Letter to Dear Abby on St. Patrick

Abigail van Buren
Universal Press Syndicate
PO Box 69440, Los Angeles, CA 90069 Mar 20, 1996

Dear Abby,

In regards to the bit ’o blarney you’ve ascribed to St. Padraig’s being Roman: you’ve fallen prey to sloppy, or worse, slanted Anglo-centric scholarship. (When in one sentence, with words like English and Roman, you deny our Celtic cultural heritage, you’ll find we Joycean nitpickers of language must wield the proverbial sword. (Catullus and Virgil were Gaulish Celts, but that’s another story.)

Technically you’re right, Patrick was not Irish. He was an ethnic Celt born on the outer fringe of the Roman Empire. To Romanize his name, Patricius Magonus, was a citizen of Rome, born in Celtic Britain (some say Wales or Gaul (Brittany). 

Imagine if you will, the entirety of Europe settled by one group of people who arrived in 6 tp 8 distinct waves. The Celts of Great Britain, Gaul, the Alps, Hungary, Romania, Anatolia, the Balkans, and Iberia were one and the same people, speaking the same language, having the same customs and religion. History and archaeology books corroborate what my seanachie grandmother fed me of Celtic lore. 

St Jerome noted the Celts of Ankara spoke the same dialect as the Trevari Celts of Austria. When the Celts settled Europe is still under debate: Celtic expansion in Europe was 2000 BC, to 1000 BC. 

The Rhine, the Rhone, the Seine, the Danube rivers are all named by/after the Celtic tribes who lived there. They came from across the Rhine, from what is now Germany. (The Germani, and the Teutones were most likely Celts too, the Romans recorded this; Tacitus's history later confuses them with the Germanic speaking tribes from the North. But then, Tacitus was hoping to free up the senatorial war coffers as Caesar did before him. So a little historical shapeshifting was in order.

German, a newer language, has little relationship with the older Celtic languages—which have a close kinship with Greek and Italic—Latin evolves later.) Where the Celts came from before settling in Europe is open to conjecture: horsemen of the Putic Steppes were Celts; there is a Scythian connection too. The Romans misunderstood the name of the tribe settling Great Britain, the Preteni, or Pretani became Britons.

Those who settled in Ireland before 600 BC (Hibernia, Ierné, Éire, Éiru, Eirinn, or Scotia Major—all names for Ireland) were Iberian Celts, as were the Scots who lived in Scotia Minor (Albu, they were siblings), and the Isle of Man. (Scot was a name for Irish peoples, not Scots. Ireland was known as Scotia Major and Scotland as Scotia Minor by the Romans.)

When the Celtic language shifted, due to isolation during the Anglo-Saxon, Gothic and Viking invasions in the 6 to 10th centuries AD; the Cornish, the Welsh, the Britons, Bretons, and Walloons were called Brythonic, or P Celtic speakers. (Brythonic is the Celtic dialect spoken Britain & the continent; Gaelic is the Q Celtic tongue of Scotland, Ireland, and Man. In other words, the P sound and the hard C, or Q sounds shifted: Wales uses a P sound wherever Ireland uses the hard C sound. So map, which means son in Welsh is mac in Irish.)

When the Romans conquered Celtic lands including Britain, making the conquered tribes Roman slaves; some natives received citizenship—either by purchase, or by heroic deed. Patrick’s father Calpurnius, was a Romanized Briton. As to Patrick’s mother’s being “English”, sloppy scholarship! A 5th century Briton was not an Englishwoman! England wasn’t yet a concept, let alone a nation! 

A Briton was a Celt: not Anglo, Saxon, Jute, Goth, Vandal, or Norman—to name the later invading Germanic-speaking tribes. The Romans never conquered Ireland, though Agricula had plans. The Celts sacked Rome (390 BC) and Delphi; the barbarians and Huns ravaged Europe; Alaric the Vandal sacked Rome in 410 AD. By 476, the “12th Roman eagle” had fallen. 

With the chaos that shook the very foundations of the Empire, Ireland must’ve seemed a refuge. During the Dark Ages Ireland became the sole repository for learning and Christianity, having copied and translated the Greek and Arabic mss., thus saving the entire body of knowledge of western civilization. (See Thomas Cahill’s “How the Irish Saved Civilization” for more details.)

According to noted scholar, Seumas MacManus in “The Story of the Irish Race,” Patrick first came to Ireland in 389, under the reign of Niall. In 432, during the reign of Laoghaire (Leary), he fulfilled an ancient pagan prophecy foretelling the coming of Christianity; that the Tailcenn (the god of all knowledge) would supersede Laoghaire’s rule. 

There is endless dispute as to the place of his birth. Patrick wrote in his “Confessions” he was born in Bannavem of Taberniea.” They say he was either born near Dumbarton (Scotland), the most Northern Roman province of Celtic Britain, or possibly in Brittany. 

Patrick’s mother, Conchessa, was the niece of St. Martin. His father Calporn, or Calpurnius, was a curialis, a poor tax collector for a greedy empire—with no means of escaping his lowly inherited caste, other than by secretly fleeing, or the unlikely prospect of becoming a senator. He was personally responsible for any uncollected taxes. 

His son had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. “I sold my noble rank, I blush not to state it, nor am I sorry.” Patrick later wrote. His grandfather Potitus was a Catholic priest; well, you should re-read that statement—Celts of the holy Celtic Church didn't believe in monogamy and priest were often married. Sixteen-year-old Patrick sought a classical education, but was denied it when he and two sisters visiting family (in Brittany?), were kidnapped by Irish slavers of King Niall.

Patrick was sold to an Antrim chieftain named Milue, or Miliucc, where under the name of Succat, he was a shepherd for seven years before escaping to the continent (or Britain), but Patrick grew homesick for Ireland. In search of learning, he entered the monastery Marmoutiers, near Tours, founded by his uncle, St. Martin. He later studied in Rome, and other parts of the Mediterranean.

An aside: Celts, especially the Irish, often fostered their children out to other clans to strengthen clan alliances. Curiales and other middle class Romans who traditionally sent their children to be nursed by shepherds in pure mountain air found their children kidnapped as slaves. Shepherd became synonymous with thief, and trafficker of children.

When Patrick was consecrated Bishop, Pope Celestine commissioned him to carry the gospel to Ireland, and conferred on him the name Patricius, an ancient title of highest honor among the Romans. 

At the age of 40, Patrick again returned to Co. Wicklow, Ireland, in 432 to begin the conversion from Druidic rule to Christianity. Easter seems to have been a pivotal date for conversion, hence the Mar. 17 celebration date (of Patrick’s death); the metaphoric Equinoctial battle of light and dark, replete with bonfires and the dead rising in another land—all favored Irish themes.

From the Nuremberg Chronicles f 145v 4

Patrick was credited with bringing Christianity to Ireland, but the Druids already knew of this new god.

The Roman writer Solinus recorded there were no snakes in Ireland. Ever. The only place you’ll find snakes in Ireland is in the Phoenix Park Zoo. The serpent, synonyms for darkness/Satan, Druidism, etc. Meanwhile Rome was falling, and about to go dark for a few centuries with a little help from the Vandals and Huns who had little use for book learning.

Patrick conversion of the kingdoms of Eire is full of stories: They say Patrick used the shamrock to teach the Trinity. . . but they often have four petals! (My grandfather gave me one). Perhaps this is why the Celtic Christian church observed the faith in a less orthodox fashion centuries before Luther wrote his proclamation. 

The Roman Catholic church had to add a whole slew of “Saint’s Days” to lure the Celtic church back into the fold. 

Another story: When baptizing King Aengus, Patrick accidentally foisted his iron-shod pastoral staff through the king’s foot, who patiently stood through the ceremony. Patrick asked why on earth he didn’t say anything, the unfortunate king replied, “Because I thought it was part of the ceremony.” 

Patrick founded his holy See at Armagh. Darmesteter wrote, ”not only the ecclesiastical capital of Ireland, but the capital of civilization.” Ireland, who never suffered through the Dark Ages, was truly a beacon of light. 

Over 159 monasteries and colleges of Europe were founded by the Irish; if Patrick hadn’t been kidnapped, he would’ve been a tax collector like his father before him and the Dark Ages would’ve lasted a lot longer. For centuries, the Irish church refused to recognize Rome’s date for Easter, and celebrated it closer to the Equinox. 

On that note I’ll end. Happy Equinox/Easter.


See also:
It's PADDY not Patty

For more reverent information on some historical background related to St. Patrick, see my post St. Patrick was a Strathclyde Briton.

Letter from Oleg Atbashian

Yan Martsinkevitch, Maureen Hurley & Oleg Atbashian

Maureen,

I created a new font Oleg Leningrad, which is the same Leningrad 24, but with the key map same as Smolensk. So, all the files we had in Smolensk, can be easily converted to Oleg Leningrad with the only problem that S-k is 12, and L-d is only 24. With the LaserWriter you can reduce it on “page setup,” as we did earlier, or use Adobe Type Manager, whatever works better.

What we have in Leningrad, let’s leave in Leningrad, and you should also leave it in your system, along with the new Oleg Leningrad. Convert only Smolensk text. It may be a little confusing, but it’s only a one-time thing.

Me, Oleg Atbashian & Yelena Buyevitch reading from Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost, Cherkassy, Ukraine. 1990-91.

