One (a virtuosity of vices)

One, a vice of one? One needs a virtuosity of vices … A symphony… Virtue /vice – reminds me too much of biblical leanings. One is the loneliest number one… Oh, piss off ear candy! Get over it. Everybody's happy writing from the attribute of virtue/ vice—except me. I can't get to the next level. Begin again. Now, I'm caught up in word puns and silly rhymes, and God forbid: pop songs  (number one)– partially because I'm so stressed. One. To contemplate. I like one, I like its aloneness, the way it stands like a sacred stone. An "I am." I like the color and the sound of it – and synesthesia strikes again. One is silver-white, and casts a pale shadow of glacial ice, it rings like a silver bell, or like that melodic crash of ice crystals. The queen of Narnia is a one. Cate Blanchett is an ice maiden, cruel, ruthless, and alone in her sleigh is a One. Always winter. I yawn, my ears pop, finally after several days of pain. I can hear. One-eared, I was. No dulcet duet of sound. Singing in pitch was problematic when sound was a singular one. I had to rely on memory. Now I can hear every single thing. The sound of paper rustling, like an avalanche, the rough scratching of pens in unison, a scratch of pens, one in unison. One, I am one.

8/25/06 Writers' Group

Filial love

What we heard, was filos, as in philosophy, not love of children for their parents. As usual, I find it problematic writing from virtuous ashram-inspired prompts. I wish we had moved onto another exercise. Months of this, and as a writer, I hunger for the particular over the abstract, the profane over the sacred. Writing from abstraction, and is an anethma, even an enema. There, I’ve used an abstract word in a sentence. Try to describe abstract in concrete detail. Filial, finial, final. Earlier, we were talking about the kinky metier of cultures, the Japanese and British won, hands down. Lauren tells me about Japanese women dressing up as schoolgirls. I can’t fathom the concept of child porn or pedophiles. We were talking of Peter Greenway, Being Peter Greenway is not a movie I’d want to watch. Images, you can’t shake off, once you’ve seen them, there is no undo—like that scene in Reservoir Dogs where Christopher Walken pulls the pocketwatch out of his ass… This is censorable writing. I can’t read it to the group now. And I am so off-topic, it’s almost funny. I’m still lost in junk. Love. Love of children, for their parents, or vice versa? Back to the vice squad. Again. Bell. Out of time. Three minutes of contemplation that I don’t want to contemplate. My head hurts. I didn’t do my assignment. I’m off task and I am not interested in writing about filial love so I blew it off. Blow it off. Taboo, be a bad girl. Be ornery. Fuck the rules. Get it? Saved by the bell. Again. Shit. Five more minutes of this and I’m stuck in this boring superficial freewrite. Waste of time. My time. Time is what I make of it. I have only myself to blame. Role reversal. Teach kids. I love them. Sick of them. Same breath. When I was a child… The other day, a dog bit Neil when he was in the recording studio. Not his pretty face, but close. So much for the fidelity of Fido. The kids, what about them? Their love for the dog, Dexter, whose days are now numbered, the aching, moral dilemma. Put the dog down? Kids will howl and weep for the loss of their beloved playmate. But now the question is raised. Fido was an infidel. The parents’ love for their children, to protect them against danger, imagined, or otherwise. A deep bond. Man’s best friend, but this time, the dog loses.

8/25/06 Writers’ Group

The tango

The Argentinian tango. That dip and sway, and turn of heads away from each other, as if the presence of the other was too much to bear. The passion caught between the side steps of the tango, a rose between his teeth. I imagined dancing with Antonio Banderas, in tight, black pants, Matador style, embroidered as having step from the bull arena onto the dance floor. And me in ruffled silk petticoats slit up to hip level, pointing a leg skyward, then caught in the dip and sway. A fairytale romance, having ridden in after a long day on the Argentinian plain. The Pampas is in his blood. But with Argentina comes the dictators and the repression. Isabel Allende wrote how the tango was banned in Chile, an in Argentina too, because of the passion it aroused and unleashed in the populace. She said, couples danced the tango in the streets, in sheer defiance, because to dance was to keep alive the memory. A pathetic act, but in this way, they kept alive that memory, and hope that that tender flame of freedom, as light tended in the secret places for the darkness of the coming years. Meanwhile, here in America on the other end of the globe, we clumsily watch the dismantling of our freedom, of our country, thinking oh, it can’t happen here on the 20th anniversary of publishing 1984. But in the ear, and the rush of blood cells tintinnabulating. It begins with the lost strains of the tango.

No date Writers’ Group

The color of silence

Silence, so profound you can hear the angels dancing on pinhead, doing that old soft shoe. What you were expecting, Swan Lake? Yes, ballet more suits the dancing angels, than vaudeville, but my angels tended to be an irreverent lot, was it because the nuns told us we had to leave a space on the pew between us for our guardian angels? That I began to put together an odd tapestry of faith? I couldn’t imagine my guardian angel sitting there with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs or wings, or whatever they do when they we were stuck in church, each isolated from the other by one body width. I was never sure how much space to leave on the pew on account of their wingspan and all. Then I got worried about the technical details, and I forgot why I was there. Sure, the nuns’ ploy worked, silence was golden, silence was maintained, but I began to see they were busy breaking God‘s rules just to keep us under a tight rein. When it came to maintaining orders, they were so busy making up white lies, they never suspected that the bottom was dropping out of my faith. Or at least my ability to believe. But, even at the age of four, I had a mind like a steel trap. If someone said something that tried my logic, I turned it over and over again and struggled with a dichotomy, having no place to put it, it made me a silent, contemplative child, distrustful of adults who told the most preposterous lies and expected me to believe them. Like the time my uncle took my nose and showed me his thumb. I knew it was his thumb, but he insisted it was my nose, so I felt it, and it was right where it always was. Then there was the time when the nun said God was crying because we were being so bad in church. That’s why it was raining. My mind was working on other possibilities and if God‘s tears were raining, then maybe he was just pissing on us for our stupidity. The erosion of faith. I wonder about Mary. And what about the fib where the world is flat? Where if you walk too far, you would fall off the end of the earth into the void? Is it visible or invisible? Would I fall into the void, though it looked to be made of substance? Then there’s the Soviet system of keep silence and don’t question, don’t rock the boat, don’t voice opinions. But the dichotomy comes when you can no longer keep silent for your own safety and well-being. When atrocities were being committed in our name, like now with the Iraqi war. Silence is the color of blood. The angels are having trouble finding room on the pinhead, there’s no dancing at all just the vulgar boatman shuffle. Poisonous silence descends. Be still in my beating heart. I found the sublime state of silence as I rode my horse on the back country fire trails. The empty bowl of faith was found in nature, not in the houses of God. Angels in the wind. Silence, a tremble of wings. Silence of early morning, the sound of sunlight, through a window pain, a tranquil, brief moment before the onslaught of the day.  

6/30/06 Writers’ Group

Write about the best time you’ve ever had

Best time… So many to choose from. Where to even begin? This is the throat clearing. There have been moments that are sublime, hard, earned ones, where, after a struggle I’ve been exalted—like the time the fog parted at the Sungate of Machu Picchu, the sacred city emerged, and later that day, after we had hoisted ourselves up the robust cable to the peak above the city, to the temple of the sun and moon. 

There were times we had to crawl through live rock passages carved by Inca hands. Passages where you had to stoop over and if you were the enemy, your head was smitten off as you stood there. The narrow passages were like keyholes, birth chambers or entrances to other worlds. And once you passed through that portal, you were irrevocably changed, you could never go back to who you were. 

Soon, we arrived at the temple, an alter of stone. Huaca del Sol, and as we gazed back on that sacred city time converged. When I was a child, I loved to read my grandmother‘s secret books on the bookshelf near her bed. I remember her reading Hiram Bingham‘s story of Machu Picchu. I used to gaze at the cover, it was a cheap pulp fiction pocketbook older than I was, with edges turned mahogany over time. 

At that moment, looking down at the city, time converged, but before we left for the Andes, my grandmother had already died. And I was heartsick, devastated, my world had fallen apart. She was my anchor, my foundation. The woman who raised me from childhood, because my mother was insane, not cut out for motherhood. 

When I was young, she left me and my young brother on the doorstep like foundlings. Better there than on a church step. This was how I discovered I had a brother. One hot summer morning, there he was, crying. She literally had dumped him and ran. I was so insanely jealous, because my grandmother spent all her time with the baby. I was four going on five but genetics linked us as surely as it did to my granny. 

At the temple of the sun, I cut a lock of hair with an old brass pocket knife of my grandfather’s, with its worn mother of pearl handle, and dull brass hasps where the pearl had broken off. It made a strange sawing sound as it severed a chunk of hair so close to my left ear, I was leaving a genetic marker on top of the dolman. 

Dolman, and old-world term for a new world marker of the spirit world. These were portals, markers to the underworld. Rocks raised as huacas, as alters on the ceiling of the world. Dolman in Ireland. Huaca here, but the same intent the world over and I was standing with a foot in two, maybe three worlds. The old world, and the southern world on the new continent. The new world south of the equator.

