True Writing

1. The clouds of Mt. Baker and its smaller twin poke out of the marine layer of mist. Whether cloud, or real, no matter. It exists behind those islands floating on the water. Galway says, "you can't quit writing, ever. Not like the way a dog quits killing chickens when the carcass is tied to his neck until it rots."

The lenticular clouds of Mt. Baker expand and contract into cumulous shapes. The true skin of writing never buries itself oyster-like under the waves of sorrow. The mountains and the curve of the land nourish the horizon of the sky, and, the milk teeth of clouds sink into the air.

Like the low-oiled hum of machinery,  the sound of ships on the Straits of San Juan de Fuca interrupt the waves of sorrow, and, the whispering of the inland waves tells me that I've spent too little time writing, denying my dubious craft. I am learning to sit steadily laden with words, waiting for wind, to set sail.

2. Last night I swung the double-headed ax, striking at the anger in my bones. The axe swung unsteadily at first, became sure-bitted, and I find my rhythm, swinging the singing blade that bites the smooth inner grain of gleaming heartwood. Stacking wood for long winter nights.

My  lover, and a friend have found a way to ease the ticking of clocks, and a way to outwit the silent whitewashed walls standing in evening shadow, I wanted to hang my heart around my neck and let the open wounds run into the streets with the black blood of the sewers. Deep inside is where the days and nights of poems lie like sleeping dogs.

I imagine waves of sorrow flooding the cobbled beach of the Sound, and my heart is tucking itself in like a snail, afraid to poke wayward antennae into the air. Stasis. The shell of home, a prison.

Climbing the mountains, I have labored long, stretch unused muscle, sucked new air into my lungs. I am learning the readiness of lung and leg. As I stop to browse on thimbleberries and wild cherries, my tongue puckers to the strange acidic tang of fruit, rotted before it's had a chance to ripen. Like my writing.

At the end of my journey, I sit on the beach at sunset with a bottle of California wine, taking in the secret green heart of grapes before the harvest, this lifetime vow of words, a rare vintage calling me home.

7/24/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added & revised 10/16

DEATH WISH

I make contingency plans 

for multiple suicides.
I envision my body dead, 

found floating in the surf 

weightless in the buoyancy of water. 

The first gulp of water into the lungs, 

and the retching stomach rejecting salt waters. 

I envision my body dead, 

thrown from a cliff, like a soaring bird. 

The impact twists the limbs,

flesh impaled by splintered bone. 

I envision my body dead.

 A vein, a tiny nick the royal purple color 

bathing a white towel 

followed by a ringing in the ears 

and a lightheadedness
I envision my body but i remember

my mother swallowed pills by the handfuls.

The beginning of the end 

first felt in the hand, then

the fingertips, and numbness 

that spreads up the arm 

until it reaches the heart
My body, the mind seduces, 

offers final solution, 

and escape from the pain.

I make plans for multiple suicide 

never tried, but I want to be ther.

I want to watch 

as I'm dragged out of the ocean, 

off the cliff, 

from the house, 

to see if something registers in his eyes.

But I am afraid of death. I am a coward.

I just want escape from this pain. Not death.

Waking up at night sometimes I think 

I am dying, or am already dead. 

The irreversible tingling starts 

in my fingers and travels up 

my hands and my forearms. 

I tried to stop it, throw 

the deadman's arm out of bed,

before it reaches my upper arm.

It is so close from there to the heart.

7/22? 1981

rev 10/15/2015

LETTER FOM HOME

As I draw in a breath,

the pain hits me in the small of the back, 

reminds me as I clean my nails, a letter received,

my lover, and my friend together. 

I cancel my flight home, tell him too much pain.

Need to absorb. Sponge like, my sinuses swell 

and drip replacing shed tears.

Body occupied. Seeming indifference. 

I think, it's a joke they're playing on me. 

I will go home and they'll greet me. 

I read about the mushroom cloud. 

I slam my fist into walls. I doze. 

I cough, the crying comes later. 

Quickly I spread like fire 

from no anger to anger 

then back again to no anger. 

What is this seeming indifference? 

Laws between waves.

The shore below the house, such clear water.
I need the island. Protection Island. Discovery Bay.
Funny how much skin is shed from beneath the cuticle
Dead, it doesn't seem to want to let go.
And I play back old love scenes.
And plans of disappearing acts
Where I'll go, how I'll survive.

Fear of isolation. 

Plans of multiple suicide my body dead, 

as I watch them receive the news.
Self banishment from our intertwined lives.

Visions of a huge sea urchin waving its purple thorns.
I crawl toward it and in the center, 

a shaft, milky white pointing up to the water to the sky. 

The thought of their bodies touching. 

Headless pulsating 

knife in hand I want to sneak in and watch. 

My eyes throwing poison like basilisks to walk on the water.

My body becoming becomes a deep chasm 

and a fan light shell is raising, 

growing outward from the lips 

from the shores of my body
I want to tell him, try and track me down like the Hunter, 

and I will snarl and throw bowls of soup at him. 

I will not yield again. 

This soft mouth has tried 

to coax wholeness out of incomplete shards. 

These hands have tried smoothness on the sand 

where only a rocky shore lies. 

This body has tried to nurture and to heal

With its touch, this body has clung to life, 

never wanting to let go of the dream. 

Now the vacuous heart buries membrane. 

This body wants homelessness, 

and seeks it in an impartial landscape 

of rocky shores, desert sands.

Thin cloud stretched across the sky 

like material played between two hands. 

Whispering pine needles. 

How will my chin raise itself again and it shame? 

Are the resurrections of the heart in dusty hollows,

not shores of blue, gray, and mudstone? 

Where does the last shaft of light come from? 

Where does it go in its final hour?

7/22/81

Jack Cady

Jack Cady drawls in pure Kentuckian, you cain't publish good fiction in Redbook. He calls it rubber-stamped commercial fantasy. Jack is a master of the short story. Jack said that fiction uses exterior focal points to slow down the action, to focus beyond the action – using adjectives to describe actions. Inferential use of exterior or surrounding action to describe gory detail.

He's working on a novel. I can't imagine writing a novel. I have no sustained sense of story. Jack looks like the old man and the sea. Pure Melville. He is haunted by ghosts. Maybe Moby Dick haunts his dreams.

Jack mentions May Sarton's portrayal of old people, and the development of characters. Says, see The Dollmaker by Harriet Arnow. A poor family from Kentucky, moved to Detroit, the promise of a better life. Written in unadorned, powerful prose. He says you must also read Joseph Conrad's novella, The Nigger of the Narcissus (The Children of the Sea). An allegorical tale of the sea.

