Broken homes do not create mass murderers

Broken homes do not create mass murderers, letter to a 2nd cousin who is a Republican

I was raised without a father. Or a mother, for that matter. And I’m hardly intellectually disabled. I don’t feel an overwhelming urge to go out and massacre a bunch of people! Broken homes do not necessarily make criminals or assassins. The shooters are young white males who support the far right, not the far left. And they seem to all be racist. And while you’re painting things in stark generalizations, most liberals, myself included, do not advocate taking guns away from everyone.

But assault rifles do not belong in the hands of the general populace. There should be background checks before someone purchases a gun. There should be gun licenses. The mentally unstable should not be allowed to buy guns. And someone buying a lot of ammo should raise red flags somewhere. Just common sense. Americans make up 4.4% of the world’s population, yet own 42%of the world’s guns? That’s not the second amendment, that’s stockpiling for Armageddon.

Clearly making a generalization that terrorists come from broken homes is far too simple an explanation. Many of these shooters are not from broken homes, and were raised in a traditional households. Of course, the other absurd extreme is that video gaming creates these terrorists. But only in America. Nowhere else....

Time would be better spent by looking at ways to regulate gun control. The root cause is not fatherless sons. But racism seems to be the main motivating factor. Teaching tolerance would be a place to start. Many feel that gun ownership should be like owning a car—with a license, insurance, registration, etc. that’s a start. But how do we even begin get guns out fo the hands of those who are irresponsible, crazy, etc., that’s the real dilemma.

Letter to Yehiel on leaving Neil

To Yehiel Ben Benyamin        9/5/18, 11:33 PM

Dear Yehiel,

We had a blow up last month because I tried to pay a portion of the rent directly (which I've done in the past), and he lost it and told me I had to move out. No forewarning. And so I did.

Cat Whisperer available for cat wrangling (job/letter)

( I saw the writing on the wall with Neil, off his psychotropic meds, and applied for this job. My life would've been very different had I been accepted.)

Dear Joan B. Owell,

I have the necessary skills you are looking for to deal with cats. Though I am not a veterinarian, I have many of the necessary basic skills, including giving shots subcutaneously, lancing and flushing abscesses, medicating, worming, bathing, clipping toenails, etc. 

I had many bruiser kitties, and so I learned doctoring from the ground up, and my vet took me under his wing, and entrusted me with basic triage techniques. I also had horses, so I also have large animal vet skills as well. I have dressed more serious wounds than I care to tell you about.

I am both a horse whisperer and a cat whisperer. Even shy kitties seek me out for pet jobs because I know all the secret itchy spots. I have the patience to sit on the ground and let the skittish ones come to me. And I have that sooting demeanor that they seek out. I have also held many house/cat-sitting jobs as well.

 I have no trouble being alone for vast tracts of time, as I am a writer/photographer, so I would also use this sojourn as a writers' retreat as well. I have received many grants for my work, as well as teaching grants—I have taught kids poetry and art.

Though I don't speak Greek, I am a fast learner, and managed to pick up Russian when I lived there in the late 1980s, I had created a poetry and art exchange with Sonoma County, in California. Visiting Greece has always been on my bucket list.

I am also an excellent gardener, and general all-round handy-woman. I am extremely self-sufficient, and am in excellent health. Though I am 65, I look 45, and some people say I sometimes act like a 12-year old in that I have my childish wonder and love of the natural world intact. I learned to drive on stick-shift, on gnarly backroads, and of course I can ride a horse, donkey, or even a bull calf, if needs be. Or even a tractor.

I have one concern, with 55 cats, disease can spread quickly. Have they had their feline distemper shots? I lost one of my favorite cats to distemper, and it's devastating. What about feline AIDS? What is your arrangement with the local vet? I assume you have a vast store, or ample access to cat foot (you must buy it by the kilo!).

What are the challenges faced with getting to this island? Is airfare and island transport included, or reimbursed? Is there any provision for time off? (Santorini is on my bucket list.) Or should an emergency arise, is there a plan B? How isolated is this place? Do you have photos of the dwelling? I love rustic accomodations. Light is important to me. I love being outside. I grew up out in the country and close to the land. 