I converted your poems on this disk into Oleg Leningrad, and some of the Am. kids poems translations. You’ll see. All the rest of Smolensk typeface you can convert yourself, like you do it with English fonts.

I also converted all the poems in Am. kids poems file from Draw on into Draw Off, which took me a while, but I still didn’t do this to Am.KIDS-90 file. It’s easy, you can do it yourself. Here’s the instructions:

-Press Power key + J, and you’ll get “Draw.” (let me use PK for Power key.)

-Click on “A” on the Draw menu.

-Click on the poem on the right side, and a box will appear.

-Highlight the poem in the box as usual, cut it by pressing PK + X . It’ll disappear.

(If the poem doesn’t get all on the screen, click on the beginning of it, then scroll the text to the end, press “Shift” and click at the end of the last line. It’ll work).

Then press PK + X .

-Press PK + J , and you’ll be out of “Draw”

-Click on the place you want to paste the poem, and press PK + V (paste).

-Convert the text in Smolensk into Oleg Leningrad.

-That’s it!

Sorry, I’m so busy now, I even have no time to take a shower in many days, especially now, as John leaves and I have to accomplish all the paperwork for my business etc.

I wouldn’t have been so busy, and just send stuff via modem, but — the greatest frustration I had in a while — after we payed money to GlasNet and tried the modem making local calls, the day we were supposed to make our first connection with Moscow, the modem died. To be specific, two microchips died because of some misterious reason, possibly power surges. I couldn’t believe it. I literally spent a whole week running with foam dripping from my lips from place to place trying to get the chips. Finally I got one, but the other one is not found yet. 

We sent a telegram to Paul asking to send the chip here. I hope it’ll be worked out eventually. The whole thing worked as a sudden damb across the river, crashing all of our plans, and stopping many projects for an unspecified period of time. After a week of unresultive galloping around, there occurred a real flood of papers gathering and gathering without any chance to break through to the destination, and no movement. I’m panicking because there’s still so much to be done, and John leaves soon, and there were so many unexpected things that stopped me from accomplishing our project.

I’m so sorry, and I feel really bad because I didn’t have a chance to translate poems yet. After John leaves, I’ll have more time, and poetry book will be the first project I’ll start doing. I hope, modem will eventually start working, and I’ll send you stuff e-mail (from e-male). It’ll look like bullshit because it’ll be in some English font, but after converting it into Oleg Leningrad it’ll be something.

Yan Martsinkevitch, Maureen Hurley, Oleg Atbashian,Yelena Buyevitch—we're being interviewed by a TASS reporter (I think.)  

After the modem broke I felt like I’m trapped, and I shouldn’t have taken to this job at all. It took me a while to feel better. 

You know, the work I’m doing now is also very useful for me as a writer because every day I meet new characters, and I learn a lot about people in a different context than before, and often I meet that kind of people I wouldn’t have met otherwise, like high government officials, big plants directors and other types of important guys that wouldn’t have talked to me before. Now they appreciate my skills and knowledge, the things I also had before I started working for an American business person. 

All former Communists are now straight Capitalists wanting to do Big Business and make Big Money (which is actually still better than what they did before). It’s funny to work with them, it turned out that they are just naîve and greedy kids in their souls, which is even touching in a way. As for their cruelty, you know how cruel kids can be without even realizing it — they can kill an animal just from curiosity. 

Actually, “early” Communists that made the revolution were also just kids, ill-bread and not very smart. If you are an ill-bread not very smart kid, and you have good ideas in your heart, you make a good “early” Communist. As soon as you win, you provide a good basis for smart ill-bread kids with bad ideas in their hearts. That’s whom we had at power in the U.S.S.R., after all not very smart kids with good ideas were massacred by bad kids in the 1920-30s. 

Now, as they failed, all these greedy little creatures conform very quickly to the people they persecuted before, because they realized that business will satisfy their greediness much better than the former (ridiculous to a Westerner) privileges in a robbed and hungry country. After the coup when an investigation against the Communist party began, it turned out that feeling their end, the former Communist leaders illegally invested hundreds of millions of the Party money (not always earned legally) into different businesses, and made themselves the directors and managers of half private enterprises. Yepp... Luckily, those are only part of the businesses I work with. Of course, I don’t want to support them, but at the moment I just have to work with the material available, planting good seeds for the future.

The song that we recorded in Santa Rosa provides quite an impression on people who understand music here. Unfortunately, those are not the majority. Artemi Troitski whom I counted on to support our project, became a big shot on the Russian TV. He spends too much time abroad. 

There was also a scandal, when after the coup failed, he promiced publicly on TV to bring best of the world’s rock’n’roll musicians to Moscow to play in the concert to celebrate our freedom. The day was announced, a big stadium was rented, but the concert didn’t happen because nobody of the musicians showed up. 

As you understand, the public wasn’t very excited about this. Artemi got very frustrated, and left for Paris, France, to organize another concert to celebrate our freedom. This time he was a success, but it happened in France, not in the U.S.S.R. I don’t think I shall count on him any more. Now that Ukraine became independent from Russia, it’ll be even more difficult. Still, there are two local companies that said they will consider about sponsorship.

I didn’t ask any questions about your relationships with Valeri. I can’t tell you more than I’ve already said. I just hope everything will be OK, and you will let me know how it is going. I wish you the best of what I can only wish and I want to know that you are happy in the forthcoming New Year.

MERRY CHRISTMOUSE! 

Oleggy

12/91


See also:

Ukrainian Glasnost: An Insider's View (March 28, 1991) Oleg Atbashian, the author of this essay, is a writer from the Ukrainian city of Cherkassy. He came to the United States last October on a private cultural exchange, working with poets and writers in California to translate Russian and Ukrainian poetry. In this essay, he remembers some of the events of 1990 and comments on the changes then taking place in the Ukraine under glasnost.

Note Bene: Ironic, the Soviet poetry translation project was my baby, and traces of me have been expunged, no credit, other than here on my own blog. And yet I diligently credited Oleg for his translations. When Oleg returned to Cherkassy in the summer of 1990, he went back to his wife. On emigrating to America in 1994, Oleg reinvented himself with, not one, but two right wings. But I know where the bodies lie. His wife, Nadia used to send me hate email, she hated living in New York and blamed me for their relocation, and not the fall of the USSR. After 9/11 I heard from Oleg, he was working in the American Express building, next to the Twin Towers, he was running late, missed the train to work, and lived to tell the tale. I wish him well, but we are light years apart from that fateful day I met him in August in Cherkassy. I haven't heard from him since. 

This poem is where it all began.

ROAD TO UMAN

Letter to Valerie Stupachenko—Putscht

Dear Valera—

I arrived home safe, but tired. I was shocked when I saw the newspaper headlines as I landed at JFK airport in New York Dec. 17. I didn’t understand the broader implications of the Ukraine’s vote for independence, nor did I realize the USSR was to dissolve Jan 1. 

Now Yeltsyn has taken over the Kremlin, and Minsk is the capital of the new Soviet Commonwealth. Ah well, Happy Solstice, Christmas, and New Years! Officially we’re in a recession, and I still have no work, the school I worked at last year doesn’t want to hire Marsha or me back next year due to a lack of funds, so it looks pretty bleak for me at the moment. But our woes seem minor by comparison to the problems you face right now. It’s cold here at night, about 0° or -1°. Strange to think our night time temperature is the same as day time temperatures in Petersburg. Today is warmer, 15°, but I got used to the warm flats in Russia, and so am cold here—because we don’t heat our houses any warmer than 20° (if at all).

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out a way to register a Visa K form here, but I need the original notarized copy of your wife’s marriage and death certificates, and your birth certificate, also a xerox copy of your passport(?), before I can file the necessary paperwork. Telephone your mother & find out where the papers are. I thought you understood I needed to take the papers back with me to the US when I left. You don’t have to immigrate if you come to America on a Visa K. You can return home any time, and will not lose your Russian citizenship, but the Visa K will allow you to work legally (with Rick Duvall), get a green card, and eventually, citizenship, should you want it. (My grandmother lived here 60 years as a citizen of Ireland. She never got her citizenship.) 

If you come with the tourist visa, you can stay 6 months to a year, but have to return to Russia. The problem is I can’t support you, you’ll have to be able to work, and without papers, it’s difficult to work—though I suspect the Russian community in San Francisco will help as much as they can. But I live 60 miles north of S.F. If you had a US visa due to religious or political asylum, you would be eligible for government money and aid.

If you come to America with Teatr Rok Opera in summer, you can work here up to a year on business visa, but it will be too late for me to file the appropriate Visa K papers. (It takes 1-3 months to file them, then you take the documents to OVIR, have an interview with the American Embassy in Moscow, THEN, get a plane ticket. 

But if you’re coming with the group, at least you won’t have to worry about the plane ticket.) A business visa is better than the tourist visa, and it’s not hard to get green card, etc., it takes up to a year to process. If Teatr Rok Opera goes to perform in Spain for the Olympics (getting a plane seat from the USA to Spain will be very difficult), the sooner I know, the better. 

I’ll need a business letter of invitation to either go with you from P’burg to Spain, and/or come back with you to Russia after—if you don’t go to America (Boston) for the Columbus quincentennial after Spain (in October?). 

