cazadero (scoring her harvest). I can't find the story so the Wikipedia entry below will have to suffice. (Guess I'll need to write a blog about her—the photos are place holders.) Brownie Mary was a a real kick in the pants and I stayed in touch with her for some time after she won her case. We had Irish heritage in common so we got on like a house afire. She took me on her hospital rounds at San Francisco General Hospital, delivering brownies to her "kids," terminally ill AIDS patients—who (figuratively) lit up when they saw her coming. She had that effect on people. I originally posted the photo of her in remembrance for those who've died, but coincidentally California's medical marijuana bill, Prop 19 is also up for the vote. —MH

Mary Jane Rathbun (December 22, 1921 - April 10, 1999), popularly known as Brownie Mary, was an American hospital volunteer who became internationally known as a medical cannabis activist.   —Wikipedia

Que Sera, Serra: Remembering Tony Serra

Tony Serra took Brownie Mary's case pro bono

Brownie Mary
BornMary Jane Rathbun
December 23, 1921
Minneapolis, Minnesota
DiedApril 10, 1999 (aged 77)
Forest Hill, San Francisco, California
OccupationHospital volunteer
Cannabis activist

Dennis Peron & Brownie Mary


Yesterday at an Open House at an escrow service deep in the suburbs, an overcast day, sad drizzle softening our thoughts, we sat around a table, strangers from other worlds nibbling food and drinking wine, while drowsily droning on about this and that, name-dropping, pontificating, exchanging cards—seeking common ground the way folks do at cocktail parties…

And then—wham—with little by way of segue, we were suddenly onto the Holocaust, the WWII American concentration camps of Manzanar, and Topaz with a real Japanese American survivor. I was wide awake. I remember the desolation of Manzanar in the early 1970s before it was sanitized and upgraded into a national historic monument. No apple orchards—bleakness and fine red dust everywhere like pulverized blood.

I visited Manzanar around the time Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston's memoir, Farewell to Manzanar was published (1973), but it was before the TV movie was made (1976). I think excerpts of it were printed in the SF Examiner's California Living. I remember meeting Jeanne later, in the early 1980s when I met with James Houston over some poetry matter when he was teaching at the U of Hawaii.

(I once met a Manzanar survivor in the 1980s when (my then boyfriend) John Oliver Simon's mother, Frances Cassandra Kehrlein Adler, was interviewing him for a newspaper—I  was the photographer. Frances was once the Look Magazine staff writer and photographer, and cousin to Ansel Adams, so the pressure was on. But soon I was entranced by his story of survival. I forgot all about taking photos. Someday, I hope to find that story and his name. It is a story that will have to wait its turn. Meanwhile this is a placeholder.)

Eddie reminded me very much of the Manzanar survivor—at first I thought it was him, but as his story began to unfold, I realized he wasn't the same person. Eddie said though he was born in San Francisco, they were given a hour to evacuate. They took only the clothes on their backs. Their new Chevy sold to a neighbor for $5. They lost everything.

As the afternoon stretched into nightfall, we sat transfixed as Eddie recounted the broken fragments of his life. He said of all the internment camps, Topaz, aka The Central Utah Relocation Center, near Delta, four times the size of Manzanar, was the worst. He was separated from his family, never got to know his little brother.

I had recently read Sandra Dallas' novel Tallgrass where a World War II Japanese internment camp called Amache, near Greneda, Colorado, as told through the eyes of a 13-year-old Caucasian girl, is the centerfold of the story. Eddie told us stories of life at camp—similar to Tallgrass—only this wasn't fiction, this was the real deal. Oral history at its best.

Returning to civilization after the war did not improve the plight of foreign-born Japanese Americans. Eddie told us how the foreign-born Japanese weren't allowed to own land and how they had to set up dummy corporations to own land.

(My grandfather helped Indians "buy" farmland in the Central Valley, we had our own Jahn Singh stories of social injustice.)

One place in San Francisco was "bought" by the YMCA for a Japanese American Club, but later, the YMCA decided to "sell off" the clubhouse—a Julia Morgan building. Eddie's brother knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak, himself dying of cancer, he tracked down the documentation, translated the minutes, and with a lawyer, forced an injunction.

