Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Silk dragon 9.5 ", habotai silk

This fellow was probably painted on Labor Day Weekend, 2014, as I got the idea to make a 1.5 x3 foot dragon banner for my silk art booth in August, 2015.

He wasn't very pretty, and the gutta (glue lines) really sucked, so I outlined it with a marking pen, and suddenly I liked the painting. Now I need to find a photo of the Paint Your Dragon banner! This is a thumbnail.

End of Year Writing Stats

The best training is to read and write, no matter what.  Don’t live with a lover or roommate who doesn’t respect your work. Don’t lie, buy time, borrow to buy time. Write what will stop your breath if you don’t write. —Grace Paley
End of year writing stats: this blog helps me keep track of my writing. It's often the only tangible evidence that I am still a writer, though most of the time I don't feel like a writer or a poet or a thinker. I suffer from the illusion of falling into the void of nihilism. I don't do many readings and almost no publishing. I don't even write every day (except on Facebook).

My generic goal is to average 52 poems (a poem a week) and I strive for a similar quantity of prose pieces. Some years I exceed my goals, other years I fail miserably. When I began this electronic writing process in August of 2007, I filed everything thematically. Well, that didn't work out so well. This year, I've tried to restore some semblance of chronological order. I've got a long ways to go, so my numbers are always in flux.

When I began this process, I also had misplaced ambitions of writing a blog piece a day. What was I thinking? I had read Guy Kawasaki's evangelical blog post, How to Change the World in 120 Days, in the Art of Blogging, April of 2006, and I founded this blog soon after, then let it lay fallow until mid-August of 2007. It's always a struggle to be productive. I was once more prolific a writer, but these days I take what I can get, wherever I can get it. Facecbook? so be it.

I probably have the poetry quota well met for this year as I have many haiku strings that I file as one item, though there may be as many as six or eight linked haiku in a file. But I tend to count them as one entry. And, I didn't even attempt to do NaPoWriMo, nor did I participate in April Poetry Month PAD, these two are where I usually stack up the writing bits. (Do I count the prose poems as poems too? I waffle, I waffle. Hold the syrup.)

I'm up to 90 pieces (I'm not sure I should count this one as it's an open letter). Don't know if I'll make my self-imposed quota but I've still got several orphan bits and pieces to whip into shape. Much of my writing these days comes from interacting with friends and with strangers in Facebook groups—especially my prose and essays.

I guess if I were to include my 60 Amazon book reviews, I'll have met my prose quota as well, but though a lot of thought and analysis goes into the process, I don't consider it to be new writing—nor does it take one's breath away, as Grace Paley put it.

In general, my prose writing begins as a small nugget, then as I research and expand an idea, a day has slipped by, and I'm stuck wrestling long cephalopodic pieces into coherent shapes. Not always succeeding, I might add. Prose, where I seem to spend most of my time working on, is always difficult, but it also won't let me alone. I do read and write very day, no matter what. But rendering finished pieces is not always so easy. This dark craft. 

The blog format forces me to go back and wrest fragments into being. Maybe it's the fear and the tyranny of the printed page. Or maybe it's the thought that someone might actually read the pieces that motivates me.

I am especially grateful to those of you who visit this blog from time to time and leave comments. So I thank you all for your interactions. For keeping the home fires burning. Something I hold especially dear, as the process of writing is often akin to falling into the void.

The Gallo Girl

Bottom front page of Jane Friendly's Food Section, July 1, 1954, San Francisco Chronicle.

Found among my grandmother's papers: Aunt Jane Reilly was the first model for the Gallo wine girl commercial (it's a chalk rendering, she said the artist had to make her look Italian). Beginning in 1954, various permutations of this Vino Paisano di Gallo ad appeared in magazines and on billboards across the nation—including in Times Square.

This ad was an image I saw throughout my childhood. I thought everybody's aunt appeared on the back page of the Sunday funnies. Reading them after church was a family tradition. I loved The Phantom, Little Orphan Annie, Prince ValiantBlondie, and Peanuts... The anti-Irish sentiment in Bringing Up Father was over my head. But I remember my grandmother muttering over it. I used to save Prince Valiant, and The Phantom cartoon strips in a scrapbook—because of the horses, I guess.
During World War II, because of paper shortages, the size of Sunday strips began to shrink… to save the expense of printing color pages. —Wiki
Sometime after the Korean war, William Randolph Hearst's  San Francisco Examiner and the de Young's  San Francisco Chronicle, rival newspapers, merged and created a splashy fat Sunday Paper in living color. 

During the week, my grandmother read San Francisco News Call Bulletin which had different funnies, and no ads featuring Aunt Jane. When the Call Bulletin foundered in 1965, my grannie mourned. My grannie had no use for Hearst or The Examiner, but she loved to clip Kenneth Rexroth's columns. She had no use for the Chronicle either. Called them all a bunch of yellow journalists. Which was the equivalent of being a red commie. But the Sunday paper merger brought images of my aunt's likeness to the coffee table weekly.

I guess the likeness is close enough. When my Uncle John came home from Korea, and saw the ad blazoned in Times Square, he said, "Hey that's my sister! What's she doing up there?" to his army buddies. They said, "Yeah, right," not believing a word. But when they got home to San Francisco, she was an overnight sensation. Because of this ad, I imagine an entire generation of good Italian boys were looking for their Gallo Girl in all the wrong places.

I still haven't found the color version of the ad. I assume it was when Ernest and Julio Gallo changed the name of Vino Paisano di Gallo. I wonder if Gallo went to full color when it was on the back page of the Sunday Funnies.

Full color printing is a misnomer. The ad is red and green, the overlapping colors makes the brown bottle color. Color was a pricy prospect in the newspaper publishing business. Only front and back pages merited any color splashes. So when the Sunday Funnies were printed in full color (yellow, cyan, magenta), it was a very big deal.

This half-page ad on the front page in the Food section of the San Francisco Chronicle, is dated July 1, 1954. It took quite some time cleaning it up in Photoshop. Check out the price for a bottle of good dago red. I think the wine later morphed into Carlo Rossi. Gallo was up and running, turning suburbanites onto to cheap wine, buying out wineries from Sonoma to Stanislaus, and expanding their Modesto cooperative winery plant, including making the bottles. They helped build the industry. How many of you still have those old Gallo gallon jugs with the thumbhook, laying around?