Anna Boshikov seems to think it will be no problem for Boris to take care of my visa. As far as the Afghanski/Vietnam Veterans musical tour goes, Rick Duvall is setting up concerts in May/June, they plan to tour 5 cities, P’burg being the 1st city (mid May), but with the political situation so unstable, they may put it off for a year. They definitely want to do something either with you, &/or with the Teatr Rok Opera, and they said to keep informed via the local Afghanski Clubs in P’burg. 

Maybe Seriozha knows where they are. You should also call Sasha Karpenko in Moscow—since he’s setting up the tour. Tel. 235-57-50. (I delivered all the packages and letters including Vera and Seriozha’s.)

Looking back on our time together, I must admit that when we fought using dictionaries, it really was quite funny as we furiously fliped through our books looking up words—somehow we always came out of it ok. They say how a person fights (and forgives) is more telling than all the roses and candy in the world. 

I’m not sure of how much our misunderstandings are based upon cultural differences, and/or religion. I don’t know enough about Russian Orthodoxy to know what the role of the individual is. I realize that religion must be a heady thing in a country where, officially for 74 years it was outlawed. There’s bound to be an incredible attraction; we are all spiritual beings. It’s evident by the scores of baptisms I saw in nearly every church we visited. 

In Russia many people are awakening to their spiritual selves, but I continue to worry about esoteric words like dogma, belief, control, fanaticism—and what it means when the desire for faith stronger than the quest for knowledge. My experience is that when people seek out religion (we call the converts born-again Christians) they get so caught up in the dogma, they abandon all rational thought. (Evangelists are the worst of the lot.) In short, they become fanatics. This is how Jonestown, Greneda came to be. 

I have a rough time accepting organized religion when it is used as a means to manipulate nations, such as the politico-religious wars of Ireland or Israel. Religion and politics, a deadly brew. Where does Orthodoxy enter into the power equation? 

I’m always searching for checks and balances, because I was forced to be a Catholic for 19 years, I’m able to reject it. Was it Marx who said religion is the opiate of the masses? Ironic that America & Russia have traded places here too.

In our culture we are also searching for spirituality. In California, Zen Buddhism comes closest to Russian Orthodoxy in its diligence and strict practice requirements. If there is a balance between belief, free will, and psyche, I can honor that, and perhaps, accept it. 

My fear is that I might wake up to find we have nothing in common, philosophically speaking. I’m cautious, I don’t want to make a mistake. As it is, we’ve already got too much to cope with—without even a common language between us—whether we want to commit to each other, whether we live in America or Russia, etc. 

But I know I don’t want to live in Russia full-time. Then, there’s the issue of money. If you come to America, how will you/ we survive? I know I can’t support you. Oleg’s 9 month visit sapped all my energy because I had to work and support him. I did nothing creative the whole time he was here, and I was miserable. 

If I came to Russia, I know you would willingly support me, it’s a little ironic, but no one’s ever supported me before, no need to start now. I need work to keep my mind fed too. Poetry doesn’t happen by sitting around, it’s an answer to conflict and change. 

I can’t exactly be a journalist in Russia since I don’t speak the language, and I will probably never be fluently literate. As you can see the questions just keep rising to the surface...and no answers. Ironically, all we can do is to have faith. 

Pavarotti and Carreras sang “O Solo Mio” on TV, & I thought of you singing, singing, missing you, your voice. Missing you from the country of the heart, and I wonder who’ll translate all this to you—the things not written in this letter. 

Love, Marina (Maureen)

12.23.91

Letter to Valentin Yemelin—The Putscht

Dear Valentin, IDid you get our (Marsha Connell & me) packet from Claire Greensfelder? I haven't heard back from you, and have no way of knowing whether or not you received it. I also sent you a letter, alibet hurriedly, I hope it made some sense. It seems every time I find someone going to the USSR to use as a courier, they're about to leave in less than 24 hours, and so, I'm up all night trying to get packets off and write long letters to everyone. 

I also sent you an article about censorship and some letters to forward onto Oleg Atbashian and Barbara Kniazeva at the Pioneer Palace youth poetry group. 

I have lots of good news regarding an arts exchange. I just had a phone

conversation with Judith Woodruff of International Arts for Peace, PO Box G1063, Brookline Mass., 02146. (617)232-4222. She is looking for Soviet artists and poets willing to come to the US to train and work in the schools with artists in residence, such as myself. She would like a list of names, qualifications, etc. sent to her by mid-September. 

She was very excited by the work I've been doing and suggested I come to Leningrad in the summer of 91, perhaps sooner, to work with like-minded artists. The emphasis is on schools, ecology arts tours, folk arts festival, artist collaborations, etc. They are building an experimental US USSR school in Yaroslavl and want to establish an exploratorium style children's museum and workshop in a school environment. They are looking for special educators and artists who've developed their own creative approach to teaching--and to have an ongoing exchange with interns traveling to both countries. 

Of course, everything is dependent on getting grant money for airfare both directions. I said I was unwilling to spend any more of my own money on airfare and was willing to work, if someone would pick up the airfare and give me room, board and a small stipend. 

She will be in Yaroslavl for the summer, with a group of 22 artists and teachers. I don't have the address, but I suspect the project's big enough that she could be contacted through the Friendship society, or one of the English-speaking schools. 

It would be nice to give her a packet of artists bio's while she's there, or even to meet her for a preliminary interview. The teachers she's working with are Irina Andreeva and Volodya Ulyashin. 

Another possible high school student exchange contact is Gayle Peebles, who is delivering this packet to you. She leaves for Leningrad August 4, and will be there three weeks. She is part of a US/USSR student exchange program (possibly affiliated with Sharon Tennyson's group) in Leningrad, Japan and Germany. Her home address is 1672 Deer Run, Santa Rosa, CA 95405. Tel. K(707)579-1813. I gave her your number and address. Some Leningrad students 4came here last year as part of her exchange program.

(rest of letter is lost)

1.92

Letter to Maryna Albert

MARYNA,

So good to be home and to have my own computer. I’ve only got a few minutes to get this letter out to you and then I’ve got to go to Kinko’s to get color xeroxes and mail this package, & Dima needs the negs ASAP! I don’t know how fluent your TV Russian is, but I was shocked when I saw the headlines as I landed at JFK Dec. 17. As we watched the news, Valera said it was bad, very bad, but I didn’t understand the broader implications of the Ukraine’s vote for indepedence, nor did I ‘t realize the USSR was to dissolve Jan 1 and now Yeltsyn has taken over the Kremlin and Minsk is the capital of the Soviet Commonwealth. Ah well, I guess you’ve heard that news. Happy Solstice!

Well, officially we’re in a recession, and I have no work, the school I worked at last year doesn’t want to hire Marsha or me back next year due to a lack of funds, so it looks pretty bleak for me at the moment. But our woes seem minor by comparision to the problems you face right now. The mood in P’burg for the past two weeks has been very black, more violence, etc. My friend, Valentin Yemelin (tel. 310-9816) from Leningrad Center for Soviet-American Initiatives said he’d never seen so many people trying to sell their belongings at the Ploshad Mira station than in the past two weeks. We had to fight our way across the metro exit.

Marsha, my friend invited me over for dinner last night, and as she lit the candles and sung the Hebrew prayer, I was struck by the similarity of customs between Judiasm & Orthodoxy. Bad news at Video Project—Peter Epstein has left, they’ve done absolutely nothing with the film, nor the article. They never even read it as far as I can deduce, let alone send it out. Good news—Julie Finn is now on staff part time. She’s doing fundraising for VP and promises to look at the piece, and is interested in additions with our “interview” with Semiyon. So if you have any burning suggestions to make on the piece, do so now, and send it back with your kids, or whatever. 

Your parents say Artie will be going to LA for the games, your mom won’t be going, she says your dad’s feeling better (because she’s not going?), they send their love. All’s ok on that front. We had a wild, dyslexic conversation, and they invited me to stay any time. “You have a home with us.” They had all kinds of Q’s about anti-Semetism. I didn’t have time to go into detail, I said yes, I’d go into more detail later. I called Tree, but she won’t in til Thurs. Left message with Sam. Sharon’s not at home. Marion not home either. Left messages to call. Roomate Nelda says she’s your friend—wants to know more info too. Later.

Leaving Russia wasn’t easy. By the time I checked in—it was a zoo—the plane was due to leave and I had major problems with the (Finnish/not Russian) Finnair manager in P’Burg, he wouldn’t let me take my carry-on bag, said it was too big. (My bag has been to Russia 3 x, and fits under the seat just fine.) I took out my camera bag, and tried to carry it that way, he wouldn’t let me do that either. We screamed at each other, he ripped off my baggage tags, and threw my ticket at me. I unpacked everything and I barely got on the plane, carrying everything in small parcels, which was totally a paradox, because we were only supposed to have one bag to begin with. Others had several bags, the women, huge purses and their carry-ons. 

The stewardesses even said my carry-on bag was fine. I was ranting all the way to the plane, and lost all my posters and calenders—including Akhmatova—which were all my Christmas gifts. I kept demanding the manager’s name all the way through Russian customs—The militia just waved me on through—I think they didn’t want to deal with me. (This Americanka’s crazy). By the time I boarded, the crew knew all about me. 

