Friday, February 5, 1988

LAYER OF MARINE HAZE (aka Turning Stones, or Mover of Rocks)

LAYER OF MARINE HAZE

Layer of marine haze tinged with rust  
the ozone layer growing, 
closing in biological rhythms
dedication to death
the healing power of green
and the magenta fire 
The man in the garden with the guitar
surveys his handiwork strums a few chords 
to make the sun rise
and Euridice looking back over her shoulder
where darkness sat waiting to find
the center of her eye to dazzle her 
with paradox
How much of this world 
we savor without knowing it 
The word beauty had little meaning 
for me as a child
In the firepit, rounded cobbles
what quarry gave them birth
the comforting chirruping of robins 
scratching for a meal in the chaparral

The dead arrive on my doorstep 
a present from the cat
now in cybernetic sleep in my freezer
so I can paint it later
It's time to draw robins again

Four vultures circled
three from the east and one from the south
they converged over my altar of stones 
I left them corn and bread
juice and sage smoke 
instructions from the north  

I am a mover of small rocks 
from Monte Alban in Oaxaxa
I bring a small pottery sherd 
to place into the niche of rock on Mt St Helena
named after a Russian princess
We invent ritual
I take back five rocks and the huge crystal 
I find becomes my talisman

At my childhood rock
the megalith in the hill on Christmas 
a ritual to my grandmother who first brought me here
and the sorrow hanging over me in waves  
caught between laughter and rock 
I leave volcanic red rocks from the princess
and take quartz from my natal grounds
On the ridge facing the ocean I build
my third cairn with rocks from the princess 
and from home
I've made a triangle of stone cairns
a web to keep me safe  

At the rock &a bluejay mimicking a hawk was my gift
that same bluejay stealing my poems
four vultures wheeling, circling as their want
shiny black feathers in the deep forest and blueschist 
I understand something more about the geology 
a have become an obsessive conniseur of rocks  
igneous, franciscan, metamorphic
that' s rule no. 7 but I've forgotten all the rules
and the american flag over the bunkers 
keeps whipping out prayers to the wind 
what does it pray for invasion at this old army fort? 
The sea answers, she is our mother
these shells, these rocks are our gifts
and we will clean oil from the dead wings of birds
if necessary because we were born into this
the passage of a fellow soul is marked
in the muted silver of my bracelets
dentalium and jaspar 
the churning breathing sea
I've begin to tell of things I never knew I had inside
the whispering of women all those sea sounds
surcease of wave crunch of rock
rolling of tires on pavement 
coyote bush in bloom
time out people laughing
Just keep going one says and I do  
the whisper of the sea, the flag 
we are learning new languages to keep us on our shores
and I am a camera facing the iris of my thoughts 
the diaphragm open and close open and close
like the contracting and expanding universe 
I capture frozen snippets of emotion 
after two days of testemony for the sea I still cry
the elequence of necessity crystalizes all thoughts 
into the single vortex of the sea
churning and churning 
rising like a cover over sleeping bodies 
and I dreamed I was in the city house again  
the twin beds of my grandparents
hiding their forms under blankets as if dead, in sleep
The man who rises from the bed is 
not my grandfather
he looks smooth with the ladies 
he tells me not to disturb my grandmother 
she needs to sleep and I comply
But who is this man? 
Is he my father 
whom I have not seen in 15 years? 
I dream of guns in the jungle
and of falling over backwards of sickness
and of rolliing on the grass with the dogs
all this on the day Robert Duncan 
died and I think of the meadow
  that green meadow.

2/5/88

see 
so heavily revised that it's another poem
TURNING STONES

I am a mover of small rocks.
From Monte Alban I bring small pottery sherds
to Mount St Helena. I leave volcanic rocks
for my dead grandmother and take quartz crystals
from the mountain.

On the ridge facing the ocean
I've made a triangle of stone cairns.
Four vultures wheeling, circling as their want—
shiny black feathers in the deep forest
and blueschist
converging over my altar of stones—
I left them corn and bread,
water and sage smoke.

We invent ritual.
The elequence of necessity crystalizes all thought
into the single vortex of the sea
churning and rising like a cover
over sleeping bodies.
The sea answers, she is our mother.
These shells, these rocks are our gifts.

The passage of a soul is marked
in the muted silver of bracelets,
dentalium and jaspar.

In the firepit, rounded cobbles—
What quarry gave them birth?
I've begun to speak of things
I never knew I knew.

We are learning new languages to keep us on shore
and I am a camera facing the iris of my eye—
the diaphragm, open and close, open and close
like the contracting and expanding universe.

I dream of machine guns in the jungle
and of falling over backwards.
I dream of sickness
and of rolling with desire on the grass with wolves—
After all, we are pack animals.

On the day Robert Duncan died
I dreamed of the green meadows I am called to
again and again.

2/5/88

Thursday, February 4, 1988

Notes: offshore oil hearings in Fort Bragg, Mendocino County, journal

Note bene:. 2/9/88 Yesterday I spent rewriting my notes from the Mendocino offshore oil hearing. Tom Roth shortened my piece by at least by 1/3. Still, I think I will be pleased with the end result. He promises a double truck spread replete with photos. That's a big deal in the newspaper bizniz. I lost steam half way through the hearings, so these are my warty raw notes. A lot of work here that didn’t get used in the final story. Placeholders. And the final draft of the story I wrote, is lost. I am bummed.  Offshore Oil protest, for Ocean Sanctuary. 

The idea of offshore oil enrages me enough to want to do a story on it for the Paper. Many of us from Sonoma County are here testifying at the hearings. People form as far away as Oregon and LA are here to protest. So many moving testimonials, there such a connectedness with the Mendocino community I’d forgotten I had. And I think of how much time I’ve spent here. Bob and I spent so many weekends at Pat Wall’s house on Simpson Lane, or sleeping in the VW van along the coast, our a home away from home. Mendocino is home, a home where I will never live. And I know so many people here. I stayed overnight with Jim and Judy Tarbell who put me up for the weekend.

So far, 1400 people have signed up to testify at the hearings. And there are 1500 more people waiting outside with Holly Near and Bonnie Raitt entertaining them. The event is being televised to 600 more people crammed inside another building. I have never seen this many people in Fort Bragg all at once.

What a floorshow, a group is singing gospel. Wally Dale and Jeanne, intrepid beachcombers, said, We watched Southern California go down the drain, and I am determined it’s not gonna happen here.

Rachel Binah reads some quotes from former secretary Udall and Angela Lansbury: For heaven’s sake, save our coast!

It’s a packed hall, they get a standing encore. Rusty Norvell, a former Mendocino teacher, says “three years ago we were goldfish. Now we’re sharks and we smell blood.” He cited facts as to what oil pollution did to the fish population. “Hell, we’re being fed the same BS today. How does it feel? Oil is a four letter word.” He said the oil word.

People shot holes right left and center into the studies offered by the panel from the DEIS.A spokesperson for the salmon industry talked about the 14 million dollar industry and how this was going to negatively affect them. This is the first time ever that the loggers, the hippies and the fisherman have presented a united front against the aggressors. History was being made right here in this room.