Then he mentioned Cecil Williams and how Cecil's wife, Janice Mirikitani read a poem about the internment camp on Angel Island. The hairs rose on my arms, the room stood still. How small the world, how the stories survive us. I was there. I remember that day. Janice reading to us in the basement of Glide Memorial.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

On my broken nose

When I broke my nose for the upteenth time, Kaiser wanted to fix it—make it pretty. The surgeon described how he'd sculpt it into a perfect WASP nose and he'd take the little ball off the tip too. Not pretty. I RAN from the hospital. Over my dead body. My deviated septum & I.

My only regret is that it is hard for me to breathe thru my nose—if the doctor hadn't arrogantly suggested that he could give me a perfect little pert pointy nose—I might have done it. I was ABSOLUTELY outraged. 

My poor nose has met so many mishaps. Horse rearing up, a coke bottle, a football tackle, the back of Sue William's head when the toboggan hit a pocket and stopped dead. The cable core rope swing at Devil's Gulch...

Then there was the round galvanized tin chicken feeder with scalloped edges stored up high on a closet shelf that sliced off the side of my nose. You can hardly tell now. Oh, the blood! The blood!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

On Sáami Culture

This thread was a rambling Facebook post with a friend on Sáami culture. Not quite a blog, and I'm not quite willing to let go of the information and shape it into a piece. But we uncovered a wealth of information in one thread in our wanderings. Note: not edited!

What the Norwegians (and all of Scandinavia—including Russia) did to destroy Sáami culture is similar to what England did to Irish and Welsh (and Native American) cultures. Neo-colonialism at its worst. Sáami are (Caucasian) First Peoples. ...Their language is Altaic (or Uralic)—not Indo-European.

You have heard one Sáami singer—Joni Mitchell! And Mari Boine is awesome.ápmi_(area)

The Finns are sometimes considered to be a First People who lost much their culture to Christian Sweden with forced conversion in the Middle Ages, but many peripheral cultures willingly accepted Christianity and blending their cultures - until the Church objected.

Tho Sáamii and Fins share a linguistic connection, the Finns don't seem to be a First Peoples. One would have to include Basque into that mix. Linguistically, Finnish is related to the other Baltic-Finnic languages Estonian and Karelian. Genetically, Finns are a homogeneous group with a genetic heritage in common with other European ethnicities. The mtDNA markers of Finnish people do not differ from those of other European ethnicities. Hungarians (87%) and Finns (90%) are definitely closer to Europeans. Lapps/Sáami, by comparison, are 50% European.

Tho, like Sáamii, Finns (aka Fenni, Phinnoi, Finnum, and Skrithfinni / Scridefinnumin in the ancient texts) are present throughout Scandinavia & Russia (Kvens, Tornedalians, Karelians, Veps, Ingrians or Izhorians). A lot of controversy tieing Finns with Lappi/Sáami—which is an old school of anthropological thought,

"it has been suggested that the separation of the Baltic-Finnic and the Sáami languages took place during the 2nd millennium BC, and that the proto-Uralic roots of the entire language group date from about the 6th to the 8th millennium BC." Because there are nine Sáamii dialects—some mutually unintelligible—but related through the dialectic continuum— this suggests an ancient peoples.

There is also oral tradition suggesting the Finns moved into Jutland from the East. They weren't First Peoples in Finland. The original home of Finns "was in west-central Siberia." Or they were from central and northern Europe, moving north after the Ice Age. But even that idea is controversial.

The Finnish word lape, which in this case means 'periphery' could be the origin of Lappi. (The old us vs, them paradigm.) The Sámii were considered heathens, lost from God. You gotta sift thru a LOT of flaming racism when reading about the Sáami...

The nomadic Sáami are the earliest of the contemporary ethnic groups represented in the area, they are consequently considered an indigenous population of the area. Their relative isolation in the Middle Ages protected them from the bubonic plague.

During the 19th c. was when Norway began to stamp out Sáamii culture. "The strongest pressure took place 1900 to 1940, when Norway invested considerable money and effort to wipe out Sáami culture," You couldn't buy or rent land id you didn't speak Norwegian. After years of forced assimilation, Sáamii culture is reviving. The Sáami were recognized as an indigenous people in Norway in 1990.