Standing on the equator that was another euphoric moment. Standing with the foot straddling two hemispheres was astounding, but was I traveling for myself or for my grandmother? Was I my grandmother‘s eyes, traveling to places I had never been, living the life she never had, because in her era it was never possible? 

She was caught up in the realm of the last vestiges of the Victorian Age where women were wives, and they had children. They didn’t vote, but she had her suffragette dreams to write and paint and live alone in a bee-loud glade. 

Wanting to please her, I lived the life she never had. I was seeing the world, I was bearing witness to the wonders of the world. But she was dead, gone, past, and only with the spirit realm was she bearing witness to what I saw with these mortal eyes. 

I placed the thick strands of my hair, tinted with fire, so like her own hair as to be nearly indistinguishable on the stone altar, placing white crystal rocks gleaned from our lower field in Forest Knolls, after heavy rainfall when the gopherholes became conduits for the rain runoff, leaving white quartz treasures in the small alluvial fans that framed each hole. Small quartz teeth of the mountain to hold down my hair in this strange land.

6/26/06 Writers’ Group

Waiting for Grace

We are waiting, waiting with, waiting for... Prepositions aside, we are always a juxtaposition. Just suppose.  I’m waiting, something I’m not very good at. Not a happy camper. So I learn to be a modified bag lady for the infrequent doctor visits, I hate the waiting room. True Godot. Where is Estragon when you need him? 

There are so many forms of waiting, we hardly notice, we are so programmed. Patient sheep. I usually bring a snack, some water, a novel, a notepad, receipts, handcream. Anything to keep me entertained. Not a purse, mind you. All the purse-like vitals go into my front pocket. A purse is a big target.

The deal I had made with myself in order to be an artist in residence was to carry the absolute minimum. Be at the ready because danger, though always present, was never clear. I travel through so many dicey neighborhoods. Hunter's Point is the absolute worst, not a good place for white folks to aimlessly wander. 

My second cousin, Pat D'Arcy, a redhead who lived in the dicy hood, gained serious street cred and respect when he pulled out a chainsaw to cut up some cardboard boxes. They gave him a wide berth after that. 

I drove a rickety old truck named Blue Lazarus, the back filled with art supplies. I had no cell phone, no way to contact the outside world if things went south. But the deal was I could walk into the school with whatever I had in my pockets. My backpack was merely a decoy. The goods were always on me. 

Always carry your money close. Something I picked up in South America. Keep your valuables in your front pockets because the razoristas were true artists and they could slice a back pocket open in seconds and you couldn’t feel a thing. No blood. Backpacks were an easy target. We wore our daypacks in front like kangaroos pouches. There’s always a lot of waiting around when you travel, in transito, todo el Mundo. 

One time we were traveling from the Petén jungle of Tikál enroute to El Salvador, but the US invaded Honduras. Tegucigalpa. And there we were, stuck in transito, call it purgatory, and everyone was on the move, with nowhere to go. Nothing like a little US sanctioned banana republic war to spice things up. We waited a very long time in the Guatemalan airport greasing the palms of airline clerks with morditas to get a seat on the plane to anywhere. We weren't choosy. 

Guatemala City was already uneasy, seething with hostility—and twice now, grace waited with us. Once, outside Atitlán, the guerrillas were disappearing tourists and the Guatemalan Army was pulling people off buses and shooting them. They pulled over the bus in front, and the one behind, but not our bus. We walked with grace. We were allowed to travel onward. In the Petén Jungle the Guatemalan Army stopping us again but we were allowed to continue onward. We were waiting with grace there too. 

At the airport luck followed us a third time. We bore witness to first, and second-hand stories of the ones who were not so lucky. The man who gave us a lift out of the Petén Jungle after our taxi man abandoned us 40 km from civilization. He was searching for a sister who is a nurse. We never found out if she was one of the lucky ones or like us, or one of the disappeared. 

The journey goes ever forward and we will never wait we never waited for Grace. We kept moving on, Grace was within us. But for years I couldn’t stop dreaming of snipers in the jungle waiting for us. We were walking charmed life 

6/16 2006 Writers' Group

Power shopping

Well, you said mundane and I was already spooked by the temptation of the sacred so I picked the most mundane, if not least important part of my day. Being at Costco with only 20 minutes to spare, to shop for staples, and to return the furry bagels, all green in their penicillin splendor. I blindly grabbed a handful of receipts this morning in the dark, hoping one of them was last week's Costco receipt. 

In the parking lot, after I tanked up—why does Neil let the tank go dry, then randomly reset the trip odometer, and never records the results, let alone, fill the tank? So at 6 AM, as we sped down the freeway we didn't know how much gas was left in the tank because my gas gauge doesn’t work. The meter lies somewhere near the 1/3 tank mark leaving us guessing as to how much gas is actually in the tank. 

I can’t stand the suspense, we are running late and Shell is open, but I don’t like Shell's politics in South Africa. They helped invent apartheid. But we only buy 1 gallon to assuage the gods. I still don’t buy grapes out of respect to the César Chavez strike way back in the 1970s, but when it comes to wine I’m suddenly myopic. I don’t see past the rim of my wine glass. 

It made me think of other gas stations where I hunt for the best deals online before the gas gas goes up another $.10. But I digress, so I'm in Costco slaloming around the leisurely paced shoppers who have all the time in the world. One woman yells to her mother: Coming through! as I careened around the corner, and I thanked them. I say I’m power shopping. Don’t worry I don’t drive like this. But wait, I do! I ram it down the aisles, snagging snacks enroute to the counter. In and out in 20 minutes, a world record. I broke my own personal best. 

But the woman in front of me was in suspended animation time. She slowly picked up each item contemplating it as if it were a rare jewel, taking it up to the conveyor belt, leaving no room for me whatsoever. So, when her head was turned, I shoved her stuff closer together, slicing my thumb on a plastic package of tomatoes. There, I’ve even given blood to the god of power shopping. I will race to the school and Neil will be 45 minutes late. I will sit in the sun hot sun in the parking lot and take a deep breath. Breathe.

6/3/06 Writers' Group

wax resist watercolor fish (art)

wax resist watercolor fish, in class demos.

Arthur Boericke Obituary

From the Independent Journal

Arthur Boericke was an original and daring thinker and person. He was an advocate for unorthodox creativity in architecture -- elliptically bringing both away and towards the mainstream. He published several seminal books including 'Handmade Houses' -- a classic. He also was involved in the formation of the Farralones Institute, and was a supporter and adviser to Sim Van Der Ryn. He was born August 27th,1927 to Arthur and Edith Boericke, owners of Boericke and Runyon Pharmaceuticals. Arthur's grandfather was William Boericke, MD, author of the 'Materia Medica' which remains the primary reference for all things homeopathic. Arthur is survived -- and loved -- by many, many of us. We will celebrate him on Saturday, April 22nd, 2006 at 1:00 p.m. Call Sarah Howard for information about the Celebration 415-663-9778.

Published in Marin Independent Journal from Apr. 13 to Apr. 16, 2006I didn't hear of this until much later, and am sorry I missed it. This is a reference stub, something I need to get back to later.

Handmade Houses: A Guide to the Woodbutcher's Art, Arthur Boericke and Barry Shapiro (1973, Scrimshaw Press, A & W Publishers). I used to go on driving expeditions with Arthur as he was writing the book, in Marin, Sonoma, and Mendocino. We both had a red Volvo panel van.

Visible Spectrum

"Go deeper," he said. As if I needed prompting. All that azure and violet converging on ultra. I needed no encouragement. I opened a slender door that had no lintel, that had no frame. I had my hand on the visible spectrum, but on the cosmic side, where indigo crossed thresholds with ultraviolet, was where I was drawn to—luminal boundaries between worlds. Both the seen and the unseen, I was betwixt and between. Hovering towards the shade as in capital "S." Those ghostly apparitions who survive on the horizon. Not on the other side of the spectrum, near infrared.  Too hot. To me that was Hades, that was hell. Interesting that hell itself was either hot or cold depending upon your locale and ancestry. There was no hell in the Otherworld, merely the fourth dimension. Alternate reality was a world where time either ceased to exist, or hadn't yet been born. But the monks took care of that discrepancy, suggesting that time existed there too, only it passed more slowly, otherwise no one would ever get around to being born, let alone, conceived in the missionary position, or otherwise. We won't mention that their parents would never, ever meet up, because they too would have considerable trouble getting around to orchestrating their own conception, until we were all traveling backwards through time at such a tremendous rate that the Big Bang imploded into the period at the end of the sentence. And then, where would we be, then?

4/7/06 Writers' Group

AFTER THE STORM

AFTER THE STORM

Boy rides his bike down the Emeryville Bridge ramp
billowing white shirt lufting behind like a full sail
the back tire throwing up a spray onto that white shirt
until he is wearing a skunk tail down his back.

4/7/ 06 Writers' Group

It was a dark and stormy night

No "was" about it, no night either. Make mine present tense and hold the ice. Today, as I stepped out of the car I had to quickly step back in again and put my hip waders on because the sidewalk had turned into a stream. There were rapids forming over the curb and whenever a car wheel turned in snug to kiss the curb, like we were taught to do in drivers education, only no one ever actually cranks their wheels in to the curb, unless they’re too tight or too poor to get a brake job. That would be me on both counts. 