I remember Grandma getting her Gallo wine jugs filled at the source. She favored Carlo Rossi. Her Italian neighbors, the Bianchis, the Schivos, Berinis, and the Tanzis made pilgrimages to the Italian-Swiss colony watering hole in Asti in Sonoma County for refills. Apparently, Tim Tanzi's grandmother bought it by the crateload, as getting to Asti was an arduous affair in those days. No Highway 101. I know the Gallo plant is in Modesto, so this must've been in the family. Younger brother Joseph Gallo had the Cheese Factory in the town of Sonoma. The Gallo brothers also bought wine from winery cooperatives in Sonoma and Napa too.

I found that the Vino Paisano di Gallo trademark of E & J Gallo Winery patent was filed June 8 1953, they opened for business in early 1954, so this is really the first ever Paisano ad; there were also television ads as well. I would dearly love to find the full color version of the ad from the late 50s. I've looked for it online. No joy. It was as if my mind were playing tricks on me, until I found the ads. This may be the first time that these Vino Paisano ads have appeared in print (on the internet), since the 1950s. Salud!

Full page ad, page 5, Sunday Pictorial Review, San Francisco Examiner, 1955

My Amazon Book Reviews 2014

A little known factoid, I sometimes write Amazon Book Reviews. It was a confluence of Amazon probing me to write reviews of purchases, an overload of bad (free) ebooks on my Kindle, and the rest is, shall we say—history.

OK, so now you know I have a Kindle, and a pipeline for free ebooks from the eReader Cafe and BookBub—and I've been an involuntary invalid. I've been known to read as many as four books in a day... Sometimes escape fiction is the ticket. However, I just can't believe there's so much bad escape fiction out there. In self defense, I'm doing something about it review, by review. Maybe it's also self-inflicted punishment for reading so much drivel. Cat-o-nine-tails. Reviewing books is not an easy writing form for me.

So far, I've over 30 50 reviews under my belt. My reviews rarely get read, but when I strike a negative chord—the loyal fans of authors with dreadful books, vote en masse. On one particularly atrocious novel—from a woman who teaches creative writing in San Francisco, no less—the negative votes outweigh positive tallies 21 to one. Ouch! Must be her loyal students voting. Rule of thumb: the more atrocious the book, the more negative fan votes I garner. Fans reward bad writing.

I'm not one to write a fluffy review, I try to be fair. I also try to be entertaining, hopefully not at the cost of the author—but sometimes I wonder if most ebook authors have ever heard of spellcheck, let alone, editors.

At present, I am writing under the handle of MoH (it's a hot cross-pun on moh, and the mohs scale of mineral hardness). I'm awaiting to see if there's any kind of backlash—so far, so good. I may upgrade my Amazon user name to MoHurley. But the problem is that makes me traceable on Google—as that's also my Twitter handle. And I'm not sure if I want unwarranted attention. Amazon's a big place.
Moh (Sanskrit muh: “to become stupefied, to be bewildered or perplexed, to err, to be mistaken”) stands in ancient texts for perplexity or confusion as also for the cause of confusion, that is, avidya or ajnana (ignorance or illusion). In another context, it stands for “the snare of worldly illusion, infatuation. —Wiki

If you so feel inclined, mosey on over to my Amazon Reviews, and if you like them, click on the Yes button. (You do need to have an Amazon account in order to participate, however...)

I still haven't gotten the generic title thing down. They're pretty sucky. I'm open to suggestions. I also have trouble entitling poems as well. Most of those generic titles may change when and if I get inspired.

When I write a review, I often push the publish button (there's no save draft button) to save my first draft before Amazon crashes, or stalls and wipes out my unsaved review. It's happened. I generally lose interest and won't rewrite a review if Amazon crashes.

Then, when I do go back and revise a piece (and I revise early and often), it's often an Amazon-inspired nightmare as it sometimes takes 10 or more tries to save the updated version/title. I never could get my final version and title of Worse Things Happen at Sea to load.

I can hear you saying now—so why don't you write a review offline? Don't be so sensible. There's something about the pressure of writing live, and knowing that it might crash before I've saved a draft that spurs me on. Apparently I need whip & spurs coupled with the ephemeral threat of textual oblivion—in order to write, so S&M!

(Don't know how long I'll keep up with reposting my reviews here. And I'm forever revising them as well. I noticed that the copy and paste method isn't quite working but I'm not willing to reformat all of these. They still should lead to the reviews, if it's easier to read them there. And maybe vote or leave a comment? Love ya.
It's getting harder and harder to "save' these posts as I add new reviews. I think the HTML is choking Blogger. I might need to make a new blogpost in order to continue to repost my Amazon reviews. "Allison" may be the proverbial straw... )


MoHurley's Amazon Book Reviews 2016
MoHurley's Amazon Book Reviews 2015
My Amazon Book Reviews 2014
My Amazon Book Reviews 2013

Monday, December 29, 2014


Driving me crazy:
ant running on the rim of my glasses.
Periphery in motion.

The Names of Our Family Farms

We hold onto the names of our family farms in Bantry, County Cork, as if they were gold.

The Sullivan farms: GortnaScrenna, may not be spelled right. Gort = field ? screna? Ballineen (Baile = crossroads (town) n -een, could mean small, but it could also be another word. Need the Gaelic spelling.) One farm was lost for several generations, my family keened for it. But it came back into the family, the McCarthy landholder married a distant Sullivan cousin. Poetic justice working inn such strange ways.

The Walsh farm, 
Coomanore, where my great grandmother, Jane Sullivan Walsh lived, was lost in a family squabble, two brothers fighting over an inheritance.

My grannie Jennie Walsh Reilly, who was born at Coomanore always translated it as valley of gold, but it could also mean valley of yews...the tree of death, lives forever. Is there an old yew grove in Coomanore? Cum an Iubhair—this is why you need the Irish spelling of place names, not the Anglo mis-translations.

My grannie also named our place in Forest Knolls Coomanore. She left it to us so that we too could have a place called home. And now, like the original Coomanore, it too will be lost over a family squabble over inheritance, for gold. For gold.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Speck's Bar: Family Watering Hole

During the holidays, when the aunts and uncles gathered at my grandmother's house, invariably, it meant a visit to Speck's Lagunitas Tavern on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. I spent many an hour crawling the length of that mahogany bar (and sampling cigarette buts) as a toddler. During the late 1950s, pretty much all social life revolved around the bar.

Speck (Frank) McAuliffe was an old friend of the family, from the San Francisco days. His daughter, Lauretta McAuliffe, my mother's best friend, was my godmother. With his Mission Irish accent, Speck sounded like Archie Bunker, and looked like a gnome, smoking like a chimney, tamping the black leather liar's dice cup down on the bar with aplomb. Snake eyes! Someone called. Whoever lost bought the round. Frank's barback was an old friend, Skip, a cablecar brakeman who hobbled about on bad feet from jumping out of the cable cars.