I had a Lappi friend—she gave me an earful...and studying folklore at UC Berkeley also put this info on my radar...Finns are extremely nationalistic—and invented an epic founding saga Kalevala in the 19th c. (fakelore—from real folklore) so you really have to read carefully there. I'll shut up now.

Nik Gervae  Exhibits at the National Museum of Finland indicated that prehistoric continental or even Scandinavian peoples may have displaced the original Finno-Ugric peoples of south Finland, while adopting their language and culture. That far back, and considering migrations after the Ice Age, I just don't know how to apply the term "First People".

Finnish nationalism stemmed more from their precarious position between Sweden and Russia than their relations with the Sáami, but it's certainly true that the big nationalist revival saved their remaining scraps of folklore from the grave with Elias Lönnrot's and other ethnologists' collection of rune-songs, which are vaguely related to joik. He assembled the wide-ranging set into Kalevala, a coherent narrative that had not previously existed, and Kanteletar, which was all the rest of the material. (Estonia managed a similar preservation/reconstruction with their Kalevipoeg.) It's that culture that nearly got exterminated by European culture, so I'm really not sure how to qualify it relative to Sáami, considering the records we have of prehistory are largely in grave objects and in peoples' genes....

Nick—you've more than covered the basics here—good job! I didn't delve into the Kavelala because that's a whole 'nother can o worms! But there's no stong evidence that Finns and Sáami are from the same peoples—they may have been enemies as the so called Finnish saga suggests. The Finns probably displaced the Sáami—based on linguistics alone!

Romantic Nationalism was central "in post-Enlightenment art and political philosophy. From its earliest stirrings, with their focus on the development of national languages and folklore, and the spiritual value of local customs and traditio...ns, to the movements that would redraw the map of Europe and lead to calls for "self-determination" of nationalities...

the romantic ideal; folklore developed as a romantic nationalist concept. The Brothers Grimm were inspired by Herder's writings to create an idealized collection of tales, which they labeled as authentically German. ...

Romantic nationalism inspired the processes whereby folk epics, retold legends and even fairy tales, published in existing dialects, were combined with a modern syntax to create a "revived" version of a language. Patriots, it was expected, would then learn that language and raise their children speaking that language, as part of a general program to establish a unique identity. "Landsmål", which is the foundation of modern Norwegian, was the first language to follow this program, and it was joined by modern Czech, Slovak, Finnish and later by Hebrew as nationalizing languages. ...

Romantic nationalism is inherently exclusionary, and that, in the 20th century, proved to be a tragic flaw.....

The concept of a "national epic", an extensively mythologized legendary work of poetry of defining importance to a certain nation, is another product of Romantic nationalism. ...

Beowulf, Macphearson's Ossian and the Kalevala...were examples of new national poetry – forged either out of whole cloth, or from cobbling together folk poetry,...

linguistic and cultural nationality, colored with pre-genetic concepts of race, were employed for two rhetorical claims consistently associated with romantic nationalism to this day: claims of primacy and claims of superiority. Primacy is the claimed inalienable right of a culturally and racially defined people..."

(That vein of this thought directly contributed to the "superiority of the Aryan race...")

"The idea was that Germans should "naturally" rule over the lesser peoples. Romantic nationalism, which had begun as a revolt against "foreign" kings and overlords, had come full circle, and was being used to make the case for a "Greater Germany" which would rule over Europe."

In the US it played out as The Frontier, Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny—not our most shining moments.
Nik Gervae Yow. But yes, that's what I was saying, the original inhabitants of southern Finland (purporteded migrated from what is now Spain during the ice age), were displaced northward by another people, blond, fair-skinned.

I've been very curious to  learn more about the creation of Kalevala. There's only one good book I know of in English (Pentikäinen's "Kalevala Mythology")...and my Finnish is nowhere good enough yet.

From what I remember—w/o digging out my (really old!) notes—Kalevala is a modern Romantic construct, understand there were no folklore collection rules yet in place, it was very much a product of 18-19th c mindset, some real folklore was us...ed—but it's definitely a collage, a pastiche. An attempt to create a national literature.

Think it was patterned after Jamie MacPhearspn's equally romantic (read nationalistic) attempt at trying to abscond with Irish sagas, by claiming that the Scottish Oissin was the extant story—earlier by 3 centuries.

Sadly, MacPhearson really did collect some old Gaelic verse—but he bowlderized (and plagiarized) so much of it—and then deliberately destroyed the notes, so nothing can be verified.