Thank gawd I have a clutch, as the emergency brake is done in for as well. We haven’t quite reach the Fred Flintstone school of driving and braking, but it looms on the lithic horizon. Anyway, the tire against the curb becomes a mini cofferdam and debris plugs the holes until the rivulet has left its bank. The storm gutters are overfull. 

We negotiate impromptu lakes spanning San Pablo, Marshall, and Stanford avenues. Momentary calm before the storm. A gust of wind turns Lorene into Mary Poppins. I have visions of chasing her down the street shrieking something about a spoonful of sugar. And the next thing I know, I can’t shut off the damn soundtrack. Earworm. As long as Willy Wonka isn't invoked, perhaps I'll maintain enough sanity to make it to nightfall. 

Here we are, April showers—more like April monsoons than showers. But the wildflowers are cavorting. I found myself kissing the landscape on both sides of the freeway. I gasped when I saw in the distance, a swale of buttercups—as if the painter had fisted buckets of yellow onto a canvas of green—so green even the air was verdant. When the storm hit, all the color drained out of the sky and the land turned the color of pavement. Everything was grey until I was on a glass bell glass of rain—and no one else on the road. 

Boy rides his bike down the Emeryville Bridge ramp  

billowing white shirt lufting behind like a full sail 

the back tire throwing up a spray onto that white shirt 

until he is wearing a skunk tail down his back. 

4/7/ 06 Writers' Group

Arts Education Alliance professional development workshop in Santa Rosa

Arts Council of Sonoma County 
ARTS Education Alliance

ARTS Integration:

Bringing Creativity to the Classroom

A SPECIAL WORKSHOP FOR SONOMA COUNTY TEACHERS

Saturday, April 1, 2006 – Wells Fargo Center for the Arts

The Arts Education Alliance is proud to bring you this dynamic professional development workshop.  In 2003, the Arts Council of Sonoma County formed a hardworking collaborative group, Arts Education Alliance.  Through this strong collaboration of individuals and organizations, the key goals of this group are to:

·    Communicate and disseminate arts education information throughout Sonoma County

·    Provide Professional Development opportunities as a way to keep art in education

·    Encourage creative partnerships and collaboration between local arts organizations, schools and teachers

Arts education is essential to the vitality if our community and the future of Sonoma County’s quality of life.  Anchoring a student’s learning with arts education will help motivate students in all areas of academics and contribute to their life skills.  Through professional development events and our Arts in Education a Resource Guide for Sonoma County we are supporting our Sonoma County educators!

On this CD you will find lesson plans for all three of today’s artist led professional development breakout sessions.

Thank you for participating!

I was one of three featured workshop leaders for this event. Maybe I'll find the publicity for it. This is all I have. But they made a CD too. The lesson plan I developed for teachers is

ART & SCIENCE: Color Mixing teaching notes

Divine Ratio

In a room where it is forever 4:44 in frozen time, we teach each other in four-minute lessons. Not five. In that we are congruent, we measure analogue time in digital increments, but it interferes with the metaphor of clock and moon. Or take five. The metaphor hasn't yet caught up with technology. We measure triangles, we invoke Pythagoras, and integers. We decode rational numbers using analogy. We question the golden ratio, calling it the Golden Mean. Take St. Patrick's Confessio, it was a secret word puzzle to unfold, invoking the divine ratio.

Crossroads Irish-American Festival Poetry reading Maureen Hurley, Jack Foley, Chad Sweeney, Katherine Hastings 3/5/2006

Crossroads Irish-American Festival Poetry reading, 3/5/2006
Maureen Hurley, Jack Foley, Chad Sweeney, Katherine Hastings

2006 CROSSROADS: Irish-American Festival

Basking in the sea

Vito says you can’t bask in the sea. Shiva says But you can bask in the sun, but I am thinking of floating in a warm sea, basking, floating, with no destination in mind. Surely the creatures of the sea can bask? What about the basking shark? I have seen turtles basking on the surface of the sea, with no destination. They were more than just floating, they were basking. Once, during the total eclipse, I sea turtle startled me and I nearly drowned with excitement as he swim beneath me. He was huge, like a sled or a boogie board and all morning I followed him around that bay as the sun in the moon wrestled in the sky between light and dark. It was a free time where all bets were off even in the natural world. We were out of time as tide and wind were in stasis. I followed that turtle ballet until I was so far out to sea, all alone. But when the sun returned as Maui the sun god pulled the moon's face from the sun's…. But not before I saw the diamond ring and the penumbra. Meanwhile a couple exchanged wedding vows and let their leis loose in the sea. Puuonuaohonaunau, the place of refuge. That turtle pulled me far out to see like a siren. That day I had no fear of drowning though drowning was at hand.

2/24//2006 Writers' Group

A place called El Refugio

Where do we go when there’s no place of refuge, when all has been taken from us and we are left with the pale ashes of self after the phoenix has flown, and a breeze left lifts us from the balcony to some distant shore? The Aegean has been haunting me again in my sleep as if I had some unfinished from a lost century. The scrunch of sharp golden sand underfoot, the blue sea inviting us into our dream refuge. Refugio. I am in another language, another sea, traitorous Cortez's sea and in a place called El Refugio that is anything but. When was it ever someone’s refuge, surely not within this century. Not this wide greasespot in the road, a dusty town we can’t seem to get out of. I watch dawn turn into midday, a man in huaraches herds his goats and pigs to another sparse patch of desert sand. I’m desperate for coffee and the next bus will not come, ever. At the bodega I manage to order a cafécito of sorts. Nescafé and Cremora. I find out too late to the amount I thought trifling was worth a day's wages to this man who kisses it and crosses himself and hold sit up to the sun exclaiming Madre de Díos. Mother of God indeed. Perhaps El Refugio was the site of many lost missions strung loosely together from Sonoma to Loreto where the wolf boy was born. They all have hair on fire faces—soft, downy and black. For them, even the girls, the only refuge was to run away across the border to the circus. Wolf boy send money home to his family each week. He looks in the mirror brushes his cheeks and brow, squares his shoulders to meet the public. For him there is no refuge, only gawkers. He longs for the normal life, with friends and family. No more freak shows but he will miss the money. In Refugio, inside of the sea, prison walls, prisoners within sight of the sea the brine dark sea. 

2/24//2006 Writers' Group

Morning Tea Ritual

The perfume escaping the Meyer lemon tree, exotic as gardenias in winter, or like sweet-scented coffee blossoms. I've never seen tea blossoms but I imagine them to be exotic, also like camellias. This morning I saw a photo of women picking tender leaves, hand pruning bushes with leaves glossy as camellias. Centuries of fingers have prised the leaves into topiary hedges. I am fond of my black tea in the morning. It gives substance and balance to my day. A morning without tea, and I feel sullen and sleepy, on the wrong side of the bed, even if there's only one side of the bed to begin with. Tea allows me to turn over a new leaf each day, not that I drink it black, or with citrus, like the English. No, the Irish are the singlemost largest consumers of tea, beating the national average of India or China. They drink out of such tiny cups, it would take them all day to catch up with us. No green tea or chai for me (once I thought I was having a heart attack, replete with palpitations, after a Pakistani friend fixed me a proper cup of Indian tea… He boiled the leaves with canned milk and cardamom for what seemed like hours. He added copious amounts of sugar. Lethal stuff.) No, I drink my tea with milk and sugar, added by the scant teaspoon full. The mug is important, as is the spoon. My only silver spoon, a castoff from someone's grandmother, garlanded with roses, the shank balanced just right so you can teeeter-totter it on your index finger while waiting for the tea to brew exactly 5 minutes. And the mug, sky blue on the outside with Paleolithic symbols, bear paws and Kokapelli, the water sprinkler guarding it. On the inside, it's orange as the Grand Canyon and wwritten on the rim like a watermark rise. My oversize handleless coffee mug that has never seen morning coffee, opens my eyes and offers me up to soaring heights of morning with that charge and verve of a citrus sunrise.

2/10/06 Writers' Group

Too hot to handle

Too hot, too hot to handle, my mind croons like a demented rockstar. Lorene's tea has slammed me sideways after an errant lapse of absence—from the cup, that is. As I threaded my way north with the precision of a Panama tailor, enroute to the writers' group, hot tea fans out over me as yet another moron in a truck bigger than his ego, (his other car is a Harley) cuts me off. And my tea spills again as I dust off and polish my invectives. You MF pussysucking cnt, I yell. And there it was, a scalding cup of tea wending its way down my front to my crotch. Lorene is laughing at me as I try to mop it up with a paper towel. Thank gawd its dark out, no one can see me grabbing my crotch. I'm laughing because I'm also holding a banger on a bun and Freud is riding shotgun in the backseat of my mind. This is too hot, too hot to handle, indeed. I love that first rush of spring when the pollen spores coat the windscreen in a chartreuse powder—like gunmetal tea. (Now, where did that come from?)With that, I shed my winter coat, though there's still a nip in the air. Epistolary bullets spraying the mind. It's an Al Capone kind of gangster evening circling Alcatraz with the perfumed air redolent with promise of yet another year to come. I wear a green millefiori heart from my childhood. Valentine's Day is almost upon us. Vito and Sinead's birthdays coming up. Vito, at 70, after chemotherapy, is also too hot to handle, but he is jubilant to be still in the game. I'm in a public place. So, should I drop the "l," is the word pubic too graphic? There's nothing like that prickly feeling when your pants are hot and sticky from spilled tea. I can't help but feel renewal with that turning of the sun, also too hot to handle. 