My screaming paid off—I got his name, but it was so humiliating, I cried all the way to Helsinki. Needless to say , I registered a major complaint. The captain kept apologizing to the passengers for being late, but no one apologized to me. I’m tired of being treated like swine. I thought that was strictly for Soviets and was enraged when a Finn resorted to such behavior. Maybe I was already at wit’s end, that’s why I blew, but I think I would’ve had a fit under any circumstances. Got through customs without problems, $ and all. I was worried about all the letters I was carrying too. By the time I mailed all the letters I was handed upon leaving the USSR (35) I had over $15 in postage. It gets expensive.

Anyway, lots of love to you, kiddo. I almost want to come back on the next plane. Maybe I’ll need a business letter of invite from you or Dima though. Left all my biographical data with Valera. P’burg OVIR put him on the waiting list and gave him an appointment for Mar 10, 92 to make an appointment to make a letter of invitation for me—if you get my meaning, they want an 800 r bribe for an earlier date. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out a way to do a Visa K for him here, but need the original notarized copy of his wife’s marriage and death certificates, and his birth certificate, if possible. A xerox of his passport won’t hurt. Business centers at the Astoria (62 cents) or Pribaltiskaya (32 cents) have xeroxes. I asked Dima Kapoustin to ask him again. Could you ask him too? He says he doesn’t know where the papers are. Tell him to call his mother in Grozney & find out ASAP. Maybe your kids could bring the documents with them. Or someone else? 

If the political shit hits the fan, we’ll all need a back door out! Tell Valera my fax got through. We had doubts. Remember to visit Valentin Yemelin (310-91-86)—he’s got good connections: E-mail, fax, Aeroflot tix, travel, etc. Maybe some leads on work for you. His wife Alyona’s a psychologist. You might want to visit his friend, Nikolai Bogomolov, the painter, first (122-52-25). Bye, sweetie. I love you. Maureen

Letter to Vika Martsinkevich—The Putscht

Vika, Tues. Aug. 20

I had all these tidbits saved up to write to both you and Oleg, but everything seems so pointless under the circumstances... At the moment I am jobless. My CAC grant is finished, so I can’t offer Yan a job as an artist in residence. I’m working at The Paper, in the darkroom, it is paying my rent. I did get a small grant to work in the state of Montana but that’s only if schools call for me. There are 11 other literary artists on the roster. 

Oleg will be pleased to hear that I got the grant—because he wrote me the letter of reference for it!!! Tell Yan I took his paintings to a gallery in Sonoma, El Presidio, (31 E. Napa St. Sonoma CA 95476) where a Kiev artist, Poul Yatovenko has his work for sale. (Too traditional). The owner, Stan Gohl said Chicago would be interested in Yan’s work, but send slides. 

Meanwhile Chaela has given the paintings to someone in Sacramento to sell at an auction in Oct. *Chaela wants to tel Dmitri Valeski in Kiev 220-89-49 “ I love you, muy brot, muy drug. If you need anything, let me know.” I wrote a small grant to the Kanev Sister city (enough for airfare) to get a computer hooked up at Kanev. What I want to do is to get Cherkassy & Kanev linked up with Glasnet in Moscow, and Santa Rosa & Sonoma hooked up here. 

Of course, the events during the past 24 hours probably have destroyed all those plans. At this point, the letter of invitation for me seems like a useless thing to do. I was born Nov. 24, 1952 in San Francisco. My permanent residence/address, you already have. My employer for the past 8 years is Mark West School, 5187 Old Redwood Hwy., Santa Rosa, CA 95403. My passport expires May 17, 1994. Right now, there’s an advisory bulletin for us NOT to go to the USSR. 

God, today, a magazine arrived, and I was so involved with watching the Soviet news, I barely realized that I was a featured poet in the magazine! It hardly had the impact it might normally would have. 

I write this letter, not knowing if it will reach you. I will send it via a friend going to Czechoslovakia on Thurs. (and a copy from Greece). Unfortunately today is the 23rd anniversary of the Warsaw Pact Forces, and Czech tanks are aligned at the border (+6000 troops). Czechl. Poland & Hungary are joining forces in response to the coup. God, we’re all worried sick about what’s happened. 

Yesterday I got through to Kiev and placed a tel. call to you, (and to Vera S.) but you weren’t home. So frustrating that all the lines are busy. An AT&T overseas operator actually placed the call for me—after I gave up yesterday morning—it took 12 hours for him to get through—I had no idea he was calling for me. Perestroika works in funny ways. 

Please send me your girlfriend’s address & tel. in Germany. Send more envelopes, if possible; I’m recycling all the ones you sent me. American envelopes draw too much attention.

We are worried about all the people we’ve had contact with through Sister City—our fear is that anyone having contact with the West might be penalized. Please tell everyone that we’re all “standing by.” (We ‘re having a special meeting on Sat., but by then, this letter will be in Europe.) There’s not a whole lot we can do at the moment. 

I have a whole list of messages from people for you and Oleg to deliver. He has most of the tel. numbers. I’m sending the same list to you both because I don’t know if these letters will get through. 

Messages to deliver: 

*Tell Vera S. the kids are not coming in Oct. as planned. Dave Berto, City Council member will make an official visit in Spring. 

Sonia Bedford says she sent a telegram about the kids coming in Spring instead. “We love you. We are with you during this uncertain time.” 

Tell Vera from me to hook that damned modem up now—before it becomes an issue of life and death. I am trying to find out if we can hook up via Peacenet—Inter Global Communications. It is imperative we have communication! If the modem was in place, I wouldn’t have to send this letter. 

Barbara Leger (her photo was in the Press Democrat paper today—re: fax link) is checking out the Estonia fax number 0143-09-09-71. 

*Contact Yuri Horashansky (STROH 64-00-04, dom. 64-53-00) tell him about the fax for Barbara. He also has the fax number. We want to make sure there’s an open link of communication. Can you dial Estonia privately? Barbara was able to send a fax last night, and if she gets a reply, we’ll know if the link works. 

I’m trying to get a fax/modem number also in Moscow, but since that’s currently the hot spot, it’s unlikely that it will be useful. The group is called Golupka (?) (Dove in Russian). SOVAM, via Peacenet will also get messages through. They just sent messages from Troitsk to SF. 

If anyone in Cherkassy has a fax they can leave on all the time, we can also send a fax direct, provided we can get through to the Kiev operator—not an easy thing, as the phone lines are jammed with callers. This lack of ability to communicate is so frustrating, especially when I realize how close I was to setting up the modem connection with the computer.

*Also have Oleg call Vasili Tanana (Kanev) tel. 2-42-18. He’s supposed to come here in Sept. to Sonoma. Tell him Linda Ransom is worried. She wants to know if he’s coming in Sept. Give him the Estonia number—just in case. Linda R’s mother died two weeks ago, then her brother-in-law’s father died. 

*Tell Oleg to call Svieta’s T.’s parents in Moscow. Her father said Oleg missed California after only one week in Moscow, and that Oleg got through customs OK. Tell him she gets her job permit (Green Card!) tomorrow from immigration in SF.; Vadim’s inheritance is coming along. 

*Danielle Parrish’s “sister” Tanya Moros from Cherkassy arrived safe and sound. Contact her via Zoya Romets. 

*From Leah Mundel to Julia Kovalenko 10-49-51. “I received your letters. Hope your family’s well.” 

*To Vladimir & Liudmilla Naumenko 45-85-62. From Erv & Rita Gaetens “We’re concerned about you, and the whole country. We just watch the news. We love you.” 

*Rick Duvall’s Luda is OK, but is missing her kids. She can’t return to Cherkassy, then come back to the US without a lot of paperwork. They’re working on it. 

Tell Oleg to call Misha in Moscow—Dottie and Jacques are still trying to come to Moscow in Oct. with imagewriter, depending on the situation. We all got Oleg’s cards too. I talked with his Aunt Inna last week. No matter that I don’t speak Russian, or that she doesn’t speak English; we managed to have a decent conversation. 

Vlad and Natasha send their love; everyone’s OK.

In case Oleg hasn’t heard, Intermicro of Moscow & Kiev is selling Mac Classics with Cyrillic system for $999, Russian keyboard is $92. They may need people to show how the Mac works. He should contact them in Kiev. Perhaps there’s a job for him–provided this current crisis blows over. Now, the US is banning the export of large hard disk drives and certain microchips because of the coup. 

One project was to upgrade the telephone lines so computer networking could be improved. Among other things, $1.5 billion dollars in grain shipments to the USSR have been cancelled. Stock markets around the world are plummeting. 

Not having any way to contact Oleg is driving me crazy. I’m sending a similar letter to his home. Are his parents still in Cherkassy? Do they have a phone? Is he back from the Kavkas yet? I don’t know whether to send him another letter of invitation, or to wait. I miss him so much, and am now worried. 

Marsha Connell sends her love and support too. No one knows what to expect. If he can write about what’s happening, tell him to send the info to me. I’ll get it to Panorama, etc. The Progressive returned his stories, and The National Reporter has moved—no new address. 

I have articles about Bush’s visit to Kiev, etc. and don’t know whether or not to send them—too conspicuous. If you can tell us what’s happening in Ukraine... 

There’s no news on the republics at all, other than a small clip of protesters in Kiev shouting Ukrainya, holding three fingers aloft. At first they didn’t know where the clip was from, but I recognized the flag, and figured it out—Ukraine’s with Yeltsin. Tell Oleg it’s like when the Gulf War started, lots of the same news recycled over and over, day in, day out—we all sit in front of the TV.