Jack says, Seek empathy, watch out for imitation, for cheapness. When you write in cliché, they are symbols—not human or dehumanization. As writers we gotta fight back by being not just good, but by being the best. Don't be mediocre and trade one form of garbage for another, he says.

July? 1981

10/15/2015

not sure what this is about, or from, did I attend Centrum lectures? Probably met him at the Town Tavern too.

Writers at Centrum, Fort Worden, Port Townsend. Mid July (17-25)
1981 
Margaret Atwood, Robert Haas, William Matthews, Sam Hamill, Tree Swenson, Leslie Marmon Silko, William Stafford, Jack Cady, Jane Yolen. 1980
Galway Kinnell, Meridel LeSueur, Richard Shelton, Ann Standork, James Bertolino, Madeline DeFrees, Donald Hall, Sam Hamill, Bill Ransom, Lisel Mueller, Bill Knott

TRUTH IS ONLY A WORD (a collage poem)

     for Pat Nolan, Hunce Voelcker, Ellen Appel

First line says, and first line knows. 

And first line reasons why. 

On second thought, no on third line. 

Truth is only a word. 

Oh comfortable, a comfortable thought. 

The dog of the week spreads her paws 

like a chaise lounge and barks effervescent words, 

like bubbles that tickle the mouth 

and explode into multitudes, 

as prisms reveal the many colors 

that compose only one.

II. Stage lights blaze, blue poets 

read in green and red tights.

Words swirl, amplify, drift down.

All is lovely, and lithe.

But the mime forgets his lines, 

and was said to have committed suicide. 

An empty room.

III.Where did Hunce go? 

Ellen Appel questions, she questions.

Who was the white goddess we slept with?

She is the mock monster. 

She is here with you sipping a beer. 

Where did Pat go?… Hunce… 

Ellen questions the white goddess.

There, there. I sit next to her, sipping a beer. 

Her breasts fading like the foam. 

Frothy mouths, breathing deeply. 

As usual, I’m close to the end, and therefore

seeing the most, wishing to claim all. 

Late night cabaret, light bar 

still holds her hooded bulbs up. 

Bubbles up through the smoke, 

leveling the voice, leveling the line.

The last line is only to reason why. 

Truth is only a word.

7/13/1981, Garbo’s 

THE CLIFFS OF MARROWSTONE ISLAND

THE CLIFFS OF MARROWSTONE ISLAND
       —for Michael Daley, and for Kathleene West

In the air, the overbearing odor of salt tang
hangs over the bleached gray logs in the sand.

A breeze stirs the water on the empty cove.
The watered silk patterns embroidered with bull kelp
bobbing like the heads of otters.

A breeze stirs the water on the cove
the mast of a sailboat pierces the gray sky.

Mount Baker rests against the shrouded sky.

White T-shirts on young boys,
their muscles rippling like water.

The Cascades and Coast Mountains meet head on,
collide, and form into islands.
The Cliffs of Marrowstone Island rise up
like the sides of beached whales.
Indians are carving totem poles once again.

Argillite frogs with discrete price tags
bark out place names,
Dosewallips, Sequim, Sequim.

A diver walks down to the water
to throw back the day's catch.

Seagulls quarreling like old men
dive for the returned fish.

Bull kelp is rotting in the cove.

A tired poet friend said to me
I am a fisherman's wife.

I am the wife of a fisherman waiting at home.
I have taken up knitting.

I am tired of writing.

A breeze ripples the silken waters on the cove.
I met a man whose real name was Don John
or John Don. Either way, he writes.
He is a ghostwriter.

A patch of blue opens up like an eye.
The sky imitates the blue of glaciers
and the hidden eyes of the north people.

The sea is so quiet.

No tongues lapping at the shore.

These are the Straits of San Juan de Fuca.

If I sleep here on the beach tonight,
 will the water know the coast is but a thin line?

7/10/1981
Port Townsend, Washington
added 10/16
slight revision/line breaks

Why I am Writing

Why I am writing

It must be rolling off the boat from side to side and the people, determined, arms clamped at their sides, walking deliberately forward, five steps to the left, five steps to the right, sometimes colliding with ship's furniture, always managing to pursue their destination as the swells rock the ship.

Maybe it's the thought of heading into a country where the mail is on strike and there isn't any means of communication that appeals.

I watch a beautiful woman, physically stunning, told at a young age that the turn of men's heads was meant for her, but her eyes are fishlike, cancer eyes. There is death in her eyes, those half-lidded mouths never smile – their blue chill has spread to her viscera, and the marrow of her bones freezes.

Someone said that Port Townsend is the clitoris of the Olympic Peninsula. The M. V. Coho cuts a large swath – a seam in the watered silk itself that spreads from Port Angeles to Victoria, B. C. After a rain, the only clear patch of sky is located directly overhead, and the moon glows like a cat's high. Five steps forward, and five steps to the left, the body obeys the surges and swirls of the sea.

A friend of mine is kayaking from Seattle to Juneau. He called from a payphone in Ketchikan. Last time we heard from him, was a postcard saying his kayak needed mending. He hopes for patches will hold. After being so close to the sea for so long, he becomes depressed when he's away from it for more than a few hours, and he doesn't want to come home. I know that feeling.

In the seat behind me, a man is teaching his young sons how to navigate by the flashing beacon lights. To the west, the light flashes at 10 second intervals, and the one to the north, at two second intervals. Swells rock the ship. The inland passage is unprotected here. Breakers roll in from Japan carrying glass fishing floats across the Pacific.

A group of men sitting across from me, scruffy, the boys in the process of imprinting – a rough society of males looking insolently about. As they were engaged in conversation I detected an accent slightly German and my opinion of them changed. It's funny, what will forgive in foreigners that we won't forgive in natives.

As we pulled into port, reflections of the Houses of Parliament parliament are lit up like Disneyland, and  their reflection is distorted by our way by our wake.

7/8/1981?

This was a previously typed version I had found. Not from my raw notes like Parkville
added 10/16

Parksville, BC

July 8, 1981 on the MV Coco headed to Victoria again, a six-hour wait to get on the ferry.

The MV Coho cuts a swath, watered silk spread from Port Angeles to Victoria BC. After rain, the only clear patches are directly overhead. The half moon glows like a cat's eye in the dark.

The ferry pitches, I dance down five steps forward, then five steps to the left. The body obeys the surges of the ocean and the swells keep us stepping in time.

I contemplate moving here. In winter it gets dark at 3:30 PM, dawn's at 7:45 AM. Winter must be dreary. 