2/10/06 Writers' Group

BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT

BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT

At that time between day and night
when everything is crepuscular in notion,
& the Cole Porter violin cresendo swells,
opens the doors between worlds,
is where the liminal and the real world collide,
where we dream, where we drift,
where you’re not sure where you’re going
or where you’ve been,
living both lives simultaneously. 

Vicariously.
Meanwhile, a petty dictator 

gets in the way of truth.

2/4/06

No guarantees

Who was it that said, no guarantees? When it was first used, and under what circumstances? Imagine sitting around the hearth fire, stone walls singed with smoke and facing the empty spit, mid-winter, the world outside dressed in white, blinding even in fog. The stomach protesting under the fur parka, you stand at the ready with spear in hand but with nowhere to go, except forward into the snow where an uncertain future awaits: either the full belly or the full sleep of death. The cold coagulating your dreams into the shape of ice crystals, and stars bursting in your veins. But the insistence of the empty belly makes itself understood in no uncertain terms. It wants out now, regardless of the risk, taking tentative steps into the cloud-white snow where you sink into the purity of winter, the light edging its return. The days widening by an infinitesimal fraction each day. You step forth anticipating the kill, for to kill is to live. But there are no guarantees, only the hunger and the cold. Soon the snowmelt will bring the game back to your door moving you into action.

1/6/06 Writers' Group

Every note counts (better wait than never, said the dyslexic)

It was a slip of the eye, I misread a sticker. Too tired to untangle its confusing message, I went along with it, laughed at the inner joke: Vote for Note. But then today, all my  notes, votes, vowels, nouns and verbs are a play on the syllables of the tongue—to the point where my eyeteeth are more like seeing-eye-dogs in the braille backwaters of the mind during the day after the night before Little Christmas—The Epiphany. Every note counts.T ell that to the drab female blackbirds whistling drills in the marsh. Today the sea and sky were brilliant beyond belief, everything righting itself after the storm. She sang her haunting call, it penetrated a place somewhere beyond language—a drowsy awakening and collapsing of time. I was 4, I was 12, 19, 30, 45, 53 in that marsh, listening to her plaintive song. The realization that every note counts, whether song, or mnemonic device, or word-counting notes in the marsh. For a moment I was that drab bird clinging to saltgrass, singing every note, making it count. I voted for her continuance.

1/6/2006 Writers' Group

"Cactus Heart" photo tryptic for SSU's Art from the Heart show

"Cactus Heart" photo tryptic for SSU's Art from the Heart show, the date says 2006, but this may have been a later entry. It didn't sell. I have another heart that did sell, aquarelle on morillaboard. I guess this was too weird.

Mabli, Neil, his nephew David, and I visited the USS Hornet in September, 2006 (I think). The middle image is a pipe assembly from the ship. The cactus was from a school garden in Fremont where I was teaching poetry (probably 2005), the kiwi was from the Monterey Market, super cheap because of the so-called deformity.

ART & SCIENCE Introduction to Color/ cycles, Silk Mural

OBJECTIVE: To incorporate science and art. Choose a theme: the elements (air, earth, fire, water), an environment (land, sea, sky), cycles (weather, day/night, seasons, etc.) Prepare by studying science lesson/concept you wish to enhance with art. (The history of the Chinese Silk Road and materials used[silk, brushes] is another area to explore.) Then brainstorm to show what concepts students have learned. This project spans about 3 to 6 one+ hour sessions.

Pre-planning: for each student have white scratch paper, pencil, black felt tip pens; magazine & calendar pictures of animals, plants, ecosystems, etc. Have students individually come up with drawing ideas, using contour or solid (not sketchy) line (another lesson), and then trim drawings, glue them into a larger piece on butcher paper—this step is especially helpful with young kids (grades K-3). For 4-8th grades: divide students into teams (5+, with one team captain). If you rotate several kids in, keep team captains for continuity.) Students can finalize mural drawing on white-board. Mark out 3 x 3’ squares.

MATERIALS: Each student should have a small Elmer’s blue glue bottle for gutta resist to draw on the silk. This will contain the dyes like a dam. Small squeeze bottle acrylic fabric paints with plastic tips work great. I like the metallics. (Save those used bottles and refill them with Elmer’s blue glue. If the fabric paint is dried, soak in hot water to clean.)

Or use real gutta resist bottles with metal tips and water-based resist for thinner lines. Real gutta is made of rubber and solvent (like rubber cement), so don’t use it with small kids. Metallic guttas are great, I’ll let a student use guttas but only with parental permission, and only if they’re careful.

One to six 3’ x 3” silk scarves, or silk yardage. (I’ve made murals with as few as 5 kids assigned per scarf, or with an entire class, but you have to work everyone in during shifts.) Use simple ponge, or habotai weave silk, 5 to 8 mm (thin gauge). Polyester & cotton won’t work at all. (Burn a thread, silk leaves no residue, just a fine ash, polyester leaves gunk.) (OR if you can’t set up for silk, use white butcher paper or heavy 80 lb. white sulfite paper and watercolors.)

Stretch silk onto 3’ artist stretcher bars, or duct tape together four 3’ wooden rulers, or duct tape corners of silk to 4 chair backs to keep scarf taut. I’ve also used cardboard windows to stretch silk. For a paper or tagboard mural, no need to stretch! Like cats, most papers (except w/c& sulfite) don’t like water. Experiment.)

Each student should have a small half-sponge, 2-3 Chinese, or sπumi ink brushes (they’re cheap) resting on damp sponges which are better than paper towels for taking excess water off brushes. DON’T leave sumi brushes in water jar!!! They’ll behead themselves....and jars tip over.

Two students can share a water container, and an ice tray arranged with 3 primary (printer) colors, Cyan (sky blue/turquoise), Magenta (red hot pink), and Yellow. I use Jacquard silk dyes. They’re non-toxic, brilliant, pure color and last forever.

Reserve one brush for yellow as it pollutes easily. (For watercolor on paper, I use Crayola 07W mixing paints to get magenta & turquoise). You can also use diluted silk dyes like watercolor. Also have a few large watercolor brushes or foam brushes for painting large areas, rags, water spray bottles.

ART SCIENCE VOCABULARY: Composition, balance, contour line, wet-on-wet, texture, salting/ osmosis, etc. Utilize the arts components: Artistic Perception (planning), Creative Expression (hands-on), Historical and Culture context (models), & Aesthetic Valuing (sharing) with the Science vocabulary: Observe. Ask questions. Make a Hypothesis. Experiment. Make a Conclusion. Share what you’ve learned. What surprised you? etc. Artists and scientist use many similar skill sets: observation and hypothesis are key components.

Young Audiences of Northern CA Calligraphy Residency

Artist: Maureen Hurley
Discipline: Introduction to Calligraphy & Graphic Arts

Goals of Residency/Teaching Philosophy

Goals: For teachers: to spark ideas for the creation of an integrated curriculum, using visual arts and language arts. For students: this calligraphy residency will teach the art and history of fine hand lettering, and instill in students, the historical and aesthetic tradition of the art of calligraphy.

What is your approach to working with children?

I am an active published artist, performer/writer and educator. The excitement of, and proximity to creativity carries over into the classroom and ignites students and teachers alike with a desire to learn a difficult skill. Sharing this inspiration in the classroom allows me to create an arts community and foster a nurturing and safe space for students of all ages to explore divergent thinking skills.

What approach do you use to teach them skills in your arts discipline?

I love integrating core curriculum into my lessons, whether it be language arts or visual arts, social studies or science. I share my artistic process with students and instill in them my teaching philosophy which includes a sense of excitement, playfulness, and a burning desire for exploration and experimentation. I use specific models, class demonstration, group and one-on-one instruction, review process, critique/compliment sessions, and portfolio assessment.

Learning Objectives
(what do you want students to know by the end of the residency?):

Objectives: During this six-session residency, students will practice various skills in the visual and written graphic arts. At residency’s end, students will have a grasp of the mechanics of fine art lettering, and with the skills they’ve learned and the handouts I’ve given them, they will be able to continue learning long after the residency is over. I often ask them to teach a sibling or friend after class so they have a sense of ownership in the learning process.

Young Audiences of Northern CA artist bio and residency workshops

Poet and visual artist Maureen Hurley has led creative writing and art workshops for 20 years in California, Montana; Europe and the USSR. Maureen was awarded seven California Arts Council Artist in Residency grants, and numerous awards and fellowships for her work. Maureen' holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Art Studio and Expressive Arts from Sonoma State University. She holds a MA and MFA in Creative Writing (poetry/playwriting) at San Francisco State University, she minored in Celtic Studies, and Folklore at UC Berkeley. She is a storyteller for Oakland USD. Maureen often bases her classes on school curriculum— especially Social Studies or Science, or classes that combine the literary and visual arts. Maureen has taught students of all ages and levels—from Special Ed to GATE; pre-school to Elderhostel. Classes include Poetry & Silk Painting or Calligraphy; Murals, Painting & Drawing; Poetry & Performance. Residencies may be adapted to all age levels and skills.