We did get to see some clips from Vremya, and independent Moscow TV reporters were working with CNN. Someone shot in the Baltics and at Yeltsin’s HQs. We fear bloodshed. Yeltsin’s call for a general strike and civil disobedience is warming our hearts. 

It seems like the ball is really in the courts of the Soviet people to make sure you get freedom of the press back, etc. Hundreds of soldiers are defecting from the autocracy to join Yeltsin. One great shot of a soldier carrying a puppy, the animal licking his gun barrel as he joined others surrounding Yeltsin; the crowd applauding their decision. Defectors will not be punished, said Yeltsin. 

A Russian woman leans inside an army convoy truck, scolds the driver, saying “What’s the matter with you? We used to feed you boys. Go back. What are you doing here?” 

They’re tearing up the cobblestone streets in order to make a barricade. Rows and rows of armed men waiting for the night and the upcoming curfew. Human barricades protect the RFP. A human cross forms at the bridge over the Moscow River on Kutzofsky Prospect. Staccato of automatic weapons; small blue stars of ambulance lights. More than three reported dead by midnight. 

We see the demonstrators carry one of their fallen out of the way; too late. The crowd said, look at him, look... Yeltsin made a brilliant broadcast shown here on TV, but not to the soldiers to whom it was addressed: “Soldiers, at this tragic moment, I call on you. Think about your loved ones. Don’t allow yourselves be misled... Don’t let adventurers use you as blind weapons... Remember you have taken an oath and your weapons cannot be turned against the people... The days of the conspirators are numbered. Clouds of terror are gathering over Russia. The night is not eternal, and our long-suffering people will find their freedom once again, this time, for good. Soldiers, I trust you’ll make the right decision. The honor of Russian arms will not be covered with the blood of the people.” Snipers were on the rooftops. Yeltsin is considered to be the last, best hope of Russia. 

Former KGB agent, defector Stanislav Levchenko, said many officials knew a Stalinist coup was coming on Friday. He is afraid KGB will cause trouble in the Republics. Some refugees were able to get out Sun. night, just landed at SF airport—because someone here was able to send a computer message to Moscow. 

The road to the airport is closed. The American Embassy in Moscow is mobbed with people wanting to leave. The four Soviet ships enroute from Seattle to Fort Ross may not stop here because too many sailors want to jump ship. If all goes well with the ship “Shirshov,” we’ll have a party at Fort Ross on Sat. —one sailor jumped ship. 

Vitali Korotich, editor for Ogonyuk said only nine publications are allowed under the new regime. Ogonyuk is not among them. Said Korotich, “many of my staff, fearing arrest, are sleeping each night in a different flat.” Vitali believes the soldiers are with the people. It is reported that there are now 100,000 photocopiers, 200,000 faxes and 1 million personal computers in the SU since Perestroika began; a repeat of Tiananmen Square is feared, but this time it will be documented and the whole world is watching. There is fear of both a civil and a Cold war. 

Yelena Bonner said plans for a resistance govt. is being set up in Leningrad. Patriarchs are burning candles and praying for the cause. An estimated 300,000 protestors are in Palace Square in Leningrad, 400,000 in Moldavia, 150,000 strong in Moscow, and growing. Coal miners in Siberia went on strike. No one followed the curfew; streets were blocked by trolley busses.

Radical difference between Vremya’s coverage and the independent TV reportage. Vremya shows everyone smiling, kids on the tanks, flowers—as if it were a festival, while others show angry mobs, guns, fires, etc. A German film shows demonstrators attacking tanks with Molotov cocktails, a tank running over the body of a man. It’s rumored many Soviet leaders are struck with a mysterious malady, the coup flu. Pavlov, Yazov, Krychkov... and Gorbachev, Bessemirtykh. Where are all of Gorbachev’s aides, saving their hides? 

The crowd cheered when Pavlov was said to have suffered a heart attack. Rumors of Gorby in Sevastopol, or Moscow, of his arrest, and possible death. No one knows where he is. World leaders are condemning the provisional govt. and demanding the return of Gorbachev. In spite of blocked radio and TV channels, some have managed to broadcast again, using homemade transmitters broadcast from someone’s flat. 

The computers and faxes are continuing to send vital information to the West. Yeltsin was in communication with almost all the republics via fax. Today, Estonia is drafting a proclamation of independence. It looks as if troops will overthrow the Lithuanian govt. TV, radio and telephone stations were taken over. Who is in control of an estimated 27,000 nuclear warheads, we ask in the West.

21/8 Wed.—my God, is it really over? I received an early morning call from a friend to turn on the news. The Emergency Council Eight have fled to Kirghizia; they have been arrested, one allegedly committed suicide...rumors. Yeltsin emerges as a hero. 

Speculation on Gorbachev’s collaboration of having planned the coup, as suggested by the Pres. of Georgia, Z. Gamschkhurdia, seems highly unlikely—precisely because Georgia seeks independence. 

Sub-text. Gorbachev is a victim of the coup. Too many things could’ve gone wrong. The Soviet superstructure has fallen apart, thank God, because otherwise, the coup would’ve been successful. However because it has fallen apart, it also means a restructuring will also have to occur within the Soviet psyche itself. 

Free enterprise has its risks too. It will require concerted restructuring, and hard work. The power shift has occurred. “You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube,” says a friend. 

I realize that within the SSSR, Gorbachev isn’t popular; however in the West, we watch with different eyes, because we can see the whole picture more clearly. In six years, the extent of reform has been tremendous. The overthrow of this coup is implicit testimony to the fact. 

Even if this becomes the Yeltsin Era, none of this would’ve been possible without the groundwork laid down by Gorbachev. 

Latvia declared its independence. I imagine the republics will continue to seek independence. 50,000 Soviets a year (40,000 Jews; 10,000 other refugees) are allowed to immigrate to the US; I suspect we’ll have a higher number of asylum seekers—like in the ‘70s. 

They are placing flowers at the sites of the fallen. Tanks still in Kiev. Six defectors from the Akademik Shirshov will probably be granted asylum. When the other boats dock in SF on Thurs., more are expected to jump ship. You can’t restore order with tanks. Is the coup de etat really over; or will it rise again?

Since anything could happen again within the next 24 hours, I send this letter to you anyway. My friend leaves tomorrow. I imagine she will arrive in Prague Fri. or Sat. Please note how long it takes to reach you. 

Of course, we had no way of knowing if the mail was still working in the Ukraine—a major flaw in this form of communication. I understand the computer is again in Vera S’s office. I hope it is still accessible to others; otherwise it violates the spirit in which the computer was given. 

Again, I urge everyone within Sister City, and our various exchange programs, as a group, to put pressure on those who are inhibiting the fax/modem hook-up, and demand that it be done. 

I can say that personally, I am upset by this omission of the modem hook-up from our line of communication. We have repeatedly expressed our exasperation, both as a group, and individually, and it seems this event, more than anything else, should point to the dire necessity of an open line of communication— provided phone lines are working. There is no acceptable reason or explanation why that modem system isn’t in place—other than fear. 

The technology from the West was largely responsible for the broadcasting of news; this is the first time the entire world watched a coup unfold. They might have been successful (like at Tianenmen Square); many might have died if this technology wasn’t in place. 

We watch the latest Vremya reports saying Gorbachev has been reinstated. Boy does he have his work cut out for him now. Good late breaking news: Peacenet has a sister operation in Moscow, Glasnet (of course). Their address is Yl. Yaroslavskaya 8, Corpus 3, room 111, Moscow 129164. Contact Anatoli Voronov, Alexsandr Zaytsed, Sergei Boukhonin at 217-6182 or 6173. Ask for info on how to come on-line for E-mail.. Right now I’m listening to Radio Moscow! how strange the world is. I just noticed the sun is shining for the first time in three days.

Love to you! 

Maureen

8/21//91

Letters to/from Charles Simic 9/93

Letter to John Millett

Poetry Australia
Market Pl., Berrima, NSW 2577
Five Islands Press, PO Box U34
University of Wollongong, NSW 2500

Dear John Millett,

Thank you for sending me a review copy of your View from the Turret. I wish to apologise for not responding sooner, but I’ve been reeling from the death of my parents and uncle—all within the space of a year’s time. So at this point, I’m not sure how you got my name—perhaps through a journal I sometimes co-edit with Herman Berlandt, Mother Earth Journal? No matter.

We do have correspondence with a few Australian groups and are always searching for new contacts. (May we use a poem for our English language edition?

Please tell others about Mother Earth Journal; send poems to: c/o National Poetry Association, Fort Mason Center, Bldg. D, San Francisco, CA 94102

I don’t have the energy at this time to write and market book reviews but thank you for thinking of me. However, I will send your book on to a poet-friend in Amsterdam who is an avid WWII buff .

Reading your poems prompted me to send you some of my work that carried a similar theme. Please feel free to keep, print (or toss) them: no need to send them back. My Dutch friend has a curious notion of “inherited memories” of WWII; his family home was occupied before he was born but the stories he grew up with continue to haunt him—as they do me. 

I wasn’t born until 1952, after WWII, but I inherited the memories from my family, so to speak. The sentiments and fears of WWII escalated during the Cold War creating a link to the past. One uncle at Pearl Harbor, another in the Korean War. 

