Iona, The Inner Hebrides, Scotland

Just getting to the sacred isle of Iona was strewn with so many hurdles that it made going on pilgrimage seem like a piece of cake. After a few untimely mishaps in Oban, we missed the early CalMac ferry to the Hebridean Isle of Mull. We missed it because Neil was overtired from his music gig the night before at Markie Dan's Pub in the basement of the four-star SYHA hostel, the Victorian Corran House.

And like a foundered horse, Neil O'Neill just couldn't get up to speed. No amount of carroty bribes or verbal threats would move him. It wasn't just the craic and the free beer or the amazing variety of scotch to choose from, or dancing with Anne, or jammin' with his old friend, Louis Barrow, that wore him out.

He was at cross-purposes with himself—being both long in tooth and long in jaw. Too much gift of the gab. And a good time was had by all. A real ceili that went on into the wee hours. Whereas I was just plain old cross as a bear. Next morning, even at top dead speed, Neil ONeill, the man so nice they named him twice, was in slo-mo. And that was that.

The tourist resort and fishing village of Oban, in Argyleshire, smack dab in the middle of the whisky trail, is also the leaping off point to the Gateway to the Isles. With incredible sweeping views of the Inner Hebrides, the Isle of Kerrera (where Alexander II of Scotland died), and the mountains of Mull, the Oban waterfront has it all. A picturesque horseshoe harbor, and a waterfront, with rainbow-hued houses much like the Hebridean villages of Tobermory or Bonnie Portree, but on a grander scale, Oban has its share of towers and castles too—even a Victorian folly replica of the Roman Coliseum looms on the horizon.

There is nothing more desolate than hearing the departure whistle of the ferry you're supposed to be on. No ferry tickets were left for the next sailing two hours later either. It was full up. Which meant visiting both Mull and Iona were out of the question. To have come this far and be thwarted by time and circumstance, was testing what little self-control I had left. I was feeling positively gladatorial. My Irish was up. And there's no putting it back switch. Must've been a combination of the whisky vapors and the coliseum on the hill spurring me on to a full-blown tantrum.

But we got a last minute (re-)prize, or rather (sur)prise ferry tickets from Anne, a local fairy godmother, who was good at pulling in strings and had a few local favors due. With the help of the incredible, the inimitable and stately Anne McDonald, proprietor with her daughter, of the Corran House Hostel, who was a former teacher from the Isle of Mull, and friend to actors—we managed to squeeze in a mad overnight jaunt to the holy isle of Iona.

Anne found us sitting like stunned birds in our rental car, ensconced in the ferry wait-listed Godot lane, in utter despair. The air was thick with disappointment. We missed the boarding cutoff by three cars. I brushed aside my tears and flagellated: if only Neil had gotten it together sooner.... Not being able to board the ferry was like a body blow. Our last hopes had vanished, sunk like a stone to the bottom of the harbor of regret.

But Anne came up to the car, smartly rapped on the window, and handed us the coveted ferry tickets—which we couldn't purchase for love or money. She said we'd have to pretend we were residents—a little hard to pull off in a rental car. But everyone kindly looked the other way. Anne was truly a guardian angel. I was sad to see her go. It was like leaving family behind on a distant shore. But the ferry was boarding. They waved us on.

We were elated. The ferry ride from Oban on the Firth of Lorn, to the Isle of  Mull, second largest of the Inner Hebridean islands, was amazing and postcard scenic. The passage takes about 45 minutes and you pass very close by Duart Castle, the oldest inhabited castle on Mull, home of the 28th Chief of Clan MacLean. The quintessentially Scottish Duart Castle was featured in Entrapment (1999) with Sean Connery (a Maclean on his mother's side) and Catherine Zeta-Jones.

I stood on the tallest deck of the ferry and spread my wings—a nylon windbreaker—and I was transported, or  rather, momentarily airborne. I was hovering over the deck like a big black bird in the gale winds sweeping unfettered down the Lynn of Lorn, Loch Linnhe. We passed a lighthouse on Eilean Musdile guarding the southern tip of low-lying Lismore island (the great garden isle), once a major center of Celtic Christianity. Oddly, where the water is still on the leeward side, the 1883 lighthouse that replaced the standing stone that once marked the winter solstice, looks like a stripped down version of the Taj Mahal.