Residencies (Visual Arts)
Drawing & Painting
How does an artist see the world differently? Students will develop the ability to observe like an artist or a scientist by exploring aspects of drawing and painting using contour line, form, and color composition. Media may include tempera paints and watercolors, India ink scratchboards, oil or chalk pastels, specialty pens and papers. Our models will be the great masters as well as other students’ work. Student-artists may develop a portfolio of their own work and display it in an art exhibition at the school site.

Painting "Sun Catchers" on Silk
Discover the magic of light and color with silk "sun catchers." Students will explore painting and drawing (see above). Using gutta serta—a technique similar to batik, and brilliant non-toxic silk dyes, they will apply their newfound skills to create stunning works of art on silk-covered hoops, or "sun catchers," and on silk banners and scarves. Or we might create large themed group silk "mural" or a series of self-portraits. This class also works well with a poetry or science component.

Murals: paint a story on the wall
Make murals for a school play or event using cardboard and tempera, or create a permanent installation with acrylics on canvas or plywood. Mural painting—whether it tells a story, or records a historical event—is a collaborative process where everyone gets to help with the design. We will incorporate drawings into a mural, create an outline or cartoon mock-up, and then under the guidance of a student mural captain, teams will paint the mural.

Calligraphy = Beautiful Writing
Calligraphy, the art of beautiful writing, develops observation and reading skills as well as fine eye-hand coordination. Students will learn the history of the Roman alphabet, from its pictographic beginnings to modern shapes. "A" is an ox; "B" is a house. We will write secret messages in Phoenician, invent our own alphabets, look at other writing systems including Linear A & B, Mayan, Chinese/ Japanese and Egyptian/ Cuneiform to see how the art of writing evolved. This class is an excellent addition to 6th grade Social Studies curriculum.

Residency (literary)
Poetry, the Mother of Art
The Greeks called poetry the mother of all art: Poetry allows us to synthesize what we know, explore new ideas, and ask questions in a safe format where there are no right/wrong answers. Poetry builds language skills and is an important component of both the Performing and the Literary Arts frameworks. Using their own unique perceptions and relevant life experiences, students write, perform, and publish poetry that creatively expresses their feelings, thoughts, and dreams. They will use culturally diverse model poems from both their peers and by world poets while exploring the use of metaphor to develop their own poetic voice. We will unravel language and make it our own. Many of the poetry recipes may be taught in bilingual Spanish. Publishing may include designing broadside posters or a poetry book. Longer residencies might also include the visual arts such as silk painting or calligraphy.
(Available in Spanish or English)

Young Audiences of Northern CA painting and color mixing workshop

Five Session painting and color mixing workshop

Day one will introduce simple color mixing techniques with tempera paint, and give a brief overview of the ten-session art and poetry lessons. Painting exercise will focus on primary colors (yellow, magenta, cyan) mixing with tempera paint using geometric and free form shapes. Students will learn the proper use of brushes, supplies, etc. We will have a class complimenting session at the end,

Whenever possible after every session, we will close each class with a complimenting session (using Visual and Performing Arts Standards (VAPA): aesthetic valuing) of each other’s work. Teachers will also display student artwork in classrooms and in halls.

Day two focuses on building (9 x 18”) simple landscape, using layers and triangles, using calendar photos and artist landscapes for inspiration. We will draw simple miniature (baby) contour line drawings to identify the shapes. We will build landscapes in layers and artist will introduce age level appropriate key VAPA vocabulary and concepts.

Day three focuses on primary and secondary color mixing with the addition of white/black (hue/shade) with tempera and we will make very large paintings based on landscape. We will use culturally appropriate artist landscapes (reflecting classroom diversity), calendar photographs for our models.

An alternate teaching idea is to have students cooperatively paint a large landscape (18 x 24”) in pairs. Whenever possible, all art lessons will be theme based according to grade level language and or science/social studies curriculum (weather/water cycles, land/sea/sky, transportation, CA history, etc)

Day four will introduce the concept of (solid) contour line drawing with black felt pens using toy animals and cars as our models. We will use blind contour drawing, opposite hand and freestyle drawing techniques. Or, if the teacher prefers staying with color exploration, we could do more landscapes using oil pastels or chalks.

Day five is an optional follow-up drawing lesson, using larger scale toy animals and each other to develop comfort and confidence drawing in a black and white medium. Students will do partner drawings and mirror drawings, if there’s time.

FIRST FREEWRITE TO KIRK WHIPPLE on 5s project A E F W & Q

FIRST FREEWRITE TO KIRK    ramblings that wouldn't separate themselves into orderly piles of air earth fire and water let alone, transcendence

In the beginning was verb
fire danced on water
myriad fireflies etched traces of fire and starlight

in the bayou    crossing the bog
where at water's edge
live coals
sang a reptilian siren call
it's an eat be eaten world
and on it goes

GOODBYE JOHN LENNON, 25 YEARS AFTER

GOODBYE JOHN LENNON, 25 YEARS AFTER

A fan wanted a piece of him, 

and the bell rang good night 

and goodbye to John Lennon.

The Dakota became a pilgrim spot, 

a holy shroud, where the

spilled blood on the pavement

marked the end of an era.

Imagine there's no heaven… 

I remember his round glasses, stringy hair, 

he was dressed in white, as if ascended, 

with Yoko, in a staged bed-in, 

they sat as if on a floating cloud, 

preparing for ascension 

to a heaven where rock 'n' roll 

could be heard at the Pearly Gates.

12/9/2005

Remembering John Lennon, 25 years later

On the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s death, I stayed in bed, snuggled and sandwich between layers of memory foam and goosedown. I was the cats pajamas. They say that John and Yoko stayed in bed for months on end. they staged a bed-in, and receiving visitors as if they were laid-back royalty at the Dakota Hotel in Central Park where that half acre of bed slumbered like a fairytale castle. I thought of Princess Diana and the story of the pea, once upon a mattress. What songs came out of that gestation, what art? Neil asked me where I was the day John Lennon was shot. I was at home in bed, writing as it turns out. Someone must’ve called me, because I remember turning on the radio and for 24 hours we listened to every song John ever wrote. I recorded a couple of hours' worth of music before I ran out of tape. As it was, I recorded over all my old poetry reading archives and whatnot. I remember, when I heard the news I was facing south, towards the sun, it was an indeterminate day of sun and clouds. It was raining inside all of us that day John Lennon died. It was like JFK, RFK, MLK all over again—singular days etched into the mind forever.

12/9//2005 Writers’ Group

Letter to the Montana Historical Society, Madeline Bedal, Memoirs with Maureen

Subject: Madeline Stannard Bedal

Hi

For over a year, I've been collecting the folk stories of Madeline Stannard Bedal (of Fielding, (Stannard Creek is named after her family), and, later, Whitefish. She would like to send her stories to interested folks. 

She is at the Westlake retirement center in Fremont, CA and was born in 1914. Her family homesteaded in Fielding. She's an excellent storyteller. I take down her stories verbatim (she's legally blind) and type them up, read them back, and she makes small corrections.

We've a class called Memoirs with Maureen. I have been trained in folklore collection at UC Berkeley with Professor Dundes. I have not applied analysis to the stories as they're folk narrative. 

I am a Montana Arts Council artist in residence and was listed with MAC during the 1980s and 1990s. I taught poetry to students in Laurel, MO.

SECRET HEARTBEAT

From the earth comes love
Trees, beast and bird
From the sky above
Stones fall at your feet
Secret heartbeat
Desert skin, mountain
valley, green meadow.


2005 November?

found on the back of a receipt from Office Depot, hence the date.

I think it was from my writers' group.

HALLOWEEN, BANTRY BAY STYLE, ca. the 1890s

While writing a note to a friend, trying to explain the origins of Halloween, I decided to collecting dust off my dribs and drabs that I’ve collected over the years, and send them out as a Halloween blog. As many of you know, I grew up with a foot in three world: America, Ireland, and a somewhat Victorian version of the Otherworld. Hopefully you will enjoy this melange of stories. Actually, dressing up and using the phrase, "trick or treat" (also "trick and treat") was commonly used in southern Ireland in the 1890s... Contratry to popular belief, it was not a backwards traveling idea that came from the Americas as there was very little by way of American customs returning to Ireland until very, very recently (St. Patrick's Day celebration is an example). 

My grandmother, Jennie Walsh Reilly, who grew up in Bantry Bay, used to tell me of the trick or treating customs she celebrated as a girl. They dressed up in rags, they made and wore masks to disguise themselves so the uneasy returning dead let loose from the side (or barrows) to wander the earth for one night, wouldn't recognize or take them, and boys made bull roarers from pig bladders to scare the malicious ones away. They trick or treated. They had to either sing, dance, recite a poem (perform) and only then were they were given a treat...sometimes even a shiny copper half-penny.