Is your place in Hermoupolis, or perhaps near Kini? What about local village customs? Will I be accepted, or will I be considered the crazy foreign cat lady? (I'm a recovered Catholic, and it looks like it's a very Catholic island. But then again, all those tourists also means it's cosmopolitan as well.) The archaeological museum sounds fascinating. I have an abiding interest in history.

Is there wifi, or internet access? Is there a grocery store nearby? Amernities? My needs are basic. But I need to have a better sense of what my actual salary might be, half time. For example, will it be enough to cover airfare and basic necessities, with a little set aside for the future?

Some of my cat writing

Figby & Pishkin

Cat's up

UNTIL EACH CAT

MONA THE ONE-EYED CAT

NICOTATING MEMBRANE

Celli Cabin Cat Chronicles

PAID JOB OFFER WITH CATS! (this is genuine and NOT a joke - friends, please feel free to verify!). A very special position and living circumstance on offer on a little Greek island called Syros (a small paradise no less!) for a mature and genuinely passionate cat lover who knows how to handle many cats and would love their company!! I am looking for someone who can take over the daily running of my Greek cat sanctuary in my absence. You will have 55 cats in your care and need to be able to overview them all + feed and medicate (big added bonus if you’re trained vet. nurse!). As part of the job you’ll have a fully paid (incl. water & electricity) semidetached modern tiny house with it’s own garden (direct view to the Aegean Sea!) plus a salary. The daily hours is that of a part time job (approx. 4 hours) and the salary reflects the fact that you get the house for free (with everything paid). All expenses for the cats will of course be paid incl. all veterinary care. You will be expected to take the cat to the vet in case of illness and therefore will need to be able to drive a manual car. We are located in a secluded nature preserved area which is very tranquil and quiet in winter time but busy during the summer. You’ll no doubt thrive best if you are the type of person who appreciates nature and likes tranquility - and rest comfortably in your own company. That said, you’ll never feel lonely in the company of the cats and you’ll be expected to live with a small handful of cats in your house. From experience the job is most suitable for someone 45+ years of age, who’s responsible, reliable, honest, practically inclined - and really, with a heart of gold! Apart from feeding the cats the cats will also need heaps of love and attention. You will at times be expected to trap or handle a feral or non-sociable cat, so knowing something about a cats psychology too is important + cat-whispering skills should come natural to you. The job is long term but a minimum of 6 months is required with a 1 month intro at the beginning of October (you will be volunteering for the first 2-4 weeks but with free accommodation). The paid job starts on November 1st 2018. To get an accurate idea of the salary, please follow this link to see an average Greek salary and keep in mind this is a part time job WITH house, water & electricity included for free! https://tradingeconomics.com/greece/wages Please send your application with a photo and relevant information to joanbowell@yahoo.com We will look through all the applications and do Skype calls with the most suitable candidates at the end of August. PLEASE SHARE THIS POST FAR AND WIDE!! P.s. Please don't send concerned messages. All is well and more will be revealed at some later point! ❤️ joanbowell@yahoo.com

Irish Travellers are not Gypsies, letter to the Gypsy Vanner Horse Registry

This was a letter to a Gypsy Vanner horse website that was so over the top with erroneous information on Irish Travellers—I came undone and wrote this missive to them. They never replied.

My grandmother (b,1893) knew the Tinkers well, in Western Ireland. Each spring they would come to fix my great-grandfather’s farm equipment, and my great-grandmother's pots and crockery. The Travellers travelled through Bantry each year, and camped on our land near Dunmanway, near Bandon. They were superb horse people. My family raised horses too—I grew up horse crazy and could ride just about any equine (and an occasional bovine) like the wind. But that was another era.