I remember Galway Kinnell telling me 10 years ago how he was haunted by an image, “A flash, a blinding flash.” He said that the poet’s job was to render/wrestle the ghosts of war into a poem. We were struggling with the concept Atomic Age, so the seeds of many of these poems harken back to that time. 

Hence this collection which is a bit uneven, but I included some poem I don’t send out—because they carry the thread of the story, however imperfectly. My “herons” for your herons. . .

You certainly evoke the telescoping of time in your first poem, Concorde Flight London to New York. War truly is a country farther away than anything else. 

I was near Laon, Picardy with my cousin last summer: turrets and berms from WWI still dominate the landscape. I like the way you use an admixture of images from the domestic, ordinary world amidst the impersonal statistics.

And the metaphors: Such innocence/ in the corridors of their bodies. . . A time older than clocks. . . coaxing summer from a wife’s body. . . sirens fisting through broken streets. . . elusive algebras of death. And the eerie image of the piano in the morning sun. . .against a black dialog of ash. 

The poems River at Night, Clough’s Wife, Bread & Granny—lovely. The granny can’t possibly be still alive? or do you not know when she died? Why the period after the title? I may use your Old Photograph in a writing assignment—I work as an artist in residence teaching poetry to children. If I get any stellar poems, I’ll send you a copy.

I hope your book has received adequate (and eloquent) review space, and that it’s selling well. Best of the holiday season to you.

Sincerely,
Maureen Hurley

Dec. 10, 1996

Letter to Robin Williams

Dear Robin,                                 1/14/1992

I read an interview of you in last Sunday's Pink Section of the Chronicle and something you (reportedly) said compelled me to write to you. How to begin a letter to someone I haven't talked to since we were in our teens... and not very much at that! 

It's been a long time since the College of Marin drama salad days. In the good ole days at COM-dom, you, in locker shorts, a bathing cap with a dangling chinstrap, doing silly walks across campus. Oh yes, you had shoes on too. 

Please excuse the impersonal format of computer letter, but it winds up in my prose and poetry anyway... I decided to mainframe it. Besides, I feel silly writing you a letter having no place to send it to. Mimi Farina gave me your address years ago but... 

Remember Joel Blum? God, I wonder what happened to him. Back in high school, one assumes people will be around forever, and I wake up and a half a lifetime later, wondering about my classmates. 

Remember Mark Rassmussen? His father "Stu" used to write and direct plays with us little kid actors. I was Julia in the original production of San Geronimo! and I still remember, "the jerseys? Ah juust love the jerseys." 

A very useful line to remember and my mind's like a sieve anyway. (My mom who was in the theatre, coached me—that's how I discovered I got carsick—reading a script in the white Nash rambler with red leather seats. The curves on White's Hill did me in. To this day, I can't read in a car.). 

You knew Dima Birich too, right? Last time I saw her, she was still living with Frank-who-likes-the-horses at Alice Kent's—long after Roger died. 

You were right when you said, "if you remember the 60's you weren't really there." There was a permanent dope cloud over Marin. I blame all memory loss on that, and dyslexia. Like the woman, who, noticing her husband had set up an alms cup with a "Please Help Daily Sex" placard says, "you better let me help you spell dyslexia, Dear."... 

BUT, what I really wanted to say is that I saw you in the Dunn /Krempetz Shakespeare productions and I always thought you were damn good actor. The public wants a comedian to play a comic part. I think Woody Allen is finally taken seriously for his films...but he's had to reduce his visibility to make people pay attention. 

I felt saddened seeing you always in the movie role of Fool crying, "Nuncle." (However, I have a special fondness for your Malvolio with his crossed garters). 

So much depends upon how much film is left on the editing floor, and the audience thinks the actor is at fault. I had to review movies for a while, and I sure do like that fast foreward button on my VCR machine! 

While you were the hottest action in comedy, I missed the serious actor... and now, you've said, "if you don't hit a home run, you'll be optioned off to the minors." Well, the bases are loaded and it's the top of the tenth. It's how you play ball with the land mines that counts. I wish you luck on your latest film and maybe it will be the showcase you've been looking for, and if 'it ain't—well, back to the ball park. 

Best,

Maureen Hurley 

P.S. You may well wonder what prompted me to write to you. (Deep subject). Part of it had to do with guilt from not reading the Sunday Paper on Sunday Ilike normal folks and it got put off until the end of the week. 

Like the Welsh princess Rhiannon stepping over Mathelwheny the Shaman's rod to prove she's still a virgin, I stepped daily over the paper, your photo obscenely staring up at me. 

I preferred Rhiannon's sister Arianrhod, who dallied in the waves with a Silkie of Sule Skerry, and upon stepping over the rod, gave birth to Dylan (not Bob—who often stole Irish songs and melodies and called them his own) of the Waves, a halfling—neither from this world nor the otherworld. 

"Spare the rod and spoil the child?" And there's her other son, Llhew who was betrayed by Bleuodwhyh the woman made of flowers. 

I read everything: outdated newspapers, cereal boxes, medicine containers. It must have something to do with being Irish—the sacredness of the printed word. 

A writer friend, Carolyn Forché told me to read "only what is good" because it will affect my writing. Will I become a writer of recycled newspaper tidbits, cereal boxes and medication warnings? I am especially fond of contraindications on medicine containers. The contras are indicated in right-wing medicine? Land mines in Nicaragua? Hairy fish balls for pear pimples??? 

I forgot to say I find the Funny Section more relevant than the front page though some of the "headers" make it worth reading. Like 

BASEBALL TALKS IN 9TH INNING. 

Or BRITISH LEFT WAFFLES IN FALKLANDS. 

My, weren't they housetrained? 

Due to this compulsive habit, not only do I find an article about you which prompted me to write, but in the Book Section, there's a photo of Tess Gallagher. Aside from the fact that she's a friend, a writer, and also Irish, imagine my surprise when I realized it was MY photograph on the front page with no photo-credit, and of course, no money. 

The Czech is in the mail. 

I prefer anonymity, write? Wrong. 

On this synchronistic bent, I read John Huston's, or should I say, Joyce's The Dead is now a movie. I recognized all the falling snow.

"It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right:..." Joyce's intimate affair with Ithe dead and the living, the ultimate erotic act. The movie opens at the S Clay theatre..oof! 

Of course, Huston, Joyce, and his fictional character Michael Furey are all dead and buried in the clay along with my grandmother who was recently buried in Colma which boasts of a rather large permanent population of a million and a half. 

Some say it's the fastest growing underground city in the west. According to the Sunday Paper, a few of the illustrous neighbors she now keeps are; Ishi, the last Yacqui Indian; Lefty O'Doul, whose headstone is engraved with his lifetime batting average (.349); Emperor Joshua Norton, "Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico."

Meanwhile in the Jewish cemetary, Wyatt Erp presumeably keeping eternal law and order on the ultimate frontier; and, William Randolph Hearst who is responsible for the Sunday Paper to begin with! 

Clay was one of those stories I read as a kid... my ex-patriot Irish grandmother who raised me (everyone should have an Irish grandmother) always kept an ample supply of light reading material (as in Joyce) and whiskey around the house. Try reading Ulyses and Finnegan's Wake as a young nipper...No small wonder I'm dyslexic. 

And we had none, you know, for my grandmother, who, of all people, deserved a decent wake and good wee drop of Irish whiskey to send her off. Notice it's spelled with an "e," none of that Protestant stuff (though she never said "no" to a gift of a "botthle" of Bushmills.). She kept her liquor in magenta shoe pouches in the bedroom closet. Good for rubbing on her arthur-itis, she said. Perhaps she was afraid of getting arthritis of the foot? 

That reminds me of the Scotsman suffering from the same affliction reasoned that plants growing in damp places, which aggrivates the disease, would offer a cure. He discovered it all right—in the bark of the Sally tree—willow as we call it. Only problem is, he had to eat pounds of bark to get relief from the disease. Sallycilic Acid better known as aspirin. 

I, on one hand, can't stand whiskey or whisky—no matter how you spell it, and am trying to weave disparate events into an art form. Perhaps I should call this, On Reading the Sunday Paper a Week Late ... and a dollar—make that 5,ooo dollars short. But that is another story of a writer seeking fame and fortune who found obscure fame in a small Minehune fish pond in Sonoma, Iand is still seeking the fortune part. 

One more letter marked "return to sender." 

On the other hand, I just needed the excuse to drink, I mean write. 

&"Not tonight Dear, I have a headache."

The profane president

Everyone groans, but it’s true, the president is profane from his head—such as it is—to his toes. All of it profane, the use of power, or the profane use of religion. But then, religion has always been the driving force of power, masquerading as something other than what it is. Take one vast oil field and multiply it by the altars of Maman. 

We sit within the inner circle of oil refineries that have turned the largest profit ever, making more money in one year than the world’s total debt. Today I caught myself thinking at the gas pump that $2.75 was a pretty good price. When did that shift in thinking occur? When did I get used to thinking it was a good price? When did I begin to accept the inevitable ogliarchy of my government, though I protest. But I feel so helpless, unempowered, hunkering down to outwait the inevitable. This, too shall pass. 

But the meek have not, and will not inherit the earth, ever. Unless they’re willing to accept drown continents as they’re just desert deserts. 

I watch the news footage of vast sheets of glacial ice the size of small countries calving off into the ocean. Flying over Iceland and Greenland, I was mesmerized by the flotilla of icebergs, like unseasonable cherry blossoms strewn on the pavement at Paisley Abbey, midwinter. The church bells, a death knell for the earth.