A builder, Dan Tower, pointed out a minor detail, the San Andreas Fault running right through the middle of the proposed oil field. Never good for oil derricks, he said.

The Point Reyes Bird Observatory spokesperson said, only oil spills larger than 1000 barrels were predicted. In Texas alone, there were smaller 1000 barrel spills that killed nearly 11,000 birds. You don’t need a large oil spill in order to kill all the birds. Surge oil spills are actually more damaging than sheet spills. We have fierce wave action here, unlike in Galveston. There’s a cumulative input pointing out the myriad flaws in the DEIS proposal, their general lack of assessment as to what could go wrong. They said that 95% of the coastal bay wetlands from Big Sur to Humboldt will be lost. You fail to give adequate assessment to that.

The next speaker said, “I am a rare, endangered species, I am a Republican this is the first time in my life I’ve felt such a sense of shame for my party. I will vote as a Republican against #91 and I hope you will find the time to join me.” I think his name was Robert Raymond. I have photos.

To drive from Mendocino to SF it’s an area of coast that can offer man some sense of grandeur and wonder. The hypothetical proposal is the equivalent of harvesting the gray whales to extinction. Where do you go on vacation if we destroy this area? This is dedicated to Sala Burton whose spirit continues to protect the ocean.

The Ocean Sanctuary spokesperson said, “there have been 5000 spills for 30 day’s worth of oil supply for the nation. Those sub-lethal spills of 1000 barrels or more is a death sentence. The world has only one California coast. Continued vigilance is required. No lease sale, no oil development—this is the peoples alternative choice.

Ocean Fresh seafood products spokesperson said, The ocean is our greatest natural resource we cannot destroy it. A north coast alternative energy source is the ocean itself, with the waves produce 30,000 mw in energy per year.

Artists who draw inspiration from this unique coastal community, and earn their livelihood from it, got up to speak. Judith Kessler, AKA Redwing, said, we ain’t gonna let the drill them drill for oil under the sea. The crowd picks up the chant.

Dick Bell of cable access Channel 22, Bodega Bay, said the ocean is not linear. If its health is threatened , then sustainability drops too far, you can’t recover it. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were blind to the debt to oil because it is unconscionable what they are asking. Do we risk survival of the planet to pay off a campaign bill? Just say no to # 91.

(I must’ve done an Opening of the mouth column as well.)

Osha Dean said, I speak on behalf of the oceans and the earth, the corners of the mouth, businesses and that sublethal impact which you speak of. And he presented an oil spill scenario to the panel. We shall never surrender. We shall never surrender, he said.

Ann Harlow from the Ecology Center of Southern California said others have already spoken of the cumulative effect of oil derricks off the coast. We have only 20 to 40 days worth of oil down there, is it worth it? Simple conservation could save two times that amount. She mentioned the logging industry, air pollution, rampant Southern California cancer, the negative effects on the food chain. “We are poisoning the sea, the sea will inevitably poison us,” said Jacques Cousteau. We are are fighting for human life here.

Someone else, Robert Jangochian? sp., addressed the negative impact of increased air traffic, air lift helicopters, and airplane surveillance that the presence of the rigs will bring. He reminded the panel, remember the Santa Barbara oil spill in 1969? It was an unmitigated disaster. Our coast is vastly different and there’s less chance of recovery here—the severity of the weather, the inaccessibility of the coastline, and the extreme tidal fluctuations are not the same as in Southern California. How can species, or the ocean possibly recover when there’s 100% mortality rate? Not to mention that the drilling mods are toxic. The local currents are treacherous and unpredictable. The entire DEIS plan is vague.

Jim ? said he was standing in for Novell, representing the small businessmen of Sonoma County. He said if we have squandered efforts for renewable resources, everything else will go, but the oil derricks will be there for hundreds of yearss.

Dorothy Tompkin from the local Audubon Society, said the snowy plover was not included in the DEIS survey and it’s an endangered species. Few shorebird species nest in Northern California they need sandy beaches, and at present, there are nine bars pairs north of Fort Bragg and only 125 pairs on the entire Mendocino Coast. This is certain extinction for them. Then there is the endangered peregrine falcon—less than half drop of crude oil on an eggshell results in 100% mortality rate. In addition, there is grave danger to the nesting birds of the Farallones and to the Point Reyes National Seashore. The brown pelican eggshells are also too thin. there are no less than ten species of endangered offshore birds including the tufted puff and they’re only 250 birds left in the state. The oil industry has already had a high impact on the mortality of 47 species of non-nesting shorebirds. And the DEIS excluded the marsh birds from the study—what about the herons and the egrets? We are looking at multiple extinction of the species across-the-board. Those daily helicopters round trips x8 from Santa Rosa will introduce a chronic hydrocarbon presence. Not to mention disrupting the entire breeding cycle of the shorebirds.

The testimonials went on from 9 AM to 2 AM— straight through the night—and picked up again the next day—from 8 AM to 3 PM. They were reminded that they had three minutes each and nothing more and they needed to submit their comments also in writing. And helicopters kept arriving throughout the night.

Greg Chatham instructor of marine biology, said that the DEIS study was poorly written, poorly organized and contra-indicatory. It didn’t even meet the basic EPA standard guidelines, citing that thr monthly maximum spillage of 48 ppm, was closer to 72 ppm—with that many barrels, the actual air pollution is grossly underestimated. all those helicopter trips don’t take into account, the pristine air quality, make the impact proportionally more severe, in several orders of magnitude greater than regional levels.

He said the DEIS study does not document the cumulative impact of small spills. The USCG maximum allowed pollution contradicts the DEIS study. In Santa Barbara, there are 4 to 5 small spills every day. This will have an extreme environmental impact. There seems to be little concern over the excessive hundred parts per billion—and the inevitable destruction of the local fisheries. The plans to build major pipelines from Fort Bragg to Willits through the Jackson State Forest clear-cutting hundreds of acres of trees will be lost. Your documents are inconsistent with the facts.

Dr. Gregory Menken addressed what would happen if there was very large oil spill, he said that 47% of all oil spills are of the smaller ones—equally destructive by their frequency. He cites a pollution report on the Prudhoe Bay findings, and how the pollution was everywhere—in the air, in the water, and also what about the low conduct of the oil business—how it seriously disregards environmental laws with 100s of ongoing violations. He said that the existing environmental laws are not strong enough, and further oil exploitation should not be considered until the oil companies comply with local, state, and federal laws—and adhere to the EPA guidelines.

Baseline data is needed. The US Department of the Interior guidelines are more lenient than the EPA guidelines. the US Department of Interior allows 3 million oil regulations 100 tons of pollutants per rig, per year. Emissions from offshore rigs has created extremely poor air quality in Alaska.

Raven Early Grow, a travel agent and writer from Point Arena, took on the shoddy track record of the Western Oil and Gas Association. 

The glam looks of the panel some 12 hours into the hearing, was poignant, but the energy of the crowd was undaunted. They said, we want to speak all night long. Peggy Rawlins brings up the Boston Tea Party as a reference point, and she says, go tell Ronnie and the guys we will do whatever is necessary to stop this travesty. I’m going to pick up my spear to protect the underwater marine sanctuary at the Cordell Banks, off Point Reyes.