I hate how people conflate Irish and Scottish Tinkers or Travellers with Romany Gypsies. They are not even remotely the same peoples. Never any gypsies in Ireland. Ever. Scottish Tinkers are related to Irish Tinkers. In fact, they are Travellers that immigrated to Scotland during the famine. They both speak what the linguists call Shelta or siúlta (aka Gammon and Cant)—Gaelic, or goidelic languages. The Travellers/Tinkers were called an lucht siúil  or the walking people. Hence Shelta, as walk/ siúil is pronounced school. Think of it as a secret Irish-language based Cockney slang or Pig Latin with reversed words and backwards talk—to fool the locals.

That's how Pig-Latin, and even the American dialect, Boontling evolved in Anderson Valley, CA. To hide the news via slang. My best friend's father spoke Boontling. He said it even has Irish words in it. But I digress... The Shelta word "bloke" that entered into English during the 19th c., evolved from the Irish word buachaill, or boy. In other words, there’s a clear linguistic connection between Irish Gaelic, and Shelta.

Celtic is one of the most ancient language families in the Indo-European tree. Older than Latinate languages. Gaelic is older than Brythonic Celtic. The Celtic Pretani is the origin of the word for Britain.

Romany Gypsies are from Romania by way of India—at one point they were thought to be from Egypt, hence the name. Different genetics. Different DNA, different language, and customs. The Gypsies of Spain speak Ladino, a form of Latin. As is Romanian. (There's also a Sephardic Jewish connection with Ladino.) Think Latin or Djudeo Espanyol. That also introduced the Middle East as a genetic pool. Few genetic markers are shared with the Irish (whether Tinker or gaija) and the Middle East.

The term Ladino comes from "latino" and possible "ladrón" (thief) and usually refers to mestizo peoples. I worked with a Sephardic Jew from Peru by way of Spain—what he spoke really is similar to Spanish. Now, I love the Gypsy Kings—but I would never conflate them with the Celtic Irish Tinkers.

Just because the Celtic Travellers are nomadic, use caravans and have fabulous horses, it doesn't make them ethnically related to Gypsies. The problem is that this kind of nonsense has been repeated often enough as of late that most people believe that the Travellers are Gypsies. The notion probably arose during the Romantic period when Gypsies were considered exotic, therefore more interesting (and valuable) than the native peoples who suffered greatly under neocolonial rule.

There are real Romany Gypsies in Britain, but they're not ethnically related to the Irish Tinkers/Travellers. The Travellers in England also steer clear of the Gypsies. They're not particularly fond of each other. There's also a great stigma of marrying outside the clan.

Sadly, so much of history has been lost, as they're a nomadic peoples, and not much stock was placed on preserving history—that's an occupation for the landed, or settled folks who live in houses. Alas, now some Travellers even think they're related to Gypsies!

I have studied with the distinguished Celtic scholars of our era at UC Berkeley and elsewhere. My area of study is Medieval Ireland. So I've also studied folklore, medieval literature (translated Irish and Welsh epics) and linguistics, anthropology, archaeology, etc.

Irish Tinkers, or Travellers, who predate the Gypsies—if you can believe the medieval Irish epics—did make it to Scotland, England, and America—during the Great Famine. The Riches with Eddie Izzard was a TV show about the American Travellers.

I suggest that you add this update to your site:

"Founded November 24, 1996, the GVHS is the world’s first registry to recognize a breed of horse developed by the   ( add TRAVELLERS, AND )  Gypsies of Great Britain/Ireland and the only such registry founded on an in depth study of British/Irish (  TRAVELLERS, AND  ) Gypsies and their horses."

Adding the ethnically correct term will do wonders to reverse centuries of continual colonial apartheid waged against the Irish Travellers.

AmieStreet fanmail from John & Claire Roche of Celtic Ways for my review

Re: Celtic genre, Claire Roche
From: clairseach

Maureen, so many thanks for your dedication that has given birth to a Celtic genre its own recognition. Its not a genre that easy to define, but its very handy for placing Claire's music work.

I am John of Celtic Ways, Claire's partner and I tend to look after all of her online presence. One one side Claire is not comfortable with this and on the other she has a lot of work on with new recordings, sorting out tours etc. so she really does not have the time for this. Having said that, Claire also does an incredible amount of correspondence and phone work with folks coming on Celtic Ways tours so we work well together and enjoy this.