In Parksville, a woman in her late 30s, who has lived here most of her adult life, is wearing red suede cowboy boots, tight jeans, and off-white sweater, neckscarf. She pulls out a unicorn puppet as the ferry pulls into port. The Houses of Parliament are lit up like Disneyland.

She tells me there's a home for retarded people in Parksville. They let them loose here. It's wonderful. Phil was named Mr. Parksville. Phil came over the other day like a tornado, screaming hello! He runs around town like Santa saying hello, you take care now. Hello!

He strides through town, he helps little kids with bikes, nodding his head so hard that his glasses fall off. He walks 10 miles a day. He went to Disneyland and forgot to stride. And lost his mind.

He changes the light bulbs at the Island hotel, he is employed. He always comes around and asks: do you need any lightbulbs changed? And the manager usually find some that need changing. Once a week he comes, and every week lightbulbs change. Sounds like a lightbulb joke, but it's not. 

Vancouver, BC

I've been three days in Vancouver, but I didn't want to write a thing. Today hiking on trails around Grouse Mountain, my depression lifted. A grouse boomed. I called back, he answered and so on.

Depression is caused by barometrical variances someone said. I take to the mountain trails with a vengeance.

At the Literary Storefront, in Vancouver, my poetry teacher David Bromage reads Wang Chao stories, and my homesickness left for California on the Gray Rabbit. The loft is hot as blazes, the sunset lingers forever, fiery throat of night.

Afterwards, we slipped oysters down at Leo's Seafood. There were three of us who were brave enough. Cecelia, David, and I. Margaret Atwood just shuddered. Terry, the coordinator shuddered too. David's son Christopher passes. 

Cecelia and David are newly married. Oysters are an aphrodisiac. They're hairy. It's all that bearded clam stuff, or was it hammy business. They have each other while I was invited to Terry's place to spend the night. I do need a place to crash.

So Terry runs the Vancouver readings and I run readings in Sonoma, and so we have a lot in common. However, I only met him three hours ago. God knows, maybe he's waiting for me to come onto the oysters or, or ersters as David said.

How do I know they don't have red tide here? What is that stuff sprinkled on top? Celia says it's paprika. God, she just slips them down whole, doesn't even chew them. Must have had years of practice. Maybe that's how she got more than one husband.

I remembered how Lee said she had the kind of mouth a man wants to slip a cock into. I was shocked by his candor. I couldn't keep my eyes off her mouth all night. It's always open. She has such a petite, sweet face and big boobs. She looks like she could be Christopher's kids sister and he's only seventeen and 6 foot five. David, Celia, and Chris – they all look related in a stylish fashion.

It was good to hear Lee's voice on the telephone and that Sonoma County hasn't burned down in my absence. It's wildfire season. For $2.30 a minute Lee told me in a lengthy fashion about how he quit  working on his book, and I billed this call to my home phone. Astronomical.

On the trails of Grouse Mountain I saw crooked trees growing in graceful J curves on the hillside. Ken says that when the trees move down the steep slopes, they always right themselves, growing up in a straightforward fashion—imagine trees moving like that.

Alan is now in Ketchikan, that's Pam's brother. I guess the patches on his kayak are holding. He calls Pam from a payphone. Won't be in Juneau until July 12 or so he says, and he still doesn't know I have his car. Pam tells me much later he was sweet on me. Of course I was the last to know.

Pam got a job as a waitress in Juneau. The pay's lousy. They won't let her keep the tips either. At home she'd be making much more on tips than six dollars an hour. She is completely broke. 

She supposed to be back in Sonoma by July 15 to discuss her future school plans with her husband Rick. I don't see how she does it, traveling with her lover of three years, Michael, and Rick back home making movies God knows where. Atlanta? Before he goes to Europe. 

Maybe she's talking like she actually wants to cut Rick out of her life completely. Her emotions contract and expand like a red rubber band. After three years, this is the most serious she sounded in a long time.

7/81

Puget Sound

I'm sailing in the Puget Sound with Ken and David Haugen. We caught a small king salmon right off Squamish, near where Chief Seattle is buried. We baked the small offering on a wood burning stove on the boat. Three ducks, hopeful mallards followed us for a while as we piloted in towards the harbor.

Ken told me about the rhinoceros auklets, how they can swim with their wings underwater and herd the herring as if they were cattle. Like puffins, they look like cigars flying through the sky, they swim better than they fly. They're the cowboys of the sea. 

Ken lives aboard his boat dock Q, birth 36. I am filled with an inconsolable longing and inexplicable grief. The boat cradles me and rocks me to sleep.

PORCUPINES

Galway says porcupines will consume

almost anything the human hand touches

Table legs, axe handles, toilet seats.

In my heart a slumbering porcupine is stirring.

Was it the shape of my breast under the loose shirt,

his hands slipping in and leaving traces of salt behind?

Words pierce the flesh. Will work their way in

to the heartwood? Salt in the wound.

A porcupine awakens slowly in winter.

1981 Sonoma County Stump, 12/10/81

PINE BOUGHS

Tips of pine boughs sway in the breeze
Viewed through slumped glass
they look like a lazy summer stream.

Are those shapes gray lakes
Resting on the green light
Or are they islands adrift on a green sea?

These mountains
absorb sound
And emit silence.

The rhythm is not regular
It comes
Running out of the bushes
Like Rin Tin Tin
Looking for the Lone Ranger
On the way to a mugging.

Julyish 1981

Vashon Island

I finally get an answer from my friends living on Vashon Island. But a woman named Jan answers the phone, she says that Barbara and Mike moved back to California yesterday, but to come on by anyway and see the house as it's empty. 

Later, at dinner Jan tells me of Barbara's behavior, her long swims in the bay to deserted islands, her being in the hospital, in a straight jacket, on lithium. How Barbara, in five-years time, had finally reach the out zone.

I wrap my mind around the idea that Barbara's going crazy. I'm sitting here in her house with a stranger, haunted by dreams of craziness. All around I look, the unfamiliar lights the bay, a too short couch. Familiar things from home. Whose couch is it anyway? Where am I? Is this a taste of madness, my own future madness?

My mom is on lithium, Barbara is on lithium. Lithium becomes the thread between passive and active madness. What is it that women do to themselves anyway? Is it the active doing? Non-doing?  Or interpreters of another otherworld, Lemurians under Mt. Shasta, the sunken realms of Atlantis, or Mu? My grandmother talking about the mythological lost continent of Hy Breseal. Or the land of the Ever-young, Tír na nÓg.

