Reading List: Irish Literature 700 to 1800; Melia

Irish Literature 700 to 1800; 
Prof. Daniel Melia  
(Full participation/grade/audit A-)
FALL 1999:  Celtic Studies 138 (4 units)

Gaelic literature from 700 to 1800 (in translation). Study of the prose saga-cycles, satire, classical lyric poetry, and bardic poetry, developing the mythological and traditional background of modern Irish literature.  Special topic to be announced. 4 quizzes; group report/paper (20%), final essay exam (50%).

"In years I was then almost sixteen I was led to Ireland in captivity with so many thousands of men according to our deserts because we withdrew from God and did not keep watch over His precepts."  —St. Patrick's Confession

"CuChulainn attacked them and cut off their four heads from them and impaled a head of each man of them on a prong of the forked pole.  And CuChulainn sent the horses of that band back by the same road to meet the men of Ireland with their reins lying loose and the headless trunks red with gore and the bodies of the warriors dripping blood down onto the framework of the chariots." -The Cattle Raid of Cooley

These words of Saint Patrick and of one of the greatest surviving medieval epics represent two samples of early Irish literature. Who wrote these words?When? What did they mean to the people who spoke, wrote and heard them? How did they survive the last 1500 years? Learn about the real Ireland in Celtic Studies 138. Learn whether the Irish really saved civilization and whether they listened to druids. Amaze your friends. 

TEXTS:

Life of Columba, by Adamnán, tr. R. Sharpe

King of Mysteries, J. Carey

The Táin, tr. Thos. Kinsella,

Tales of the Elders of Ireland, A. Dooley and Harry Roe

Early Irish Myth & Saga, J. Gantz,

Medievel Irish Lyrics,  J.Carney

History & Topography of Ireland, Gerald of Wales

TO: Professor Stephen Arkin
From: Prof. Daniel F. Melia, Celtic Studies, UC, Berkeley 

Maureen Hurley took Celtic Studies 138 "Irish Literature" in Fall Semester 1999. She achieved a grade of A-.The course carried 4 semester units. "Gaelic Literature, 700-1800 (in translation.) Study of the prose saga cycles, satire, classical lyric poetry, and bardic poetry. Develops mythological and traditional background of modern Irish literature."                  —Prof. Daniel Melia

I was smarting that I didn't get a full A in this class, Dan had us team up in groups for our final projects, so if there was a slacker in the group, the rest of the group had to shift a bucket to make up for it. Ingenious, if evil methofology, on Dan's part. I really suffered in his Modern Celtic Culture class because others didn't hold their weight. And to add insult to injury, one absolute fucker in my group stole my Illustrated Oxford Irish History book, with the painting of Seamus Heaney—who signed the photo of the painting for me, who laughed out loud when I presented it to him. If you find it, I want it back. But I digress, this is where I was introduced to Medieval Irish poetry, I still dip into my James Carney book from time to time.


I eventually plan to transcribe my Celtic Studies class notes, so this post is a placeholder (as well as a reading list). A reminder, a smack in the gob. What brought this on: I was asked to do a lecture on Celtic Bardic Poetry at Sacramento Poetry Center, and a) I was far too long gone from this material, b) I couldn't put my hands on the notes,. But I at least still had some of the books, and TG for the internet. So many medieval texts are now online (not so in 1999). I was able to reconstruct what I needed. But it was almost as bad as reinventing the wheel.   —MH 11/2015   

Sonoma County Poet Laureate nomination

Modern Irish Language & Culture; Prof. Joe Nugent /Breen Ó Chonchubhair

SUMMER 1999: Celtic Studies 102A, and 102B, Modern Irish Language & Culture; Prof. Joe Nugent /Breen Ó Chonchubhair   (Received B for 8 units. Not audited.)

Intensive Irish workshop-The language brought thousands of years ago to Ireland by invading European Celts remains a living tongue. We will cover the equivalent of  one full year’s instruction in the Irish language. We will learn to speak and write...lectures to place Irish in its cultural context..we will introduce you to the history of Gaelic—from its Indo-European roots, its role in the Troubles, to its present re-emergent state...& how it shaped the contours of Anglo-Irish culture.

TEXTS:

Teach Yourself Irish—Ó Sé agus Sheils

Foclóir Gaelge Béarla —Ó Dónaill

Pocket Irish-English Dictionary & tape

Irish Grammar: A Basic handbook —McGonagle

Plus films and other readings in English and Irish: folk sayings, dinnseanchas, songs, poems, etc. Blind Raftery, Brian Merriman’s Midnight Court, Behan’s The Hostage (in Irish), Myles naGopleen’s At Swim Two Birds, An Beal Bocht, Maurice O’ Sullivan’s 20 Years A-Growin’, Nuala Ni Dhomhniall, Peig Sayers, James Joyce, etc.

Guest lecturers include Drs. Kathryn Klar, Daniel Meila, Julian Boyd, John Bishop.

Preparing for the Summer Solstice

Father’s Day and Verona's birthday, the actress as Lady MacBeth, cannot distinguish between stagelight and perfumed sky; she weeps for the death of her 60 years. The day burns lust-red. We raise champagne glasses and read poetry to the sky. The guest proves this on film for posterity.

A young Peruvian offers an armload of long-stemmed red roses to the actress. I pin a rose to his lapel and come to understand that brief moment of bronzed youth is disguised as a name. We compare ages. Sing the old songs to keep from falling off the earth, recreating the words that dreamed us into being. Verona blows out the candles. We run naked into the sea at sunset.