Pat Mcauliffe (Decker), my aunts Jane and Toddy (Kathleen) Reilly

We've got some modeling photos of Speck's other daughter Patricia McAuliffe Decker, who was also a bartender at Speck's, with my aunts, when they were young, pouring Cook's Champagne. (My aunt Jane was the famous Gallo girl, before it was Gallo. You saw renderings of her on the back of every newspaper and magazine during the 50s.)

I've a great photo  from the early 60s, of my grandmother, aunt, and Cal Davis at a crab cioppino feed in the dining room. Speck, or was it Skip who had a big green parrot that ate sunflower seeds and swore like a pirate in the dining room. He liked carrots and children's fingers, as I can attest.

Speck owned the Lagunitas post office building too. His daughter, Pat McAuliffe & George Decker lived upstairs (before the downstairs was turned into a post office—not sure where it was before that. At Lacy's Lagunitas store?) My mother and father also lived next door for a short while.

Note how it’s Speck, with a k. His real name was Frank.

The Lagunitas Lodge was also a livery stable when Speck (or rather his wife—what was her name?) bought it. When the the livery stable burned down, Old Pete Stone, the last real cowboy, who was once a mule skinner, and a sailor, or merchant marine, was the last of a generation. He lived in a Slipstream trailer behind Speck's bar where the old Mariposa Dance Pavilion once stood, and kept his equally old strawberry roan horse, Lightfoot, over by Tanzi's place.

Old Pete’s lean body was a testament of spending a lifetime on horseback, he was bow-legged as they come. Freckled skin weathered raw from a lifetime of strong sun and stronger whiskey. He must’ve been fair haired, perhaps he was a redhead, with startling blue eyes. Don’t know his backstory, like where he was from, only fragments gleaned from dry silver mines. How did he come to live behind Speck’s? Did Speck inherit from the last owner? Now all the people who would know the backstory are gone.

Sometimes Old Pete would saddle up the old roan and ride on over to the Forest Knolls Saloon when he was in need of a change in watering holes. Don’t know why he’d switch bars, he lived behind one. The horse was always resplendent—decked in tooled leather and silver saddle and bridle. Old Pete slouched down in the saddle, a real low rider, with his battered cowboy hat and worn chaps that had both seen better day. He could roll cigarettes one-handed.

Feilim on Tangerine

I've an old photo of my uncle Feilim on a painted horse in front of the livery stable. The horses were wintered on our property. So our family (eight kids) grew up on horseback.

Toddy on Baby Snooks, & my mom

Only one horse lived on in infamy. Baby Snooks, a big black horse with a big blaze, and splashy white feet, stood at 16 hands at the withers, but he was a handful, and famously mean, but everyone in my family rode him anyway.

Chiquita, my rescue horse from the glue factory, was originally from the livery stables—she was a horse my mom rode. But Chuquita was mine, all mine. She was my salvation, my way out. My escape from the valley.

see also
Speck McAuliffe's Bar Burned Down
I really should combine the two posts. Clearly I'm not done with it yet.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Dear Google, Using Blogger is a Painful Experience

Dear Google,

It's become so painful to use Blogger that I often resist posting new work. I'm using Safari/Snow Leopard, and a wonky ATT DSL (read variable speed). But these problems persist even under Mavericks OS... So either it's a variable ATT issue, or you don't support Macs.

Before you lay all blame on my legacy Mac OS and low-end DSL, let me remind you that there was once a time when Google products really shone, they zipped right along, and loaded right up with even older software (Tiger, Safari 4.1). No waiting. Gmail was a dream. It just worked—despite bad ATT DSL. That is why I embraced Google products. You might even say I was evangelical—like Guy Kawasaki, who got me into this blogging mess to begin with. BTW, I'm an old customer: I scored a coveted Gmail invite waaaay back when you had to know someone who knew someone at Google.

Now, unless one has fast DSL, using Google products has become an unpleasant experience. I have complained and yowled long and mightily to you in the past via your Report a Problem button, especially when you first rolled out this version of Blogger. But clearly no one at Google cares, or is listening. Blogger is long in tooth and in dire need of an overhaul. 

So once again I find myself writing into the void in the rare hopes that maybe someone at Google might actually read this plea and instigate an overhaul of the painfully sluggish Blogger, and fix an equally sluggish Gmail, AND also ensure that they still continue to work with older software (and a weird internet connection).

I now am forced to use the classic Gmail in basic HTML as the current version of Gmail won't even load with Safari 5.1. It's not much better under the latest Safari and Mavericks OS. Nor is it improved by using the latest Firefox, or Chrome.

I can't begin to tell you how many emails and Blogger posts I've lost to the cyber-void due to Google software hanging somewhere between first saving and uploading.

I mourn for those lost posts as I put considerable time and scholarship into them. One post I was able to rescue as it was cached on another open page. But usually I'm not so lucky. That particular rescued post just so happens to be your number one post on on the Google search engine—The Viking-Irish Redhead Gene Myth. (Use "Viking redhead myth" for your search words).

Since Google products used to work just fine before you revised your suite a few years back, despite the fact that we have the world's worst ATT DSL service, the blame can only lay square on you. You've designed fatally flawed software. In the process of trying to make it cool, you've sunk your flagship with too many bells and whistles and not kept enough elegant structure—for which you were once justly famous for. I expected so much more of you, Google. 

When I say Blogger is painfully slow, it's not hyperbole. When I load the Blogger dashboard, I get a white page, and it hangs for five or more minutes—or longer—before I can get to the post icon to write. By that time, I could care less about posting a blog. I go make myself a cup of tea, and see if it's loaded yet. I wind up drinking a lot of tea while waiting for Blogger to load, Maybe I should take up wine instead?

For example, I have some screenshots I wish to share with you and I can't upload them, because, yes, they're hanging. Again. (So far, third time is not a charm...just sayin'. Forget about multiple images, I'm lucky to load one image to load at a time.) Hanging here....

My Blogger experience is punctuated by these white windows hanging for as long as 2 to 5 minutes each. Sometimes they hang forever. Loading and loading and loading. Just like the current Gmail.
I spend too much time watching this spinning cursor. This is where things can go horribly wrong if it's the first save and publish. OMG!
This is is a particularly devilish window, because even if you hit the Dismiss link, sometimes the screen goes white and there's no text at all. All my hard work gone. Poof! Sometimes it takes 20 tries to get past this red warning bar and upload the revised blog. Click on the orange Update button. Wait five to ten seconds, sometimes longer. One-and-two-and-three.... Wait for the red bar to appear. Click Dismiss. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Oh, and I revise a lot. So I count a lot too. One-thousand one.... You get the picture.
Oh, and about loading photos, this is a particularly slow loading page, that blue loading bar typically gets stuck, and most of the options are hidden behind white expanses. I had to find the right buttons by trial and error.
Photos typically hang when I do get this far. It generally takes me 3 to 5 tries to upload photos. Notice that the drop down list under MORE is invisible.
And may the gods help you if you get this window. There is no cure, no exit strategy. It will repeat endlessly. Only thing left to do is to copy your blog post to a clipboard and make a whole new document.