Dr. Robert Schumaker and Dr. Atomio engineer of Mineral Management spoke.

Alice Walker gives a personal testimony about the uniqueness of the area to artists.She says, we only get three minutes to speak. I’d like to see you try and stop us with a three minute speech, she said.

Lynne Ables a Mendocino performing arts company, a New York refugee talked about thr mixed demographics of Mendocino County, referring to the Southern California refugees. How important the artist tourist industry is for the survival of so many businesses. So many standing ovations for those speaking up against this atrocity.

Lynne Ables pointed out that the Native American impact was not included on the report, or on the salmon fishing industry. What about the Indians? They were right. There is a groundswell rooting squad of hooting and hissing and foot stopping with lots of drums. Like it or not.

Peggy Rawlins from Lytton Springs Inn said, Pollution knows no political boundaries and if you think the sale of lease # 91 doesn’t include the Sonoma Coast, you’ve got another thing Comin. Someone hold up a sign MM Board, are you bored yet? Good! WOMB, the women of Mendocino Bay incant a Macbeth scene with double trouble oil and bubble. A Presbyterian choir sang in original piece by Sonoma resident.

Maggie O’Rourke, attorney gave a pro oil testimony, she is non-local and within the business of oil, only two por-oil testimonies, but not everyone is on board, the MMB panel is busy actually taking notes.

There are a lot of Mendocino high school students testifying from the next generation, kids bang their skateboards in appreciation.

Fables, oil it’s a dirty business. They hand out shells to the MMS panel, and shout No oil! No oil! We can’t hear you! No oil.

A couple holding hands, approach the mic, and say, We were married yesterday (congratulations from the crowd) and the first part of my honeymoon I am spending it here with you to defend our home. We were on our way to Yosemite and turned around and came back. We are the newly married and we are against oil.

Someone offers the panel flat balloons that say why not save the sea? Point Arena, with one of the most treacherous coast lines, is ground zero. Alan Niven, publisher in Point Arena talks about the San Andreas Fault and he brings in photos of the massive storm waves that destroyed the pier of Point Arena in 1981. xxx

A Native American woman of Apache descent, Ochena Haskell said you’re not dealing with just another dumb Indian here. I am Mescalero Apache and Ute from Colorado. I am Lakota Sioux and Six Nations. The Department of the Interior used to be the Department of War. The Native American religious freedom act allows me to worship this sacred place. She closes with, Stick this up your kind of pipe and smoke, it she said. There’s more drums and chanting and flowers are given out to the people.

The owners and operators of local businesses speak amid much laughter. I don’t need to be politically or spiritually correct, I am angry. Kim Bluewater, sings, People gonna rise up. People abdicate their time slots to give her more time. She talked about acid rain and the ozone.

Barry Vogel asks we want to hear from you, the panel. Commander at Allan US Coast Guard Long Beach talk to us about pollution. A riot nearly broke out.

He pressed his point, Dick Wildermen of the MMS, we want to know your qualifications. How many offshore options impacts have you analyzed, is it more than one, 10, 100? Or 2 to 3 per year Willdermen nearly lost and requests a five-minute break, and cuts the mic.

Sue Miller Whitaker from Eugene? calls them flakcatchers, “Let the man speak. I’m beginning to worry about the trees we’re going to lose, just to type up this nonsense.”

Careful stewardship and perseverance is needed said the Physicians for Social Responsibility. Mendocino promotes both physical and mental health and there’s a gross understatement that the report is filled with inaccuracies—it’s well documented.

Luis Korn said alternative power sources need to be explored. He talks about Nicaragua, and the military being on trial.

A fisherman points out that There is no study on the shellfish.

The marine study from fixed wing aircraft, concluding that there will be no impact, is not deductive reasoning. If I were to give it a grade I’d give it a D. And I am not being unbiased. The DEIS report is a political, not a scientific statement.

Mary Norbert Körte talks about the difference between effect and affect, citing the DEIS misuse of the words. She brings down the house. She asks, is this any way to run a government? to a cheering crowd. The poets have arrived.

The Alchemy Contra singers belt out, Glory glory Mendocino, to a standing ovation David Berent, a proxy clerk, said, maybe we should sell rags to the tourists so they can use them to wipe the oil off their shoes. Take some free advice from a doctor. This is psychically numbing.

Bob Klapsale painted a dire picture of oil rigs infesting the coast. He said that the Pomo Indians too are testifying in letters, they are testifying.We have been here 10,000 years. 

Kashia Pomo leader Lauren Smith said, I’ve had a few dreams and the ocean has been good to us. The drilling would ruin us. From the ocean we get good energy, free food, we get our ceremonies, we get our worship. There’s nothing for the younger generation. Some of the dreams are saying a lot of demonstrations. A dream I had, there was no more gas, no more oil. Spiritual energy from the ocean will be thrown off by the ocean. The destruction of the ocean is not good energy, and more and more people won’t sit around, they’ll get involved. We have to protect what we have. Make good energy out of it. It is better than anger. You become like them. We will do prayers for you she said, pass that along.Our people, we will do ceremonies in Kashia, dancing for good energy. I feel we could keep them out, the ocean works in mysterious ways. Tell everyone that you see that our people will always be working towards better things. Let’s work together and stay as one. We will do the ceremonies in Kashia so that you won’t feel alone. And we will be thinking about all of you.

Over our heads someone depicts a picture of bones. Whenever Damocles sat in judgment, the sharp two-edged sword hung over his head by a thread.

Listen, if you can’t keep a promise why do you keep making them? We can’t go forward until all the testimonies have been received, we cannot go forward.

I spent the night at Jim and Judy Tarbell’s in Casper, exhausted. I remember nothing of it.  Next day, the hearings opened with a play, a Pomo Indian prayer, and rap. Someone asks, did you see the sunset, the full moon on the bluff. Pure magic. A good omen.

Steven Antler, an attorney from Fort Bragg, said this is the most corrupt government in US history. Yesterday‘s wedding balloons are slightly wilted. Sequoia Greenfield talks about the ducks.

Gabriel Cheney says no oil. Bevin, from Ukiah, a former coordinator from Save Warm Springs (I worked with him and many of the Pomo elders, relocating the special reeds they needed to make their baskets before the Warm Springs dam went in) spoke of Native traditions.

Alex Watt collected 1700 signatures. Ron Smoley from Fort Bragg spoke. Rachel Binah, an organizer, got a standing ovation with Judy Walters. Someone vowed to skateboard all the way to Washington, DC, if needs be.

Someone proclaimed the land the Republic of Mendocino, said, I will buy up all the land at $25 an acre, and give it back to the Indians. The panel was gifted with seaweed and shells. Elinor Llewellyn it doesn’t say what it is some thing developers aqua fine talk about chemicals and trying to get rid of the stuff Marvin Gilbert, the Cowardly Lion of Oz, said the the tinman needs oil to grease his joints.