Point being—the two sagas were modeled on the same construct. We did not study Estonian version. Don't know if it too is a construct. Nothing wrong with that—but claiming it as a national literature was the real problem. More like Oh look I just happened to find this old mss in a trunk or a cave—when in fact, it was a forgery in MacPhearson's case.

Something about the form in the Kalevala—was a giveaway. Can't remember what. Not an ancient form? Anyway, there's been a LOT of misdirection and bad scholarship around it—and I can see in the Wiki articles, the attempts to ameliorate the contradicting schools of thought. Thus confusing everybody even more. Not just grains, but vast piles of salt are needed while reading about it.

Read it for what it is, but don't assume its veracity. Weirdly, Tolkien was attempting to do something similar—create a national English literature. it is said the Simillaron (sp?) is based on the Kalevala...

That's why I posted all that stuff about Romanticism—you (not you, but one has) have to understand the circumstances that spawned it. Romanticism was in direct (antagonistic) reaction to the Age of Reason—I like to think of it as a collective battle of the psyche of modern man. Sorta like The Bible told me so—stance.

As for translations‚ no clue there. I did read it in translation but don't remember who. I found it challenging to read—probably because it is a collage. But Irish medieval mss was really my thing—and the occasional Icelandic saga-for cross reference. The Kalevala was, along with Ossian, when we were studying fakelore. Everybody was doing it—it was all the rage.

Joseph Jacobs, Wendt, and Yeats fall into that category—it's not to say they didn't collect folklore but they sure "improved" it, thus destroying its integrity. Luckily for the Irish—there were all these very real medieval manuscripts to back it up. I took this cool class where we plowed through stacks of books and looked at them as cultural artifacts of Romantic thought. An interesting way to read.

Re  original inhabitants of southern Finland (purporteded migrated from what is now Spain during the ice age), were displaced northward by another people, blond, fair-skinned.

Yeah, I was just reading a variant of that theory—But the Sáamii (who seem to be older than FInns—linguistically, etc.) are pale (and many are blond) tho their skin color is more golden—perhaps belying their eastern heritage. So don't know ow that all fits in. Don't forget there were fair people in Northern Japan—the Ainu...who may be related. (Japanese tried to obliterate them too...) Another wild school of thought!

Nick—this is what I mean by so much misinformation: "The Sáami people, an indigenous race related to North American Indians and Eskimo tribes, were colonized by the Christian Scandinavians." Fail! See what the idea of First Peoples conjures up? Argh!


There was an old pruning saw
I favored that folded in two
with a wingnut hinge
curved handle and blade
two crescent moons
that hung from a rusty nail
on the wall of the back porch
of my grandmother's house.

The saw curved like a comma
and I could pull down hard
on it with my 12-year-old arms
and cut the slender branches
that threatened to pull me
from the back of my horse.

No one else to do it for me
I made do as best I could.
Like the time the Toby's Feedstore
driver delivered a ton of hay but
dumped it at the bottom of the hill
because he couldn't be bothered stacking it
assuming there was a man about the house
to take care of such ordinary things.

I was faced with hefting hay bales
a tenth of a mile up to the old barn
and the sky spitting, rain was coming.
No matter that it took me most of the summer
babysitting to earn enough money
to buy that ton of shining oat hay
for my old glue factory rescue horse.

I wailed, wiped my nose on my sleeve,
jabbed rusty hayhooks into a bale
and frogmarched it to the barn.
Then another, and another.
It was hard work for a child.
It was the only way I knew how
and I was never going to make it
before the rains came.

My grandmother took pity on me
and together we heaved the bales
into the old wheelbarrow but the path was muddy
so we strung together a series of planks
and wheeled hay up that hill all afternoon.

A passing neighbor saw our plight
an old woman and a slender child
bent over a rusted wheelbarrow
grunting and pushing hay to the barn.
In no time, he hefted the bales up,
safely stacked under the eaves.

Then the rain began to pour in earnest.
We were thankful but I felt betrayed
by my own frailty and inability to manage
such a Sisyphean task. I was grateful
that the rain hid my raging tears.
The old horse, sensing my distress,
sidled over and rubbed her muzzle
across my aching arms, her breath,
small comfort on my cold, wet skin.