The wild ducks are asleep on the porch. They drink water from a cracked ceramic bread bowl. Pete Sutton made that bowl back in Forest Knolls maybe seven years ago.

If you leave the sliding glass door open, she says, the ducks will come in, I'm told, but they shit in the house. Nothing to be done about that. Fowls fouling the nest.

When I went to visit Leonard Cirilo, he had left for good, two days before. Off his meds. He came back though, so strange being in other people’s houses when they're gone on a journey that lasts forever. There's no coming back from that.

Cairo dream sequence, First memory (Christmas), JACKRABBIT

Three men sitting on a street in Cairo. One is telling me I should drink more Turkish coffee. The other one prefers to roll his own dark cigarettes. The Bedouin traded his camel in for a new wristwatch made in America. They are discussing politics, and why Russia and America are in the middle East. They have always lived in the war zone. Their ancestors fought the enemy. There has always been an enemy just like there have always been camels in the desert. The Nile and the fierce Egyptian sun beating down mercilessly upon everything.I have never been to Cairo.

6/29 no year, but on the back is a note for a reading at Garbo in June,1981, so I’m going with it.

First memory

I was so excited. It was the morning, the tree with lights had presents under it. My mom said that the presents were for us to open in the morning. There were lots of tiny presents under the tree with lights. I was the smallest person in the house, so I opened all the tiny presents. They were all the same present: a small leather case in different colors that held hooks. Luckily I knew what it was because my mom had one to start the car with and it was white like the car. Why did they give me so many?

 No year, but it was with the Cairo piece.


JACKRABBIT

1. Jackrabbit leaps out of darkness toward me,
bathed by distant light. 

His left forepaw touches down on drought ridden savannah, 

where fog has brought overgrazed tuft of grass back to life.

Meteor streaks overhead and stresses the surface of the evening sky.

Light bathes the land, the rabbit walks on light

to touch the land. 

Land, plants, and trees are created in his footsteps.

2. A brown leaf on the cement floor of the bath house. 

Both the leaf and the paint are curled brown like tree fungus. 

Steam fills the room from the running shower.

Blackness of night, 

a purple light moving. 

I crawl through the dark forest of mangrove trees 

through the tangled, unyielding roots

following it to a tropical shore. 

The water is brilliant green and palm trees

sway in the breeze they in sunlight.

 No year, but it was with the Cairo piece.

Alaska Bound

Alan who is kayaking from Seattle to Juneau, sent a postcard to Pam from Prince Rupert Island, saying I'm putting a patch on my boat. I hope it will hold. Love Alan.

Pam and Michael will play before they start searching for jobs. Trips, kayaking etc. I want to go. I have no money for the boat ticket.

Michael will try for a job on a fishing boat. Maybe replace someone who doesn't want to go out again for the season. Pam won't work in a cannery because she doesn't believe in killing anything.

In Alaska there are no vegetables.

How is Pam, a vegetarian, going to survive?

Red Tide

Pam, Michael, and I walked past Point Gamble on the Hood Canal. There were oysters lying on the beaches, and cockles stranded on the sand. The ebb of a king tide had caught them short. We gathered them up. Free food just lying there. I dove and swam, I was a mermaid bringing in the sea's bounty by the armload. I taught Michael how clean the shellfish, we fried them up for dinner. We were watching a news broadcast on the TV. A rare red tide has been reported on the other side of Kitsat Peninsula. A rare occurrence this far north. But I saw no red bloom in the water. We waited with trepidation for our tongues to grow numb.

3 DREAM SEQUENCES, Hurricane Ridge journal, Elwah River

Dream sequence number one

I'm standing facing downstream
I'm standing in the stream of a metaphor
The river is a metaphor of life
Cats teeth almost as tall as my waist
The river becomes a thin sheet
it stretches and snags on the cats teeth
so dazzlingly white, enough to blind you.


Dream sequence number two

I wake up. It's clear and beautiful out.
Second sunny day in Washington since April.
We brought the sun with us from California.
I think either I'm dead and that's heaven –
Washington when it's sunny,
or our luck held and we will get to go
up Hurricane Ridge in sunlight.


Dream sequence number three

I'm with my friend, Pam.
She's wearing one of my dresses.
We are both about seven years old
except we're really 28 and 33.
Her dress is navy blue.
Her birthday is June 28.
Queen Victoria or Queen Elizabeth
are coming to visit us.
I'm sitting on Lee's lap
and he holds me close.
We're having a spelling bee
like old times and relatives abound.
Lee drops his arms.
The queen has arrived.
The royal We.


Tomorrow I will take Pam and Michael to the plane. Then I'm on my way without a planned destination. My friends on Vashon Island don't seem to answer their phone. Pam's birthday is June 28. I have a sunburn from Hurricane Ridge. Lake Crescent is enormous. There are log snags along its shores. Pam wants to water ski on it. It looks too cold. It's like Falling Leaf Lake in Tahoe. Deep, dark, treacherous.

Michael and Leo used to live in Grass Valley. They got busted in the first major grass raid in California. I remember hearing about in 1972. It really does become a smaller world. I just met Leo three days ago and Michael I've known for two years.

I got mad when Pam fed most of our food to the deer on Hurricane Ridge. It looks so diseased. Aren't we tampering with its natural life cycle enough even though what we feed it is healthy food? The deer began to eat Michael's pants. It must be the salt. Later, at the Elwah River, we saw normal deer who ran away from people. It made me feel so much better to see the balance restored.

Notes from the Olympic Peninsula

Hurricane Ridge was so unreal, I didn't comprehend it, I couldn't react until I spent a couple of hours taking it in. We saw overly tame deer and  friendlyRocky Mountain goats. Leo slide down a steep cliff to retrieve masses of goat hair for for Terry to weave.

The mountains have the capacity

for absorbing sound

And they emit only silence.

Elwah River Hot Springs

Hot Springs above the Elwah River
Seven natural pools. The one at the top
is the hottest.

In the seventh pool of the Elwah River
I met Toni and Honey from Port Townsend
they both knew Sharon Dubiago.
Small world.

After the hot springs we stopped for showers at the park in Sequim Bay. Michael, Pam, Leo and I take a mad 10 cent shower in the same stall in the men's room. We shriek and laugh as we soap down and rinse, such madness. It was a very high day. Terry and Misty waited in the car—not amused by our antics.

My jewelry is black from the hot springs. There are rainbows under my bracelets where my skin has worn the silver smooth. There were petroglyphs carved on the rocks at the springs. I couldn't tell if they were Indian or New Age hippie carvings. Who else would take the time?