Other speakers included Dr. Don Hahn, Lindy Peters KMFBFM, Antonia Lamb, Ann and Ashley Holden, Russell Lowe, Senator Allan Cranston, Richard Charter all spoke, But I was long past comprehending what anyone was saying, other than it was an overwhelming landslide that no one, literally no one out of the 3000 or so of us were for the offshore oil platform. At the end, the weary panelist stood up, and were gifted with T-shirts that were emblazoned with I survived the Mendocino oil hearings and they went on their way. We had averted disaster.

RRWG 10th annual erotic poetry reading at the Burbank Activity Center

Saturday, January 16, 1988

Napa Poetry Conference, 1981-1987



I've been scanning and organizing old files. Yesterday's gem. Once upon a time we were an extraordinary group of poets who met each summer in Napa. Organizing poets for this photo shoot was like herding cats. My photo traveled far and wide, so I made a parody drawing of it. Can you recognize any of the poets? It's 1985. Some of the poets no longer walk with us.

Napa Valley College English Chair, Dave Evans founded the Napa Poetry Conference in the summer of 1981. It began as a collective of Berkeley poets and students who came together to share their expertise and perfect writing skills.

I'm not sure how I got roped in, probably to do a potential story. But I attended most. if not all, the conferences through 1987; Dave kept the tuition low. In my case, he waived it entirely in exchange for photographic documentation. At first, I merely observed, but then, Dave brought me in as a participant and presenter. My writing life was irrevocably changed.

Word got out and poets from all over the US and beyond attended the workshops. Several came from the Bahamas, of all places. So during the spring of 1985, we all packed up and flew south—to Nassau, for an international conference. Extraordinary times.

One of the unique aspects of the Napa Poetry Conference was that we were all housed within the community, no motels. I stayed as some extraordinary homes, one place on top of Mt. Veder, another ranch in the Mayacamas, replete with lake and rowboat, our hosts were a medic and a combat helicopter pilot, each was carrying on a secret affair, so life was intense. Because we were all poet-roommates, we made deeper bonds.

After Dave died, John Leggett took over, and the direction of the Napa Poetry Conference drastically changed. It became the Napa Valley Writers' Conference. Some of the old guard were invited back; Frank Bidart, Robert Pinsky, but the flavor had changed, with Dave Evans gone, there was no community housing offered, and tuition was stiff. A tony new era was ushered in. I never went back.










10.23.13

Wednesday, January 6, 1988

Russian River Writers' Guild

RUSSIAN RIVER WRITERS' GUILD POETRY AND PROSE SERIES; A HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

With early west county beginnings in bakeries, bars, and bookstores, the poetry and prose series of the Russian River Writers' Guild (RRWG) is the oldest ongoing reading series in the greater Bay Area and north coast. 

The RRWG has kept the "literatii" entertained in most west county towns, from Monte Rio, its first home, to Occidental, Guerneville, Santa Rosa and Sebastopol. 

Since the early '70's, both famous and infamous poets across the nation have shared the podium with local poets. Literally, hundreds of poets—from nationally recognized names such as McArthur prize recipient Robert Hass; Robert Bly whose translations of Rilke were published by Calliopea Press; and 95-year-old Meridel LeSueur, a McCarthy era blacklisted writer rediscovered in the 70's by the women's movement—to the real unknowns who have just discovered the power of the written word. 

Since the San Francisco literary renaissance of the '50's, when Kenneth Rexroth introduced experimental jazz and "Beat" poets such as Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac to the literary world of New York, the Bay Area poetry scene has blossomed. 

Hundreds of small presses abound and Poetry Flash, the Bay Area's literary calendar of events lists scores of readings for each day of the week. (needs transition ...)

One former RRWG coordinator, Andrei Codrescu, Rumanian poet and editor of numerous books and anthologies including Up Late: American Poetry since 1970, is best known as the poetry correspondant for National Public Radio's weekly series, All Things Considered. His fellow coordinator, Pat Nolan has poems and translations published in Random House Book of 20th Century French Poetry, Paris Review, Rolling Stone, and Up Late. Codrescu lists Nolan as a leader of the "California School of Writing" according to Nolan's wife, Gail King, also a former Guild coordinator. 

Guild co-founder and "jewish mother", Marianne Ware, whose chapbook, Bodies Nearly Touching, published by Nolan and King (Doris Green Editions), was printed in the 1987 Editor's Choice II anthology highlighting small presses. The obligatory hug she gave each reader in greeting was dubbed by coordinator Jim Montrose the "obligatory hug" and became the name of the Guild's monthly newsletter which lists upcoming poetic events, prose, and poetry of featured readers. 

Former coordinators Lee Perron and Maureen Hurley said the heyday of the series ('79 to '82) was when novelist Margie Summerfield offered them a free space with a stage, lighting and sophistocated sound system at Garbo's Cabaret & Bar in Guernewood Park. Many customers who came in for a drink were startled at first, but soon took to poetry. 

Perron and Hurley booked many poetry and arts events that would appeal to larger audiences who traditionally didn't attend poetry readings. Poets and musicians, dancers and actors all performed their poetic works. Folksinger-poets U. Utah Phillips and Ed Balchowsky, Bobbie Louise Hawkins and Rosalie Sorrels; actor-director Fred Curchak, artist Greer Upton, dancer Jere Graham and songwriter Michael Beargrease Hansen were also part of the line up. 

Some poetry events drew crowds of more than 200 such as the poetry and musical extravaganza by Elizabeth Herron, Fran Carbonaro and Rick Duvall. It was raining like hell and the river was rising but Robert Bly who flew in for his book party at Sonoma State cosponsored by the Guild and Public Poetry Center, wandered in. They didn't charge him admission. 

For many, the Guild provides a platform to explore and develop new ideas and areers. Perron, published in American Poetry Review, and CoEvolution Quarterly developed Sun Moon Bear Productions, a small business which distributes prints and fine press poetry across the nation. 

Hurley, who wrote her first grant for RRWG, received artist-in-residency grants from national, state and private funders. From ad hoc RRWG documentor, she became a photojournalist and is published in San Francisco Chronicle Book Review, and Oakland Museum Magazine. 

Other coordinators from the RRWG's 17-year-history include Mark Clagett, Donna Champion, Bonnie Olsen, Claire Josefine, Ellen Appel, Gil Helmik and Hunce Voelker. 

Readers have included Sonoma poet Paul Mariah, publisher of 47 titles from Manroot Press; Pushcart Prize winners David Bromige and Sharon Doubiago; David Fisher, winner of the William Carlos Williams award; Beat poets Jack Michelene, and the late Bob Kaufman—who coined the word "Beatnik;" Jim Dodge of Fup fame; Gerald Haslam who wrote The Oakies; the late Boschka Layton and Helen Luster; and Canadian Poet Laureate Irving Layton, and Jorge Lujan from Mexico City 

The work of the Guild-- whether booking readings, editing and publishing, or soliticing memberships is all facilitated by dedicated volunteers. RRWG's strength and longevity is a statement of the commitment of local poets to the organization. 