Your bloatware is worse than Microsoft Word. Rethink the process Google. You know the adage: KISS (Keep it simple, stupid, but I'd rather call you sweetie).

Don't even get me started on Google+, I literally cannot use the site which is linked to my other Gmail account—and in this case, Safari is not at all to blame, as I use the latest beta version Firefox for that account. Because it is so buggy, I've pretty much had to abandon my Google+ account. Luckily, I've found a way to access my old legacy Gmail and Picasa albums, otherwise they're as good as lost to me under Google+. 

I am also cross-posting this note to you on my Blogger page, because it is patently clear that you do not actually listen to customer feedback submitted via your "Report a Problem" button. So I put this plea out to you, warts and all. And I challenge you to do a much better job next time, when you do overhaul Gmail and Blogger. (Please let it be soon, before I am forced to use another email server. FWIW, IOS, by comparison is much better with Google interface. Keep in mind, that ATT DSL is little better than dial-up, with its variable speeds, causing this iteration of Blogger to repeatedly crash. Something to consider for the next iteration.)

Your latest slate of programmers have done Blogger and Gmail a grave disservice, and by extension, your (formally) fiercely loyal customers as well, by designing such flawed software, that you leave legacy folks with laptops in the dust. Bells and whistles are merely that, and if they interfere with the bones of the program, in the form of bloatware that can't upload, then you need to rethink your strategy. Sometimes cool is not very cool at all. It's so yesterday.

Or why don't you just come on up and wifi-ify Oakland too so we can have great internet. Some of these Blogger problems are bound to disappear with fast, regular DSL. I'll be more than happy to make you all a nice cuppa tea too. Cookies?

A disgruntled writer....

Saturday, December 13, 2014


In deep summer, when luminescent
plankton washed ashore,
we used to head out to Goat Rock 
and drink cheap wine under a full moon. 
We'd scrawl our names in the sand, 
glowing, magical script in blue starlight,
until dawn broke and spoiled it all.


Friday, December 12, 2014

Knee Therapy

Today, my knee doctor gave me double injections of steroids for pain, thus causing me even more pain. I threatened to slug him, and then nearly passed out. It felt like I was sucker-punched in the stomach. Burning hole. Like a case of the bends. Then I was head-spinning and frog-barking. Corker burps that a 12-year-old boy would turn green with envy to be able to pull off in public. Nothing quite like a case of the pre-heaves. All the frogs were answering me back in the parking lot. It was raining like hell. Pineapple Express. Atmospheric river. How deep is the water? Knee-deep said the frogs. So much for running errands afterwards. I was entertaining a chorus of millions.


Thursday, December 11, 2014

Finally I get to test drive my Irish rainboots after three dry years. Esnorkeleamos!

Finally I get to test drive my Irish rainboots after three dry years. Esnorkeleamos! I dug my old leaky Goretex jacket out of the Goodwill bag (it's seen precious little action in the past ten years). The rainboots were new three years ago...but they never got any real action at all. Never buy rainboots during a drought cycle. The rubber's still good. Can't say the same for the jacket. 

And such lovely Wellies they are, with heathery plaid wool on the outside, but they're more like riding boots than Wellies. No handles. A little tight in the calves. So I wore capris and knee braces. Very fetching with my plaid boots.

Water under the bridge. It was about a foot deep under the underpass at Lakeview Road at Lakeshore, Oakland. Luckily the road is humped there, like the old carriage roads, so the center was only under a few inches of water.

I had to get food, gas, etc., (someone tried to hack my account.—so I had to go to the bank.) It was a breeze driving on 580 & 80. No cars.

Ashby underpass had a floater bobbing about. I guess the car didn't hydroplane. Just deep enough to drown a car. Kermit the Frog is dying of laughter on the dashboard.

The rich brine-laden air at the Richmond Costco gas station was like being on the high seas. Envigorating.

Did you know there's an Adopt A Drain program? My cousin was helping friends sandbag their house in Novato. Deep water on the horizon. People were out adopting drains. I think it's an excuse to play in puddles.

If we get an average amount of rain within a calendar year, and the snowpack holds until April, then it stops being a drought—which, of course, does not mean that we have enough water in our reservoirs. No snow pack = no summer water. We'd need weeks of steady snow to get enough water to break the drought.

The average yearly rainfall in Seattle is 36 inches, compared to 24 inches in San Francisco, Half Moon Bay 29", Berkeley 27", San Rafael 35", Kentfield 48", Occidental 57", Healdsburg, 42", Calistoga 41", and Santa Rosa gets 31 inches of rain per year. Then there's Cazadero at 100 to 200 inches.... Woodacre gets 38" so Forest Knolls is probably 45". The US average is 37 inches.

Contrary to what you may think, unless the Pineapple Express visits the Sierras, especially the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, and the Mokelume River watershed, and suddenly turns cold, and snows, we ain't out of the drought yet. No rain at all in the Truckee River watershed. Tahoe's down by more than 85 feet.

There may be ten Mississippi Rivers' worth of rain stored in that long atmospheric river (nice one KQED), but the storm's dumping its payload in the coastal hills. It needs to rain lots in the southern Central Valley too. Not wash out to sea. We’ll only be able to say whether the drought is really over months from now. So don't flush.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Why I Teach, or Why I am a Writer, final draft

due 12/13 SAT  5 min presentation/performance.

It's hard to choose between teaching and writing
each process informs the other.
See, I was an artist before I became a poet.
I was a poet before I started teaching kids art,
but I was also literary jailbait. It was a bootstrap affair.
 I arrived late to poetry all out of breath,
with things to say and nowhere to channel them.
I was a bad student in high school and college.
Least likely to succeed. I couldn't keep what I learned.
It was like a hive of bees swarming inside my head.
Stinging my tongue so I couldn't speak.