She was quite irritated by the American custom of kids demanding candy without first performing. Id bring home from school the American traditions and she would "correct me, show me how it was supposed to be done. I do remember her giving us walnuts, oranges and apples. We played games: bobbed for apples, chased apples on a string with our teeth, peeled apples in one long core and let it fall to the foor to see what letter it would take (who we would marry), etc. I remember she lit a candle and I used to jump over it a la Jack be nimble /Jack be quick/ candlestick. She told me of hollowing out turnips to protect the wondows and offer a light for the souls returning home. Pumpkins are a new world food that replaced the big turnips of Ireland.

She also burned rosemary and sage from the garden in the newly lain fire: smudging the house to cleanse the air/banish the spirits on Nov. 1, and of course, we went to mass to pray for the dead. I remember all this so vividly because I used to help her with these tasks (which I thought odd), I was 5-10 years old, during the 1950s. We lived out in the wilds of N. California, where she singlehandedly raised my brother and I.

Soda bread and tea were made. She'd cut a deep cross on the top of the round loaf baked in a cast iron pan(other times of the year it was merely made in rectangular loaf pans). She told us of the special barmbrack bread but she rarely made it as she couldn't be bothered with making yeasted breads. But we knew the significance about receiving the ring, the coin or the rag.

She said, that in Ireland, they cleaned the house before Halloween, threw out any standing water, decorated /framed the windows with ivy, mistletoe and evergreens, placed hollowed turnips in the windows to light the way for the dead. They put out the fire, cleaned the hearth (once she used a plastic bucked, and it promptly melted when she put the hot ashes in), relit it from the bonfire on the hill at the farm (she used the pilot light on the stove).

At our farm, Coom an Or, my great-great grandfather drove his cattle between two bonfires, and he also made Catherine wheels out of wagon wheels covered in tar and rolled them down the hill... this custom was also done at Beltaine. Not all the All Hallows events practiced were solely for the Celtic New Year.

Some customs were used on St Stephen's Day (the wren on a stick), and Dec 31, and May 1.) Interestingly enough, she did pronounce the "m" in Samhain (it was sort of an m/v), she did learn school (Gaelic League days), she said it was not aspirated (the term they used for changing the s of certain letters. I know that because the typography of the day did not allow for making the dot o aspirated letter, that h's were introduced (thus creating a lexicographical nightmare)...

I found out later, when I attended UC Berkeley's rather rigorous Celtic Studies program (1999-2000) that sometimes that "h" was used in the medieval MSS as an aspiration, but dots were also more commonly used... We translated the Tain(s) Bo Cuailnge, & Fraoch, as well as other stories. I alsc studied with the late Provessor Alan Dudes, and collected much of my family's folklore for the foll archives. Anyway, my grannie argued that the sowen pronunciation was a post 1900 change, and, therefore, wrong. It may have been a Cork dialect or custom/or even just learned wrong... But she always fiercely tracking words in her Irish font dictionary dating from the 1880 or 1890s...Dineen’s think. but the cover was burned off in a kitchen fire.

• Hallowe'en customs in Bantry Bay, Cork, Ireland, .. 
• https://mohurley.blogspot.com/search?q=Halloween

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

Listen to the leaves, 

to the beating of your heart 

and sing to the moon.

Sing to the sun, sing to the stars.

It's time to go, to catch up, 

to smell the roses. 

Lemon spice, the names of roses

disintegrating into the mind, 

into the senses, a bouquet of thought.

Listen to the falling sycamore leaves, 

crimson against the pavements gray. 

Starfish hands grasping the air,

lightly dancing down the street 

like the scurrying of small rodent feet. 

Once I dreamed that the fall leaves 

turned into carnivorous beasts 

like strange lizards nipping at our heels 

driving us out into the light.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

Samhain freewrite

What follows the hunter’s moon, those nights when something is in the air, an expectancy. stirs us to pure verb. Muted horizons, the hills blend into a haze, marking a time for when the gates of the Otherworld will open, a time of harvest, a time of gathering in, the end of the agrarian year. Samhain, the new year in the old year's arms. Pumpkins like multiple suns, sleep in the fields of Half Moon Bay. They say on average, every American spends $16 on pumpkins each Halloween. I’ve almost reach my quota. Mini pumpkins and squash on the windowsills gaze out at me. Large pumpkins nesting on the table glow amidst seashells, ancient spirals of the conchs of Sanispac Island. I wonder if there’s an identity crisis amid the shells and squash? Shells so old they might’ve been opened by Arawak Indians. Cannibals, Columbus called them. Gone now to the otherworld. In the year 800, the pope gave up trying to get the populace to give up the old ways, celebrating the day of the dead when the doors of the sídhe rolled open in enchantment walked the land, taking fairy lovers and demons alike into the fold. And when Pope Adrian heard the Indians too celebrated the dead, he took All Saints Day from May and moved it to November. He couldn't comprehend the Aztecs taking a beating heart, holding it up to the sinking sun, crowned with marigolds and perfumed with copal. Everyone carrying on and partying in the graveyard offended the padres and so they renamed it El Día de los Muertos, the day when the boundaries between the living and the dead dissolved into el oscuridad de la noche, welcoming the dead into our lives for one day of the year.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

Language is key to the thoughts of trees.
The leaves, small tongues against the wind.
Roaring river unlocking the thirst of a far shore.
This sibilance of syllables, the hissing
and glottal stop of branches cracking underfoot,
a warning the thoughts of trees, the key to language,
the small tongues of leaves against the biting wind,
thirst unlocked floods the farthest shore,
the sibilance of syllables the glottal stops,
a branch is a warning in the cambian layer
and danger rises unbidden in that deep secret place
within the brain were no words live,
only pure action. All is verb.

undated Oct 2005?

EGRETS

EGRETS

I had a dream of birds,
naked birds all lined up
in Joseph Cornell art boxes,
they were devoid of down.
Someone handed me a small egret
which I ate while alive.

undated Oct 2005?

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

We are adrift on a small raft 

and we moue small kisses into the air 

as if to say goodbye. 

The relentless ticking of the clock, 

never stopping its measured beat, 

a metronome in an empty kitchen.

Where is the music, the piano of thought?

We break out cord progressions, 

seeking patterns. 

Meanwhile time's measured march 

strings the minutes into years

until this parting where we pass 

from one existence to another. 

Oh yes, there was a time 

when we understood the language of trees, 

translating the creek's thought into song. 

The slow thoughts of trees, 

the birch writing on leaves.

Concentric time measured 

in cambian layers 

and speaking in tongues.

undated Oct 2005?

Madeline Stannard Bedal Chapbook

Madeline Bedal was a student of mine at Merrill Gardens, an assisted living retirement home in Fremont, CA, where I taught a memoir class. It began as a poetry writing workshop but nobody was particularly interested. I tried out all kinds of writing exercises with them. I brought in Big Band music (a hit) and memorabilia, I worked with themes— anything to spark their creativity. So many of my elderly patients were very nearly brain dead from lack of stimulation. I struck gold when I stumbled upon the memoir process. 

Madeline, who was legally blind, and so she dictated everything to me, grew up in Whitefish, Montana, where she led a pioneer life, rich in memory and tradition. When she died, I was devastated as I had become quite fond of her. Her brother, Bill Stannard made a chapbook of her work, which I never knew about until after her death in November 29, 2006. Kudus, Madeline. Bill said that he sent the manuscript to Montana Arts Council, I don’t know whether or not he did that. I would like to think so. The Pruneyard in San Jose was once the Bedal Ranch. There is one tiny road named in memory of the ranch. I hope to find more of her pieces and post them, so this is a placeholder. Though he sent me the letter in 2006 I decided to post it in 2005 when he sent it out to all their relatives.

—Maureen Hurley (added 8/2023. I have so little work from 2005 to 2006, I don’t know what happened to it all. So every little thing I find helps me to flesh out those years. This becomes a diary of sorts.) See also: Della Madeline Stannard Bedal obituary 

Fall colors freewrite

The fire in the throat of the wind, the way it flickers and lickshas me worried. There is an inferno combusting in the trees. The leaves gathered in the sunlight all summer long and at the first cold wind, they dream in sun colors, and let go. Soon the leaves will give away all the pieces of summer to that tramp of a wind that licks at the eddies and crevices until the trees stand bare in naked skeletal splendor. A branch rubs against a windowpane, a street light flickers like distant fire, and all the stops are pulled out. An aura of wind, water and earth. Fire in the hole. Incongruously, I think, is that a canary in your mind shaft?

9/23/2005 Writers’ Group

Autumn Equinox freewrite

The turning of the seasons, looking back over the shoulder, eyes cast on the remnants of summer, with one foot stepping towards winter, the other leaving spring. Equinox. But the nights are growing in sooner, no dog days, no halcyon days of Indian summer to carry us across the threshold of the year. A cold wind nipping at our heels, so uncharacteristic of September. The cold seeps into the bones, it creeps under the open corridors of loose shirts, and preternaturally dwells in the psyche. The cat wants in. He’s bracing himself against the cold, he wants in, he wants shelter from the storm. As do we all. And has Dylan finally cashed in the cow during the September of his years? We listen to his lyrics sell, sell, sell And now Scorsese has made a film of him. What happens when the idols become the icons? It’s Equinox, but where? Surely, not here, maybe at the equator where the nights and days are always equal. No cold nights to remind you of winter’s frailty. Meanwhile another hurricane pounds the Gulf, and the homeless living in tents, in sthe weltering heat, still have warm summer nights. No pestilence infested night to contend with. Yet, I bet they’d happily trade places with us, even with the cat.

