Mirable dictu—at long last I have found you! My letters and cards to you in Mexico City remain unanswered these past two years. By chance, I just saw your name in an ad for the Univ. of Texas in Poets & Writers. Congratulations on your new job!
You, Pati, and your niña have finally left the world’s most polluted city, and resurfaced in El Paso, of all places!.
In Sept. John Oliver Simon told me he’d lost track of you also, his registered letters to you returne d unopened. . . Funny, I was just in Texas in Sept. and in Feb., driving cross-country with a friend—Amarillo, where the Cadillac Ranch (13 caddies planted nose-end first in a straight line along Route 66, like an American Stonehenge).
Not close enough to El Paso for a visit. I tried to get your phone number and address from information, again, no luck. Please thank Leslie Ullman for phoning me, and telling me it is indeed you, my Alberto!
I wrote to you in the fall of 1992, and again in the summer of ’93 from Holland, because there was a Latin American focus at the Poetry International festival, June, ’93 in Rotterdam. I had recommended you as a reader to the director, Martin Mooij.
I wrote to you in the fall of 1992, and again in the summer of ’93 from Holland, because there was a Latin American focus at the Poetry International festival, June, ’93 in Rotterdam. I had recommended you as a reader to the director, Martin Mooij.
I also recom-mended Jórge, and Otto Raúl Gonzalez—though at this point, I have no idea if any of my addresses are current. The 12-day festival was wonderful—I met someone who knows you, Victor Manuel Mediola. Homero Aradjis was there—& many poets from Brazil.
God what a fall, the fall, as it were; my woes serious enough to desire Prosac (I’ll elaborate later), lacking prosaic skills, yes, I’m remiss in answering your letters, and you’re probably wondering if I fell off the face of the earth! Very nearly! How I miss you! I am so sorry I didn’t get a chance to write back to you—certainly you’ve been foremost on my mind, but I guess you can’t feel my thoughts!
God what a fall, the fall, as it were; my woes serious enough to desire Prosac (I’ll elaborate later), lacking prosaic skills, yes, I’m remiss in answering your letters, and you’re probably wondering if I fell off the face of the earth! Very nearly! How I miss you! I am so sorry I didn’t get a chance to write back to you—certainly you’ve been foremost on my mind, but I guess you can’t feel my thoughts!
It’s taken a long time for me to find my way back to the world, coupled with the fact that California is slowly going broke, it’s been hard earning an income on CPITS work. I will probably need to get out of teaching in the schools, finish my Master’s degree, etc.
What I need is a scholarship/ fellowship at a university in order to afford graduate school. I understand part-time teaching pay at the university level isn’t a whole lot better than in the schools, but it’s time for me to move on, find the next path of my life’s work.
Oh! we did an art and poetry anthology of Sonoma County children (tri-lingual—English, Russian, and Spanish) and since you were part of my project at Mark West School, you’re listed in the book. It was over three years in the making, and we had to raise enormous amounts of money to complete the exchange—but I’m very excited about the book.
Oh! we did an art and poetry anthology of Sonoma County children (tri-lingual—English, Russian, and Spanish) and since you were part of my project at Mark West School, you’re listed in the book. It was over three years in the making, and we had to raise enormous amounts of money to complete the exchange—but I’m very excited about the book.
I was able to include others in the project (though you may recognize my book-making style). It’s one thing to create something on your own, but to pass on the seeds, and to network with others creates something larger than what I could have previously imagined—the vision far afield.
Though I’d started my project long before I met up with John, in a sense, I owe him for the seeds of the vision from the Mexico City exchange—and how I met you! Funny, I was the one who went to Russia three times, but he was the red-diaper baby.
Now that that project’s done, I’m wondering what’s next on the list. The Soviet exchange program seriously depleted my energy, I’m still gathering in, but I’m interested in taking the seeds of the model afield. I spent over 6 months in the Soviet Union since Aug. ’89.
Now that that project’s done, I’m wondering what’s next on the list. The Soviet exchange program seriously depleted my energy, I’m still gathering in, but I’m interested in taking the seeds of the model afield. I spent over 6 months in the Soviet Union since Aug. ’89.