Leaving Yreka

The bus driver left Yreka without her dog and we missed our turn off to Eureka. We drove almost all the way to Bend before she noticed. We drove back over the Siskiyous for the dog. She said her husband cheats at cards. I wonder what else.

"Can I ask you something? Are there any cheap hotels around here?" We're leaving Eugene. She gives us the Heartbreak Hotel.

The girl from New York who has a husband she isn't traveling with, has creamy white thighs. Thighs that have seen little sunlight. She must not be acclimatized to California sun worship, sun and skin the color of dry summer grasses, the rolling golden hills of California, as Kate sang.

Michael only reads bits of books, other people's books. As they depart with their books and luggage in tow, he borrows another book from someone else. He never finishes a story. How does he hold all those loose storylines in his head? How does he resolve them? It would drive me crazy. Most of the people on the bus have books spanning the great body of literature, it's like a bookmobile. A few chapters of Anna Karenina, followed by The Sun Also Rises, and Catcher in the Rye.

I've driven to Seattle enough times that I've seen the scenery. This time I'm going up north lying flat on my back the whole way. There are no seats! Some woman said the last time she rode the bus down from Seattle, she was making out with the guy the entire trip, she hoped she never see him again. Another woman, hearing her story, decided she liked the idea, and rode the bus up and back in the hopes of meeting someone.

Solstice

On the Gray Rabbit, a converted Greyhound bus, we're heading north. Am I the only one who thinks it's funny? Hound into hare. Steady laughter, the perfume of grass, oranges bursting into song. People kissing loved ones goodbye. Mr. Rabbit gives us page 2 of the rules again. Rabbit's rules of order, it's Gray Rabbit space, we are sardines juxtaposed between the sheets in the belly of the hare and hound.

The solstice sun dips into a mock orange sky. The patient sky spreads its wings behind black sculpted mountain. Tamalpais flaunts her woman's profile to the sky, a jealous husband asleep at her feet. 

Interstate five threads this day of solstice from San Francisco to Seattle. The flowers in my hair are made of silk, not real, they're the colors of sunset and the opalescent waters of the bay gives credence to the moon. Venus is the first to appear on the horizon, or is the sky one vast diaphragm with pinpricks of light filtering through? 

The rolling hills on forever, Shasta waits, silent. White. Lee said the women of Indiana have blonde hair and bovine eyes. A blonde woman boards the bus with a kneeler. I thought she was headed for the monastery. 

The other morning  on the way back home from the Sierras, I swam in the Yuba River, and Lake Berryessa. Lee sat and watched me. At sunset, Pope Valley spread before us like a bowl containing cattle and the grapes of the west. 

Pam and Michael are headed to Juneau. Her brother Alan's been living there for seven or eight years and she's been meaning to go up and visit for sometime now. There are 42 people lying around in this hound of a  bus. Three people to a mattress. It's all mattresses and pillows and people. I couldn't bring my typewriter. I brought it all the way to the bus and left it in Lee's car. 

Pam is stoned on those Thai sticks that that float in on the sea— seaweed. She's a mermaid. I'm eating dope brownies stuck together in a lump. Pam brought us dope cookies and tofu sandwiches from Cazadero. Three of the four food groups. She does pretty well for someone who doesn't know how to cook.

Headed for the Monastery

HEADED FOR THE MONASTERY

                        —for Lee Perron

Evening patiently threads wings of orange and vermilion, weaving an opalescent shroud of water and sky; a back-drop for the solstice moon. Venus on the horizon, the indigo sky—a vast dome fitted over the earth, stitched with stars. Headed for the monastery, a woman with a wooden kneeler boards the bus. You told me all the women of the northwest have bovine eyes and blonde hair. I wear silk flowers in my fiery dark hair, but I might as well be her. Shasta waits white, silent. Yesterday was so torrid, I swam my way across California—from the Sierra foothills and the Yuba River of morning, the coastal ranges of Lake Berryessa of afternoon, and the nameless creeks hidden in the gullies of evening. As you meditated on shore, you glistening with sweat; your eyes drinking my cool nakedness with a desert-honed thirst. At dusk, the Pope Valley spread before us, a vast wooded bowl brimming with the last frontier of cattle. Soon it will succumb to the sacrament of vineyards, like all the rest. The stars lazily drifted across the sky as we toyed with constellations; I understood the desire of the lover, but not of the coupling of desire, with the overcoming of desire. I was a novice; my avocation, not yet realized. You carry it with you always, this deep love of emptiness until there is nothing left to do but kneel like a lover before the open body of the land until the rains come.

6/21/1981
rev 8/81

A earlier v. appeared in Bay Area, poets, coalition, 1981?  88?

Solstice Dream: a River of Cat's Teeth

I'm dreaming that I'm standing in the river facing downstream. The river is littered with jagged cat's teeth almost as tall as my waist, surrounding me. I need to be careful so that I don't lose my balance. The river becomes thin as a brown plastic garbage bag and, as it stretches and snags over the cat's teeth, one can see that the teeth are sharp and white. The river is composed of the dirty metaphors of life. You didn't even wait for my bus to leave as you turned toward your car to go back home.

June 21, 1981
minor revisions added 7/17

SRJC Artrium reading

ODE TO LEONARD CIRINO

ODE TO A MAN GOING OUT INTO THE WILDERNESS
                         —for Leonard Cirino

My car threads the road,

weaving continents of light and dark 

in the primordial gloom of Navarro canyon 

& I arrive to your empty house—

windows like shuttered eyes.

This ground won't perk. 

The well, polluted by fastidious raccoons 

made everyone sick—

The new pump delivers water 

like the heart of an athlete to an empty house. 

The outhouse & its damp library—

Kenyon Review, paper curled back into bark. 

At night, deer still come to browse

and lick salt from the wood.

This ground won't perk. 

It can't shake loose the past. 

Marine terraces, full moons, high tides, 

clam beds & absolution. 

It wants the salmon promise, 

red roe in uterine sand. 

Instead, rhododendrons squander 

spring's promise in a pygmy forest of cypress,

pencil thin, and a thousand years old. 

My feet crushing years with each step—

the cause and effect of minty air and bleached bone.

What unreconciled Oedipus in you

was avenged by the slow digging of your hands-—

one eye at a time, to banish light forever?

What do you dream of?

& like Lew Welch, 

you've gone into the forest, 

following the voices of the shaman wind.

Deeper in the heart, the earth

will translate your arrival 

where the junta inside you 

cannot stop your singing or your vision.

Later, you will complain—

not able to judge distance, with your one eye. 