The ferry ride was too soon over. I wanted to sail on up the passage to Skye and the Isle of Lewis. But Mull was the gateway to Iona. We landed at the wee village of Craignure (little more than a wide spot in the road) on Mull's eastern shore, and headed south on a country road. We passed the entrance to Duart Castle. Incredible jeweled finger bays off the Firth of Lorne, sheltered coves. It was like being in Northern California and in the tropics at the same time—indescribable turquoise and cobalt waters, white sand beaches.

The isle of Mull is quite large and mountainous. As we drove down the sinuous road, through valley & glen, I kept thinking I was in Ireland. The Hebridean Isles, scrupulously scoured and carved by glaciers, are quite different than the rest of Scotland. The lowlands is a misnomer—there are long rolling ridges, but als a sameness to the topography.

We had little flex time to spare to catch the Iona ferry at Fionnphort, so we drove like banshees down the fantastic glaciated Ross of Mull peninsula, wildly swerving around flocks of Hebridean and merino sheep and sollitary cyclists. It takes approximately an hour to sanely drive from Craignure to Fionnaphort (pronounced Finafor)  on a 40-mile-long sinuous one-lane road. Not many tourists, but lots of sheep, so we rarely had to make use of the skinny little pullouts for oncoming traffic.

We rounded a bend and wended through the croft-village of Bunessan with its sole hotel/pub on the shores of the seaweed garden of Loch Scridain. An oncoming lorry and no turn-outs meant we had to back our way through the village in reverse. Odd way to sightsee backwards. (Bunessan is home of the Gaelic hymn, Child in a Manger, known to Cat Stevens fans as Morning Has Broken). Ben More was hiding in its own weather system.

Then another wide spot in the road, the hamlet of Pennygheal, marked with strange striped barber poles designating a passing spot. Sad to see so much beauty whizzing by at 60 MPH. No time to lose. And then it was on to Fionnphort, population 70-80, depending on who's counting,

But we missed the Iona foot ferry by minutes, and then we missed the 2nd ferry too as we had to park the car up at the St Columba Museum, because we found out too late that the road shoulders were marked No Parking. Then we had to lug our stuff down to the ferry... Luckily they came every 30 minutes, more or less, depending on the weather and the inclinations of the captain. Hard to believe that some 140,000 tourists a year are funneled through here.

The ferry disgorged its handful of foot passengers, returning tourist-pilgrims and some four-footed ones–sheep! Was I the only one enjoying the religio-pastoral joke? We lugged our gear down the ramp. The black-faced sheep suspiciously eyed Neil's guitar case and daintily stepped aside. The tourists droned on in loud superior-than-thou tourist tones. Nothing worse than a gaggle of smug returning pilgrims.

From aboard the ferry, we admired the small harbor of Fionnphort, finger slot coves, scalloped beaches, the incredible clear blue water, and on a shoal, a large rounded granite glacial erratic boulder cleaved in two by time itself. Twain worlds indeed.

Letter to S, sitting in a soccer field in Johnstone

S,

Well, our best laid plans,  plaid lans? to get to Ireland fell through: NON finally rented the car (finally) a week before we're to leave. And though there was ferry space yesterday morning to Belfast, by afternoon it was full....

You really need a schedule well in advance in order to travel.  Otherwise it's extortion. Other sailings are 300 quid. More than $600!!! Not the time to travel to Ireland...I told him that but he was determined to go... the cost is making him pause. We leave in one week (23rd)  for Boston.

We thought about staying longer to justify the cost. But to stay an extra week and change our Boston ticket is 200 quid ($400) each!

Exchange rate is less than $2.00 to the pound. The cost of living is far greater than I expected. So a pound is the equivalent to a dollar in buying power. I heard the inflation's much worse in Ireland. So we're cash poor...NONs family gave him a carload of pounds for his birthday and for car rental...so I've been giving him dollars in exchange so I don't have to trade in my money.

My cash stash is getting low but I still have traveler's checks and once we're stateside, I can use credit cards again.  I should have enough in my account but it's getting low. And by Aug 1,  you'll have deposited my check so I can pay off the rest of my AMEX bill.