In 1992 I was supposed to go a 4th time—perhaps permanently (someone wanted to marry me), but I got cold feet and chickened out at the last minute; I stayed in Amsterdam 3 months with a college friend.
Last summer, I did a workshop in the Netherlands, training mental health workers to use poetry and art with their patients last spring. All total, I spent 6 months in Amsterdam as well—searching for myself away from the familiar busy-ness of home turf, searching for a new voice, a new vision, expanding my horizons.
Ideally, I’d like to be able to live part-time in the US and part-time abroad. I’m becoming increasingly detached from my country, my homeland. But I also know it is a part of me, and I cannot sever the connection—nor do I want to. I’ve had offers to live in Russia, Ukraine, and even in Holland, but, the relationships are not right, I’m still not ready to commit to anyone.
Ideally, I’d like to be able to live part-time in the US and part-time abroad. I’m becoming increasingly detached from my country, my homeland. But I also know it is a part of me, and I cannot sever the connection—nor do I want to. I’ve had offers to live in Russia, Ukraine, and even in Holland, but, the relationships are not right, I’m still not ready to commit to anyone.
I like to think of the heart, like cats, as having nine lives. I believe there is someone out there for me—blind faith? I’m surprised at how deep the scarring goes, but understand that time is the only answer. Sometimes I feel I’ll never fall in love again, not like that. Sometimes I get scared, thinking, at the age of 41, my life is slipping out from under me. What do I have to show for the sum total of my life but orphan poems swirling in a neap tide about my knees?
Careerwise, I seem to do well in national poetry contests, consistently coming in third place, or runner-up, or honorable mention, but that doesn’t bring in the prize money, nor the book I’d hoped for.
Careerwise, I seem to do well in national poetry contests, consistently coming in third place, or runner-up, or honorable mention, but that doesn’t bring in the prize money, nor the book I’d hoped for.
And still I resist the well-founded notion that it’s all in who you know . . . a friend of mine who won the 1992 National Poetry Book contest—the judge already knew of her work, and told her to submit. Also I’m working with senior citizens, Elderhostel, teaching California history through literature, & creativity workshops, which I love.
Perhaps more interesting is the fact that I learned to babble in Russian, I thought to myself, what use is it to know fractured Spanish and Russian, when the rest of the European world speaks Italian, French and German. . . it seems I’m always in the wrong tongue.
Perhaps more interesting is the fact that I learned to babble in Russian, I thought to myself, what use is it to know fractured Spanish and Russian, when the rest of the European world speaks Italian, French and German. . . it seems I’m always in the wrong tongue.
Last summer, it came of use, in all places, the Netherlands. At Poetry International—don’t ask me how, but I was simultaneously translating from Russian into Spanish—forgoing English completely.
The Russian poets, Dmitri Prigov (I published him in Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost) and Ilya Kutek wanted to talk to the Mexican poets; no one else was around. I admit conversation was pretty limited.
A Hungarian gypsy poet, Karoli Barri, and I managed to get by on some Russian. I always find myself apologizing for speaking in the tongue of the oppressor, but when it comes down to it, English is equally the tongue of the oppressor.
James Joyce had the right idea to use the language of the enemy against the enemy. If the Cromwellian hadn’t been so successful in annihilating the Gaelic, would Irish literature be available to the English-speaking world? Imagine no Yeats, no Swift, no Synge, no Joyce. . These, my roots.
To digress, I have another story of family roots for you—not as wild as John’s, but close. Briefly, I was the product of a divorce, my father said if he couldn’t have custody of me, he’d have nothing to do with me. And very nearly kept his promise—except for when I was in my early teens and 20’s. On Dec. 12th, he died, the day after his birthday, and as in life, in death, his heart failed him.
To digress, I have another story of family roots for you—not as wild as John’s, but close. Briefly, I was the product of a divorce, my father said if he couldn’t have custody of me, he’d have nothing to do with me. And very nearly kept his promise—except for when I was in my early teens and 20’s. On Dec. 12th, he died, the day after his birthday, and as in life, in death, his heart failed him.