Floating in the chill depths below the Mesa, we look back at the North American plate. Mt. Tamalpais, place of my conception. Nothing came between my mother and father: this is why I exist. The moon slides over the water. Bioluminescence scribes itself upon the waves. Our tongues answer the ocean.

The suicides of Bolinas: literary invention proscribing reality. A woman boasts she was the last one to speak to Brautigan. I think of Lew going off into the forest. No heroes, words failed them. Sick to death of the intertextual “I”, I vowed not to write about love, and so, became mute; but the poetic Left has sacrificed the author. We need a new altar for the new millennium.

Afraid of the nunneries, I was a deliberately bad child. I collected an insurance of venial sins—white lies—to keep back that abiding fear of God’s prison gate. I thought “zounds” came from the slurring of “God’s wounds.” As did “swoon.” Wounded, we’ve lost the group art of oral tradition. Blame St. Augustine, the first man to read without moving his lips.

The slow sibilance of speech went underground, the death of the spoken word. The monastery scriptoriums fell silent. The esophagus interred in the sarcophagus; subterranean words devoured the silvered sleep of bones. My father died silent in winter, alone on his birthday. A stranger by choice, his heart failed him. Word of his death restores something of my father to me.

We bring in summer, talk about ancestors. The names we carry into the future. Pegasus wheels across the sky. Orion no longer hunts. The Bear dances. A name spoken, a gift crusades into the west. I want a dragon constellation for the dragonslayer. A name place where eagles come to land. Like a cloistered lady-in-waiting, I swoon from the scent of kisses. Orpheus’s tongue in our ears. Other than ourselves, we have little to offer; no talismans or silk scarves. The enduring song of the storm approaches.

At the end of the millennium, protocol demands we exchange sexual pedigrees. The dread acronym: subtext and context. I weep for the extinction of spontaneity. Dress code: who’s got the raincoat? No longer embarrassed, I come prepared for any storm, though months may pass without sign of precipitation. Except it could be any century.

Wounded, we heal a little of ourselves on this raft, ride the transitory night to completion. We don’t take issue with futures, take no prisoners. Only small translucent sacks flung in the midden heap for some future archaeologist to contemplate. Donning my habit, I celebrate the longest day, my vows clearly written—protean words spilling onto the page.


1999, revised 2000

Tell Me—A Rant

Tell me why I shouldn't have gotten upset when Neil came home late—45 minutes before the party began (3 pm) to "help clean up" when he originally said he'd be back after he took the family to mass at 11 am (ETA 12:30) and didn't let me know he fell off the ozone and lost a few hours in the interum...and I'd started cleaning at 10 am, the house was a sty.

Tell me why I shouldn't be upset his young nephew had poor aim; he hosed the toilet cover, seat and floor; or that his sister had gotten sick on the rug last week and the house smelled like a zoo. Who was expected to clean up the blow chunks in the tub and on the floor? I had to resort to bleaching the kitchen and bathroom (including shower) in order to rid the place of its odor. Then WASH the stuff as plastic bags couldn't contain the odors. Why should I be concerned that I got stuck with the brunt of it? Then could never catch up in order to cook, let alone change out of my shorts or take a shower, for example.

Tell me why I shouldn't be upset when he insisted the first guest (a ditzy woman I can't stand on a good day) wasn't to arrive until four, the rest at five, when I distinctly overheard him tell her in a tedious 1 and 1/2 hour egoflaming-gabbthon, to arrive at three. The rest, at four. No matter that I actually heard him say three and four, but apparently I needed it on tape in orter to prove it: when I corrected him, he blatently denied it. I said, Right, if she comes at three I'll fuckin' kill you! He said no way; she's coming by Bart and by bus from the City...FLW Don't worry: she'll be late.

Tell me why I shouldn't be upset when she arrived extra-early, smearing her posh English accent all over the house at a pitch, that even the deaf could hear her innermost thoughts. Luckily she was dim as a nightlight, but she was the other side of useless in the kitchen (one wonders how she managed to make it to mid-life crisis, let alone, ride a bus across town on her own) but she was useful enough to monopoloze all his time while he was still trying to call guests and clean up (read: shove papers into bags; slam (kick) bulging closet doors tight.) Then drooled all over him like a demented boxer. She did look a bit like Robert Mitchum's daughter sans the cauliflower ears.

Tell me why I shouldn't be upset that I had to ransack the laundry for a change of clothes because I didn't dare open my closet door in the living room with all the guests sitting there so cozily...the door, spring-loaded for action with the gravitational weight of clothes just waiting to jump from and uneasy confinement onto an unsuspecting guest or floor. Me looking like Shirley Valentine wearing her tea in her lap.

Tell me why I shouldn't have gotten upset at last night's party because Neil's other sister insisted on dragging out all the shabby (and fragile) glassware (that I won't even use) out of the cupboard to concoct midori champagne cocktails handing them out to the kids as well, no matter that I had clear plastic glasses for the occasion...and it WAS a paper plate party after all. Telling me: It's MY brother's HOUSE! I'll do whatever I please. And so she did. Apparently my living here for 2 years has no validity whatsoever.

Apparently none of these examples are valid complaints.

To chill out, I went down to the lake to visit the ducks until darkness fell on my foot and broke it. By that time most of the guests had gone home... I was MIA at my own party. A cast of one. And nobody noticed.

What I should've said: Warning. I am a writer. Everything you say or do will be dutifully recorded and possibly used against you in a court of words. But I was so flabbergasted, I was at a loss for words.


6/15/99

HENRY III, LORD OF IRELAND: GRANT OF TOLLS IN DUBLIN, 1233, 1250

Henry III, Lord of Ireland:  Grant of Tolls in Dublin, 1233

Tolls were sometimes granted over a limited period of time, and for a specific object. The commodities named as entering the port of Dublin were not of such great variety but, as is apparent from the text, the list is incomplete.