They use micro chip cads here...sometimes you can find a place to swipe a card but not usually. Too much identity theft has done away with traditional credit cards. eating out is akin to highway robbery and most of the food sucks--even Chinese food.

I've been extremely careful and avoid the heavy sugar/carb syndrome whenever possible. But it rankles me to pay $50 for a paltry meal that's awful so I try to not eat out...but they're all keen on it here. Luckily we haven't had to pick up too many food tabs. The only fabulous meal we had was in Edinburgh, Italian.

I prefer home cooking any day but most everybody's into the prefab food thing. The only fabulous home cooked meal I had was in Inverness (salmon!!!) C's daughter.

The Highlands travel was pretty much a bust as C drinks like a fish and then won't drive for 20 hours after the night before so it was a lot of hurry up and wait... first AM in EB, I actually burst into tears after waiting around from 8 AM to 3 PM to go to the highlands....so needless to say, we drove up to Inverness but didn't see much.

Next time, we're jettisoning C at her daughter's...if there is a next time. Neil and C are too alike in wasting time...he hated it, and was pissed off at her...saying money has spoiled her...true she does have an abundance of it... but they're both willful and undisciplined when it comes to getting out and going.

I did get a brief 10 minutes in the new museum in Edinburgh and saw my beloved Pictish stones...so when we returned from the Highlands, we managed another hour in the exhibit. It was amazing seeing all the torcs and weaponry as well as the stones...so much of it I'd only seen in books.

When you come to Ireland, try & line up a place to stay beforehand, It's super expensive for B&B-50-90 pounds a night!!! Maybe I can join you. Gary Mullan would put us up but he's in Wicklow.

A friend is taking a course at Trinity. I'll see if I can get her info too. we will need credit cards with microchips though... Cell phones with pay per use are doable. If we both have o2 then we can call each other for free...or is it text? Calls are 35P a minute (about $75 c..)

Anyway. it's 11 Am, a grey, soup day, I'm sitting in the car sipping tea near my rock in the field  below Neil's mum's council flat in Johnstone waiting to find a moment to transmit this email--only there's no service from the car--though it's right next to the rock,  So I'll type in text edit and see if I can get reception later. Will probably have to sit on my little rock in the rain so I won't stay long.

 In the land of Starbucks, my Peet's flask in serving me right well indeed. I load up with tea in the am and can transport it out to the field, for example.  It is nice to sit here, away from the house and write a leisurely, if boring email to you...been wanting to write for days but wifi hotspots are few and far between. I understand now the significance of iPhone, being able to get on the web is critical here.

Neil's doing the usual crabbitting with me because he's depressed and wonders why I rile right back at him...but the negative speech acts are so deeply ingrained, from his mother (and father), he isn't even aware of them...but  I've noticed that he doesn't use them on others ... So there are two languages here, one for the world where one is magnanimous and gregarious, and one used in the home to put people in their place, cut to the quick, etc.

I've heard her use it on Neil (and me too...really the longest conversations I've had with her are when she's displeased about something...she asks in the most genteel tone but you come away burning. A T (we saw her last week) said the best result is to smile and NOT let her know she's gotten your goat... (she gave me the other car key for her old Honda Civic too).

I need to surf and research Long Lock, next to Loch Lomond...the fierce glaciated mountains  of Argyll are what I've been looking for all along.... here it is, practically at my back door but do ya think anyone would have thought to take me there? No they all like the endless low rolling lands that drive me mad.

I began to despair that I'd ever see any of the fabled Scottish mountains. I began to think they were a myth. None in Inverness either. Mostly like the moors of Point Reyes for miles and miles and miles.... and nobody actually looks at the landscape, they talk their way though it and so there's no opportunity to stop or take photos.

I hate drive-by touristing. D and M's husband A actually step on it and sped by  the scenic portions! and I'm usually stuck in the back, carsick... Ayr and Galloway were a blur of overgrown leafy roads... I get that trees grow here, I want to see Iron age forts, standing stones...and they're completely indifferent.

We only found the mountains because I insisted on going up this road I found on a map...Neil's never been to many places including the lochs near Helensborough where the nuclear facility is....very mysterious. Anyway Loch Long is pretty cool, for a sea loch. I had to throw a tantrum to get him out of the car at Dumbarton Rock on the Clyde (Google Earth some of these places, they're amazing.)