9/23/2005 Writers’ Group

Huckleberrying with Bears

SUE: How’s it over there?

BOB: Pretty good.

DAVE: I found a really good patch. Handfuls of berries. Big ones too. Blues.

SUE: Really? Where are you?

DAVE: To your right. More. A little more.

SUE: Keep on talking. I still can’t see you.

DAVE: I’ll rattle the bushes, OK?

BOY: Aooooo!

LORA: What was that?

SUE: It’s just the boy.

LORA: Are there any bears here?

DAVE: Naw, not yet.

BOY: Aooooo!

LORA: Whaddya mean, not yet?

DAVE: Not bad, kid. Scared the shit outta me. They're working their way down the coast. Already got ‘em in Sonoma County.

SUE: I still can’t see any of you. Rattle the bush again. Thanks.

BOY: Aooooo!

DAVE: Wait. I didn’t rattle any bush. Did you? Mmmm, these berries are good. Sweet too. I’m coming over. Quit playing around, now Boy. Won’t be long now. Grrrr! Where are you?

BOY: Grrrr!

SUE: Over here. Are you moving around? How come you rattled it from a different place? You're freaking me out. You trying to get me lost or something?

DAVE: But I didn’t move. And look at the bushes. Can you see them? Do it again.

SUE: Do it again Dave, I missed it. Man this wood’s thick. A fire waiting to happen like Inverness Ridge.

DAVE: Hey, I'm talking. Ya find it?

LORA: Think he was guilty?

DAVE: Who?

LORA: OJ Simpson, of course.

DAVE: What brought that one on?

LORA: The fire. It was during the trial. We were stuck a week in this camp and the only news we got was the fire and the trial. Yeah, I was stuck a whole at Camp Mendocino Woodlands. Not bad. Hey, has anyone heard Bob lately?

BOB: I can’t get through. The brush is way too thick. I gotta go around. Dang! I lost my watch. You gotta watch out for sinkholes too. Next time bring a machete, will ya? We gotts ta head back, it’s nearly sunset. I'll catch up with you at the car. Everyone move west, towards the light. Stay in pairs, OK? See you on the other side.

 DAVE: Bob? Bob?

(this piece was a victim of epic ASCII fail....I was only able to resurrect fragments of it.)

INDIAN SUMMER haiku

INDIAN SUMMER

Fall slaps us surely
in the face, shaping us up
for coming winter.

8/26/05

Summer's End Galore

Plenty, and good enough, my grannie would always say. I grew up tin-eared to so many of her odd turns of phrase. I was too easily tortured by schoolmates because my English was lilted. Pure Bantry Bay it was, and I fought my tongue's inclination.  I ruthlessly stripped those phrases from my speech the way a gardener tackles spring weeds in a no-nonsense sort of way while I became mute, lacking for words, between languages, I was. English to English. The ancestral tongue structuring a bearla and nearly a half a century later, I can still hear the Irish word go leor (galore), that meant plenty and enough.  My grannie was keeping the old tongue alive in a transplanted language. How many centuries were those words passed down, an unconscious act, a weed in the garden. English flourishing, despite England's best effort to strip Ireland of its Gaelic. She always said that the Irish beat the English at their own game when they took to writing. Revenge is the best sword. Drop the s and the word becomes the last word. there was nothing left for me to do but pick up the pen, a gauntlet thrown down in the grass. Ten paces at dawn. Summer's end, the end of innocence. Galore. Good enough, she'd say.

8/26/05 This was from my Writers' Group. I wrote little poetry but the prose went deep enough.

Roadside Weeds

Deep summer. Weeds by the side of the road, fallen pieces of the sky. Won't do any good to pluck them. All that periwinkle blue going to waste. A blue blur I acknowledge at 70 mph, as I careen north, crossing the Russian River, muddy, churning. Late rains have confused the flowers. First, the yellow flowers, then the poppies, followed by lupine and chickory. There's an order to the blooming of flowers. As if there was a grand scheme of color opposites at work. Yellow / blue. Orange / purple. The mallows and clarkia have little competition, it's magenta all the way, baby. No complement of color, unless you count the grass, but it's gone tawny as a lion, despite the late rains. All next year's seeds will germinate, only to sizzle under August's hot anvil. Dog days of summer. In my Elderwriting memoir group, Catherine says it's because the dogs always go a little crazy for lack of water. People too. The discussion circles the phrase, hackles raised, a low growl at the back of the throat. What does it mean: end of summer? The threat of disease. Lael says Rabies. A farmer's daughter would think of that. A neighbor lost his cattle when an august dog hankered after a shank of beef. Afraid to drink at the trough, bright green algae curls amid fish and cress. In a fit of domesticity, and brandishing a green thumb, when the mesclun lettuce had roots, I planted a few seeds in the herb box: arugula, and raduccio, not knowing its ancestry. But the lettuce bolted in the heat, reaching for that shiny patch of sky, it flowered and opened its blue hands. Chickory weed by any other name, by the roadside, a weed in my salad bowl, I garnish with sun-ripened tomatoes and basil. I am rabid with desire, all that red and blue and green and purple in my bowl. A bouquet for the dog days, and for what is to come. Sharp tang of fall in the air, knocking on the door of the sky.

8/26/05 Writers' Group

Novato woman found dead in pool, Verona Seiter

August 5, 2005 | Marin Independent Journal (San Rafael, CA)Author: Gary Klien | Section: Marin Independent Journal 

A 68-year-old Novato woman was found dead of an apparent drowning yesterday in her neighborhood pool, police said.
Verona Seiter, a longtime resident of the Crossroads area in southern Novato, was found around 5:30 p.m., when a neighbor saw her face-down in the deep end, said Novato fire Battalion Chief Mark Heine.

The neighbor called 911, and two Novato police officers arriving at the scene jumped into the pool and brought her to the surface.

"Initial rescue efforts were attempted, but she died at the scene," Heine said.

Police and the coroner's office are still investigating Seiter's death, but Novato police Lt. Tim Christensen said it does not appear suspicious. An autopsy is planned for today.

It was not immediately known how long Seiter was in the pool, but it might have been a relatively short period of time. A longtime companion, Herman Berlandt of San Francisco, was scheduled to meet her yesterday afternoon but his bus was delayed in traffic. Seiter left a note at her Cheda Lane residence for Berlandt to meet her at the pool.

When Berlandt arrived, police were already there with the bad news.

Berlandt, a poet and theatrical director, said he had known Seiter, an actress, for 30 years. He first met her when she auditioned for a Maxwell Anderson play he was producing.

"We became inseparable friends," said Berlandt, founder and director of the International Poetry Museum in San Francisco.

Neighbors and associates described Seiter as an irrepressible character - active, free-spirited and bold. She was known in the neighborhood both for her distinctive English accent and her penchant for sunbathing openly in the nude.

"She was very theatrical," said Mary Van Muckey, a neighbor.

Residents said Seiter performed regularly as an actress and also did voice-over work. Her recent productions included Samuel Beckett's "Happy Days," "Footfalls" and "All That Fall" at the EXIT Stage Left theater in San Francisco.

"Verona was a delight," said San Francisco director Ugo Baldassari, who directed Seiter in "Happy Days" in 2001. "She was a free spirit, an imp and a very dear old soul. It was a pleasure for me to have worked with her."

Seiter had spent the last several years battling bone cancer, enduring repeated chemotherapy and radiation treatments, neighbors said. Still, she remained active, swimming regularly and traveling. She had returned earlier this week from a trip to Europe.

"She's gone through it all and keeps coming back," Van Muckey said. "She was such a fighter."

Funeral arrangements are pending.

Goodbye God, Gone to Bodie (Monologue)

Jim Cain's house, Bodie used by permission @Allen Saywer

"Winter is here—the snow part at least.  A nice little cabin on Wood Street.  A winter's supply of grub; a few books, including a pack of cards; and—half a barrel of whiskey will carry a person through until spring." —Free Press, Nov, 1881

James "Jim" Caine and Joe Maguire got themselves a nice little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber up to Bodie, and they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that.

Stranger bedfellows have been made. But in Ireland the Catholic & Proddies are oil and water with a little fire and brimstone all mixed together in a strange baptism. Now, that was a long-standing taste of hell if ever I saw it. See, they had to come to the New World to put aside their differences.

At nearly 8200 feet straight up from the bosom of the sea, it was damned cold at night. Bodie had the worst climate out of doors, save Alaska. Up on the plateau, it was exposed as an ass in the outhouse, and cold as a witches' tit. Shaving water froze in the cup. And when the winds blew at 100 miles-per-hour off the mountains, it was the banshees straight from hell singing a funeral dirge with your name on it.

Joe Maguire said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. And here it was, mid-August. He missed the sweet taste of new potatoes roasted in their jackets in the embers, all slathered with butter and salt, he missed it more than the Emerald Isle itself. About the only other thing that would willfully grow in Bodie was the hops plant in front of the Donnelly house. Handy for making beer.

All this brown and dust and sage, sometimes if you didn’t look at the long narrow valley head on, and sort of blur your side- vision, it does look a bit like Ireland with all that green growing in the crevices and the wild irises nodding their dainty purple heads.