One's own real history
is buried beneath layers of detritus
what one carries with them
a passel of old suitcases
bound together
with belts and bungie chords
a portmanteau of the past

Then memory serves up
a variant at will—or not
depending upon the state
of one's mind

This is what we press into hard labor
try & mine it for meaning
and forge connections
into a chain-gang of thought
then swear it's the soul truth
and nothing but.


Goldfish —After Frank O'Hara

Last night I dreamed that I put toy goldfish into my hair product. I have a mane of waist-length hair which requires a certain amount of upkeep to keep it from tying itself into gordian knots. I use Citré shine Anti-Frizz serum.

I am not endorsing a product here. Merely mentioning it so you can imagine a clear oval plastic bottle filled a with viscous fluid. Besides Mandarin orange oil spiked silicone gel, the laminating serum has neat's foot oil in it—before a horse show, I used to put a little neat's foot oil on my horse's mane and tail to keep it silky and flowing.

In the dream, I shook the Citré bottle like a snow globe and I marveled how the fish swam and drifted as if suspended by their own volition in the serum.

Of course, I remembered none of this in the morning—my mind was a total blank slate until after I'd showered, and then I rubbed some hair serum on my hair—wondering what had happened to the goldfish.

Then I thought of Frank O'Hara's poem, Why I Am Not a Painter about a friend's painting called Sardines but it had no sardines in it, and how it made Frank write a poem in 12 parts called Oranges —only with no orange or oranges in it.

Like with the goldfish in the hair serum, it's not about drawing parallels, or internal references, it needed something there. Sometimes a fish is just a fish.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Copy, Right?

UnFckngBelievable—I wrote a long blog on Irish monks rewriting themselves back into Biblical tracts, the Tower of Babel, Pharaoh's daughter Scotia, and baby Moses in the reeds.

I wrote of medieval mss, bowlderization, Ptolemy, Cleo, mercenary Celts in Egypt, history real or otherwise, grains of salt, Alexander the Great, St Paul's letter to those pissy party animals, the Galatians, Paul's poor accomodations in Corinth as he crabbily scribbled his famous letter, mosaic laws, thou shalt not steal, lie, copy those sins of omission. Why the Galatians never wrote back.

I wrote about my own sins of omission. My parish priest, Father Connery at St. Cecelia's Church, Lagunitas. I delved into the persona. Why I was a lapsed Catholic during a time of Women's Rights.

I did an epistolary thing with Dear Reader, I made revisions and and virgin posts.

I invoked the story of the 1st © law, I channled St Columba, & St Fininan, monks burning the midnight oil to copy the psalters but next day St Finnian knew something was up—maybe they put the psalter back askew. 

I had a great segue into Tinsleygate...posted the letters, made connections. I wove knots.

Blogger said Copy, Right? It was saved. Hallelujah, it was saved. Several times over. But it began to hang, then in front of my eyes, it fucking disappeared. The entire post. Blogger's auto-save command lied. it lied.

Like now, it says it's saved. Even gives a reassuring little time stamp, but now I know better, unless you publish it—warts and all, it's not saved. It just says it is.

All that's left of an entire afternoon's frenetic work is the fragment below. All that survived is this wan paragraph that I had simultaneously posted on Facebook as I wrote:

A dispute arose over the ownership of the illegal copy of the psalter. St. Columba and the monks squared off, hitched up their nasty habits up around their waists, threw some ballsy taunts, and had a good go at it with whatever was at hand, rocks, dung, swords—forcing King Diarmait Mac Cerbhaill to intervene with a judgment: "To every cow, its calf, to every book, its copy." First ©opyright. 6th c.

I brought the piece into the 21st century and now it's all gone. Gone. Pfft! Just like that. As if the gods were angry I was invoking such nonsense.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Chilean Miners

When Copiapó Valley miner, Florencio Ávalos broke surface from the penance of his underground dungeon, the collapsed San José copper-gold mine, ten minutes after midnight, Chilean time, everyone cheered and applauded. I couldn't help myself. From another hemisphere, another time zone, I too clapped and cried for The 33.