Well, my tea's nearly done, my battery low, so I'll sign off...Can't send you the Onset address until I get online...Gmail does not save mail to the hard drive...I have to be online to retrieve any messages....something like 339 Onset Ave, Onset MA. Talk soon.

xxooo
yer cousin Mohead

At the Scottish border

At the Scottish border

Snowdonia, Wales

THURSDAY, JULY 3, 2008

I have literally just crawled out of the soggy mountains of Snowdonia, we went to to the holy isles of Anglesey, and Holyhead Island, and found among the bracken, the remains of an Iron Age fort. Also a passage grave, with two standing stones near the village with the longest name in the world. Will add it when I have better computer access.

Hope to be in Omagh, Ireland, next week if we can get a good passage, everything's so expensive...I'm in Manchester the noo. Crossing the Mersey was not like crossing the Mississippi at Memphis, but there was a thrill. it's Ferry, cross the Mersey... all this time I thought it was Mary crossing the Mersey.

We're in Manchester at the moment, just back from Wales... It's so very post industrial here. Makes Glasgow seem like a Victorian queen. Never thought I'd say that.

Liverpool in the distance with all its smokestacks. Grey on grey against a grey sky drained of color. Even the river is the color of steel. Manchester is made entirely of brick, so it's a red city.

My iMac went down with a flourish right before we left stateside and I'm down to the very sluggish Macbook...no pix on it, alas...teeny hard drive. Believe it or not the DVD drive went down too...so I can't resurrect the iMac... Luckily I have most stuff on a back up HD...it will be hard work to restore all my data when I return home.

I'll be back stateside Aug 7 by way of Cape Cod to perform at the Cranberry Coast Concert series. We have at least four gigs. It should be fun. I've never been to Massachusetts. I'm thinking of that Bee Gee's song...

It's been that kind of a summer. Sappy pop song fragments and little else worthy of transcribing. Oh, and some 5000 photos to sort and edit. They will yield more language, I think.

Caer Bryn Celli Ddu, Anglesey, Wales (photos)

Caer Bryn Celli Ddu, (the mound in the dark grove) was hard to find, it's a few miles south-east of the village of Llandaniel Fab, on the isle of Ynys Môn, (Anglesey, North, Wales) Cymru.

Bryn Celli Ddu is a chambered barrow that marks the summer solstice. It's linked to Maes Howe and Newgrange—that mark the winter solstice).

The mound's stone passage points to the midsummer rising sun. The rays light up a quartz-rich stone at the back of the tomb—like at Newgrange. An outer ring of postholes have been dated to over 6,000 years ago. A Welsh Stonehenge.

Caer Bryn Celli Ddu, (the mound in the dark grove)—a Stonehenge-like chambered barrow with a lightbox similar to that of Newgrange, that marked the summer solstice—making it linked to Maes Howe and Newgrange—that mark the winter solstice), near Llanddaniel Fab, on the isle of Ynys Môn, (Anglesey, North, Wales) Cymru.

The mound's stone passage points to the midsummer rising sun. An outer ring of postholes have been dated to over 6,000 years ago. A Welsh Stonehenge. The rays light up a quartz-rich stone at the back of the tomb.

In the early 5th century, Irish seafarers (OK, pirate) colonized Anglesey & were driven out 470 AD (or so they say), but Gwynedd has had a long history of Irish settlement. And many of those Welsh-Irish seafarers returned to Ireland with Strongbow's "Norman" invasion. Probably our Walsh ancestors.

The mound's stone passage points at the midsummer rising sun. Postholes outside, previously thought to be contemporary with the tomb (c3000BC), have been dated to over 6,000 years old. A row of five postholes in front of the barrow appears to be much older. A Welsh mini Stonehenge. The rays light up a quartz-rich stone at the back of the tomb. More 

Afternoon light striking the menhir inside the passage tomb just after the summer solstice. Not much light so I resorted to B&W. Photo below this one is a flash—it washed out detail, but also revealed the modern red ochre ogham on the cement lintel. Top of stone is also covered in red ochre.