Claire is currently on about 50 different digital download sites and it now creating a better income from this than with cds. Its all quite essential right now as the cost of recording her current cd, in the works, is a bit of a challenge. 

Out of all these, we do like the Aime St. set up best of all. Asap we'll get into the spirit of being fans, well at least I will as there is some incredible music here. Nice to see Roy Gullane here for one, terrific Celtic songwriter. Been around a long time. 

Yes, I'll discover more on this site and definately get into a blog habit here. Such a choice of networks now as I try to keep up on MySpace, YouTube, NowPublic, Facebook and Eventful too. 

One thing I would like to see is Amie St. having a video service too. Maybe they have one and I have not found it yet. Soundclick have a nice video service, but I just have not got around to that one yet. Our loyalty is more for Amie Street at this stage.

I was led here, initially, by Two Tall Women from Canada, folks I have enjoyed for, must be, almost 10 years now. We met through the old original Mp3.com .

So thanks again for opening these doors Mo.

Wishing you the best in love and blessings through this Yule, Christmas and beyond. 

John for Claire it's 1250

Letter to Gail

Dear Gail, 

This is just to say please excuse the handwritten format of poems as my laptop computer, which took an unauthorized flying lesson, has joined the celestial Macs in the sky, or perhaps it is searching for Beatrice in Dante’s Inferno. And my loaner Mac has no floppy drive so every time I finally get networked, it dies, and loses its identity. I totally understand. I won’t mention the fact that when I backed up all my files, my computer destroyed all my floppy disks with many files rendered unretrievable. Murphy’s Law squared and, cubed. So, I don’t even have access to my teaching files and poems. I heard rumor of my computer’s eminent resurrection on or about Easter, but I’m not holding my breath or waving palm fronds. After much surgery and TLC, it may or may not work. Eventually, I’ll be able to retrieve my files from the hard drive, but at present, it is not an option. So, I have this lesson plan, a flyer, a handout that you might want to use, but if I only had a computer or even a typewriter, I’d flush it out more. If you’re interested, I can work on it during ahem, Easter vacation. 

PS Will says you’re doing well in GV. I don’t know if you remember me. I met you a few times in Berkeley you came to Sonoma to read for us for the Russian River Writers’ Guild. 

PPS it’s raining so hard we’re about to float away. Some April Fool’s joke this turned out to be.

Undated, probably around 1980, what Gail, I don’t know. And GV may stand for either grass valley or Guerneville. Will refers to Will Staple. So it must be Grass Valley.

Letters to/from Charles Simic 9/93

Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

It looks like we left the Florida Keys in the nick of time. We returned from the Dry Tortugas in the middle of a huge storm. Little did we know that it was a precursor to Hurricane Charley, (it must've been post-Hurricane Bonnie) and it was very impressive. 

We had wild indigo seas for most of the 70 miles to the Dry Tortugas, and strange, calm, green, glassy seas as we returned to Key West. Flying fish, sea turtles, and sea birds were all riled up—even a suicidal amberjack tried to land in my arms as I stood at the bow of the ship like a masthead in order to avoid all the poor wretches retching all over the place inside the cabin.

As for Hurricane Charley, this morning, the eye of the storm passed over Fort Jefferson, situated on an atoll, some 22 acres barely above sea level, with blustery 125 MPH winds, after wreaking havoc last night in Havana where it made landfall.

Fort Jefferson's sixteen million bricks, myriad arches laid by Irish workers over 150 years ago, how will they hold up in the eye of the storm? The tiny drainage channels in Dr. Mudd's cell, the man who tended John Wilkes Booth, useless in this rain. The moat, a frail buffer against rising seas. 

Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Kirk y Mari,

Fort Jefferson was mindblowing; 70 miles of sea, the last third of the journey was rough, open seas, with 2-4 foot swells, the sea changing from green to turquoise to indigo to black as a squall hit. I kept thinking of those Cubans fleeing the island in little more than rafts. 