The King to his beloved and faithful, the mayor and honest men of Dublin, greeting.

Know you that we have conceded in aid of our city of Dublin, for the enclosing and fortifying for security and defense of the same city, and of the parts adjacent, the following toll, which you may take in that city of Dublin from Christmas day for three complete years:

From every crannock of wheat coming to be sold at Dublin, 1 obole.

From every crannock of oats coming to be sold at the same city, 1 obole.

From every horse or mare, ox or cow, brought here for sale, 1 denarius.

From 5 hogs brought here for sale, 1 denarius.

From 6 sheep brought here for sale, 1 denarius.

From every last of hides brought here to be sold, and to be taken away, 12 denarii.

From every saccus of wool coming to the same city for sale, 3 denarii.

From every cask of wine coming here to be sold, 2 denarii.

From every pisa of grain coming here for sale, 2 denarii.

From every load of lead coming here for sale, 2 denarii.

From every bundle of cloth or other merchandise coming here, 2 denarii.

From every crannock of salt coming here for sale, 2 denarii.

From every pisa of fat, or from every pisa of cheese, coming here for sale, 1 denarius.

From every cask of honey or butter coming here for sale, 4 denarii.

From every mesa of herrings coming here for sale, 1 quadrans.

From every centenum of salmon coming here for sale, 1 denarius.

From every centenum of merchandise, to be sold by weight, coming here for sale, 2 denarii.

But by reason of this grant of ours nothing shall be taken from any of the said goods after the three years are completed; but immediately on the completion of that period the custom shall cease, and be utterly abolished. And therefore we command you that, as an aid to enclosing the said city, you take the said custom up to the end of the period, just as has been said.

Witness, the King, at Winchelcombe, on the twenty-eighth day of October, in the eighteenth year of our reign.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry III, Lord of Ireland:  Grant of Tolls in Dublin, 1250

Another grant of the same type as the one made in 1233 to Dublin was made for the same purpose in 1250. This list is much more complete, and indicates a greater traffic or a resort to more desperate measures for raising the necessary funds. The two Dublin grants, because of their temporary nature and purpose, represent a departure from the strictly feudal type of toll, and more nearly resemble a modern tariff.

The King to all, etc., greeting.

Be it known that for all things, and for all salable merchandise coming into our city of Dublin, we have granted to the good and true men, our citizens of the same city, for three years, the following aids for the enclosing and strengthening of that city, namely:

From every crannock of grain, 1 quadrans.

From every crannock of flour, either entering or leaving the port of Dublin, 1 quadrans.

From every dolium of wine, 2 denarii.

From every dolium of honey, 4 denarii.

From every fleece of wool, 1 denarius.

From every dykker of hides, 1 denarius.

From every dykter of deer skins, goat skins, or horse hides, an obole.

From every large ship, 16 denarii.

From every small ship, 8 denarii.

From every piece of English or foreign cloth, 1 obole.

From every piece of Irish cloth, 1 quadrans.

From every crannock of woad, 2 denarii.

From every crannock of salt, entering or leaving the said port, 1 quadrans.

From every bar of iron, 1 obole.

From every mesa of herrings, entering or leaving the said port, 1 quadrans.

From every ox, cow, or mare, 1 denarius.

From eight sheep, 1 denarius.

From every hog or side of bacon, 1 quadrans.

From a hundred boards, 1 quadrans.

From a hundred horse-irons, 1 obole.

From every pisa of onions, or butter, or fat, 1 obole.

From every hundred pounds of pepper, 2 denarii.

From a hundred pounds of wax, 2 denarii.

From a hundred pounds of alum, 2 denarii.

From every mill-stone, 1 obole.

From every hundred ells of linen cloth, 1 denarius.

From every hundred ells of canvas, 1 denarius.

From every load of lead, 2 denarii.

From every crannock of beans, 1 quadrans.

From every dozen kitchen utensils, 1 obole.

From every hundred pounds of metal, 1 denarius.

From every hundred pounds of fat pork, 1 denarius.

From a hundred pounds of fat, 1 denarius.

From merchandise to the value of 3 solidi, 1 quadrans.

From one hundred lamb-skins, 1 obole.

From one hundred squirrel-skins, 1 denarius.

From one hundred pounds of pitch, 1 obole.

From every load of iron, 1 obole.

From every dozen linden cords, 1 quadrans.

Witness, the King, at Bistlesham, on the thirtieth day of May.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Source: J. T. Gilbert, ed., Historical and Municipal Documents of Ireland, (London: Longmans, Green, 1870), pp. 124-125; reprinted in Roy C. Cave & Herbert H. Coulson, A Source Book for Medieval Economic History, (Milwaukee: The Bruce Publishing Co., 1936; reprint ed., New York: Biblo & Tannen, 1965), pp. 415-416. Unless otherwise indicated the specific electronic form of the document is copyright. Permission is granted for electronic copying, distribution in print form for educational purposes and personal use. If you do reduplicate the document, indicate the source. No permission is granted for commercial use. The text has been modernized by Prof. Arkenberg, Cal. State Fullerton.  This text is part of the Internet Medieval Sourcebook. The Sourcebook is a collection of public domain and copy-permitted texts related to medieval and Byzantine history. © Paul Halsall, October 1998  halsall@fordham.edu

Sidebar: Ram Dass notes

SIDEBAR: RAM DASS  (draft—need to check facts) 

                 

Spearhead of the psychological growth movement that began in the 1970s, eloquent spiritual leader, counterculture icon, and social activist, Richard Alpert, better known as Ram Dass, began his career as a psychologist to the hip intelligencia. 