A pity about old Waterman (William) Bodey dying in that freak blizzard in '59 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. He would've been real proud. Just look at it now. That's B-O-D-E-Y, not I-E; some illiterate sign-painter got it wrong. Said it looked more refined that way.

They say Bill Bodey got caught short in an unexpected storm while making a supply trip to Monoville. November. Shoulda been fine. Some say it was the Bodie Curse, he took some ore with him. Bodie's mighty protective of its sugar quartz, there's always the risk. 

Bill was the first one to find the placer gold, you see. Sparked off the biggest gold rush in the west, he did.  Would you believe that 20 years later, they dug his body up and reburied it again just to celebrate him with a big bash. We were waking the dead twice.

Joe Maguire came up from 'Frisco with Johnny and Tom Parr. Joe was Bill Irwin's foreman at Standard, and Johnny was foreman of the Syndicate Mill. Irwin put a donkey hoist on one of the shafts and did right well, indeed. That's when they called themselves the Standard Mine and built a 20-stamp mill. That's what kick-started the town of Bodie.

They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 lost souls, to 7,000, then by '79, to 10,000 headless, bedless, and souless grubbers and claim jumpers that kept streaming in from all four corners of the globe—and hell and highwater all that summer long in search of gold. The dividends alone sent a thrill throughout the world.

Bodie has better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek, a lot prettier too. Funny, how some folks believed that hell was hot when Joe knew firsthand that hell was cold as a frigid hoor on a Bodie winter's night.

Well, then, when the news got out in '77, all the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and hunkering down with all forms of whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty & stable turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed—and pronto.  

It was the worst winter on record, to boot—20 below zero and thousands were dying of pneumonia. Why they stayed on through the winter was foolish. No food, no place to sleep, but still they trudged up the mountain to Bodie. With stardust in their eyes. Only the town Madam, Rosa May, braved the cold to minister to the sick and dying. Lord knows how many she saved, and later, the church wouldn't even give her a Christian burial when her time came.

No wood was to be had for miles around, see? Bodie was above the treeline. That's where Jim came in, he transported timber for the mines, and the steam engines. Then he had so much gold, he opened up a bank, and well, the rest is history. He built himself an empire, he did.

What few newspaper to be had were pressed into service insulating thin walls against the cold, if it was rescued from the outhouses in time. The valley was filled with 10,000 illiterate asses up to no good. Couldn't read a newspaper sideways and certainly not with their backsides. Staking and jumping claims like rabbits, they were. And we had two rival newspapers, we did. 

And we had a lawyer too. Patrick Reddy was his name, and boy was he was ready for anything. Maybe for a piece of the pie as bail for the "guests" was $5. As Johnny Parr said, It was dangerous to run a bluff on a gun play in Bodie. There was an open season on killing but it didn't last long. Eventually law and order prevailed. But we ran Sheriff Davis out of town when he got too trigger happy. We took care of bidniss ourselves.

Imagine milling all that wood and barging it across that hellish alkalai sea, what do they call it? Mono Lake, yeah—hauling timber 2000 feet straight up Coyote Creek Canyon. That's just what Jim and Joe did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla shortbread cakes. And sweat of salt mixed with success. Eventually they got some track laid out for a train, but most supplies arrived by stage.

They made plans to lease out the old Bunker Hill Mine claim, I mean, the Standard Mine. At the time, it wasn't paying out much, hardly worth keeping it open. But as luck would have it, danged if they didn’t have a cave in (they didn't properly shore up the roof—wood was so scarce) and uncovered a rich quartz ledge right before the lease went through: they hit paydirt indeed! 

Some $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! That was over $1000 a day between them. They went wild with joy. Luck of the Irish haltered to the business wagon of the Scots and several fortunes were in the making. Not just theirs.

Luck must've rubbed off on the neighboring hills too because suddenly there were claims everywhere: in one month, the Syndicate Mill and Mine produced more gold that most of the claims in California and Nevada combined. The engine and boiler were said to have come 'round Cape Horn.

Here was Joe, at 25, filthy rich beyond his wildest dreams. Jim already had a taste of the fine life. It was all imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. A rich, fine ash, indeed. He began to buy up the town.

No more ready-made sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot for Joe, though he had to admit it was right handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all. Someone was always willing to lose a little goldust over a bad hand of cards. Like Wild Bill Walsh. Sold his own wagon in Ione for a good hand of cards and a barrel of whiskey. Joe was no stranger at the poker table. No siree!

Big Black Bill's cook crew still made the best grub. Bodie attracted men from far and wide. Uncle Bill was a South African, with an Irish name—O'Hara. Figure that one out. He must've come from the Cape with the mining equipment. Everybody called him Uncle in reverence.

Fortunes were routinely traded every night in the 65 saloons lining Main Street. You could drink in a different saloon every week and still have a baker's dozen extra to spare for emergencies in case you needed to double up your drinking routine. That’s where the real money was to be had, in the transaction process.  Not the town bank. The straw bosses knew that much. 

It kept the mortuary in business too. Not that it needed help where murder was a daily event. Caskets had spring-loaded false bottoms to keep up with the burial demands. Stagecoach robberies, to shootouts, Bodie was one wild and lawless boomtown, second-to-none in wickedness and sin. 

Jim began to dream about his future. A man need a family. He was a Stuart. Substance. Put down some roots. A son and a daughter. A mail-order bride, say, a sweetbud of age 14, not like the bloozy "Ladies" on Maiden Lane at the north end of town—that was the ticket. 

No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Lottie Johl or Madame Mushtache with the wooden leg for him! He'd dance with his pure flower of a bride at the Fireman's Ball in the Miners' Union Hall, he would.

He'd move his new bride into his new house sporting the only glassed-in front porch in Bodie. Glass was damned hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother seeing as it would crack in the cold, come winter, if the transport mules didn't get to it first. But she’d keep him warm. Yesiree indeed!

He'd put some real kimberly glass on her finger, he would. Get married in Carson City. No churches in Bodie, see. Saloons was our religion. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his evil ways, he would. Yep. No more Rosa May with the wild eyes and windblown hair for him either. No sirree! 

Would the little mite come up the mountain? But if you were sick, or got the lung disease, or having a baby, you sure wanted Rosa May on your side, she had the healer's touch. She did.

I can't help but think of that little girl who wrote the last entry in her diary, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie," she probably wound up working the pox-infected cribs as Cain pondered popping the question. 

Lottie Johl gave up her wicked ways and took up painting, she was purty good at it too. Never knew whatever happened to Joe. Some say he went to San Francisco, some say he went back to Ireland, but I think it was the mountain that called him home with a good hand of cards, and a six-gun.

© Maureen Hurley
6/2005, 2008, 2009

Bodie, Jon Sullivan photo—Wikipedia

Gone to Bodie, v. 3

GONE TO BODIE v. 3

After Jim Caine and Joe Maguire got a nice little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber to Bodie, they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that. Stranger bedfellows have been made. But in Ireland the Catholic & Proddies are oil and water and fire all mixed together. Now that was a long standing taste of hell.

At nearly 9000 feet, it was damned cold at night. Shaving water froze in the cup. Joe said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. He missed the sweet taste of new potatoes roasted in their jackets in the embers, all slathered with butter and salt, he missed it more than home itself. All this brown and dust, sometimes if you didn’t look at the long narrow valley head on, and sort of blurred your side vision, it did look a bit like Ireland with all that green growing in the crevices and the wild irises nodding their dainty heads.

A pity about old W.S. Bodey dying in that blizzard in '56 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. Just look at it. They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 lost souls, to 7,000 bedless and souless grubbers that kept streaming in from all four corners of the globe all that summer long in search of gold. Better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek too. Funny how some folks believed that hell was hot when he knew firsthand that hell was cold as a frigid hoor on a Bodie night

All the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and hunkering down with all forms of whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed—pronto. Imagine milling all that wood and barging it across Mono Lake, 2000 feet straight up Coyote Creek Canyon? That's just what they did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla cakes. And sweat of salt mixed with success.

They made plans to lease out the old Standard Mine, it wasn't paying out much, hardly worth keeping it open. But as luck would have it, danged if they didn’t hit a quartz ledge right before the lease went through: paydirt indeed! Some $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! That was over $1000 a day between them. They went wild with joy.

Here he was, at 25, filthy rich beyond his wildest dreams. It was imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. No more sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot, though it was handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all, someone was always willing to lose some goldust over a bad hand of cards. Fortunes were routinely traded every night. That’s where the real money was to be had, in the transaction process. The straw bosses knew that much.

Joe began to dream about his future. A man need a family. A mail order bride, say, age 14, not like the bloozy "Ladies" on Maiden Lane--that was the ticket. No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Madame Mushtache for him! Move his new little bride into his new house sporting the only glassed in porch in Bodie. Glass was damned hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother seeing as it would crack in the cold, come winter. But she’d keep him warm.

He'd put some real glass on her finger, he would. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his evil ways, he would. No more Rosa May for him either. No siree! But would she come? The little girl who wrote the last entry in her diary, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie," was probably working the pox infected cribs as he pondered the question.

6/2005