Living Between Worlds

Tonight I bring my angst and steal chocolate cake abandoned in the hallway because I forgot to eat. Again. When I get hungry it's always too late. Sort of like my life. Always feeling inadequate, always feeling late. Always wishing I had a bit more time. So I rewrote my homework in my head. There was a wreck on the highway and I was sitting in traffic anyway. Trainwreck between storms. We've been cleaning out my grandmother's house and since it was my home too, I'm finding things from the past. A time capsule spanning decades. Among my grandfather's papers, receipts for guns purchased for the revolution. The sheriff's ID card. He had a foot in two worlds. My first communion veil, prayer book with latch, the tiny silver spoons I brought back from Holland. Windmills frozen in time. We joust at the past, both antiquated and precious. But the dark side includes all the chaos, the randomness. What we make of our lives as we plow through it, and then time gives us the new order of things. Seeking relevance I did not expect to find the broken pieces of the self neatly scissored and stored in plastic bags amid the news of the day. I was that girl, that artist, that writer. Keeping vigil. Meanwhile, the streets are filling with angst, a storm brewing, brewing, gathering in. The 'choppers slicing the air above my head, we are living in a police state. We are living between worlds.

Monday, December 8, 2014

We are under siege: Black Lives Matter

Police are assaulting peaceful demonstrators at UC Berkeley who are protesting the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner and other Black youth at the hands of the police. What sounded like a high speed chase, or unusually loud big rigs moving up the freeway, sirens, 'choppers, what sounded like gunshots. Not normal weekend noises. No, I did not witness it, but I could hear it. I could feel it. The pulsing sound waves of choppers overhead triggering a gripping  sensation of the eviscera around my heart. PTSD.

Amanda Moody was at UC Berkeley attending an arts event, she witnessed the riot firsthand (read all of her account here):
It was bizarre then to break from that rare and exemplary circle of human cultural expression and find myself pinned beneath a murder of low-flying police helicopters racketing around the full moon. A different sort of music. The moment my skin came into contact with the late-evening air, I became frightened. I could smell something in the air – something dry and cloying - baby-powder - in my mouth.
We got to the multi-deck garage, skipped the elevator and started climbing the ramp-way against the slow-draining spiral of exiting automobiles. Then, abruptly, we passed between two worlds: The World of Breathing. The World of Not Breathing. Tear gas, which had been earlier deployed and largely dispersed out-of-doors, had coiled itself in the high concrete column of garage.
They fired rubber bullets into the crowd. Lots of smoke bombs and teargas. Nothing much reported on the news or on Facebook or in the media, but clearly it's huge. The police used teargas to push the demonstrators down Telegraph to Oakland. Not just Berkeley, but now it seems Oakland is taking the brunt too. What have we come to? A police state? A portent of things to come?

From Jan Steckel, an email she found on Scribd. Police are beating journalists.
Journalists protest in a letter to Berkeley mayor Tom Bates, and Berkeley police chief Michael Meehan on the beating of journalists Saturday night as they tried to cover the Berkeley protest. Sunday night they were using strobe lights to prevent filming of police beating protesters.

Confirmed: KQED News: Journalists' group protests reported police beatings of journalists during Berkeley unrest.


Students are organizing a city-wide cleanup because of the violence, vandalism, and looting that has occurred throughout the city tonight. "Please invite all of your friends that attend UC Berkeley to ensure that we have as many Berkeley students out there as possible. Also, please bring cleaning supplies." —Facebook post
Apparently what I'm hearing now are fleets of garbage trucks rumbling through the streets: "City of Berkeley workers are out working hard tonight to clean up the riot and they're doing a fantastic job. Everything is clean down Shattuck from Bancroft to University Ave. There's no trash in the streets and the windows are being boarded up."

Shades of the 60s riots. Deja voodoo. The blue meanies are alive and well in Berkeley and Alameda?

From Brenda Hill and and Robert Hass. Poets bearing witness. Bob teaches at UC Berkeley, and wrote a moving piece on Occupy in the NYX, where they were observing it on campus, and a cop struck Brenda, shoving her down—they weren't even I trust their reportage. We've turned into a police state. More from Brenda on the Berkeley events unfolding:
Bob and I participated in the protest against racism and police violence for a few hours in Berkeley last night; several hundred energetic activists marched to dorms and called students then headed to police station and City Hall. It was good to see some of our students and Comrade Angie Hume out in the streets. Some headed to the freeway (we did not go to the freeway--two old teachers have their limits at the end of the semester!) No justice, no peace; black lives matter. —Brenda Hillman
Great, now that the 'choppers are finally quiet, I have a royal case of insomnia. And a massive headache—to add insult to injury. Taking a few moments to catch up on my reading, then into that void.  It doesn't help that I'm working on a wifi system that's made of baling wire, making it difficult to get the news. And overnight, America seems to have come undone. Life, retrograde.

Thursday, December 4, 2014


During the king tide:
the bay rises up to greet
the fallowing field.

added, rev. 4/17, from an orphan line:
The bay rose up to greet the field.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

My '58 Volvo panel truck

 Forest Knolls, ca. 1973? Sweet Old Bob's photo.

I utterly loved my old '58 Volvo panel truck my uncle John gave me. My first car. Great for hauling haybales, and firewood. Great for camping too. On weekends Bob Hamilton and I car camped in every scenic pullout along Highway 1 from Big Sur to Mendocino. And the Sierras too—Yosemite, and skiing at Boreal Ridge in winter. But keeping the old car running was an ongoing nightmare. No parts. I literally used bailing wire for the gas linkage springs when they broke. Can't remember the cat's name. Am I getting old? I can remember all the other furballs I've owned. I must not have had him long. Frosty. He liked the frost, and turned darker yet. He was from the Stones' catpile. They had a saucy Saimese wench that liked alleycats. Great mixture. Smart cats. Great car. My first wheels.

First rain

Usually the first rain flushes out the culverts. But we've been in drought mode for several years. Then there's the problem of houses built on flood plains. When the rivers and creeks rise, it floods. Culverts aren't the problem then. The water has nowhere else to go. Higher ground. We used to love the flood season on the Russian River. I've been through some major floods. We'd get landlocked in Forestville, cut off from the world. And party like rockstars. Those were the days.

added 4/17

Sunday, November 30, 2014

The Lindisfarne Gospels are Insular art, not Anglo-Saxon art

Folio 27r, Lindisfarne Gospels with incipit from the Gospel of Matthew. —Wiki

A Facebook site I dearly love,, posts scholarly papers on the the medieval world. Sometimes I find myself disagreeing with posts, and misleading headlines, and then, the next thing ya know, I'm posting a comment that turns into a lively rant (and several hours later, when I've come up for air, I've got what amounts to a bit of a blogeen—not that I usually bother to post them here).