We were going 26 knots (30 MPH) and it took 2.5 hours each way. A raft, at the mercy of the tides & wind would take forever. Hemomgway was strandede here for 17 days, they fashioned a raft to get back to Key West. You could tell when the water got deep (aside from color) when the lobster pot floats disappeared, there were thousands of them, everyone going nuts on opening day of the season.

Anyway, you can also fly here, maybe a saner option, and avoid getting seasick. But you don't get to spend as much time here. Next time I'd skip the dolorous fort tour & head for the water ASAP. We didn't get any quality snorkeling in as the storms hit, and lightning & H2O don't mix. 

We did get some time in when the storm blew over but it wasn't sunny, and so we didn't get to see the colors. We got to see jumping conchs though! Who knew they could jump on their bright orange pseudo foot? And here I thought they were sedentary stationary objects. Not.

You know, I absolutely HATE Duval Street after dark! It's LOUD, with bad musicians blaring from every door. Neil didn't play any gigs after all, Open Mic is on Wed nights, and everything is sewed up tighter than a tick anyway.

We'll see you all sometime this late aft./eve. We want to see Susan first after her class at 3:30 to say goodbye. It's a long drive from Key West to Key Largo.

Besos y abrazos, M&N

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

"In Praise of the Grape" at Francis Ford Coppola's cafe, Oct 10 (MIA p2)

Hi All,

This is just to say that there will be a poetry reading/bash, "In Praise of the Grape" at Carmen and Francis Ford Coppola's cafe @ 619-something* on Kearney St. across from City Lights Bookstore in Northbeach at the confluence of Columbus, and Jack Kerouac Lane, on Friday, Oct 10th, from 3 to 5:30 PM-ish.

According to poetry event organizer, Herman Berlandt, grandfather of the poetry-film genre, who founded the National Poetry Association nearly 30 years ago in SF, and in 2002, the International Poetry Museum, —Francis Ford Coppola himself will attend the annual baccanalia*-as he has done so in the past.

I am at present combing thru my work for something appropriate to read as I'm a featured reader...it's been literally years since I attended the last vintage grape stomping event, but it was, um, intoxicating, as vaguely recall.. truth be known...

When the ancient Romans were having a party, they'd shout IN VINO VERITAS. Come down and praise the harvest by raising a poem and a glass or two of vino with us and maybe you'll find some truth or your future ex-muse at the bottom of it.

Maureen Hurley (he did not attend, but his uncle Carmen who was tending bar, was a gem. He kept my glass more than half full.)

PS: For more information on the International Poetry Museum, or "Mother Earth Journal" (I was co-editor for years), call Herman Berlandt, (415) 868-8865. Uniting the World Press, PO Box 886, Bolinas, CA, 94924  or email him at: info@intemationalpoetrymuseum.org http://www.nationalpoetry.org/npa/mother.html

PPS: *If you absolutely need the address, email me back and when I get it, l'll send it to you...otherwise, just stagger into every bar and cafe near City Lights until you find it... -MH 

IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET) -Kierkegaard

It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together. Date and year I have forgotten;... The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles, likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the imagination by this process as does the generous wine...

...The motto of the Party had been given by him as: In Vino Veritas, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except in vino, and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is in vino--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a defense of the wine.

IN VINO VERITAS Reflections on a Glass of Wine  —James B. Sanders

The silver-haired gentleman gazed at his glass of rare old Chambertin so hard and long that the young American gustatory finally asked, "What do you see?"

Continuing to swirl and stare at the brick-red liquid, the venerable wine sage replied, "When I look at a wine of this one's quality, charm and provenance, I get a glimpse of the best of man and his struggle through civilization…

Missing the last page

The Bacchantes -Euripides, 410 B.C.E

O hallowed haunts in Crete, that saw Zeus born, where Corybantes with crested helms devised for me in their grotto the rounded timbrel of ox-hide, mingling Bacchic minstrelsy with the shrill sweet accents of the Phrygian flute, a gift bestowed by them on mother Rhea, to add its crash of music to the Bacchantes' shouts of joy; but frantic satyrs won it from the mother-goddess for their own, and added it to their dances in festivals, which gladden the heart of Dionysus, each third recurrent year.