I was notified Dec. 22 by the Public Administration of San Francisco. I buried him, and meanwhile I found out he had money all this time, but my name wasn’t beneficiary on the accounts. Some sleuthing, I discovered that after retirement (he was a streetsweeper) he spent his mornings at the church, then, the local bar—a serious alcoholic.
More family background: my mother was crazy (I won’t go into that here, suffice to say she is manic-depressive; the joys of lithium hadn’t been discovered when I was a child), my father blamed himself for her going crazy, and couldn’t bring himself to face us.
In spite of it all, I had a happy childhood, raised in the country by my Irish grandmother, who raised 8 kids before my half-brother and I. We didn’t name it poverty, but her meager pension didn’t go far in Marin County. I was a expert in not talking about my family, because my own family experiences had no parallel among my peers.
In spite of it all, I had a happy childhood, raised in the country by my Irish grandmother, who raised 8 kids before my half-brother and I. We didn’t name it poverty, but her meager pension didn’t go far in Marin County. I was a expert in not talking about my family, because my own family experiences had no parallel among my peers.
To shorten the story, we went on welfare and I was ashamed. Thank God the Summer of Love, and the hippies came about, who could tell what was what? The ’50s values of America washed away.
My father always told me if anything happened to him there was money for me. He told my mother and my uncles as well there was money for me. So, my father died, I’m sole heir and next of kin, responsible for his estate, and to cover his shame, he left $100,000 to a co-worker he didn’t even know all that well—outside of the estate (two cars: a Jaguar xjc with a chevy engine, and a Volvo sports car) my inheritance.
At the wake and funeral, first, the co-worker was surprised to learn of my existence, then he told someone I hadn’t seen my father since I was a baby. (I talked with him 4 years ago, Christmas.)
Friday night I met some of his friends, including a woman (Mimi) he almost married—they all knew of me, some had met me when I was young, knew of my grandmother. Said he talked about us all the time. (There were photos of me by his bed and in his drawers.) Mimi told me that if she married him, he made her promise that I was to get money. . .all the stories corroborate.
Friday night I met some of his friends, including a woman (Mimi) he almost married—they all knew of me, some had met me when I was young, knew of my grandmother. Said he talked about us all the time. (There were photos of me by his bed and in his drawers.) Mimi told me that if she married him, he made her promise that I was to get money. . .all the stories corroborate.
I don’t know the circumstances leading up to his giving the money to this man, but it may be hard to prove my father was incompetent, or unduly influenced. We don’t know if there was blackmail involved, or what. I can’t find a lawyer who’ll take the case on contingency—not enough profit in it. If I had money, I could hire a lawyer to get the money. . .
Then, I found out I have another half-brother in his 20’s up in Washington! Another trail to follow. Chances are I’ll never see my inheritance. I can’t help but think what I would’ve done with the money.
It’s been difficult in getting work (I’ve gotten some, all’s not lost), this, at a time when everyone in education is saying how marvelous my programs are, and that I’m such a gifted teacher, blah, blah, blah. . . but the bottom line is, that the state of California’s broke; I need a new career (& my Masters). Other than the unfairness of it all, I keep thinking there must be a moral buried somewhere in this story, and I’m just too daft to figure it out.
Today is better than yesterday, sunshine, after rain. It washed away the pun of the cat’s investigative paw prints off the hood of the Jaguar. A glimmer reaching into the place where the concept of soul dwells; today is the first day I’ve had the initiative to do those things that must be done, pay bills, answer letters.
Today is better than yesterday, sunshine, after rain. It washed away the pun of the cat’s investigative paw prints off the hood of the Jaguar. A glimmer reaching into the place where the concept of soul dwells; today is the first day I’ve had the initiative to do those things that must be done, pay bills, answer letters.