Los treinta y tres—a fortuitous number in Latin American history—the equivalent of freedom—the 33 liberators of Uruguay, Jesus's age, and his 33 miracles. But this is indeed a story of miracles. Though I suspect Roger Ebert would take umbrage over my fast and loose use of the word miracle or milagro. Mea culpea. And he's right. But I love the sound of miracle in Spanish. Let's just say it was a miracle of technology and tenacious know-how.

I don't have TV & it blows my mind that I can watch in real time this Chilean rescue mission. Amidst a covey of balloons against a backdrop of inkdark lapis Chilean sky, a tinabulation of church bells and the braying of  zuzuzuelas, or Genesis alarms, on CNN, they're saying their minds are blown… All our minds are blown. And it's a full-blown media circus—imagine 2-3000 media hounds at full bay. Though the media is literally being held at bay some 300 feet from the emerging miners, I can hear fragments of nasal American English twang rising over the din. Izzat Larry King?

The first miner to be rescued, "Florencio Ávalos came back to us on the 13th day of the 10th month of the 10th year of the decade —which adds up to 33," President
Sebastián Piñera said. It's also the numerical equivalent of AMEN: 1+13+5+14=33.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Hitching in Marin during late 60s, early 70s

When I was a teenager, I bought my guitar stings from Van Morrison's mother at Caledonia Records in Fairfax.

It was worth the bother to get there as she'd make us a cuppa tea with shortbread. I was round-eyed—she sounded like my grannie but was from the north of Ireland. I looked for horns. We shared a name in common: Violet—but her fingernails and mouth were little scarlet wounds circling her cigarette.

Mr. Morrison, in his tweeds, was sitting on a stool, puffing away on his pipe, smiling at us from afar. Meanwhile one of Van's songs—maybe it was Gloria—was blaring on KFRC's Top Ten. I was learning Pastures of Plenty, and Cottenpicking—they chastizing me for not having a guitar case for such a valuable guitar.

One time she was shop-sitting for a friend at Amazing Grace Music, an old gas station cum music store on a tiny wedge of land between the Miracle Mile (Red Hill Ave.) and San Anselmo Avenue in San Anselmo. It was much farther out of the way for me so I rarely went there, but I had a Martin and I needed some Martin strings.

Mrs. Morrison made Van give me a ride home. Van the Man in the van was not pleased. He was seriously bent out of shape by the request so I was terrified to speak to him. And it was a long ride home held in utter silence. I lived far from town—way out in Forest Knolls, and he lived even farther out in Inverness.

There was no bus service out to The Valley so it was either thumb, or shank's mare. Van the Man drove a van. I had no real idea who he was at the time... I was so fecking shy I couldn't talk to him even if I wanted to.

It seems that every rock musician from the 60s moved out to West Marin—sort of a fallout from the Haight. West Marin was invaded by the likes of the Sons of Champlin, Big Brother & the Holding Company, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane—to name a few. 

They saw us kids hitching home every day—to us, it was merely an alternate bus service. We didn't think twice that these guys were famous. The road out to The Valley was long and winding, and in those days, people generally stopped for hitchikers.

Jesse Colin Young, who also lived in Inverness, was much easier to talk to than Van. He had cute little kids who took swimming lessons with ze French Mrs. Zettl who lived half way up Arroyo Road—so I got a ride almost all the way home from Jesse.

Carlos Santana was silent like Van—absolute mauna. He had a nice Mercedes with fawn leather seats though... One morning, I was still half-asleep, hitching into Drake High School (emphasis at that point was on getting high), Carlos pulled over to offer me a lift.

It was pretty early so Carlos might not have been awake either. He was pulling pretty hard on both his coffee mug and a joint. He looked half-dressed—like he just rolled out of bed. I remember being a little shocked that he wore those baggy string pants. Them string pants were riding dangerously low on Carlito's hips as I recall....

Carlos moved into my friend Lindy Young's place on Tamal Road (right up from Linda Gregg's place—where Jerry Garcia later died) and he had horses too—that was our common ground. I don't remember much else—other than I got to school on time.

Got a ride from decopage artists Larry Fuentes and Dickens Bascom too.
Dickens' art car had an entire Remington typewriter that still worked glued to the trunk of his Fort Falcon. The sides and fins were lined with worn out sneaker bottoms—like fish scales. Poetic justice.