In the summer of 1961, drug experimentation led him to the idea of God. Alpert went to Cuerna Vaca with Timothy Leary, where they took magic mushrooms and had an out of body experiences Alpert saw himself as God.  (WHEN???)  He came back to Harvard in the Fall of ’61 to do research on consciousness-expanding drugs. In ’63, both he and Leary were fired from Harvard faculty for experimenting with LSD with undergrads—as LSD was now illegal, criminalized that same year.

Unlike Leary, Richard Alpert, with a Ph.D. in Motivational Psychology (WHEN??), managed to keep his academic standing and taught at Stanford University, where he was also Director of Psychedelic Review.

San Francisco, 1967: an electrifying year of social deconstruction and reconfiguration. In January, there was a Gathering of the Tribes where spiritual generation amassed for a Human Be-In. At the Polo Fields, guest speakers Ram Dass and Leary spoke to some 10,000 very stoned pilgrims who turned on, tuned in, and dropped out en masse. I was there.

Alpert, Timothy Leary and the Diggers hang out with the Hell’s Angels in the Haight. Alpert lectured on LSD in San Francisco and UCLA on “Psychedelics Drugs and the Law” Kesey’s Acid Tests in Santa Cruz).

After the breakup of the Summer of Love, and the Haight, the hippies and anarchist Diggers moved onto the land with a circuit of communes in Northern California, Nevada, and New Mexico. Alpert settled in??? Marin Santa Cruz? XXX 

After experimenting with mind -expanding drugs, Richard Alpert turned to meditation to seek drug-free enlightenment. In mid-1967, Alpert’s friend, Beat poet Allen Ginsberg returned from India and told him about meditation. Alpert went 1st class in a Land Rover to India. In Kathmandu he met 27 year-old Californian from Manhattan Beach? Bagawan Dass, who’d been studying in India for years. High on peach melbas? they connected on several levels of spiritual life, kundalini... 

Bagawan Dass toured with Richard Alpert. They went to the Himalayas where Alpert met his future guru, Neem Karoli Baba, and became a disciple. Alpert experienced shaktipat (spiritual awakening), and spent 3 months doing seva (volunteer work) at an ashram while learning and practicing various lines of yoga. Alpert was given the name, Baba Ram Dass which means “Servant of God.” When Ram Dass returned to the United States (an expired visa), he lived in upstate New York (with LEARY??), where he began lecturing informally about his experiences.... garnering a wide following.

Those recollections evolved in the groundbreaking book, Be Here Now, which became something of a bible in New Age circles. Be Here Now which chronicles group meditation process in the New Mexico desert…xxx

“Richard Alpert used to talk about the orange basketball,” remarked Stewart Brand some years after the Haight scene had collapsed. “Psychologists had raised some ducklings with a basketball and they imprinted on it as if it were their mother. Wherever the basketball rolled, they’d follow it. That’s what the movement was to us. That was our basketball. Wherever it rolls, we’ll follow.”  p281 Rolling Stone editor Charles Perry, “The Haight Ashbury: A History” (84)

Ram Dass’ guru died in 1973; Dass formed the HANUMAN FOUNDATION in 1974 to “further the spiritual awakening in our society.”(Hanuman is the Hindu monkey god of XXX) One aim was to promote development of a broad base for meditation in the West. They began with a list of facilities and helpful quotations which evolved into a best selling, popular book, Journey of Awakening, the proceeds of which helped to support the foundation.

Ram Dass’ continued rise in fame was partly in response to the latent yearnings of the “Me Generation” in pursuit of spiritual connection, of greater consciousness and equanimity, what Tibetan Lama Trungpa Rinpoche dubbed as spiritual materialists.

“In the sixties, when we first encountered Eastern ideas of enlightenment, we expected to be personally enlightened in a matter of a month, a year, or a decade at most. …but now in the mid-eighties we have come to appreciate the fine print in the Eastern texts… We have learned patience and humility and an understanding that we practice dharma without attachment to the goal”  —Grist preface.

Ram Dass attempts to share with us “the unspeakable” to “know what is not knowable. … For ultimately we will transcend knowing.” from Grist, a pioneer who forged new psychological territory in the West by bringing from the East,  translations of teachings of eastern mysticism of the westerner.

Ram Dass drifted into the Death and Dying Project late ’70s and co-wrote a book with Stephen Levine, “Grist for the Mill” documenting one-on-one work with death & dying and the spiritual path. The project created innovative hotlines for the terminally ill, as well as centers, the 1st in Santa Cruz? Groundbreaking videos of the project were filmed in Berkeley.

In the early ’80s, Ram Dass traveled extensively, visiting monks and religious centers around the world. “The eighties are the sixties twenty years later.” Wavy Gravy once quipped to Ram Dass. During the ’80s & ’90s, Dass lent his name and energies to a series of charities and volunteer projects, and was also the most sought after speaker for new age conferences, workshops, the lecture circuit and events where he was “known for ability to convey mystical ideas with lucidity, humor and grace.”  (Don Lattin, 5/26/97, SF Chronicle).

After his stroke in February of ’97, those closest to him said the loss of language was the most frustrating aspect. If you listen with patience, the old message still gets through; he communicates with what he calls the “eloquence with silence.”