The freestanding menhir inside the barrow is an oddity—there is no other example anywhere. There was a fire pit at the center of the henge (probably about where I'm standing to take this photo), covered by a stone slab with a human ear-bone beneath. (Stirrupbone?) Ear to the ground! Thought to be a re-dedication offering. 

Also found inside the barrow was a stone with wave and spiral designs across its surface—a replica is at east entrance. The much older standing stones were deliberately damaged when the tomb was constructed. Also nearby, there was an ox burial inside a three-sided shelter, with quartz pebbles (pavement?) like Newgrnge, but this is a summer solstice passage grave, not a winter one. The reconstructed mound is one quarter of the size of the original chamber.


©Maureen Hurley 2008

Nota bene: Newgrange, Grianstad inniu, The winter solstice date is normally considered to fall on the 21st of December in the northern hemisphere, however during the winter solstice, the position of the sun remains the same for three days. At Newgrange, the passage and chamber of the 5000-year-old monument are illuminated by the winter solstice sunrise. A shaft of sunlight shines through the roof box over the entrance and penetrates the passage to light up the chamber. The dramatic event lasts for 17 minutes at dawn from the 19th to the 23rd of December.  More




12/2013: After being MIA for years, my lost Scotland/Wales pix showed up on an old hard drive—so thrilled to see them again. I only had the one I posted (above) earlier. Now I have a choice, oh my!

added 2/2017

Wifi woes continued

6/26 We have very little web access and it's crochety when I can get online...I can load an email and even if I'm bumped off the net, at least I can read it later.

6/30 Don't always get a signal here!!! At least the sky's not spitting. We were on Byers Street, Glasgow, old barber shops...took pix for Joe.

We're off to Wales tomorrow, NON and David are off to the retreat and me to the slopes of Snodonia...

I will write as much as I can before signal drops out...lucky I can read fast. Summer here is like winter in SF!!! sitting in a field waving my laptop around for a signal between showers is not my idea fo summer so I'm green with envy over the idea of warm beaches.

I will send this before signal drops.

I'm in GB until July 23 if we don't extend our stay.

Summer Solstice

6/22 Today we discovered that the nuns at Neil's parish, St. Aiden's, are Irish! So we're all getting along smashingly, Neil gave Sr. Breda a CD and now we're kissing cousins!

6/ 23 We'll be in Wales sometime next week...there's an ashram that Neil and David will go to and we'll be hanging out...somewhere near the village where The Prisoner was
filmed. Remember Patrick McGoohan...I am not a number....

So weird to see the sun up at 10 PM, eh?

We hiked into Elderslie to the Wallace Monument, then across the rail tracks to the graveyard where Neil ran into a cousin Anna (her mother, his auntie Kathy just died)...Anna and Neil hadn't seen each other in decades!!

Then we went to Paisley and after circling the abbey we explored the town...I kept insisting that I wanted to get to the top of the hill...fabulous buildings! and all the streets were named Oak something...don't tell me it wasn't a druidic site!...we could see Ben Lomond, the Campsies, etc.

It was crystal clear...but the best part was when I pet a dog and the woman who owned it took a shine to us and let us into the secret garden that she's restored, behind the Thomas Coates memorial church...a very secret garden...many alleys and closes...and it's not on the tourist path. The observatory is up there too...looking back, it's
a rounded hill leveled at the top...if there were archaeological ruins, they're long buried under massive stone edifices.

Anyway, bits and snatches of the past emerge despite progress..

Scotland notes, seeking WiFi on the Solstice

6/20 I can't believe I am in Scotland, sitting in a meadow near the ruins of Johnstone Castle, where Chopin once played...it's nearly 9 PM and the sun still hasn't set, the sky is spitting, I'm freezing but it's the only place where I can get wifi reception!

If the council houses weren't in the way, I could look right across the Clyde Valley & Clyde River and see Ben Lomond. I bet there's snow on it.

There's an Arctic wind blowing. Good thing I brought my fleece jacket! Alas, I didn't bring my longjohns or cords, and I will regret it I think...jeans not as warm.

When we flew over Tahoe, the sky was thick with smoke, is California burning??? We left in the midst of a record heat wave and arrived to near winter conditions.