Oh! happy that votary, when from the hurrying revel-rout he sinks to earth, in his holy robe of fawnskin, chasing the goat to drink its blood, a banquet sweet of flesh uncooked, as he hastes to Phrygia's or to Libya's hills; while in the van the Broman god exults with cries of Evoe. With milk and wine and streams of luscious honey flows the earth, and Syrian incense smokes.

While the Bacchant holding in his hand a blazing torch of pine uplifted on his wand waves it, as he speeds along, rousing wandering votaries, and as he waves it cries aloud with wanton tresses tossing in the breeze; and thus to crown the revelry, he raises loud his voice, "On, on, ye Bacchanals, pride of Tmolus with its rills of gold I to the sound of the booming drum, chanting in joyous strains the praises of your joyous god with Phrygian accents lifted high, what time the holy lute with sweet complaining note invites you to your hallowed sport, according well with feet that hurry wildly to the hills; like a colt that gambols at its mother's side in the pasture, with gladsome heart each Bacchante bounds along.

10/8/03

My occasional poem for the occasion

• IN PRAISE OF THE GRAPE

Letter to Lynn Woolsey on Head Start

Dear Representative Woolsey:

There's an old adage: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Head Start, a highly successful educational program which, in the 1970s, has helped several members of my own family--my dyslexic cousins who would have otherwise become juvenile delinquents by failing school, as their mother did--is under threat of dismantlization by the Bush administration.

When I went to school, there was no such program available and the California education system failed me miserably: my dyslexia went undiagnosed for 30 years. I had to wait until junior college to discover that indeed I wasn't stupid as the California educational system had allowed me to believe. I received an education by sheer determination alone.

I just completed my MA and my MFA: English/Creative Writing at SFSU, something I could have accomplished in my 20's instead of waiting until I was nearly 50, had there been a Head Start program available when I was in school. Head Start catches some of these problems with early childhood screening programs, with nutrition programs and tutoring programs.

How can our nation claim to offer equal opportunity (let alone, justice or happiness) for all when we are failing to give all of our poorest kids the basic skills necessary to better themselves--programs that Head Start offers, which has a track record of success in helping kids mired in poverty, our most vulnerable citizens, to succeed:

* Children who participate in Head Start are more likely to graduate from high school;
* Kids who graduate from Head Start commit far fewer juvenile crimes;
* Because children in Head Start require less special education in school and don't break the law as frequently later in life, Head Start saves between two and four federal tax dollars for every dollar invested in the program.

It is patently obvious that Head Start offers much more than just an ounce of prevention to our most vulnerable citizens... Why in the world is the Bush Administration proposing to dismantle Head Start and replace it with inconsistent and untested state programs? This makes no sense and is directly at odds with the values that our country stands for.

It's shameful enough that our government is giving huge tax breaks to millionaires but failing to provide our poorest kids with the basics, such as Head Start. If anything, Head Start should be fully funded by the federal government with an additional $2 billion/year (that's less than one half of one percent of the Pentagon budget!).

I realize that "ain't" is no longer king's English, and we're no longer the colonies, but a nation--however, if we allow Bush to dismantle federal funding, and replace it with unregulated state funding/ administration, a significant portion of our children won't even be able to spell "ain't," let alone read it, or know why it's no longer in current usage.

Forget about the subtleties of dangling participles and the delights of other grammatical errors. Ain't that a shame. (Although judging by some of Bush's linguistic gems, he also might have benefitted by attending a Head Start program himself, but I digress...) if I may borrow a phrase uttered by Bush, Sr.: "Read my lips": this proposal is a recipe for unmitigated educational disaster.

As you may recall, I work in the Bay Area schools as an artist in residence (CPITS/YABA), teaching poetry (you've attended many of my events: especailly the sister city-USSR exchanges), let me say that it's already pretty grim in many of our schools.