AGING AND THE HUMAN SPIRIT” WITH RAM DASS: SERVANT OF GOD

at the First Church of Religious Science, Oakland Hills, Spring Equinox, 1999

A Tibetan bowl rings in the silence of the day: pulsation of sound resonates midpoint between the ears, that primal space we call the mind/brain-ego, where Ram Dass’ blood betrayed him with the genetics of age. A “stroke of genius” in February, ‘97, left him paralyzed, without language, just as he was rewriting a book: “Conscious Aging.” Roses and fire lilies burn on the proscenium, the altar.

They wheel him in up the ramp. What was I expecting? A shell of a man? Non-presence? A Stephen Hawkins style imprisonment? Stroke or no, this man, spiritual teacher of a generation, is fully present, shedding light. A pink camellia, heart-open, on his denim jacket. His right hand strapped down to the arm of the wheelchair.

This is the second lecture of the day for the former Harvard professor and psychologist. The emcee said that the first gathering was also standing room only. Ram Dass, a.k.a. Richard Alpert, can still pack them in. Ram Dass burst onto the national psyche in 1963 when he and Timothy Leary were fired from Harvard for taking LSD; he met up with Allan Ginsberg, and traveled extensively to India and beyond in search of a drug-free enlightenment, where he became a disciple of Indian guru, Neem Karoli Baba. In 1971, he penned his experiences and insight on meditation and East-West mysticism in the landmark book, “Be Here Now.”

(Last time I saw the 68-year-old self-styled counter-culture guru, Baba Ram Dass, was presiding at a sold-out Timothy Leary benefit at College of Marin in the early ’70s; we were literally sprawled at his feet on the gym floor and there he swayed creaked above us, like a young redwood sapling in the storm. At times like this, I wonder why do I merely recall the mundane proximity of his new lily-white sneakers? And not what he said.

Memory dusts off and replays a tape unused for a quarter of a century: Alan Ginsburg chants, his lover, Peter Orlofsky sings a dirty ditty; Alan’s sitar whining about altered states. I begin to remember more.

A mantra gathered us in, like the hearth. Whether he was there, or in prison, or on the lam from a LSD-fueled event, former Harvard co-professor Timothy Leary was present. We chanted: “God Bless Timothy Leary.” At the end of the talk, Ram Dass singles us out and hugs us: an impromptu Be Here Now-in with Ken Kesey’s busload of Merry Pranksters illegally parked in the loaded zone, collecting cosmic fares in the galleries of the soul… But then, in the late ’60s and early ’70s, Marin was that kind of place: dharma bums and  Diggers.)

You can read or download “Be Here Now” here. Free! Nope. HarperCollins had it removed. Sorry. There’s always the library. And I bet it’s on audiobook, too.

This time we’re far better dressed (and well-heeled, from the look of it), prettily sitting in church pews. Aging Baby Boomers, we spontaneously rise: a standing wave of welcome surges through the church as they wheel him in. Richard Alpert is still ineffably Ram Dass, as I remembered him. 

The Reverend Joan Steadman reads off Alpert’s curriculum vita: Impatient, we watch her mouth slow words down like “psychologist” and “sociologist.” She adds to the list: a Ph.D. in human motivation and development, from Weslyan; teacher at Harvard, Stanford, and UC Berkeley; he expanded consciousness and LSD. 

The packed audience perks up. Ram Dass smiles, nods at us knowingly. (We’ve all been there.) The audience laughs knowingly. Speaking of Be Here Now; how many of us found this event via the grapevine? Many of us raise our hands. Some of us at the very last minute. We overhear some blue-haired church patrons ask: “Who is this Ram Dass anyway?” We giggle. Odd bedfellows, we. It’s going to be a wild sleigh ride.

The Reverend continues, “He was dismissed from Harvard—which was a blessing.” Utterly delighted (for there’s no other way to describe the radiance emanating from his face), Ram Dass slaps his good left hand to his knee; we crack up. 

She lists more stats: He went to India…she mentions various gurus. Baba Ram Dass means “Servant of God… Mentions his lifelong seva, the Hanuman Foundation: the Dying Project, the Prison Ashram Project, the SEVA Foundation. She gets down to the wire: “in February of ’97 he was ‘stroked. Coining Ram Dass’ own etymology, she explains to us how speech aphasia works, and introduces the remains of the day (for we’ve crashed the gates of this church en masse): spiritual dimensions of suffering and aging. Service as a spiritual path.

From his chrome-wheeled chariot-throne, he surveys us: his loyal subjects. Sets the tone with a moment of silence: we lean toward him, not knowing what to expect. The roots of cognizance? or Babel-speak… 

Eloquent Ram Dass, once one of the most sought after speakers on the New Age circuit, observes us to see if we’re up to snuff. The internet becomes the day’s topical metaphor by which to surf this event that ranges from the physics of the stroke and doctor-gods, and being caught between incarnations, to the metaphysics of the sanctum of the inner journey…

“The ground rules of speech…” He haltingly searches for a bridge in the neuron pathways so that his words may migrate to our nascent ears. “Because of the aphasia (a silence follows)… That’s it! The sickness… Every time I search for the word… because it’s… The damage is close to the dressing room for me. I dress them in words. Inside (he points to his head),… Inside I know what to say, but… 

(A series of false starts; we begin our job as active listeners by filling in the connective tissue of language. He is patiently waiting for us, his errant spiritual children to get it! I make good use of parentheses and ellipses because translation of synapses into synopses is less interesting than the unexpurgated poetics of aphasia, and I resist the temptation to polish or fix his speech; this writing inadvertantly documents how he must struggle to convey an idea with a minimum of words.)