In 1985, RRWG entered the book publishing business with Tracks in the Widest Orbit, selected poems of J. H. Montrose, Jim was a Guild coordinator who died of cancer. In 1986, in Conjunction with Aldebaran Press, Falling to Sea Level, a bilingual edition of poems by Maureen Hurley and John Oliver Simon, now in its third printing, was released. 

Upcoming projects include the first ever RRWG anthology of participating poets and Sonoma county writers. The deadline for submission of poems, artwork, fiction and non-fiction is February 1, 1988. (See address below). 

Poetry is ideal entertainment for the traditional "blue Monday" night of the week when restaurants and cabarets close. Warning. Poetry can be addicting. Many of the Guild's followers have exclaimed, "I didn't know I even liked poetry!" 

The 8th annual Neurotic/Erotic Valentine Open Reading to be MC'd by the Madame of Poetry, Marianne Ware, is guaranteed to draw a large audience of poets of all persuasions. 

Readings at the Burbank Activities Center, 167 North High Street, Sebastopol are on the first and third Mondays of each month, 7:30 p.m., with a half-hour open mike followed by two featured readers. Admission is $2 at the door. 

In addition to the regular series, the Guild sponsors other events from time to time. Currently, on alternate Mondays, there are also readings at the Guerneville Veterans Memorial Building. Membership, participation and attendance of events are open to everyone. Language, lace cuff, surreal, dada, street, serious, academic, frivolous, and poets of all persuasions and opinions are welcome. 

For more information about the readings, workshops, publications, membership, or to volunteer, please call or write to Mark Claggett, Coordinator, Russian River Writers' Guild, 5P.O. Box 1123, Sebastopol, CA 95473. (707) 829-0237.

Friday, January 1, 1988

Sonoma County cultural arts calendar, RRWG photos




LIKE SO MANY BOARD FEET

LIKE SO MANY BOARD FEET


My Irish grandmother said every house
needs a front duir and felling the oaks
brought bad luck because under golden boughs
was how ancient knowledge was passed on.
From beneath stones, the cycle
of small green claws grasp the sky,
taproot heartline—
sweet red sap, a coursing river
dying in a sea of shadows.
Felled patriarchs in a forced march
across fields in spring,
meteors in the burning night,
the final star gasp of diamond before carbon
returns to base minerals and ash—
how can they regenerate
when we've furrowed the earth
with houses, utility poles and roads?
I remember dreaming the lions
were coming, and the front door, too small
for the doorjam, swung free in the breeze.



89
88


1993 Mother Earth Journal
1990 Green Fuse



Ascii jumble. Must've revised it in 89got the line breaks right by guessing

American Poetry Association publication BUT WHEN?

Well, this is awkward, no date, and no full title of poem. Did I even receive a copy of the book? Sometime between 1982 and 1990, I had a poem published.... Well, that narrows it down. Here is a list from Abe Books, no ToC. Another reference at the Internet Archive. Not in the 1982, 1985,1989,1990 issues... Shall we go with 1988, just for the hell of it? What about 1983, or 84?

But I found another delightful rabbit hole at Internet Archive when I used my name as a search. I discovered I also had a few photos published in anthologies. I had to stop.

Added 1/2023


Thursday, December 31, 1987

Baja, Mulegé, Cabo San Lucas, watercolors




QUARTZ—dream journal sequence

QUARTZ journal entry

My night terrors all began with the Zebra Killer. The bad dreams, the waking up, the screaming, the paralysis, the terror of being perused, and then strangled. My grandmother said that I screamed loud enough to wake the dead. More like the living. When my brother was woken by my screams, he said he'd wait to hear if there was an intruder before he'd get out of bed. Either way, he'd hide under the covers.

I thought I was losing my marbles. My mother is schizophrenic and though they keep telling me it isn't hereditary, some part of me can never let go of the idea. Needless to say, I analyze things to the point of death.

My mother is also a clarivoyant. Second Sight runs in the family. Bad enough to be crazy,  but clarivoyant too? A self-negating double whammy. When she predicts or finds something, I want to make a rational case for it. Nothing to do with the supernatural or intuition.

I became a non-believer of the supernatural during the wee hours while trying to sneak into the house—the door hinge cracked like someone knocking—I inadvertantly became one of my grandmother's famous banshee ghosts—the ones who knock at the door when death approaches.

Within the week, someone in the family did die, I don't remember who. Her brother Bill? So there I was, both a believer and a non-believer, and also a witness. I toyed with the idea that my real events might be linked up with events yet to happen, and perhaps we provide the link that makes it seem like precognition.

How else to explain the time my high school girlfriends and I were joyriding down Mt. Tam and suddenly, there were a weird dreamlike image of black tires spinning in front of me—distracting me to the point that I said, I don't want to alarm you guys, but I keep seeing spinning tires. They all laughed, called me names and seconds later, the brakes gave out. The owner of the antique red Mercedes in front of us was not happy to be our brake shoe at the T stop. But it kept us from going through the fence and the house below.

Many dreams that I described in detail to my friends would come true. Sometimes I'd misinterpret what I saw, What distinguished them from regular dreams was that they were lucid--no fantastic dream imagery. Normal boring everyday events. Looking back, I blame the dreams on the enormous amounts of grass we used to smoke—it was the late 60's and we were in the middle of it all. But that 's another story.

My hooded dream-murderer demon evolved into other images. I grew bold, or rather, weary of it, so I tried asking it what it wanted with me. I even asked it to unveil itself. Once it changed sex and it became my aunt Jane with whom I was having trouble, and later, it became me. Fear: my own worst enemy.

Through the years the dream image plagued me but I've never written down when these dreams happened. Location doesn't seem to matter—I've had them while in Europe and in Mexico. Imagine what a bloodcurdling scream in the middle of the night will do to the morale of the hotel clientele. Guests lined the hall, some dressed only in sheets looking like real ghosts with white faces! Pardon, I said. Was my face red.

My boyfriends learned not to grab me when the night terrors happened. Besides learning how to scream, I learned to fight in my sleep too. There's a section of the brain that paralyses nearly everyone who has nightmares—so the won't physically respond and hurt themselves or sleeping partner. But I figured out a workaround. I also have thin boundaries. I can fight with the best of street brawlers in my sleep.

Those cliff falling dreams when one wakes up stiff, in a cold sweat and can't move, is an example of this sleep paralysis-- only I, a small statistic, have learned how to move like a ninja warrior.

I even went to my doctor and a therapist who both said I was sane as can be expected, and that it was a result of stress and illness. It seems to happen in cycles. Each time it happened, I thought I should check into the local mental institution— was there something that horribly wrong with me to give me this night terror?

When some friends died, two patterns emerged. One type had symbolic dreams in which the clues of two friend's tragic deaths were hidden. I found out about the deaths after the fact.

My mother banged at my door early one morning. I was in the grips of a dream so horrible and dark I refused to wake u or even remember it but I remember that my cousin Ricky was in it. I remember how the red lights cut through darkness like knives, the sound of metal and cars. He had died in a motorcycle accident on 4th Street in Santa Rosa earler in the morning. I was there. I witnessed it. I saw him slumped over the parked car. Red, red everywhere.