2/9/2007 Writers’Group

A breath of fire, freewrite

From the sky it comes, phoenix-like, cleansing the earth.

No, take two. Thou shalt not take apocalyptic visions as the true God.

The oil plume reached up to the stratosphere. It burned for months, enough lost fuel to power a nation. A subterranean Grendel. Tears of Allah. What we will do for oil.

The atmosphere warmed, the glaciers calved. I cannot shake brimstone from my psyche. The algorithm of the secret and the profane. The yin and yang of polar opposites.

Only, now the polar caps are melting in winter, and the deserts are heating up. A breath of fire comes to scourge us from this earth. Hellfire. Some dream toward the stars, as if it were a solution, but would you wish to unleash ourselves upon the universe after what we’ve done to this place we call home? We are 11 seconds to midnight. A breath of fire is slowly cleansing this place, making it pure for some other life form to come.

Meanwhile, I teach the children to make art, what else is there to do with all this waiting? The slow combustion of the dinosaurs, The car I drove to get here. We madly use up what little is left, because there is no alternative.

I think of those calving ice sheets, the newly discovered fjords of Greenland, how beautiful they were from the air. Sapphire and midnight against brilliant snowfields, kissed by peach flamed sunsets.

Take 3. Purdah for the earth, born again. Kilimanjaro‘s glacier cap is melting, and will be gone within 10 years, within our lifetime. A terrible beauty indeed. Fire, white hot, snowfields of Venus, the fire within. Non-carbon lifeforms. The salamander, born in fire. The Firebird rising.

2/9/2007

Letter to Editor on Vegans taking pot shots at Carnivores 12/94

LETTER TO THE EDITOR ON NATIVE INTELLIGENCE 12/27/94

Excuse me, but has someone declared open season on meat eaters? Why is this verdant nuvo veggie arrogance from the “Minus Generation X” sprouting in the letters to the editor column? Since when is eating meat, or hunting—the red herring—classified, as Stan Wadel penned (Dec. 15), as “the arrogant attitude that humans are superior and that somehow justifies exploitation of inferior groups.”?

I refer also to Will Tutle’s blanket statement on hunting ethics (Dec. 22) that “meat eating” causes “poverty, starvation, and ill-health, and the ruining of the very fabric of our planetary interconnected life.” Am I imagining that this tolerant, enlightened individual is making a parsimonious value judgment about the food chain? Should we become breathatarians? What about airborne microbes?

Whether we choose to partake of the flesh or not, we are meat eaters, with the capacity to digest complex meat proteins; some people do well on a vegetarian diet, others don’t; the Inuit, for example. Our cats supplement their corn-based kibble with lizards, spiders, and birds because their bodies need complex protein. (As do mountain lions—we are not necessarily at the top of the food chain.) I do advocate responsible carnivory. Anyone eating meat should know how it’s obtained, whether it’s chicken of the sea, or Bullwinkle.

Need I point out that when the mission fathers came to the New World, they brought with them destructive and wasteful agricultural practices that continue to wreak havoc upon our landscape? Or do vegetarians turn the other cheek when confronting agribusiness? For thousands of years Native Californians maintained a complex lifestyle, including the raising, and harvesting of acorns and ungulates; the padres forced the neophytes to utilize their European farming practices. When starvation was eminent, they turned the Indians out of the missions to forage off the land.

Bless me too for I have been a vegetarian (though not of the vocal, jugular-biting variety practicing penmanship in this column); an allergy to legumes, any member of the nightshade family—potatoes, nuts, and wheat made eating an interesting venture. Should I blame the English for stealing Ireland’s food, making us entirely dependent upon one food source, the potato, for the long-term development of my myriad allergies? The land dictates cuisine, which comes from practical application. When in Rome. . . I have eaten whatever was offered: tepesquintli in Tikal, cuy in Cuzco, or salo in Siberia.

Maybe I’m just an enlightened redneck for I like Bambi on the table as well as in the meadow. I am a capable hunter; I prefer to hunt at the market. Who’s taking potshots at all the newcomers (and housing) responsible for the destruction of the wildlife habitats in the first place? Where do they stand on the guilt chain? I choose to respect the lifestyle choices of both vegetarians and hunters—provided they eat all their “kill,” including those end-of-summer monster zucchini. I refuse to respect those who sanctimoniously, or shall I say, fascistically, take potshots at all meat eaters. I will refrain from asking if they exploit dairy products or leather. Like it or not, it’s an “eat or be eaten” world; no need to explain that concept to the other carnivores. How about a little egalitarian tolerance, save the salt for seasoning your arrogant attitudes.

Maureen Hurley
Forestville

Letter to Michael Franks 1990

Dear Michael Franks,

I read an interview of you in the S.F. Chronicle Pink Section (22 July) by Lee Hildebrand, thus prompting me to write for two reasons: your musical based on Gauguin, and some tapes of yours I brought to Russia as part of a cultural arts exchange.

Aside from the natty problem of where to send this letter in the hopes that it will be forwarded to you, I too am deeply influenced by Gauguin—both his life and his work (as if they were inseperable).

 As an artist in residence, I often use his quote: “Who are we and where are we going? as a stimulus for beginning new work both with myself and my students. A little known fact is that Gauguin spent time in Peru which also influenced his work. I began a poem ages ago, and I later discovered his Peruvian roots when I traveled there in 1988. (See enclosed poem entitled “The White Horse.”) Are you familiar with this information on Gauguin? One of my sources was Eduardo Galiano.

I am sending you the poems because, long before I became a writer, I was housecleaning some rockstar’s home (I forget who, maybe someone with the Dead or Starship?) and listening to an obscure musician’s tape—one of the advantages of growing up in Marin in the ‘60s & ‘70s was the access to obscure music! And “Popsicle Toes” stuck in my brain a long time. I rarely buy music (one of my gripes as a writer is that musicians tend toward the banal in lyrics), but years later, I eventually bought “The Art of Tea.”

I am part of a poetry and art exchange with the Soviet Union, (I’ve been there twice) and I brought with me the work of many artists (kids and adults) in the Bay Area. I also brought as many tapes as I could carry, because there’s a great interest in American music in the USSR. Naturally, I brought what I liked, and it was interesting to watch my new aquaintences listen to our music the way a child tries a new food, cautiously. 

Your music was, after an appropriate time of testing, very much appreciated. It is very different to what they expect of US music. They’re uncertain about music not immediately recogniseable as a style. For example, the musicians I met preferred Dixieland over fusion jazz, yet ironicaly, they’re into the heavy metal of Motly Crue, and that of Genisis. (There’s a sort of MTV there, and even rock concerts are now broadcast.) 

But the music of the Beatles continues to live on in the USSR. It was like stepping into a 20-year time warp. We sang in the common language of music in the form of Beatles songs at numerous parties—often the only English many Soviets knew. And so, it was a pleasure to introduce your music to the Soviet artists, writers and musicians. 

I have no idea what will come of it, other than continued glasnost, and art exchanges, but I thought you’d like to know your music is now in the USSR. Are you familiar with the music of Aquarium?

While in the USSR, I saw many Gauguin paintings at the Pushkin and the Hermitage. Unfortunately, the paintings are dark and in need of cleaning, but to see them in the flesh, so to speak, was amazing. Especially “Are You Jealous?” and “Woman holding a Breadfruit.” There are nearly 20 paintings of his in the USSR. “La Orana Maria” (not in the USSR) is one of my favorite paintings.I look forward to hearing your Gauguin pieces.

Best,

Maureen Hurley

Letters to Wm Poole

(somewhere on The San Andreas Fault)  May 1989

Dear Wm Poole:

How appropriate yr letter arrives the day I take 30 screaming 5th graders to Bear Valley, backpacking trip, Wildcat Beach. Group slower than slugs in molasses (or beer). When they lay down in middle of road screaming, “I can’t go on” after first 1/10 mile, imagine how long it took to go 6.5 miles. Got chance to study lots of roadside geology. My kingdom for a cattleprod!

Very good: (#4) yr bullshit line, I mean. Yr letter made my day. However, many have graduated to decimal system: #6 follows #5, not another #5 (unless you’re William Carlos Williams, “I saw the number five in gold...” (hint) use both hands to count.

Speaking of WCW, the good doctor & poet who penned, “it is difficult getting the news from poetry/ but men die every day/ for lack of what is found there,” yr letter is hereby nominated for WCW 13 Ways of Looking at Cow(bull)shit Award. (You have 7 more to go—(hint: use toes too). 

Here’s a joke from a student: 

Visitor: Nice bunch of cows. 

Farmer: herd. 

Visitor: Heard what? 

Farmer: Herd of Cows. 

Visitor: Of course, I’ve heard of cows! 

Mother cows aside, that one mooooves me.

Speaking of slugs, glad you liked slug pix.

Tell you what, will do even better than remind you of next year’s event. Nominated you ill-ustrious judge-elect to screeming panel---always on lookout for fresh blood (meat). Am sure George Snyder more than delighted to hand over the position to like-minded colleague. (He was very squeamish). Think of it: ringside seat, a chance to make Omni and David Letterman Show (if you’re a slug, that is).