What got my lather all whipped into a fine froth this morning was that, posted "A very beautiful Anglo-Saxon manuscript." I saw red....this is what ensued:

"Chi-Rho" monogram, the Gospel of Matthew—Wiki

Go hailin. Indeed the Lindisfarne Gospels are very beautiful Irish-Anglo-Saxon, or, more correctly, a joint Hiberno-Saxon manuscript, illuminated in the Irish style, The Lindisfarne Gospels, like the (later) Book of Kells, were once considered to be a relic of St. Columba. Calling it Anglo-Saxon art is to do it a disfavor; it's a much more cosmopolitan manuscript than that.

The Celtic monastery of Lindisfarne was founded in 635 AD, by Columban Irish monk Saint Aidan (d.651), from the Isle of Iona. Irish monks founded Celtic monasteries on most of the British, Scottish, and Irish islands, and Columban Irish scribes would've trained Saxon scribes in the the insular Irish style—right down to the red lead dots surrounding the letters (the Durham Gospels, and the Book of Durrow, being its predecessors). But first, the Irish monks had to convert the Saxons....

The beginning of the Gospel of Mark from the Book of Durrow.—Wiki

The Lindisfarne manuscript, an illustrated Latin copy of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, was probably made at Lindisfarne, but it could've been made elsewhere, even Iona, as it has an Iona connection. The text is also written in (Irish) insular script.

The problem with tagging this manuscript as Anglo-Saxon, is that it's virtually impossible to tell the difference between Irish, Welsh, Scottish, and Anglo-Saxon illuminated manuscript art, because they were all created in Celtic Irish monasteries between 500-900; later in Ireland, to 1400 AD), and they share far too many similarities. It was also an incestuously small world.

A "safer" nomenclature would be to label these illuminated manuscripts as "insular." Ditto for the continental manuscript, also created in Celtic monasteries founded by Irish monks. (See "List of Hiberno-Saxon illuminated manuscripts" at bottom of page.)

And most 'scholars' writing of these things never delve beyond the current political border of a country when describing where an artifact was discovered, or attributed to, when labeling art. If it was made in St. Gallen, ergo it must be Swiss; or in Bobbio, it's Italian (Irish monasteries!)

The St. Gall Gospel Chi-Rho page, written by Irish monks ca. 750AD—from Irish Medieval History 
Irish manuscripts often display the first three letters, Chi-Rho-Iota, from the Greek ΧΡΙΣΤΟΣ, as a monogram. In the Latin Vulgate, it reads: "[Christi (XPI) autem generatio sic erat…  Note the distinctive long left leg on the Chi/X—also found in the Book of Kells, Book of Durrow, St. Gallen Gospel, MacDurnan Gospels, Book of Lindisfarne and many more. The long "i"pronunciation in Christ, is a result of Irish missionary work in England during the 7th - 8th c.—from Irish Medieval History 

Some slovenly writer described this manuscript as an amalgam of Anglo-Saxon, Irish and German art—WTF? I couldn't figure out how/why Germany—then it dawned on me, they were referring to manuscripts found in Germany, made by Irish monks. And archaeologists tend to be even sloppier. Sometimes I wonder if they know any history at all.

Eagle-eyed John the Evangelist Wiki 

Some background on Lindisfarne, founded in 632, according to the Annals of the 4 Masters; modern articles say 635 AD. It was also the age of writing fancy Vitae to one's patron saints.

The three Lindisfarne bishops who followed the Irish founder, St. Aiden of Iona (590-651), were all Irish-born: St. Finan, St. Colmán, St. Tuda—43 years later, Eata, apparently he was not saintly fodder, but he was St. Aiden's student, and the first native Northumbrian bishop (678-685); then St. Cuthbert (though born in Scotland, he was also from the Cult of St. Columba school).

From what I can tell, St. Eadberht was the second ever Northumbrian bishop—he put up lead walls and a lead roof on the thatched oak church, I bet many monks were very grateful.

And then we get to oor man, St. Eadfrith (also a fine Northumbrian, b.?, who was bishop from 688-98) who was possibly the artist and scribe...the manuscripts are attributed to him, but they could've also been commissioned by him.

A little backstory: Things were not all hunky-dory between the Saxons and the Irish just because Christianity gained a tiny toehold, and the Lindisfarne monastery was established, ca. 635. Oswald of Northumbria, a king living in exile since 616, vowed to bring Christianity to pagan Northumbria. In 634, when he gained the crown of Northumbria, he invited St. Columba's monks to establish a monastery.

But things were still pretty woolly. In 683, the Saxons raided Magh Breg in ireland and took hostages. In 684, Eadfrith's contemporary, St. Adamnán (624-704), St. Columba's distant cousin and Abbot of Iona (679-704)... 
...went to Saxon Land, to request a restoration of the prisoners which the North Saxons had carried off from Magh Breagh the year before mentioned. He obtained a restoration of them, after having performed wonders and miracles before the hosts; and they afterwards gave him great honour and respect, together with a full restoration of everything he asked of them. —Annals of the 4 Masters
 (These were the apocalyptic plague years. After nearly all the children and animals died, I imagine any kind of miracles were welcome—including Columban monks walking across the Irish Sea to Scotland, it was that cold. But at least the cold snap must've killed off the plague fleas.)

Portrait of the artist benched as Matthew the Evangelist —Wiki

A century after Lindisfarne was abandoned because of repeated viking raids, a colophon was added to the Lindisfarne Gospels by a self-serving scribe and provost, Aldred the Glossator, who penned Anglo-Saxon glosses under the Latin text, between 950 and 970, and then he graffitied on the text that Eadfrith was the scribe and artist responsible for the work—some 150-70 years later... Lead-poisoning aside, there must've been some librarian apoplexy in the wings. Stories do change. There was also a viking raid or two in the way as well.
it is only from Aldred’s inscription that we presume Eadfrith created the manuscript and another monk, Billfrith, its original binding. Margaret Walker, The Lindisfarne Gospels: A Living ManuscriptUniversity of Edinburgh Postgraduate Journal of Culture and the Arts
But the illuminated mss. was probably a commission produced in honor of St. Cuthbert (634-687). It was probably made ca. 700, most scholars suggest 715, but Eadfrith died in 721—presumably while still in office, of old age as did most bishops—with their boots on (it was a very good gig). If so, then he probably didn't scribe the manuscripts himself, as he also commissioned three books on the Life of Saint Cuthbert as well. Calligraphy and advanced old age don't mix well—too many hand tremors, not to mention a profound loss of eyesight.

Carpet page: possibly based on early Coptic manuscripts depicting Islamic prayer rugs. Can you see the embedded cross?—Wiki

The next bishop, (last) St. Æthelwold of Lindisfarne (721- 740), took the raw manuscripts that St. Eadfrith had prepared (note the word "raw"), had them bound and gilded, and commissioned a jewel-encrusted gold cover made by St. Billfrith (ca. 8th c.), which the Dane-vikings literally ripped iff, of course.