People here are very gossipy I've noted...they are eyeing me susppiciously as I communicate on my laptop from the field, literally... I have to send this now just in case transmission ends. (Neil’s mum is scandalized that I choose to sit outside and write on my laptop. It doesn’t bode well.

Desperately Seeking Wifi

6/19 Johnstone, Renfrewshire, Scotland: Below the Hazel Arms (wifi reception).

I'm still trying to recover from Friday the Thirteenth, actually this whole week before we left for Scotland has been one vast Friday the 13th or like the movie, Groundhog Day...replete with lost passport, plus a hefty SF parking ticket ($50!!) all because of a slow lline at passport agency.

My iMac thinks it's a blank screen with an Apple logo and a fan is running like a 747 and it's allergic to its own startup/repair disk, all my school billing was on it... If I was Jewish, I would be pulling my hair out, saying oy, oy, oy, why me, oh God?

OmiGawd! there's a ring neck pheasant, or a partridge? It looks more like a grouse...sorta like being in Victoria BC here, same plants and latitude. Saw a fox last night...under a sodium light.

It was Neil's and his nephew David's birthday yesterday... we're definitely time confused circadian wise, or witless.

My wifi near the castle has fizzled. I'm looking for an internet signal in a field between showers, bundled up as if for winter... This small rock in the football (soccer) park is the only convenient place where I can pick up a signal.

Maybe Wales will have more consistent wifi.

We joined the Johnstone Library, and the Renfrewshire Library so we could have internet access but navigating Windows under pressure (we're only allowed 15-minute intervals on the PCs) has me stymied for lots of web stuff...too many gates/protocol...plus it's a long walk down to the town centre.

I'm writing this in a library, it's raining cats and dogs. Trying to find a signal on the laptop with a 'brolly in the playing field was way too much of a challenge! even with two people!

UTAH HAS LEFT THE STAGE

Utah has left the stage

Some say Utah has caught the westbound
Some say that train never stops
it never pulls in at the station

they say the night Utah died
there was a huge freak thunderstorm
in the foothills of Nevada City
Some say they saw him ride out on a bolt of lightning

Utah was always ever the alchemist
he didn't die of congestive heart failure
his heart was too big for such trivial nonsense
There was room enough for all
in that great flophouse
of a heart that held the struggle forth
the Golden Voice of the Great Southwest spoke for all humanity.
No one went homeless in Utah's heart.

Ever the ecologist farmer,
when his heart failed he didn't ask for another
One heart was enough for him and the world
Utah has not left the stage
he is telling stories and unionizing the clouds in the skies above.

Go to sleep you weary hobos.
Can't you hear that whistle blowin'?
When the steel tracks hum like a wild harmonica
Utah is riding the ghost rails and
he is bound for glory on that Hallelujah Train.
Amen.

Jacarandas in bloom (photo)

The Jacarandas in bloom were visible from 10,000 feet in the air! Entire blocks of Long Beach were clouded in purple.

Neil O'Neill at the Queen Mary, Long Beach, CA, May 2008 (photos)

Neil O'Neill at the Queen Mary, Long Beach, CA, May 2008

Maureen Hurley at the Queen Mary, Long Beach, CA, May 2008

Costa Mesa Highland Games

Maureen Hurley and Nina Walsh, Costa Mesa Highland Games

Badgering the Dog

Neil's fellow clansman Roy has an old badger pelt sporran. A sporran is a kind of man purse placed strategically across the front of a man's kilt to keep things primly Victorian.

At the Livermore Scottish Highland Games, dogs are very much part of the event: Scotties, corgies, Airdales, greyhounds, Irish wolfhounds, border collies, hunting dogs and terriers are on display. They're usually on leashes.

Roy's badger sporran is not just another hairy pouch, it is a complete badger pelt replete with tail, paws, ears, a snout, whiskers and two beady glass eyes. It's a relic of a bygone era.

The badger is the totem sign of a chieftain, prominent in many Celtic mythological tales as the magician's expandable bag, capable of containing entire feasts and even humans.

Some games committees frown upon the wearing of sporrans made of the pelts of endangered species, such as harp seals, leopards and arctic foxes. Not that badgers are endangered, but they do draw attention as most sporrans have long since lost most of their animal characteristics.