“Now that… those silences… I make use of them… The first part of the silence, say… five minutes or so (he exaggerates and shrugs as if apologetically, then instructs us on how to listen, really listen), I look for the word… And you can look for the word too! (We giggle.) I’m looking for an interaction. People. Their word is as good as mine…I start to surf the silences on the outside, it gets me high because I’m surfing the silence. It surfs in and in and in. I get to the crux of me, and I get to the silent self. (He is extraordinarily present, razor-honed. I can hear the structure and craft the paragraph and punctuation in his slow speech; I’m able to enscribe what he says, almost verbatim.)

“We are each so many selves. In ‘I,’ what does ‘I’ mean? I-ego? I-soul? I-God? So, when you look at somebody… I can look at all of you… it’s a redundancy as far as God: god god god god (he repeats, pointing to each of us: mirror-images). It’s interesting looking out at another person. You look at me, I’m in a wheelchair, I’m a wheelchair-er! (We giggle at the verbing.) looki g at you. And you have reactions to that. That’s my role. 

Then, there is Ram Dass. Yech! Ooooh! (we snortle with laughter) Ahhhhh,” he says, looking up at us beseechingly. His good left hand is laden with puns, it dances and orchestrates a subtext of linguistic imagery from God-like inspiration to stick shifts. In the ensuing silence that follows, I surf the idea of dexter-sinister: how the church fathers delegated the left hand to be the Devil’s own domain. It seems God too, is a Merry Prankster.

Valentine orphans (art) (no date)

Valentine orphans (art) (no date)

1998?

In an attempt to ameliorate what I do have scanned, or have photos of, I'm in the process of adding art to my blog, posting most work in a given year on Dec 1 of that year, and valentines, on VD!

I'm trying to figure out when I did the tulip pastel, as it has a floppy disk in it! I'm guessing 95-97. Ditto with the pastel self-portrait. I was feeling a bit blue.... I know where it was drawn, in Forestville, which means it's probably from before 1997.

LOL I caught my characteristic right eye half-lidded droop. It's a lazy little bastard, always shirking its duty, I finally resorted to extensive eye tests at UC Berkeley, and discovered it's more of a brain thing....which means I have to wear glasses to correct it...circular file.


I had won a massive double-decker Derwent pastel color pencil set from Riley Street and was test-driving the pencils,  getting the hang of the medium. The tulips was my first ever pastel on black paper, and this is my 2nd attempt to see what all the fuss was about with pencil pastels. Ultimately they're too refined for my taste (but good for adding detail), I like a more painterly approach. Messy, chaotic, really get into it. After, all I used to eat my mother's white paint, expecting it to be vanilla ice cream.

I'm uncovering a lot of old scanned art photos as I add bits to fill out my blog. Wish I had dated it.These pieces have me stymied as to date.

2/14/2017

"Art From the Heart" Art Auction 2/1999

"Art From the Heart" Art Auction at Sonoma State University Art Gallery

Saturday, February 13, 1999, marks the date for the fifteenth annual "Art from the Heart" silent art auction and party at the Sonoma State University Art Gallery, from 6 to 9 p.m. Proceeds from the auction, now one of the longest-running fundraising events in the region, directly benefit the art gallery's exhibition, publication, and lecture programs. 

Each year, hundreds of art lovers gather at the Art Gallery to view and bid on works of art created especially for this auction, as well as bottles of wine, stays at inns and hotels, and other items generously donated by local merchants. 

This year more than 150 artists from the North Bay and across the country have donated original works of art, including Seyed Alavi, Chester Arnold, Ray Beldner, Rebecca Bollinger, Pegan Brooke, Poe Dismuke, Chris Finley, Cynthia Hipkiss, Charles Hobson, Maureen Hurley, Tony King, Hung Liu, Robert McCauley, Yoshitomo Saito, JoeSam, Sylvia Seventy, Steven Sorman, Marg Starbuck, Jack Stuppin, and John Watrous.

Further support for the auction comes from Benzinger Vineyards, Carneros Creek Winery, Cinnabar Theater, Cline Cellars, Clos Pegase, Copperfield's of Petaluma, Geyser Peak Winery, Gloria Ferrer Champagne Caves, Kenwood Vineyards, Korbel Champagne Cellars, Landmark Vineyards, Out to Lunch Catering, Quicksilver Mine Company, Rosemarie's Massage Center, See's Candies, Sonoma Creek Winery, Sonoma Valley Inn, Wolf Coffee Company, and ZD Wines.

Delicious food and wine will be served, and a $5 donation is suggested at the door. For more information, please call the Sonoma State University Art Gallery at (707) 664-2295.

Here's a link to the 2009 SSU auction. It's the 25th year! Wow.

If you change the date, the link will take you to that year's archived web page.
http://www.sonoma.edu/artgallery/heart/heart2001.html (2001 is as far back as it goes). Someday I'll scan the invites.

NOTE BENE: Finding this press release/flyer from 10 years ago was a blast from the past! I've participated in every "Art from the Heart" art auction since its inception ca. 1984—I think I only missed one year. 


My work always sells well. I think that during the quarter of a century I've participated in this art auction—only 5 pieces didn't sell. It's an odd way to get your work out into the public. But it's pretty much my only venue as I don't show or sell my work in galleries. I'm from the "Paint what you like and die happy" school.


My name isn't on some of the SSU invitations as I was always last minute in getting my work in (some things never change). Besides, it's hard to get enthusiastic over making valentines in December. Try it sometime.

In scanning the participating artist names, I realized that, at the time, I didn't even know who Oakland's Chinese artist Hung Liu was. I used a lot of her work and the KQED-SPARK artist interview DVD for my art residency at Cleveland Elementary School in Oakland. 