My College of Marin classmate David Best copied Dickens Bascom and Larry Fuentes' art-cars and came up with some amazing art-cars of his own—and made a career of it. I loved the flocked chia seed Cadillac punctuated with mirror shards and a water buffalo head hood ornament that he used to park at Micky McGowan's Unknown Museum in Mill Valley.

The Unknown Museum, (founded ca. 1974—but I think it was earlier than that) which closed its doors in 1989, was something to behold with all its repurposed Americana detritus as iconography—the ultimate recycler's wetdream.

David told me that at night the deer came down to graze on the car. Mickey the cobbler had a Fiat stuffed with Disney toys and Barbie dolls.The Fiat didn't run, but David's Caddy did—I sat in it with David and talked until the cows came home, but never got a real ride in it. So I guess it doesn't count. Somewhere I have the slides... fodder for another blog.

One time Dickens and Larry hauled a découpaged life-size fiberglass model horse out to a pond where the Dollar house once stood—on the San Geronimo Golf Course. I had my camera with me (and a fresh roll of Kodachrome) so I stuck around. They did a great Lady Godiva number at sunset. The girl wore a red cape and a fierce mane of red hair. Not much else. People nearly drove off the road. But I still had to walk all the way back home to Forest Knolls from San Geronimo. No one would stop along that section of road. Shank's mare.

I never got a photo of Dickens' art car, but I did manage to document his horse at the San Geronimo Golf Course. But Long's Drugs Kodak developer sliced all my negatives in two lengthwise. I was able to salvage a few sliced photos (magically healed with a cloning tool).

See Paul Liberatore's article on Mickey McGowan in Exhibit of 55 recycled, reused artworks gets once-over from Mill Valley's Unknown Museum's ex-curator

Somewhere in all this thumbin- for-a-ride business, I actually owned a car, or rather, a funky 1958 panel Singer Sewing Machine Volvo van that my uncle gave me—but keeping it running was a full-time occupation. The carburetor linkage was held together with baling wire because I couldn't find the parts. So I was often car-less. David Best wanted to découpage it. But I let it rot into the hillside when it died, thinking I would revive it someday—like Kesey's bus, Further. But the spare parts were just too hard to find.

Ken Kesey stopped for me in Fairfax on The Magic Bus, or was it Further? We generically called it the magic bus but its destination was further. Now, that was one way cool ride. The Merry Prankster himself grabbed the hand door crank and opened the glass doors and said with a huge grin, "Climb aboard!" 
Kesey's original Further (not Further 2) was like an old Bluebird schoolbus, like the mad buses in Guatemala.

Not only was the outside painted in rainbow hues, the entire inside of the old yellow bus was psychedelically painted and collaged. It was another world. I was like Alice down the rabbithole. I pretty much had the bus to myself. So I migrated up and down the aisles, sitting here and there, checking out the artwork. Lots of music posters from FIllmore and Winterland daze.

Some dude was splayed out, smokin' in the back seat with friends. I believe courtesy inhaling was involved. BTW, Ken Kesey pulled over for everybody who was hitching. So it took a very long time to get home.

Years later (ca. 1976), Ken Kesey told me that the fabled old bus was mouldering away in his lower south 40 field in Pleasant Hill, Oregon. He was doing a magazine called Spit in the Ocean and I was working for the Western Star Press 
selling tarot cards, of all things. Rosalind Sharpe Wall and John Starr Cooke made a New Age Tarot deck, The New Tarot: a deck for the Aquarian Age (1969). Ken wanted to buy some tarot cards.

It sold for $8

On Amazon now for $125+

During the mid-1970s I worked for Alice Cooke Kent at Western Star Press. I had to hand-sorted every 78-card deck I sold as the printer had a major collating fuckup. The decks arrived loose, jumbled in big boxes—it was like a colossal 52-card pick-up party. I sorted so many decks, I was stacking major arcana in my sleep. They're imprinted indelibly into memory. Rosalind Sharpe Wall, the artist, was my friend Miranda Micaela's mom. She and my mom, who also designed a deck—were arch enemies. So I was working for the opposition.

I was loath to cash that small check with that famous Ken Kesey signature on it. We struck up a correspondence of sorts and he sent me some signed books. I'd give my eye teeth and molars to have them now. I wasn't yet a poet, so I didn't pay close attention. Didn't take notes. Didn't listen to the music of the words that were coming unbidden.