Not all the dream experiences were terrifying. One night, after a wedding and too much champagne, I imagined dwarves marching through my kitchen stacking up crockery, and fixing the sink all night long. I expected to see a lot of dishes in the morning—along with a hangover. My landlady said that was Emilio Celli, her father-in-law. He loved to fix the plumbing. I saw him again and again at the bathroom sink. It was leaking.

When a friend's mother, Betty Lang Wall drowned in Noyo River, I dreamed I talked with her underwater—I remember the salt stung my eyes. With a knife, I cut a baby from my belly. Then Micaela called to say Betty was gone. Washed out to sea.

Another time, Boschka Layton, ill with cancer, died of a heart attack at nine AM, right when I dreamed I rode a black horse through warm dark tunnels, His hooves thundered louder and louder and louder until we reached the opening but it was almost too small for us to squeeze through. We were reborn into bright light in a green garden, the horse was now a colt. I suppose I was younger because I had no sense of age. Rebirth.

It became harder for me to explain it all away as mere coincidence. Either I was crazy or I wasn’t. 

Tuesday, November 24, 1987

ON TURNING 35 IN CABO



On turning 35 in Cabo, I reflect back.
In this life, I've stood on pahoehoe and aa,
new lava at the crater of Kilauea, steam forests and ferns.
I've watched the sunset from Haleakala,
a volcano that rises 30,000 feet above the sea floor.
I've seen the tongue of the ocean from the air,
swam in the Caribbean where a shark followed me home.
The aurora borealis glowed, but I didn't understand
northern latitudes when the sun set at midnight.
At the end of California, El Arco,
I watched frigate birds with 8 foot wingspans soar overhead.
I walked in rain forests of Kauaii and the Olympic Peninsula.
From Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain
in the continental US, I witnessed a forest fire.
I stood barefoot at Badwater, 282 feet below sea level,
and I followed worn trails in the salt flats
to hidden streams where pupfish from an earlier sea
still swim.
It took me 20 years to get to Tenochitlán,
the ancient lakebed of Mexico City,
And in the Yucatán, I climbed the pyramids
and crawled inside El Caracól, the observatory
during the winter solstice. The sun danced.
I rode to the stars while on ether, farther than
the combined distance of all my horses.
In Switzerland I climbed the Jungfrau,
rode the highest cog railway in the world
to crawl inside a crevasse in the glacier
to see the layers of ice and striations of every blue imaginable.
At the Columbia Ice Fields, I listened to the growl and hiss
of the great wall of ice that created its own cloud system.
I bathed in the Skeena River on an Indian reservation
where the glacial river numbed my skull til it cracked.
A week in the Sierras, a black bear slept on me,
I was too tired to get up and run. Probably saved my life.
I stood on the lips of Glacier Peak
and Half Dome without a rope or harness.
Half Dome I climb twice because
I forgot what it was like the first time.
At Loch Ness I didn't see Nessie
but I crawled through a dungeon in an abbey.
I had tea with the governor's wife in the Bahamas.
I didn't know that when Taikaido drummers danced
my relationship was about to end
but it took me two years to find out.
My first abortion at 24, my second at 27.
I meddled with nature, paid the price, lost the men,
stayed sick for two years, kidneys, uterus,
then a whiplash. My body weakened. My knee tore.
It took me eight years before I could ski again.
I rode an Icelandic pony called Helgar,
fiercely primitive, like a Celtic pony.
The fossils of clam shells in Central Valley cliffs
convinced me of an inland sea, but at 10,000 feet,
there are freshwater clams, how do you explain that,
or the reef fish in the sacred cenote well at Chichen Itza,
trapped miles from the sea, or hidden rivers.
The circle of candlewax in front of the stela at Cobá,
With the odor of sacred copal we welcomed the New Year.
We saw he two cuatemundis cross the road,
we ran over another one that night,
running over an endangered species.
Third time's a charm. I won't mention the turtle steak.
I saw the edge of night, the bell curve of the earth,
I saw stars and a daytime sky all at once,
sunset from an airplane flying over the North Pole.
From the air, the rift of the Grand Canyon
looked like a vast crack in the earth.
At Tikal, the temple of the Jaguar,
the howler monkey kept hidden in the canopy of trees.
Soldiers stopped our car searching for undesirables,
800 peasants have disappeared in Chiapas.
All for agrarian reform.
In downtown Mexico City, armed guards
in bulletproof vests direct traffic.
And the blood that didn't come with the moon
and the question rises once again.
The end of another relationship.
Few couples can survive the guilt.
Until I return home, I won't know if the slow bleeding
is a sign of division or multiplication.
Guerillas hide in the forests of Tikal,
the Indians, stoic in the face of soldiers,
On the Harmonic Convergence,
we celebrated at the Mayan church of Chamula,
all these roads less traveled,
but the universe unraveled....
November 24/1987
Cabo San Lucas
It looks like a page and the ending was lost, I found this in my sketchpad.
added 10.16 minor revisions.

Saturday, November 7, 1987

Andes Dream Sequence

ANDES DREAM SEQUENCE

We had almost missed the walruses who put in a sudden, rare, unexpected appearance, beached and shining like seals. We mistook them for seals until someone pointed out the glint of enormous tusks, like horns. They weren't quite like walruses. They became seals too.

I galloped my pony down to the creek but there were only some loose sheep trotting and browsing under the trees. I had some trouble with his gear. The places of this dream world are like home only grander, wilder.

At first I mistook them for familiar places. There is fear, death, creativity, flying, the horses we ride—everything is magnificent. The very weather is a force to be reckoned with. The large volcanic peak rises up thousands of feet above the sea. We took an overland short-cut over the summit of the mountain to the bay.

The road or path with its many gates and switchbacks is a bright red zigzagging gash, like warpaint against the pale green chapparal and mist-covered grasses. It faces west.

We passed between twin volcanic peaks--cones covered with bright red dirt and strange plants. Bromeliads. Sometime we'd take strenuous hikes to the top just to see the silver glimmer of the sea and the distant specks of islands and the coast. It was as if the sky were a huge inverted bowl and the islands reached up the sides until they seemed almost eye level with the mountain we were on.

We returned home to reconnoiter and pack for the journey. A young woman on horseback with a chestnut filly on a lead, galloped north up the box canyon. The filly's tiny hooves clattered on the gray cobbles. The coolness of stones like water, the secret spots sun-warmed beneath our feet. I yelled at her for galloping on pavement but she didn’t hear.

There were many people who came and went in the dream. Some were like family, others were like long lost friends. Some we never saw again. Our walrus hunting party contained a collection of beings who drifted in and out. Some were constant companions like the Siamese cat perched on my backpack. He was a scout, with his cheek rubbing the back of my neck. He'd confide in me, telling me the best trail to take. Any wrong trail would loose us the chance to follow the walrus.

We reached the shore uneventfully and began to climb a steep ridge to the south. I seem preoccupied with direction in this dream. The early morning sun was to my left shoulder and the receding shadows to the west quickly crawled into their lairs to hide from the day. At dusk they crawled quickly west but the sun was an inexorable task master.