More connections: I went to high school with Poe Dismuke—Jeanette's twin brother. Chester Arnold was in my painting class at College of Marin with Marty Stoelzel, as was JoeSam—who later moved to Forest Knolls—where I grew up. 


I used to give Chester rides home from Marty's painting class—he lived at the top of Wolfe Grade in San Rafael. Completely out of my way. But Chester was—er, maddeningly Chester. I had a car, he needed a ride. Ergo, we went. No use arguing with that.


SF Gate review on Chester with a painting of his old Marin studio.


Tony King and Jack Stuppin (along with Bill Wheeler, and Bill Moorehouse) are part of the Sonoma County plein aire painters group I interviewed and wrote reviews for The California Museum of Art in Santa Rosa, that appeared in The Western Sonoma County Paper during the 1980s and 1990s.

My College of Marin art teacher, Marty Stoelzel & Frederick, ca. 1989. Marty always did like blondes.

NB2: According to this kooky website, (where I got the photo from), Marty Stoelzel died about 15 years ago—an amazing (if, nutty) man. I learned more about the nuts and bolts of painting and drawing from Marty in junior college than from any art teachers in the CSU college system (SF & SSU). Don't even get me started on Bob Bechtle! (Though I very much liked the SPARK artist interview—it did wonders repatriating me to his work).

Art from the Heart

Auction at University Art Gallery 2/99

Auction at University Art Gallery

Saturday, February 13, 1999, marks the date for the fifteenth annual "Art from the Heart" silent art auction and party at the University Art Gallery, from 6 to 9 p.m. Proceeds from the auction, now one of the longest-running fundraising events in the region, directly benefit the art gallery's exhibition, publication, and lecture programs. 

Each year, hundreds of art lovers gather at the Art Gallery to view and bid on works of art created especially for this auction, as well as bottles of wine, stays at inns and hotels, and other items generously donated by local merchants. 

This year more than 150 artists from the North Bay and across the country have donated original works of art, including Seyed Alavi, Chester Arnold, Ray Beldner, Rebecca Bollinger, Pegan Brooke, Poe Dismuke, Chris Finley, Cynthia Hipkiss, Charles Hobson, Maureen Hurley, Tony King, Hung Liu, Robert McCauley, Yoshitomo Saito, JoeSam, Sylvia Seventy, Steven Sorman, Marg Starbuck, Jack Stuppin, and John Watrous.

Further support for the auction comes from Benzinger Vineyards, Carneros Creek Winery, Cinnabar Theater, Cline Cellars, Clos Pegase, Copperfield's of Petaluma, Geyser Peak Winery, Gloria Ferrer Champagne Caves, Kenwood Vineyards, Korbel Champagne Cellars, Landmark Vineyards, Out to Lunch Catering, Quicksilver Mine Company, Rosemarie's Massage Center, See's Candies, Sonoma Creek Winery, Sonoma Valley Inn, Wolf Coffee Company, and ZD Wines.

Delicious food and wine will be served, and a $5 donation is suggested at the door. For more information, please call the Sonoma State University Art Gallery at (707) 664-2295. 

Robert Burns Nicht

You’re invited to celebrate

Robert Burns Nicht

on Sunday, January 24th, 1999, at 4 PM with

Neil O’Neill, Chieftain o’ the Puddin’ Race.

THE FARIN’

Innumerable Toasts to the Lassies

Cock-a-Leekie

Immortal Memory Toast

Chieftain o’ the Puddin’

Neeps & Nips

Roastin Stirk w’a’the trimmin’s

Tipsy Laird

Kabbuck an’ Oatcakes

The Loyal Toast

A Wee Dram, Coffee & Tea

Shortbread

€€€

Please wear something plaid

(knickers don’t count unless you plan to air them),

Bring a potluck dish,

(see other side for traditional suggestions)

a favorite Burns poem and a song to share

Please RSVP in broad Lowland Scots accent

Traditional menu suggestions

to pique your cooking talents:

• Cock-a-Leekie (leek & potato soup), Scotch Broth (barley soup),

Bawd Bree (hare soup), Nessie-Tomato Soup 

• Haggis • 

or 

Roastit Beef, Roastit Bubbly-Jock (turkey) & trimmin’s, Herring , Salmon 

• Champit Tatties (mashed potatoes); Bashed Neeps (turnips), 

Clapchaw (bashed neeps w’ tatties) 

• Hatit Kit (curded milk), Apple Frashie (tart), Sherry Trifle, Scotch Trifle, 

Tipsy Laird (guess the main ingredient) 

• Kabbuck o’ Cheese (Ayrshire Dunlop Cheese), Crowdie (cream cheese), 

(Robert Burns would’ve approved of a favorite local Cheese as well) 

• Bannocks , Oatcakes, Scones, Shortbreads 

-or - 

You may also bring your favorite Potluck Dish 

& 

Your favorite single malt, bevvie & designated drinker (shaken, not stirred). 

(Please label your innovative masterpiece in broad Lowland Scots dialect.) 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 

And some wad eat that want it: 

But we hae meat and we can eat 

And sae the Lord be thankit. 

                       —Robert Burns b. 25 Jan. 1759; d.21 July 1796

(t'wood be nice to find the actual flyer)

BURNS SUPPER - Sequence of Events

   1. 4 - 5:45 PM  Hors d’Ouevres & drinks. Guests put food at appropriate food stations.

Remind guests to hold onto their labled glasses!

   2.  6 PM:   Chairman's speech to welcome company. 

Guests queue up glasses for toast (10 min.) Guests reassemble.