As it is, California's educational system funding is already at the rock "bottomth" percentile in state funding, do you seriously think that a state-administered Head Start program would stand a chance of surviving current budget cuts?

Look at what is happening to our California Arts Council. Rather than dismantle the highly successful Head Start program, please fight to continue the program and expand its funding to cover all eligible children. An ounce of prevention goes a long way indeed.

Sincerely,
Maureen Hurley

Postcard from Saõ Jorge

 

Saõ Jorge, October 1

Dear Neil, they say the past is another country and this is another country altogether. We arrived Friday night. Sinead got seasick as it was a rough crossing of 2 and a 1/2 hours, we saw dolphins. Velas, the port town, looked pretty rough, and we had trouble finding a place that was cheap, so we wound up in a dark hovel. We were looking for a cheaper place to stay, but it was a port in any storm kind of situation. Canice forgot all the guidebooks. We should’ve asked the taxi drivers who are super guidebooks here. Then, on a whim, the owner of the ferry boat canceled the Sunday boat out as there were not enough passengers, so we had no way off the island until next week. Which meant we were going to miss our flight to the mainland and Lisbon. In desperation, I approached a taxi driver and explained the situation. He gave us a fantastic tour of the island Once he realized that Candace was married to someone who came from Saõ Jorge. We were able to get a flight off the island with the help of our taxi driver, with a whole lot of arguing with the airline clerk, for a little more than the boat fare. She thought she could sock it to us because we were tourists, he gave her the what for. We leave this afternoon so all is well, after all. It rains hard here every day. But it is like Molokai. The island is a long, steep ridge, mid Atlantic kind of like Point Reyes too. It’s raining so hard, we can’t even go exploring on our last morning here. It was only an exploratory trip after all—aplace to come back to later. 

The running of the bulls (Postcard)

Praia da Vitoria, 30 September 2001 

We landed on Terceira and stayed that is, slept two days in Praia de Vitória, and left before the running of the bulls. They painted up the whole town and boarded up every window as the bulls think nothing of jumping through them. We were sorry to miss the event, but we had to get to Saõ Jorge as the fairies are in frequent. Prior day Victoria is a US military base, the largest gas station in the Atlantic, so we were glad to leave. We met an ex-spy, who said that the cargo planes which we had counted like sheep were returning from Kuwait empty. Scary. We lost count at 50 planes. More to tell at Saõ Jorge. Terceira’s capitol, Angra is a world historic site, founded in 1435. It’s a lot like Hawaii here. Lots of rain and humid. 

Love, Maureen

Dear Dr. Gaines

6/23 junque mail

Dear Dr. Gaines,

We can't go on meeting like this via email and in the hallowed halls of Kaiserdom! Actually I hang out in lobbies for art's sake. Some of my colleagues (the art, not themselves) are hanging on the walls. Great gallery space!

Inside the MRI, the experience was odd & acoustically interesting. All that knocking, if you're a poltergeist, a woodpecker, or a jackhammer's dream, that is. You can feel the microwave pulses. The technician was a bit dull; didn't know how the machine worked, didn't even care. Said: “I just push the buttons.” How could anyone NOT care about the electro-magnetic spectrum? I didn't even bother to ask to see the images.

But I did envision images of my shoulder sailing past Alpha Centauri along with the ghostly pulse traces of myriad coffee cups heated in microwaves across America, and original episodes of The Honeymooners and I Love Lucy... Jack Benny's ugly mug, and the Beatles' debut on The Ed Sullivan Show with all those bad TV commercials ricocheting through space and time. 

How we measure time is relative to planetal orbit. What's a mere half-century of earth time to the speed of light? or sound? So I'm orbiting 40-something in earth years. Jovian or Venusian reckoning automatically makes one older or younger. It depends on which perspective one chooses to wear.

Inside the MRi machine is like a cybercoffin, or a smali rocket with air conditioning and disco lights. I thought of HAL's hapless charges in suspended animation: 2001 is nearly upon us! I thought of Capt. Kirk saying “Ha ha, very funny, Scotty. Now, beam up my clothes.” And Carl Sagan droning on and on and on about “Billions and billions of stars...” 