For this revolting occasion, think green (as in St. Paddy’s Day—you’ll do better to arrive in appropriate condition (your choice). Korbel champagne in mid-day sun simply murderous on hangovers). Some years, it’s scheduled before Mar 17. Others, after. Shit happens. 

DJ Reg Lester won’t forget when Banana Slug cream pie started crawling off plate and crowd howled “Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!” People will do ANYTHING to make the 6 O’clock News. Was brushing his teeth for weeks trying to dislodge slime from throat. Hey, we’ve lost some good judges—Hauser & Keene, gagging gourmands. Don’t worry about yer vernacularisms, malapropisms but do bring pepto-abysmal. Maybe we should nominate William Safire as well???

Am in the countdown process of putting together yet another kidbook of poetry and computer’s crashing right and left (Cold War? I’m blaming sunspots). My Apple IIc Plus has worms (moles??). Due date May 23. Feels like I’m making a rocket with paperclips and the clock’s ticking. So, I’m procrastinating.

Since you’re a man of the road, I am including a couple of poems. “Keeping the Dead...” inspired by the Pink Section & This World. I read the Punch & the Funnies too, whether I need the news or not.

Careful there, yr last epistol looking suspiciously like a poem & you know what happens when you make mole hills out of mountains—eat a lotta dirt to get to the heart of things. Missiles aside. Funny you should mention missiles. They’ve been coming up a lot in my poems. Enough of this missive. Happy Trails to you, or should I say, das Vdanya? Nos zdrovia is much more interesting. Water of Life, and all that. Don’t you think? (Last statement, a colloqualism, not intended personally).

P.S. My granny (who kept uisge in the shoe pouches of her closet) was forever pointing out cork oaks to me. Guess she liked the idea, living through Prohibition, and all that. Quercus. Corks ‘n Cows? Sounds pretty green to me. Was a bar/hardware store on Guerneville road called Bottles ‘n Bolts--popular with the weekend handyman set. Went belly up. End of an era. Now a gucchi-wucchi chocolate shop. Dipped strawberries anyone?

P.P.S. To see how I spent my summer vacation, get a copy of latest American Poetry Review (brown issue)....(hint) what do tear gas, Lima, coca leaves, laundered money & Ollie North have in common? Or how to take pix during a civil war? Shoot from the hip.

Dear Wm Poole: Febish @ 9 1990

How do you pronounce Wm? Sounds like a bullfrog filling in for the Fat Lady or practicing for spring training. 

I sure HOPE I don’t have nits—even if the family I was staying with in the USSR had to wash their daughter’s hair in benzine—Quell, etc. not readily available in the USSR. 

My friend’s father invented Quell and countless friends have profusely thanked the man... He also invented Sensodyne toothpaste. Not as much in demand as the former—especially during the 60’s and 70’s. Maybe now. I got a personally autographed case of the latter product from aforementioned man. What friends are good for... Wait till they discover in the year 2000 he invented denture cream!

Of COURSE you’re singled out for such split attention. I got a new copy editor who can quote from Strink & What. So I’m getting a crash course in the true joys of nitpicking. You’re not the only one who received fan mail. Blame it on the Moonies or something. 

I must’ve gone crazy on a comma binge on poems already typeset, much to an editor’s chagrin. A hysterical call from New York only netted my answering machine. The seven page letter he wrote included such gems, “While I’m not unaware of the joys of punctuation...” Something about commas sprinkled like spermatazoa across the page...

Between the two of you, my mail was a veritable Abbot & Costello “Who’s on first..” Never mind that one. Just let it slide. It’s too loaded.

OGODNO! Don’t give up being a journalist! Who else would I nail at every faulty mission from Dog (Dyslexic parsons arguing about theology). 

Then there’s the fun(d)raising dyslexic’s wife who, seeing his placard and tin cup, “Please help dailysex” who said “Let me help you spell that, dear!” 

And whose fault is that? Data. Data? We former art students called it Dada. You know, irons with nails coming out of them? A tire’s recurring nightmare: Somewhere on the road, NAILS!

It’s almost my favorite column...even if you have trouble with geography and can’t seem to get your copy in on time. Every other week isn’t too bad, considering your inability to read maps. As to other ficticious and literary pursuits, who am I to say no? Please note enclosed poetic license. 

Have also enclosed a Jo Bob Briggs interview for you. NOTE the Slugfest reference. Surely you’re braver that Jo Bob? Time’s a waistin (middleage spread on toast points). Well? Do you have the guts? Your editor is absolutely right. It IS a great idea. ("Editor" is the long word for God). Hey, you might make Omni magazine. Or are you a sudden vegetarian? (OYESSS!!! I HAVE THE CALLING) 

Um, yep, I too have left poor suckers wandering around lost in the woods. How’d you guess? As a kid I also introduced visitors to the first-time joys of poision oak and stinging nettles. We called ‘em city slickers, not journalists though. The last time I trusted a man with the topo map was April Fool’s Day, 1982. Needless to say, the date says all. Cold out there w/o a blanket! Took some innovation on both our parts to stay warm.

Back two weeks. Am still trying to recover from the USSR. Have reservations to kiss K Mart, etc. Went wild in the grocery store. $100 worth of snacks? I won’t tell you what happened in Macy’s, other than I am the proud new owner of a down quilt and two more pairs of boots. And am seriously eyeing a sheepskin coat & more longjohns. Spring Sale starts MONDAY!

I never knew I was a secret capitalist consumer at heart until I tried to buy boots in the USSR. I had to resort to the black market. The flimsy little California numbers I wore left me uneasy every time I stamped my foot. I was afraid of finding small toes rolling around on their own inside my boot. The thinsulite coat was exactly that, thin.

I now understand why women wear fur coats. It’s f’ing cold over there. I know your greography is a bit hazy—Leningrad is on level with Anchorage. Cherkassy (near Kiev) on level with Paris. There the similarity ends. Moscow wasn’t any warmer.

Alternative warmth factor: Try pop-starting a Jigouli (Soviet-issue Fiat by any other name) in reverse on an icy road at 6 am and your plane leaves at 8 for the thrill of a lifetime. We flagged down some poor drunken sot & hijacked his car. After waiting in line for two hours, Pan Am tried to bump us, erroneously saying, “no reservation, go to the end of the line & pay a late penalty please.”

Understand, after a month of cabbage (kilbasa shortage) I was a rather feisty contender for that plane seat. The joys of public tantrums. Pan Am was late. It took 36 hours to get to SFO. So we couldn’t get the Airporter home to Santa Rosa at 1 am. Joys of more public tantrums. 40 hours w/o sleep (or a bath) does not improve my normally sunny condition. 

Pan Am begrudgingly put us up for the night (what was left of it). My gray cells are rumored to be hovering somewhere mid-Atlantic. I only saw the sun once while in the USSR, and it was partially cloudy. I freaked when I saw all the blue sky. Hurt my eyes. Have enclosed a write-up on my project. Pass it along. Am looking for $, etc.

Re: C/O the Chron. No address on your last missive. If anyone at the Chronic “L” reads your mail, you’ll know when the jokes resurface in Siberia. Reminds me, speaking of newspaper magnets (of the refrigerator variety), on the way home from a CPITS mtg in Cambria, my ride dragged me thru Hearst’s “castle.” O my, something to look forward to. Joys of retirement from journalism.

Note bene: these old letters were locked away in obsolete file formats for over 20 years. I attempted a new approach to opening them—so this is the first time I've literally seen them since 1990. I'm publishing much of this material thematically since I can't create a blog that goes back to 1989—so Feb 2007, it is (though today's date is really 6/20/2011...shhh!) Sometimes it takes a while. At any rate, this makes me want to dig into the archives and find some of those old letters—Wm Poole's, of course (checkout his old photos at Legible Light—amazing)

About the Letters

About the Letters archive, for the first time since the 1990s, I've been able to open my old files that date back to the original Microsoft Works 1 days when I had an Apple IIc and real 5" floppy disks.

By chance, a friend, Piet Bess, gave me an old Mac hard drive, with Microsoft Works 4 on it—but more importantly, with a converter file.

Some of the files opened to blank docs, if at all. I have lost my letters to Michael Fulton, for example. Just a blank page. I'm devastated. He's now a rather famous engineer. Same with Don Merideth's letters. Maybe they'll resurface in someone's literary estate.

With the converter, Microsoft Works, 4 in OS 9, and Text Edit in OS X, I was able to save most of the files. But many files still open with a lot of garbled text and the alphabet carriage return embedded in them. Suffice to say, a lot of clean-up hours were invested.

I guess this massive missive effort was spurred on because Lion is due out soon—and if I don't rescue these files now with my old PPC iMac, I may not have an option when it fails—as I'm running OS 9 Classic and Tiger to bring these pieces into the 21st century a decade late.

As I was cleaning the letters up, it struck me that many of them stand alone as literary pieces, or fodder for a literary memoir—as they seem to be riddled with famous people—or people who later became famous. So, I've posted them, warts and all, for now. Don't know how much tinkering I'll do. I just wanted them all in one place where I could refer back to them. Mine them.

They're posted in no particular order, other than they span from circa 1988 to 2000—and are mostly squashed into the February 2007 slot for lack of a better home. I began the blog in January 2007, and so, can't post anything earlier than that.

Most notably the letters record the fall of the Soviet Union as I was there at the end.

Mea Culpea if I offend any the recipients of the epistlary process. That is not my intention. Summer Solstice, 2011.