We know they reach those distant shores because we have dreams and are able to walk upon this landscape again and again. My psyche is very much tied to this place. I live in another place. Perhaps even in another time. It is an extraordinary world like through the eyes of a child with the memory of an adult.

All this time we were hurrying at breakneck speed toward the world like runaway trains. The clatter of wheels. Steel rails humming and screeching. Breathless. Vanishing point of tracks in the distance.

Each evening at sunset I feel the loss of something unnamable. Twilight. Anything can happen then. Perhaps this is why my grandmother chose to die dreaming towards evening-- the hour when long shadows form a bridge between the islands. New moon with its silver crescent resting on the tops of trees.

The cat guide was making sure we didn't wind up in another place, or we'd lose the thread of this dream. The trail up the ridge was extraordinarily steep. I would look up to the skies trying to follow the progression of the trail.

An occasional hiker above us like a small dot, gave me some idea of scale. We climbed those ridges in search of those walruses—they were more akin to narwhals and unicorns than walruses. The ridge was steep, nearly a sheer drop into the turquoise sea.

The mountains are volcanic, scoured by glaciers in some cases. But the sea is bright turquoise blue. Tropical water like Big Sur or Hawaii. Not northern water. Odd. I stopped to rest, lying with my face buried in the close cropped dew-soaked grass because the Siamese cat was whimpering. I thought he might be thirsty, or needed to pee. Or was even a bit motion sick.

His head would bob and sway, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, fixed on some distant horizon. His mind (such as it is) intent on keeping the horizon in place. We stopped on a narrow ledge. He said, you didn't even invite me to the ocean. You left me here, alone, worried." I said, "cat, I remember how much you hated the sauna. How miserable you were with your fur coat while we sweated and laughed. Some things a cat can't do because he is a cat." He sighed and said, "perhaps I'll enjoy snorkeling. At least invite me."

We could see shapes in the water. Shadows of whales and seals. I said, "can we continue our conversation in a safer place? I want to take a photo first. Could you move the backpack up a bit where it's safer and not in the picture?" He dragged the pack off the trail and he turned into a slender furry young man, his graceful markings elongating his legs.

I fumbled with my camera. At the top, we forgot the conversation. He was just a cat again. At the crest was a mountain hostel/hut of stone. Perhaps a former fort or bunker, ancient reminder of when there were terrible wars. The scars on the hill have long since healed.

A tall, gray-headed man hummed louder and louder until the hall was filled with the resonance of rubbed crystal glass. Someone spoke. I made an outrageous pun about poets. A woman who looked like Sara was there laughing. leaving my backpack on the bed with the cat, I grabbed my camera and ran down the corridor leaping into the air until I flew, feet first wobbling a little out of control because my coat I'd found on the trail was flapping out behind me like a cavernous black bird trying to fly the other way.

There was the ever-present danger of falling off the cliffs. In fact, during most of this dream I was having to be extra careful because I was afraid of slipping off the edge. It was like Switzerland at sea level. People were there from other countries. Canada, I think. Lots of accents.

It was as if the clock had been turned back to the migrations of the 60's and 70's when we all traveled without fear. Women were dressed in full skirts like the peasants of the middle ages. They had red prayer rugs among their sleeping gear. They sat in alpine meadows as if they were outdoor living rooms. I was amazed by their casual use of something so valuable as a rug to go trekking.

The rain, or a thief might ruin all this loveliness. When the rugs were spread out against the pale winter grass it was lovely. The women left their possessions freely scattered about. It was difficult to tell the difference between someone's personal belongings from those who had already left—who no longer needing them, leaving them as a gift for those yet to come.

I wanted to gather up all those rugs (mantas?) and take them home. I found a small fragment of material, a rug so worn, a weft of daylight was sewn through it. The steep hillside meadows glimmered like the green of the Guatemalan highlands. On a crag, at the crest, for warmth, I used the greatcoat of heavy wool—the color was of distant forests so full of green they appear black. It was like trying to name the deep blue of nightfall before the stars pierce it through.

For the lava tunnels, I found a Duracell flashlight. Black and orange with AA batteries. We practiced leaping and flying through the tunnels that opened to the north. I think the cat wanted to join us. This time I remembered to invite him. He was appreciative and bounded along in that silly rocking horse way of cats.

Later, we went to observe the southern ocean on the other side of the terraced cliff. I was amazed by the steepness of the hill. Even the trail sloped downward enough to keep us walking deliberate and careful. The point jutted out enough to make a shallow cove protected from the northerly winds.

The mammoth flukes of a whale rose up and silently slipped into the sea without a sound. Dolphins and seals everywhere. Fumbling for a shot, I nearly drop my camera. A lone rust-colored submarine (or sunken ship?) devoid of crew, drifted in the turquoise waters like a phantom ship. We hear familiar gurgles, groans and clicks. Did they come from some Argentinean shore or were they all dead inside, their bones entombed in the hull of a floating iron ship never released from their journey?

rev 11/7/87
This was dreamt and written down before I knew I was going to South America, or the Galapagos

WILD CANARY


The cat dragged in a wild canary, a finch really. Its tiny beak opening and closing. I rescue it, knowing it will die of shock but at least, it will be easier this way. Soon, he grows quiet in my hand and I know I will paint him for all those yellows and delicate tracings of white. And in this way he will live forever.

11 /7/1987 ? no date
(written at the same time as my weird walrus dream sequence piece)
added 9/15/2016
last line was added. I meant it, but never scribed it.

Tuesday, November 3, 1987

Letter to the editor, nuclear free zone, measure B, (need tear sheet & date)

Dear editor:

Q. How many cinnamons does it take to change a lightbulb? A. None. They just glow in the dark. I was under the impression that I lived in an enlightened county. Election results confirm Sonoma county voters are so “enlightened” they voted not to live in a nuclear free zone. Long live radiation! This is an oxymoron, but I don’t want to talk over some voters’ heads.

The opponents of Measure B were astoundingly well financed, and organized. News reporters duly noted this and commented that the well-heeled efforts of Measure B is responsible for its failure. Money still talks.

The two other nuclear free zone initiatives on the State Ballot passed with flying colors. In the city of Berkeley, “the home of nuclear research,” and in Marin County, two areas that will be economically affected by the measure, strongly supported the advocacy of a nuclear free zone. 

Remember Chernobyl? It wasn’t that long ago. How many of you were just a teensy bit nervous about all those isotopes? A nuclear accident can’t happen here, you say? Ever follow a speeding trucker, carrying radioactive “waste “down the freeway? I have. Ever drive up to the Geysers… You know, that winding one-lane semi-paved stage coach road with hairpin turns, only to meet a careening truck also carrying radioactive material? Geyser officials assured me that radioactive drill bits were perfectly safe, but I couldn’t help but notice the stream and the water coming out of the well site.