Do you dream of eating your children? 

Victor Jarra's hands were cut off by the junta 

but poetry was his revenge.

Mother's Day
5/81
rev. 88

see also

Poet Leonard Cirino (1943-2012)

Robert Bly reading at Sonoma State

I worked so hard to produce that reading, workshop, and book party, and Robert Bly was such an ass towards me and treated me badly. He wouldn’t even sign my copy of the Rilke translations.

Word Art, Women’s Art Month, Lincoln Art Center Gallery

women's history week poster

SSU Women’s History Week

MEASURING THE SPEED OF LIGHT

MEASURING THE SPEED OF LIGHT

Last night I passed a long row of storefront windows
facing me at right angles to my car
my headlights reflected in the glass
another phantom car hurtling towards me
Hopelessly I braced for impact at 60 miles per hour

The headlights, both real and reflected,
reached the apex, and passed thru one another
My startled heart thumped unevenly
and I asked, is this the speed of flight?

Long distance telephone call
the dial lights up and electrical impulses
converted into light, travel across the nation.
One can call Boston almost as quickly
as it takes to dial a nearby friend.
The friend takes longer to answer.

London is 9000 miles away.
Like great arteries across the earth's belly
transatlantic cables are filled with thin spicules—
multiple subways made of glass,
and light hurtling thru them at breakneck speed.

The telephone rings in a house I've never seen
where a man has a son, now grown,
without his having been there to witness the event.
With hand on the reciever, he hears the dial tone—
It takes him longer to measure the speed of slight.

1979? or 3/81?
added 2/2017

minor changes

RRWG Reading Garbo's, Feb 9, Press Democrat article 1/30/81

Andrea Granahan, Edwin Drummond, Eve Chung, Fran Carbonaro, Gail King, Gerry Haslam, Gerrye Payne, Jim Jacobs, Margie Summerfield, Maureen Hurley, Melvin Muller, Ramon Sender Morningstar, Rick Duvall

Press Democrat, Poets give rise to verse

Press Democrat, Poets give voice to verse

RRWG flyer, Jan. 1981, Garbo's, Guerneville, Maureen Hurley, George Englander, Dan Propper

Fashion photo shoot ca . 1981 with Richard Salzman

Fashion photo shoot ca . 1981 with Richard Salzman tickling the ivories.

My editor at The Paper gave me a strange photo assignment on fashion. I used my poetry students from El Molino High School as models, but he ran this photo of me instead. I wound up keeping the very expensive clothes—as it was so uncharacteristic of me to dress that way, I never wore them again. I was literally stepping out of character. I loved the shoes. I never bought another $70 pair of flats again. The outfit cost more than what I earned in three months.

I don't know when this was taken, so I'm filing it as Jan 1, 1981

added, written 4/24/2016

IN A BLUE CUP

In a Blue Cup

Humming
Don't worry.
Something flows up quickly like milk in a blue...
Don't worry.
Yellow skin, yellow sky,
The sailors have all gone home.
These are not islands plotted carefully along the jetstream.
There are mangos in the air.
Suspended flesh
Soft pressure points;
Blue cups.

Blue cast of milk teeth
Puppy's tongue curled when the axe came down, 

green mangos.
Tulip petals crushed at my feet,
Purple dust of stamens covering my hands.
Poor circulation got him dead.

The axe was kinder.
Don't worry, mango skin
Something is flowing in a blue cup. 

(This is a different poem...)

Talk
Neck shadows
Align along the spine like stars
Suckle on milk-white pressure points 

Quick, grasp the warble,
The end of a laugh.

Spinal curve
Uneven steps like layers of chocolate cake
Parched earth
Lizard heat
And the slow alignment of softer pressure points.

Love
Spaces in between
Toes entrenched
Yes, I.

No date, published in the Sonoma County Stump, Oct. 18, 1981

Short Poems from 1981 (I think)

Most of these need full dates and some may be written earlier than 1981. I didn't date most of these early pieces, didn't really consider them poems.

BELOW SPIRIT ROCK

The loam is ankle deep
Bay laurel roots follow crevices
all the way down to water
Stripped of leaves, the barren tree
is a sign of the long drought

81

CRICKETS

Cricket sound

cicada on a branch

why does he rub those papery legs together?

he's rubbing time and sun with his hind legs

he's rubbing for the sun,

the moon,

the trees,

the wind.

6/81



DEAD PINE IN FOG

Trees whisper
the sound of water
Creeks gurgle
across tone deaf stones
Far off, a child's laughter.

1981

DUSK FLIGHT

bird without feathers

pushing swiftness to the moon

pulling clouds across the sky

in one fell swoop

you dive into the black pool of night

where the moon floats in the shallows

insects disappear into the darkness of your mouth

you swallow the moon

at dusk your high-pitched squeak

can be heard

6.81

FISHNET

The red glass float from the fisherman's net
rides the Japanese current past the Russian coast
and the Bering Straits to California
where it glistens like a jewel in the sand.
Making the journey down the coastline of your body,
my breasts cradle your blind mouth.
The essence of the sea spills into kelp hair.
From the net, your hand uncovers precious stones
and the arching dolphins at the crest of the wave
rise in the wind like love's cry.

FOR THE FISH IN MY LIFE

A minnow sleeps in my bed
and noses at the watery quilt.
As I climb into bed,
concentric ripples form
where, toe first, I slip in and under.
I'm careful not to disturb him.
All night long, the fish thrashes
and turns as I sleep
in a bed of soft stone.
If I turn over too fast,
will he be thrown from the bed,
or drown from lack of water?


10/81

MANNA

From the whirlwind of a passing truck

the robin's body luffed and raised

like a leaf; orange breast flashing

the dawn back into the sky.

I wanted to stop the car, mend

the random fluttering of small wings

in their strange and useless flight,

& turn this tiny teacher of Icarus

back toward the sun.

81

MOON SNAIL

Aboard this crowded raft,
I make strange love to
a river of foetal cave fish.

Once, I was the night mist
and in the moonlight,
a shiny trail of snail spittle
led to the corners of my mouth
as I swallowed you.

Thinking I was a wolf,
you fled into burrows
but I was a mountain
and the ground where you hid
was my body.

I make love to friends.
Their thin hands passing over the raft
find you hidden among the blankets.
You ask me for forgiveness.
All I can offer you is rotted flesh
rocking gently on its dark mooring.