   3.  6:15PM:   Then Burns's Selkirk Grace follows: 

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

   4.     Chairman invites company to rise/welcome haggis being piped in. (David Winter)

   5.     Once haggis is placed on table, chef (me) & piper (David) have drink & leave. 

   6   6:25   Address to haggis given (Neil); company toasts haggis & it is cut open. 

   7.     Company eats buffet style meal.

   8.     Coffee served and Chairman announces an interval (usually 10 to 15 minutes), when company can relax before entertainment and speeches begin, etc. 

   9.   7:15- 7:30PM Immortal Memory by speaker (Jarion Monroe?)

  10.   Toast to the Lassies.

  11.    Now entertainment begins (songs and poems etc), after which the Chairman calls on company to sing "Auld Lang Syne"  at 9 PM.

  12.  9:30 Goodbyes.

Reading List: Medieval Celtic Culture 500-1500 AD; Melia

Medieval Celtic Culture 500- 1500 AD; 
Prof. Daniel Melia, Rhetoric
(Full participation/grade/audit: A)
SPRING 1999  Celtic Studies 128 (4 units), 

A study of medieval Celtic culture, its society, laws, religion, history, and the daily life of the Celtic peoples, as they are reflected in a selection of texts ranging from medieval literary works to legal texts and historical chronicles. “The past is another country; they do things differently there.” How did they do things in the medieval world? Who were”they” anyway? We will review existing evidence of daily life: law, literature, religion, family life. We will look at the question of modern reconstruction of the Celtic past. Is the past merely an artifact of the present?  How can we judge the validity of our scattered and difficult sources?

TEXTS:

A Short History of Wales-- Dodd

Mabinogion & Other Tales--Ford

Oxford History of Ireland--Foster

Táin Bó Culaigne --Thos Kinsella

Confessions of St. Patrick _-tr Skinner

Tripartite Life of St Patrick


This class was intense, I poured my all into it, and Dan, Himself, was magnificent, so glad I got to spend time with him (as an overeager older student....I was burning with the desire to learn. Amergin's flame in the head, was a bonfire.)

I eventually plan to transcribe my Celtic Studies class notes, so this post is a placeholder (as well as a reading list). A reminder, a smack in the gob. What brought this on: I was asked to do a lecture on Celtic Bardic Poetry at Sacramento Poetry Center, and a) I was far too long gone from this material, b) I couldn't put my hands on the notes, but I at least still had some of the books. and TG for the internet. So many texts are now online (not so in 1999). I was able to reconstruct what I needed. But it was almost as bad as reinventing the wheel.   —MH 11/2015

COLUMBA’S CURE

King Bridei’s druid summoned up the wrath of the weather 

against Columba and so that the winds went against him. 

Loch Ness was an angry sea. No Christianity would land that day.
But Columba invoked Christ's name and sailed into the wind.

Christ is my druid, said Saint Columba, who sent a curse, an angel had struck the cup from Broichan’s hand. He fell gravely ill.
Word arrived and Columba sent a cure to King Bridei of Inverness.
He sent a charmed white stone from the mouth of the River Ness
as a cure to heal Bridei’s ailing druid, Broichan.
But only if he released the Irish slavegirl. When he finally said yes,
the white pebble floated to the top of the cup like a dove.
The moral victory of the cross is translated from the past, said Columba.
Briochan drank the water poured over the stone and was cured.
It is not known if he embraced Christianity or merely lost the power struggle,
it is clear they were cut from the same cloth. But he lived to see another day.
On the day King Bridei died, the stone returned to the mouth of the  river.

1/99 ( could be 12/ 98)
rev 6/00

THE YEW

It is said yew roots grow 

from the mouths of the dead.
Yew stakes were driven
between the star-crossed lovers,
Naoise and Deirdre, to keep them apart.
It did not bode well for them.
The roots drink deep from the dead
And speak of arrows, the letter of death.
The yew is a firm, strong God,
the word of a pure man, resurrection
planted in ancient graveyards.
Ogham was written on yew rods,
the sacred eburus tree was an ancestor,
the final I am in the highest arcana of trees.
The yew marks the places of death.
I have eaten the blood red berries
of the yew on a dare, and lived,
their toxic seeds hidden in my hand.

1/99
rev 6/00

Pesach silkscarf

I made this 6 foot silk scarf for Neil's mum in Scotland. I don't think she liked it as she never wore it. So eventually I asked Neil to bring it back so I could document it as I had no photos of it. This was a collaged color xerox, you can see the pieces. So it's a placeholder. Before the invention of digital cameras, documenting silk art was a nightmare as you had to find a way to get the entire piece in focus. in once shot and not be blurry. I found the color xerox at Krishna Copy on Telegraph to do the best job. But then there was no way to xerox anything wider than 8.5 inches, and the scarf was wider than 9 inches.

Flower: silk painting (art) 1998

 I couldn't get decent photos of my silk pieces, and digital cameras hadn't yet been invented, so I color-xeroxed my art. A precursor to the digital camera! I used embroidery hoops to hold the silk in place, and then removed the hoop when I was done painting. It was the only solution at the time as the Chinese metal hoops hadn't yet been invented.

THE LAST OF HIS CLAN

The voice moved up the hill, 

the woman, crying. 

When grandfather died, 

all week long it went on. 

We got used to it. 

All around his bed, 

the birds, singing, singing. 

Old Donaugh Sullivan Beir, 

he was the last of the clan 

before the English came.

No date, no clue other than it was written in my fancy day planner, with notes about Bob Hass’s 20th century pleasures. Which doesn’t help because it was published in 1997, and I didn’t write that essay until 1998. Most of these poems in this journal are from 1979 to 1983. I was devastated when I lost that planner, it was one of those tasty refillable ones with small binder clips so you could move stuff around.