Images of SETI forlornly sweeping the skies in the distance, for some trace of life long after we're gone from the face of this earth, perhaps picking up doppleganger traces of Orson Welles' War of the Worlds, and the stardust remains of Timothy Leary... who else was shot into space? Arthur C. Clark's ashes (not Angela's)?

Imagine extraterrestrial beings some time from now in another dimension receiving all that junk mail. Bizarre remnants of what we politely call culture.

Did you envision living to the end of the century, and the end of the millenium? I was in 5th grade, Lagunitas School, much like on a day like today, time telescoping back and forth with no sense of linear direction. Einstein folding the map of the universe into the pockets of his brain, poor brain that could envision the relativity of time and space continuum...but forget simple math, it was kept in a jar by the door in some lab. I envision time as a möbius strip teaser. We find ourselves coming and going at the same time. But I digress...

CAC letter of support from Herman Berlandt

 

Letter to GLB, re. JOS’s Dear John birthday surprise

Letter to Luis Kong, from the Necropolis, Paracas, poem

LETTER TO LUIS KONG FROM THE NECROPOLIS, PARACAS 8/21/88
(RETURNING FROM PARACAS)

In Paracas where it has never rained in living memory, literally nothing grows. You told me there was nothing here in this place of your birth. I didn't understand what you meant. This place I've waited a lifetime to visit.

The garúa or coastal fog, rolls back each morning to reveal distant purple mountains, the Andean foothills, contrasting with the eroded bright ochre and red coastline of sedimentary rock turning back into dust once again.

Dust with its airiness is the wrong word to use. I want to say mud or earth to imply something of the weight and adhesion of this "dust." What is left is heavier than dust.

From countless jailed lips, the word Paracas has escaped—an eager storm of Inca doves bursting into sky, or slender serpentine syllables seeking shelter, and like pigeons, the sound returns home to its toothy origin only to find the speaker gone; a skeletal utterance, the word itself meaning dust storm.

Heavy with silica, the drifting sand dunes march in crescent-hooved formation over hills and plateaus, swallowing cities of the living and the dead. Above the buried necropolis, fossilized shells raised above the surface of the matrix, escape from stone prisons.

Sun, wind and time erodes this place. Fragments of quartz, venial intrusion once separated two layers of mudrock; thick milk glass shards strewn across the surface; the parent rock long since scattered by the four winds.

I crumble silica crystals between my fingers as if it were made of sugar or fake windows of a Hollywood stage set. Lit by morning sun, translucent alabaster "fish" swim in the sky.

Strange, unbroken ridges fall at the angle of declination to the coastal plateau. Rusted metamorphic pebbles erratically eroded by alluvial action, not water, glaze the slopes like chocolate "fleas" on a cake.

I wander between large shell mounds, each separated by species, clams, purple scallops and snails; worn pawns in a gigantic game of chess. The Paracas Indians were the first to fall to the Incas, who in turn, fell to the Spaniards. And so on. From flamingo carcasses, crazy pink feathers tumble across the desert.

Dan Hauser letter on offshore oil, arts day & my poems

Mexico Journal: Aug. 13, Postcard from Monte Albán

Hello everyone, (to my grandmother)
These stamps are like the money here…You need lots to buy a little—25¢ equals 330 pesos. Once it was 12 pesos to the dollar. Regardless of inflation, prices are about the same once you get the English equivalent down. Oaxaca—Mixtec and Zapotec ruins. Monte Albán is very interesting. At Yagúl, is a labyrinth with hidden courtyards. Thunderstorms daily & mosquitoes. I got sick—tourista—in Puerto Escondido, like having a bad flu. Puerto Escondido was wonderful. Bright fish and coral—and the water is too warm. We ate octopus fried in garlic for a week. We’re off to San Cristobál. de las Casas in Guatemala. Mail is slow. See you September first. By the time you get this card, I’ll be home.

     Love, Baba

The paper, letters to the editor, make Pomo official language (need year!) 86? 87? 88?