10/81

THIS KISS

This maiden voyage of tongues,
Sleek suckle of cavorting seals
Undulating in kelp beds,
Capriciously nesting,
And antlered,
Rutting under the gibbous moon
Not the watery abyss
Licking shriveled toes and lips
Left too long in the bath

7/29/81 Pt Townsend

rev. 4/87

WORDS FROM THE PERSIAN:

WORDS FROM THE PERSIAN:  

1. When things get unbearable

I repeat Leonard’s line

over and over like a mantra:

Words from the Persian:

limes, sherbet,

                  pajamas,

                           paradise.

Imagining a dark world without them.

2. Later, I told him how his lines

bring me small comfort.

­He said, It’s wonderful,

but I never wrote it.  

DATE? 1981-82?

rev. 7.7.1994

Snail and carp drawings 1979 ot 80?

Whatever notebooks these drawings were from are long gone. These were bad xerox copies pasted onto my hand-calligraphed poetry folder. which held my "published" (keeper) work from 1978 to 1980. They could even be from 1978, or earlier.

 What you can't see from the greyed and worn xerox is that they were exquisitely rendered, almost 3-D. The coated paper still reeks of chemicals. I'm surprised they lasted this long.

The fish, probably borrowed from a Japanese woodblock, became a model for a raku fish I made in the mid 1970s. Or the raku fish I made in the 70s, inspired the drawing. Either way, I was intrigued by how the parts fit together so elegantly—especially the tail.

The snail was a garden culprit. I was drawing him as he was perched on my finger. I became enamored of the comic slobbery houndog quality of his jowls. After I was done admiring him, I let him go.

added 3/18

THE LAST POETRY READING

collaborative poem, Maureen Hurley, Donna Champion, published in the Obligatory Hug, 7/1984

The Close of the Year (prose) Trailside Killer

The  Close  of the Year (prose)

Below me  a  fog lake slowly wells up aid roils  over like milk flowing  down  the  hillsides in a slow dance that bathes the trees with dew and moisture on the slopes  of Gilliam Ridge. The peaks  of the Cedars  and the  Red Slide jut out of angular winter shadow like pyramids catching the sun.

Below me, hikers climb out of the  ravines of Austin Creek, and a chainsaw buzzes, a woodpecker calls to her mate, and somewhere far off, an early lamb bleats for its mother. Somewhere to  the  south near Point Reyes a killer is stalking unwary hikers and the corpses are an unholy offering in a place such as this that cries "no more blood".

A bloodthirsty killer who  knows these woods, who somehow lures young women away from the relative safety of numbers, and places precise bullet holes in their heads. Why this? That these woods have come to harbor such evil? The sunshine is so warm. I take off my woolen clothing, my bare skin and feet are stroked by feeble winter sun. My eyes grow heavy with sleep. Should I also expect danger from that intruder this far north?

The body of fog roils toward me like spores furring on excrement and three ravens  cut across its surface making their own kind of offering to the land.

The sun in the southernmost position of the sky needs fire, not blood, no bone-fires  to bring it back from solstice. I hear the  ticking of the clock. The ticking of the clock... a line from one of my earlier poems.

I learn to settle down and rest comfortably like a cat among lines of my own choosing. I inherit them, I, who disavowed them, they keep coming back in all of their angular beauty—an untamed vision to haunt me—like those nameless faces of those murdered women of Point Reyes.

A roaring sound is heard. Does the fog roar through the trees as it passes through? or is the fog a lake, and do the the waves lapping up against the shore of the ridge roar? or is it the eyeless souls and mouthless tongues of all those murdered women of Point Reyes?

12/22/1980
added 7/17, minor revision
A reference to the Trailside Killer

• THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR
• Winter Solstice, 1980

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR

Below us, the fog lake rises
on the slopes of Gilliam Ridge.
It wells up and boils over like milk
and flows down the sides in a slow dance,
bathing the trees with dew and moisture.
The peaks of the Cedars and  Red Slide
juts out of angular winter shadow
like pyramids catching the sun.

Below us, hikers climb out of the ravines
of Austin Creek Park
and a chainsaw buzzes.
a woodpecker calls to her mate,
and somewhere, far off, a lamb bleats for its mother.

Somewhere, to the south, near Point Reyes
a killer is stalking.
The sunshine is so warm.
we take off our woolen clothing.
Our bare skin and feet stroked by the glow
of winter sunlight.
Our eyes grow heavy with sleep.

The body of fog, like fur on dogshit, rolls towards us,
and three ravens slice across its surface
making their own kind of offering to the land.
The sun, in the southernmost acre of the sky,
needs no-blood, no bonfires
to bring it back from winter solstice.

I hear the ticking of the clock.
The ticking of the clock...
I repeat a line from one of my earlier poems.
I learn to settle down  like a cat among lines
of my own choosing.
They keep coming back to haunt me
like those nameless faces
of the murdered women of Point Reyes.

A roaring sound is heard.
Does the fog roar through trees as it passes through?

Winter Solstice
1980

One of the few poems of 1980 that I actually dated. There's also a reference to the Trailside Killer,  this is one version. I can't find a decent copy of the other version. Added 11/16 minor revisions & line breaks. There's also a prose version, probably a first draft for this poem, Winter Solstice, 1980.

Winter Solstice, 1980

Our feet brush through the pine needles, one last time before they settle back to earth. In the sunlight we can't help but reach toward love. The blood roars like an ocean through your veins and a fog shrouds my belly. It sings through my veins as a fog enters my mouth and I feel your pulse against my lips as you come loose from your moorings. It's 5, no, 7 counts and you sink into oblivion. And the ethereal mist seep between my teeth and flows across the wilderness of our bodies. I think of those 5 or 7 million dead lying on my belly, and of those poor murdered women of Point Reyes, as soft grey brain matter sinks back into the earth. Our bodies warm to winter sunlight and we reach to hold each other as we celebrate the returning of the sun.

Winter Solstice 1980
Austin Creek Park
added 7/17, revised
*a reference to the Trailside Killer
THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR

Petaluma Argus Courier Sonoma Arts Council, Word Art

In the Garden

In the Garden

She was at the bar ordering the Calistoga water when she saw him. It seems that their paths were always crossing these days. She suspected it was a mutual sabotage, neither one willing to let go of the other.

She knew he might be at Garbo's Niteclub but decided to go out anyway. She was tired of avoiding all the places he might have gone to. There weren't many places a single woman could go to have a quiet drink and dance off the day's tensions.

Besides, her friends were there. Should she give up her friendships just because he was there? It was a public place. He didn't have his name stamped in every corner the way a dog leaves his scent when staking out territory. She had just as much right to be there as he did.