It’s so strange to me to have to be out in the open about all of this family stuff, but I can no longer keep it inside. There’s a creature called the sea cucumber, who when threatened, literally vomits his stomach out to fool the hunters. I’m used to keeping the shame of family secrets buried, but to do so now requires a psychic death, and I’m not willing to be a victim. So this is an intense time of growth and change for me.
I am, excavating the basements of the self, uncovering old pieces of art amid the debris, the source materia is preferable to the illusion of artifice. I am alive, my father gave me life, I am restoring something of myself to myself. The Spanish saying, The best revenge is living well, we are among the living; dare I say, it’s our duty to make the most of it?
On some obtuse level I am reminded of when I went to Russia to see Malevich’s paintings, but none were available to the public, though Glasnost was in full swing. Malevich may have been reinstated but his paintings remained in the basements of the Russian State, and the Tretyakov museums. (Moscow’s Tretyakov is where the statue of Swords into Ploughshares is).
On some obtuse level I am reminded of when I went to Russia to see Malevich’s paintings, but none were available to the public, though Glasnost was in full swing. Malevich may have been reinstated but his paintings remained in the basements of the Russian State, and the Tretyakov museums. (Moscow’s Tretyakov is where the statue of Swords into Ploughshares is).
Why, because it was easier to go with the system than to change it, though the means to do it was there. I couldn’t understand the Russian psyche, and the posters that stood in place for the real art didn’t fill the need, they didn’t satisfy the hunger for what was real.
Paradoxically, there was a time when I fell in love with the paintings by Matisse and Gauguin (or so I thought) until I saw the real paintings at the Hermitage in Petersburg. They were raw, the pigments different—I was shocked until I realized it wasn’t a question of like/dislike; I was using the wrong vocabulary, but the rawness, the power, direct source/link, versus the glossed over second generation candy-colored posters. The original paintings had the ability to move me to tears. I seek truth, and write very little these days.
Are you still painting? Music?
I did a series of poems to collages on the Gulf war by a friend, Marsha Connell—and received a small fellowship for them. One of the poems was runner-up in the Kalliopea/ Paper Mache poetry contest. I’ve also been editing a magazine based on Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, a sort of international journal in tabloid format called Mother Earth, with regional inserts.
I did a series of poems to collages on the Gulf war by a friend, Marsha Connell—and received a small fellowship for them. One of the poems was runner-up in the Kalliopea/ Paper Mache poetry contest. I’ve also been editing a magazine based on Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, a sort of international journal in tabloid format called Mother Earth, with regional inserts.
I’ve completed Eastern Europe and Africa; we’re just now starting Latin America. Send me some translated work by mid-March? Also, if you’re in touch with other Latin American poets, please ask them to submit as well.
Right now I’m collaborating with a modern composer, Kirk Whipple, who is writing 11 nocturnes—elemental portraits. I know so little about music, but it’s interesting writing to music. They’re due on Mother’s Day, at the premier concert. Kirk is married to pianist Marilyn Morales (una Cubaña) and they founded the Unconservatory.
They have Yamaha pianos you can put a computer disk in! I’m blown away by the technology. He can program a piece, have left hand play, and ad-lib with the right, re-record, etc. Magic! We’re planning an international CPITS conference in Oct., perhaps you can come?
Other news: my neighbor, the potter Joel Bennett (with whom you stayed with) had an accident with a filet knife. He didn’t think anything of it, but later he discovered he’d severed the nerves in his hand. He’s had two major operations; they took pieces of nerves from his legs to repair the damage—but he still can’t grasp things.
Other news: my neighbor, the potter Joel Bennett (with whom you stayed with) had an accident with a filet knife. He didn’t think anything of it, but later he discovered he’d severed the nerves in his hand. He’s had two major operations; they took pieces of nerves from his legs to repair the damage—but he still can’t grasp things.
I don’t know how he’ll be able to continue making pots. It’s been a hard year all around. I hope you are all well and happy. How old is your daughter now? I’ve forgotten her name. . . are your parents still in Mexico City. How is Pati? Happy Valentine’s Day. Muchos besos! I miss you, write soon.
Feb 13, 1994
Feb 13, 1994