How many of the voters who voted not to live in a nuclear free zone considered who the backers of No on Measure B were? Silicon Valley and Star Wars clone corporations obviously have big plans for us. Growth. And I’m not just talking population growth. We won’t need lightbulbs anymore. We’ll just glow in the dark! Or better yet, throw all the lightbulbs in the river after Silicon Valley North has another little spill. Then we won’t need headlights to drive in the dark. I have a great idea: move all the corporations and supporters who want to live in a nuclear zone to Kiev and leave the lightbulbs at home and don’t forget your iodine pills.

Monday, October 19, 1987

Cazadero benefit poetry reading for the Cazadero Academy (art)



10/18  Cazadero benefit poetry reading for the Cazadero Academy.

Readers include myself, Mike Tuggle, Susan Kennedy, John Oliver Simon, Richard Garcia, Pam Singer, and Stephen Torre. Not everybody was on the flyer. It turned into a marathon. Bill Witherup, Michael Syles, Jim Dodge.



I very much like Stephen Torre's work. I think he would make a good guest artist for my CAC project. This poem about logging on the Navarro River is incredible. He's the lumberjack I was looking for.



87 or 88?

Thursday, October 1, 1987

There is so Much We Save from Childhood

Stephanie's mother died in the fire. A beam caught her on the forehead. She fell behind the door and Joe Bianchi never saw her until it was too late. They said the smoke killed her. They later blamed a faulty wire from a clothes drier, they blamed her drinking.

Smoke rose up like a thick black dragon snake to the empty blue sky as we walked through the fields from the bus stop. We were home from school. When he saw the source of the smoke, her brother Eric darted towards the house and the adults came running out from all sides trying to head us off but we were errant calves headed toward the barn, toward the burning light.

Steph and I stood by the corral trying to find a way to comprehend what we couldn't understand. I was almost ten. The oldest one. I held her hand. We retreated to the lower field and watched the flames eat the sky.

In the glistening cinders, we found a dog-eared photograph, an armless doll, the bent tricycle wheel, some hair tied with a grubby ribbon the color of rust and baby roses. Johanna's childhood toy horses covered with real fur and had real manes and tails that were miraculously unharmed. We indiscriminately admired the beauty of charcoal and emerald green sprouts of winter grass amid the rusted nails and glass rubble.

The end of a life, of an era. Of childhood. No more late afternoons, where we dozed off, bees buzzing to Brahm's Lullaby, when sonorous sleep blanketed the eye with the pale light of summer. The familiar gesture of a stranger, the face of a father. Not my own.

When we were impatient to grow up. Her father said, Stay children always. Stay young. His spaniel voice hung mournfully from our ears as we played. Stephanie listened and found that if she quit feeling, quit eating, Time stood still. While I hid the shame of my hunger, she denied its existence. She had climbed up out of this carnal world to a higher plane of existence. She left no ladder for me to follow.

One morning, Les placed the sick lab puppy with the blue tongue and cold feet on the oak stump to ripen in the winter sun. Its tender black ears like velvet moleskin gathered in no sound as the hatchet bit into the oak. We suspected the worst.

Somehow we got through it. We placed one foot in front of the other. As one foot lifted from the earth, we compensated for the earth's pull. We developed a trust for the way our feet brushed the surface and though we tottered on stilts always falling forward or backward, we caught ourselves at each step.

I have a vague memory of my own father asleep with his head on my mother's lap. She stroked his hair, the ocean pounded and the windows covered with spume.

When Stephanie's mother Johanna rode Binty, she let down her long black hair, a night waterfall. Binty pricked up her ears and tail, gathered in her haunches and leaped from the earth to fly up the driveway. She was no longer of this earthly plane with that precious cargo on her back.

And Binty's sister, Sununu, the red Arabian swallow, whinnied out a welcome as if her heart were about to burst.

Gravel scuttled in all directions, like our childhood.

Stephanie confided in me that her mother was a Russian translator for the United Nations. Johanna majored in Slavic languages at UC Berkeley. She was being watched by the government. We overheard words like McCarthy and FBI. Mimi spoke little English. Devuchka, she'd say.

Speaking the language of the enemy was enough to condemn a person during the purges. This I learned later. Hellman. Hammett taking the Fifth. Red diaper baby! It became a dream to go to Russia because of Johanna but I never rode troikas in the snow.

Astride Binty, Stephanie's thin legs barely reached half-way to the mare's sides. Binty knew the weight of the rider was not of Johanna, so she ran us into the sides of barns, and off cliffs to rid us of the memory.

Soon no one but Steph would ride her. Whether by grief or boredom, Binty began to chew on the barn. First the manger disappeared, then the stalls, soon the barn was as hollow as our hearts.

Binty turned white with age. Stephanie got married, moved away to the desert, got thin after the children were born, it was as if the Arizona sun sucked all the moisture from her bones. Later the cancer would come and drink the marrow from her bones but on some level, Steph was already gone.

They said Binty died with a splinter in her throat from chewing on too many fences. She'd eaten most of the barn with her nervous cribbing. They tried everything to make her stop. Creosote, electric fences, but she chewed that wood as if she was trying to devour every last molecule of scent from her lost mistress.

Johanna no longer needed watching. But sometimes Binty would raise her tail like a banner and run in the pasture as if Johanna were astride.

Stephanie and her two brothers moved into their grandmother Mimi's house at the foot of the road. We made daily pilgrimages past the charred house to feed the horses. Scoured, blackened wood glistening in the rain-heavy grass mesmerized us with its jewel-like splendor.

Perhaps it was because we were both raised by grandmothers, my mother was alive but not present, or because we born a year and two days apart, we were psychic twins.

I remember Johanna so clearly. In spring, she drove us the long way to the store. Sometimes we took the low road to Forest Knolls or the back road around Mt. Barnabe to Olema. As she pointed to Bolinas Ridge, the dark green oldsmobile gently nosed into the stonecrop-covered cliff for a closer look.

Next spring, I took Johanna's name for my conformation name. When it was my turn to approach the Bishop, I solemnly marched up to the altar and kissed his alexandrite ring, but he stopped and said it wasn't a Christian saint's name. He said he couldn't confirm me. The music stopped. Mortified, I replied I didn't care. She was someone I loved. My best friend's mother. She was with grace.

He asked, Would I take Jane? NO. I was so frightened I nearly peed myself but I didn't waver, though it meant excommunication. Eyes of the church upon me. The horrified nuns buzzed in each other's ears, they came up with a solution, and put Joanne, a diminutive Joan of Arc, on my certificate.

Stephanie's horse, Gay Girl, the thoroughbred, didn't get up one winter morning. Steph's brother placed the muzzle of the rifle very carefully over her small white star. A part of our childhood disappeared, locked into memory, as close as kin, as close as air.

A rusted snaffle bit hangs on a nail inside the barn where the swallows gather cobwebs ladened with powdered hay dung. I can't bear to look at the ridge without remembering the way Johanna admired the view of the purple fringed hills and dark shadowy forests on the north slopes. This place, a refuge.

Poor Johanna, living in the country, trapped by domestic life, a brilliant mind, branded by fire. I never knew her maiden name. That day when the house burned to the ground, Stephanie and I became blood sisters, we both had open wounds.

© Maureen Hurley. A shorter version of this was printed in Creative Discourse, Petaluma, CA 1988.

Other horse bits