The Lindisfarne Gospels had to wait until 1852 to get another decent cover.  But that's another story. And this is the end of my story.

Gospel of St. Luke—Wiki 

The Old English name, Lindisfarena, was not recorded until 793, probably from the Irish (lin/d-pool/stream); the 9th c. Welsh Historia Brittonum, records Lindisfarne as Medcaut; the term Holy isle/Insula Sacra was commonly used until the 11th century, and is alternatively used to this day. Cumbria, northern Umbria, Lothian and the Kingdom of Strathclyde formed the diocese of Lindisfarne.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Cameraless in Nicasio (photo)

Cameraless in Nicasio, I resorted to using my old MacBook webcam to take this shot. I love the pastel, or almost watercolor look in this extremely low-grade resolution photo that's meant to transport an image of your face across the internet, not a landscape. But the lighting was so spectacular.

I loved standing in the middle of the road trying to take a photo with my weenie laptop skype cam (so I could change my cover photo), playing chicken with oncoming cars, while waiting for the turkey to finish roasting. The other wild turkeys crossing the road. No Wild Turkey in the hand, unless you counted the eggnog. If only we had some eggnog to spike, rather than the turkey. We're celebrating Thanksgiving a day late so my cousin Dave too can have TG dinner. He usually has to work.

Last night's storm was fierce. A huge gust of wind tore down several limbs, and trees fell across Lucas Valley Road. The church bell was ringing wildly, the wind was so strong. It really started raining hard, and the rain beat against the windowpanes of the old farmhouse like tiny hooves on pavement, so driving home was hairy.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

York is not a Norse name, it was called Eboricum


York comes from Norse Jorvik? I thought it came from the Latin, "Eboricum", and before that, from a Celtic place name. York is most definitely not a Norse placename, it is a Norse pronunciation of a much older placename, Eboricum, founded in 71 AD, the Roman legionary fortress and capital of Brittania Inferior, when the Ninth Legion conquered the Brigantes. During Anglo-Saxon times, it was known as the trading port of Eoforwic.
The word York (from Old Danish Jórvík 9th century AD) derives from the Latinised name for the city, variously rendered as Eboracum, Eburacum or Eburaci. The first mention of York by this name is dated to circa 95–104 AD as an address on a wooden stylus tablet from the Roman fortress of Vindolanda in Northumberland. —Wiki
The old Brittonic name was probably Eburacon which was Latinized as Eburacum (with the same vowel quantities and stress sounds as the Brittonic pronunciation).
It is thought that Eboracum is derived from the Brythonic word Eborakon, a combination of eburos "yew-tree" (cf. Old Irish ibar "yew-tree", Welsh efwr "alder buckthorn", Breton evor "alder buckthorn") and suffix *-āko(n) "place" (cf. Welsh -og) meaning either "place of the yew trees" (cf. efrog in Welsh, eabhrac in Irish Gaelic and eabhraig in Scottish Gaelic, by which names the city is known in those languages); or less probably, Eburos, 'property', which is a personal Celtic name mentioned in different documents as Eβουρος, Eburus and Eburius, and which, combined with the same suffix *-āko(n), could denote a property. —Wiki
The Classical Latin spelling was Eburacum; the alternate spelling Eboracum reflects the Vulgar Latin change of u to o; but the stress remained on the sound. Some of the earlier instances of Eboracum mentioned in Ptolemy may be 'corrections' by later copyists, reflecting a shift in language sounds. Bede, writing in the 8th century, used both spellings. Besides, exact spelling was a relative concept even during Shakespeare's time.

That Norse J in Jorvik is trying to simulate a Celtic eu sound (as in ewe tree)—there was no y letter. In Irish orthography, the pronunciation and written Irish are not identical, nor do the sounds correlate with English pronunciation rules. They are closest to Latin, with their own peculiar twists of lenited vs long sounds. For example, the letters b and v within a word in Irish tend to gather a swallowed ya sound, or sometimes a w sound, like Samhain (Sowen). But there was no Y or W in the Irish alphabet.

What I found on the internet:

Yew in Old Irish is written as ibar/ibhar and (edad, edhadh), from Old Irish é(o). meaning either the tree or the weapon. Another Irish word for yew, is eo.

"W" is unknown to Latin or Greek writing. Old Irish, the language of the earliest sources in the Latin alphabet, takes place during the 6th century. Long before the Vikings came to York, I might add.

The morpheme aco /a:ko/ denoting a "place" still survives in modern Welsh as -og (earlier -awg).

There is debate as to the meaning of the root ebur(o)-. Some people insist that it is an old root meaning "yew" (Old Irish ibhar is glossed as 'taxus'), and thus Eburacum is "place of yews".

But Ebruros is also attested as a personal name in Gaul, so some think it meant: "Eburos' estate". On the balance the evidence seems to favor "place of yews", but it is not certain.

If the Romano-British name had been taken over by the English, then the modern English (after Norman spelling 'deforms') would be something like: Everock. And certainly not Jorvik.

On Rabbits and Linguistics

On an linguistics forum, a user with the handle Maciamo wrote: "Quite a few [Wallonian] words have direct Germanic roots."

If Maciamo hadn't used the word "roots," I would've never even flinched. But I'd just read a long treatise on a Facebook site, Irish Medieval History, and had spent an afternoon tracking down all manner of leads on rabbits—double-checking their information. The Irish have no word for a rabbit nor do the English or the Germans! 
In Irish coinín (kun een) is the word used for a rabbit. It derives from the Latin “cunīculus”. Similarly in English the word used was “coney” which was correctly pronounced like the Irish as “cunny”. Rabbits were not native to northern Europe which is why there was no Germanic or Celtic word for them.
Well, I wanted to share my wealth of new-found knowledge (see below). I even joined Eupedia, a feat that took far too long, only to find that I couldn't post a comment anyway. So I'm posting it here.
RE: Walloon, a Germanised Romance language ?
conén (or conin) => rabbit/lapin (Danish/Norwegian/Swedish = "kanin", Dutch = "konijn", German = "Kaninchen")
robète => another Walloon word for rabbit (from Middle Dutch "robbe", obviously sharing a root with the English "rabbit")
Maciamo, you erroneously assumed that because there are similarities between certain Germanic words and Walloon words, ergo, Walloon borrowed words from the German, or the Dutch.

In the case of coney, or rabbit, you couldn't be more wrong. I suspect your other examples wouldn't hold up to close linguistic scrutiny either.

Both are loan words—as Iberian coneys/rabbits (Oryctolagus cuniculus) were not native to northern Europe. (Hispania, from the Phoenician, means 'the land of rabbits.') There is no native word for coney or rabbit in Celtic or Teutonic, nor mention of coney or rabbit in England before the Norman period.