She didn't want it to seem like she was avoiding him, even though she was. If she made it obvious, then he would think she was mad at him and then a confrontation would follow, and she would cry a little, making a firm resolution to never see him again. But she knew she could never keep that promise.

She had tried that one before, God knows she had tried. It was after she had lost the baby. It was probably for the best, but her arms ached to hold that baby. She wanted to put that baby in his arms and see his face often as he held his firstborn son. She often thought it was a son. She never knew. Didn't want to know. Somehow the guessing was always more satisfying.

They had tried to make a clean break of it, the moving on that would eventually need to happen, or so he said. What she hadn't counted on was falling in love with him. It was the last thing she needed. Her marriage of five years was breaking up. His being there to help her through the adjustment period, and surprise pregnancy on top of that, was more than she could handle.

No, she went into this relationship clear eyed, and in control of her feelings. Who knows why the blind Seraphim aims at random with his deadly arrows. Arrows to the heart. More like porcupine quill's. Can't pull them out. Not even with pliers. Sometimes they work their way out, emerging on the other side of pierced flesh.

When she knew she had been struck, she no longer resisted. She figured it was fate and she may as well just accept it. She certainly didn't want to be tied down just yet. She wanted to sample some freedom. All those men out there with extended cocks waiting to be tried. Nonetheless, it had happened.

Maybe she was a prime candidate not having been in love for a couple of years. Her husband and she lived together for reasons of convenience. They thought they were surviving in a tough world that require two people banded together against the common enemy.

And when there was a cease-fire, she popped her head out of the manhole and discovered there wasn't an enemy in sight. There was never an enemy out there

The enemy existed all right, it was right there in her bed, sleeping with her at night, feeding her by day. The common enemy raised its snake eye and hissed her name. She fled in terror, right into the open arms of this man sitting at the bar as she waited for her drink.

He walked over to where she was sitting. She could sense his presence and it excited her. She could feel the subtle variations in body heat the way a snake does when it is blind and in summer molt. The snake sheds his entire body including the eyes. That's why rattlesnakes are so deadly in summer. They can't see, and blindly striking anything warm.

The hostility rose up to her abdomen and lodged in her throat like a fish bone hastily swallowed – she tried to civilly answer his queries. How was she doing? And so on. She wanted him to go away, leave her alone. She knew there wasn't much chance of dancing with anyone else that night now that he had come over to her table.

Everyone always fled whenever they chanced to meet up like this. It wasn't just his physical size that made people avoid them, it was something else almost intangible, as if people sensed that that they had some unresolved business, and perhaps there was a presence of danger. Maybe they sensed the volatile nature of their relationship and thought it best to clear off.

It wasn't a case of the roving men realizing that they were no match for him, mutual friends were uncomfortable as well.

She got up to leave, and he walked her to her car. Once outside, they felt freer and breathed more easily. There wasn't that awkward sense of his hovering over her when they were inside. They walked close together, almost but not quite touching one another. They lingered at her car, talking of nothing to make time pass more slowly. Neither one was willing to say good night to the other.

He said, hey, you still owe me a massage, I'd like to collect it now if you're not too tired. Or, if you are, tomorrow morning would be fine too. She wondered did he really want to massage, or was this yet another clumsy attempt to reestablish contact? She was half angry half intrigued. It didn't occur to her to be upfront and asking precisely what he had in mind. Chances were, he would deny any interest in her, that all he wanted was a massage.

They had often spent the night together as friends. Was this the big showdown? Would you want to sleeping partner for the night, and then a quick goodbye, nice to see you in the morning? If that was the case, then he was in for a surprise because she was going to give him the benefit of the doubt that he didn't want to fuck her.

If he laid one hand on her she was going to really let him know what a bastard he was and if he wanted to fuck her, then he was going to have to own up to the whole affair, that he did love her and if he wanted to sleep with her, then he damn well better marry her and be done with it.

She was tired of the cat and mouse roulette and she wasn't going to get sucked into making the first move because he was unable to make it himself.

Sex wasn't a deciding factor in their relationship. If it wasn't there, or so he thought, they weren't having a relationship – regardless of all the other aspects of their time spent together.

She slept in his arms, holding hands and thighs, they clung to each other the whole night long until dawn separated them from dreams and reality.

At breakfast he said, it's nice to know we can still innocently sleep together without the confusion over a relationship. She thought, yeah, we didn't fuck. Are we innocent? Who's garden are we in anyway? And who let the snake out?

No, we are not innocent, just blind and unable to help ourselves. And we keep on trying to reach each other in our own pathetic ways.

Fall 1980

Orange Cat

An orange cat ran across the road tonight. I tried to avoid him. The car stalled, a tuft of fur drifted up and caught in the light of the headlamp. Just a few days ago, I noticed the Cat Crossing sign as I drove to work, and, I thought I'd never be in a position of breach of faith. You said, "I hit an orange cat the other night too." And we talked about karma and abortion, as if the cat were the karma. Or the dogma. But we didn't really believe in that. So, tonight I hit my first cat. I felt so guilty and  sorry for the owner of that cat who would look in vain for her wayward tom. Then wondered about fate. Are we merely instrumental in the scheduled deaths of others whose time has come? Where are we in the right place at the right time for the accident to occur? Do any of us die before our time has come? What about all those people who try to ended it, and then live? Is it destined as to who will live and who will die? What about all the men and women who abort their young too soon? Is that karma of the unborn? Or are we all murderers whose time has come?

Fall 1980
added 10/16
slightly revised

Fiction class with Elizabeth Herron Fall 1980

Since I can't date most of my fiction and memoir, and it looks like I revisited some old pieces for this class, which, sadly, turned me off to fiction, I'll file them here, at the end of the year. I pretty much abandoned the prose process after taking this class and it wasn't until I established this blog that I was willing to revisit prose. 

I still have an aversion to fiction. I'm much more comfortable with memoir. I do like Elizabeth (as a poet), but I sure didn't like her class. I came away feeling like a complete failure in both poetry and prose. I'll own it, not blame others, it was all on me. My doors of perception, self-doubt, and vulnerability conspired against me. I wasn't very good at pleasing others with my work, which required a wrestling match before I got it down on paper (who knew I had dyslexia?). I guess I learned something from the class. But there's still a bitter taste in the back of the throat some 36 years later. 

The one good thing about the class was that I became fast friends with Ockly scientist/engineer Michael Fulton, who was working on a sci-fi novel. We saw each other for a few years, and kept in touch through the 1990s. Worth the price of admission. I've added most of this prose on 10/2016. It's hard not to resist fixing them.   Onward, as they say.