You need to trace words back to their earliest sources before you can make that kind of declarative statement. Had you done your homework, you would've discovered that rabbits are not native to northern Europe and that the words (and rabbits) were borrowed from iberia.

The word robète does NOT sharing a root with the English word for rabbit, because that too was borrowed from the Latin. There were no native rabbits in Britain, they arrived during the 12th c. with the Normans. Rabbits were first domesticated by monks during the 5th c. in what is now France. (And the word ‘rabbit,’ from the French, means a young conin, or coney.)

OED a. A rabbit: formerly the proper and ordinary name, but now superseded in general use by rabbit, which was originally a name for the young only.

TheFreeDictionary:[Middle English coni, from Old French conis, pl. of conil, from Latin cunculus, possibly from cunnus,cunus, female pudenda.]

Coney used to rhyme with bunny, was a slang term for a red-light district, so it fell out of favor, so to speak.

English Language & Usage: OFr. conil, connil, cogn. w. Pr. conil, Sp. conejo, Pg.coelho, Ital. coneglio:-L. cunīcul-us rabbit, according to ancient authors a word of Spanish origin. The OFr. pl. (with l suppressed) coniz, later conis, gave an Eng. pl. conys, conies, and this a singular cony, conie. The ME. cunin, konyne, conyng was a. OFr. conin, connin, Anglo-Fr. coning, a parallel form to conil, which gave also MDutch conijn, Dutch konijn, and, with a for o, LG. kanîn, whence mod.G. dim. kaninchen. In Eng. the form cunyng, cunning came down to the 16th c.; but from the 12th c. onward it varied also with cunig, conig, connyg.

It has no native name in Celtic or Teutonic, and there is no mention of it in England before the Norman period; in the quotations the fur, perhaps imported, appears before the animal. The Welsh cwning, cwningen, is from ME.; the Irish coinnín, and Gaeliccoinean, coinein from ME. or AFr."

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Strange Bedfruits

Neil Astley who publishes Bloodaxe Books in Northumbria, posted a BBC link on Facebook: Stop eating cats and dogs say animal rights campaigners in Switzerland "Time to boycott everything Swiss? Barbarians!"

Many usual fuzzy bambi posts ensued, including boycotting Toblerone, but then there was a curious role reversal when the meat eaters chimed in and said if you're going to eat meat, then don't be a hippocrite (stet). By that point, I was on a roll. 

Sometimes you just eat what you're served. Even some of us (occasional) carnivores have moral issues eating endangered species, though. Sometimes it's unavoidable, our Guatemalan hosts proudly prepared us a regional dish: kebabls—which turned out to be a medley of wild creatures from the jungle. 
My new friend wrote: It is surprising however what people will/do eat. Cannibalism comes to mind when we eat animals. What is the difference?! Being a vegetarian is not without its dilemmas either.
Sometimes one eats what is available. (I can't eat legumes, a huge handicap in S. America, and fresh vegetables are out). However, not wanting to offend our hosts, I went through the usual list: pollo, vaca, puerco, oveja? No. Serpiente? No venado, y como se dicie—los otros animales de la selva. 

By that point, I desperately searched my meager Spanish vocabulary for the word monkey...and learned a new Mayan word: tepesquintli. It took me decades to discover what it was: agouti. OK. Other stories about Baja sea turtles, and Peruvian cuy, too. 

Fodder for my poems, no? A historical note, during WWII, cats were called roof rabbits in Holland. Is the strange Swiss appetite somehow related?
She posted: Eat to survive vs eat to be polite. My father ate sheep's eyes as guest of honour in the Middle East and had to and in front of everyone. We could conceivably live on beans and rice. As far as I can tell everything has been eaten at least once by someone or something!
What a story. In Russia, I was in a similar dilemma with rooster feet in my borsht—a local delicacy. After living there one winter, I had to seriously change my squeamishness. I quit eating most things, and began to spontaneously bruise. The doctor said I needed to eat protein. How I learned to eat smalow—smoked fat.
Then she had to go there, the lower depths: How many trips have I been on where I had no idea what was in the food and never ever want to know! Ever. Enough said I got parasites! It was the best diet I have ever been on would recommend it to anyone wanting to loose weight and fast! 
So sorry to hear you were a hotel. I've been a host fruit, not fresh veggies, can't eat any form of beans...and my partner wants to go to India...a dilemma. When traveling in third world countries, I eat... not much? Traveling can seriously challenge one's first world notions... Got sick once from ceviche, and I thought that would be safe with all the lime. hahaha! 

My partner at the time (poet-translator) would take us off the grid, meeting up with poets...crazy times. Isla Amantani, our host, an Aymara family, offered us bitter native black potatoes and cuy (guinea pig and fleas). 

Nothing else to eat, other than a local herb for tea...and water doesn't boil at that elevation—so rice and quinoa are out. No stores, no restaurants... an off the beaten trek island in the middle of a vast lake, waiting until the next mail boat came. I kept waiting for seals to appear as we overlooked the vast lago Titicaca, Potosi shining in the distance. Think I was hallucinating from hunger by then. 
She said: That is exactly where I travelled extensively with my son some years ago as well as in Mexico, Bolivia and Guatemala. Amazing our best trip ever! We often reminisce my son and I. Ceviche yes that sounds like a familiar horror. Lobster carpaccio in Lima Peru was our nemesis! 
Didn't the word carpaccio give it away? Yet, I wouldn't trade the experiences for anything, though they were hairy, to say the least... Never got yo Bolivia, sad to say. Then you understand the eating dilemma first hand as well. Travel is not a vacation.
It took me years to recover from bad Vienna sausage. It was an eyeball story: our Peruvian Chinese host brought out a delicacy—those blasted sausages. I'll say no more, other than I couldn't eat food for weeks—not even bananas. Or drink juice. 

I managed to hike over the Andes on a strange bevvy concoction of Lipton tea, sugar, lime juice and steeped coca leaves...but I made it to Machu Picchu the long way...over (ahem) Dead Woman Pass.
She said: Well what can I say?! We had to try something new, in a new place on the Pacific, the final know life on the edge...Cataccio and dogaccio is where this all started!
Maybe we'll meet again somewhere on the Gringo Trail, see what's on the menu. Poor Neil will wonder how his post got so hijacked (it's her fault, Neil!)... Good job closing the circle. Cataccio and dogaccio! Are there cat bits in the Toblerone? just say no to fugu, OK? Yeah, if the pufferfish is prepared wrong, it's all hats off—there'll be no comment—ever again.