Roy was having a quiet smoke at the outdoor pub with a full pint in his hand when a loose dog came up to him and began to point, then he began to bark furiously. Roy was startled and backed up and the dog made as if to lunge, his eyes transfixed on the badger's beady eyes.

Roy quickly covered his groin with his free hand, his attention split between his cigarette, his beer and the dog. Something had to go. One hand over his sporran wasn't enough of a deterrent. The badger was too big. Roy dropped the beer in the dry grass and covered his sporran with both hands before the dog lunged for the kill. The dog backed off.

But the minute Roy dropped his hands from the sporran, the dog went ballistic. By this point Roy was more than a little nervous as the dog clearly had a bead on that badger and was growling and baring the business end of his teeth.

Roy couldn't take his hands away to shoo the dog or the dog would attack, and no man in his right mind wants a dog to latch onto that region with a terrier's grip to kill his prey, even if it is a sporran. At that point, I'm sure Roy was wishing that sporran had some magical properties to swallow the dog whole.

As long as Roy stood there with his hands covering the badger's eyes, he was safe, but the minute he removed them all hell broke out...they were at a stalemate until the dog eventually tired of his quarry and wandered off. Roy's replacement beer was on the house.




POSTMORTEM

As we were all packing up our tents at game's end, an anxious, exposed field mouse skittered across the lawn looking for a hiding place. He'd moved into one of the tents during the weekend and set up a base camp. we were the last to leave. Seeking shelter, he ran over our feet and cowered by our insteps.

We moved out of the way and he made a beeline for the next dark shape which happened to be my car wheel. I could see his little tail hanging out of my hubcap. I'd just loaded up mounds of gear, I was beat and didn't want to unpack it to get to the tyre iron in order to remove the hubcap.

I crawled under the car to flush him out. The more I tried to drive him out, the firmer he entrenched himself in my wheelbase. I tried driving in short spurts on the grass, I even left the car parked beside a dumpster for a half an hour. I gave him ample opportunity to escape but he just wouldn't leave the car wheel.

Where was that damned dog when you needed him?

Mending the Kilt

Two fragments: BELIEVE, SEEKING OBLIVION

BELIEVE

Yeah, Santa Claus and I were on shaky ground
when we had no chimney for him to slide down.

5/13/2008

SEEKING OBLIVION

Once I was a mathlete of numbers 

but now I’m the stars of eternity 

in search of a black hole 

seeking oblivion in the darkness.

5/13/2008

Mending the Kilt

Neil's antique 1920s kilt is literally falling apart. Before every Highland Games festival, my job is to inspect it and give it a quick stitch or two. Mending the kilt is an ongoing battle. Why not get a new one? They cost more than a plane ticket to Scotland. There are varying weights and styles of kilts, and that also affects cost.

But the most traditional of kilts is the military kilt, thanks to Queen Victoria who had a prudish fondness for men's well-turned calves. The kilt was more of a mini skirt before it was lengthened to a respectable knee length during the Victorian era. Much of Queen Victoria's influence still governs the style and length of kilts to this day.

The heavier military weight kilt material runs about $60 a yard and at least nine long uninterrupted yards are needed to make a kilt, hence the saying, "the whole nine yards" to cover a man.

A kilt is a lifetime investment. One doesn't simply put a hem or take a kilt in, it's all fitted exactly, so the kilt is literally made to the man. No hems in a kilt, just a straight selvage edge to the knee. Rumor has it that men were expected to kneel before the Queen, and the selvage edge of the kilt had to touch the floor.

Neil found his Farquharson kilt, in Inverness in 1981, for 35 quid on a wee back street tartan shop off the main drag.

Last winter we looked at used kilts for 75 quid at the jumble sales in the mean streets of the Barras (Barrowland—named after the street merchants' wheelbarrows during the 1890s) and in the Gorbals past the Gallowgate in Glasgow's rough southside, once Europe's worst slum. Some say Paddy's Market under the viaducts near the River Clyde is the oldest flea market in Europe.

Some say, the locals would just as soon slit your throat as to give you the time of day. The name alone (Paddy) should give you a clue as to who al lived in the Gorbals. But not one of those kilts would fit him for love or money.

In the Highlands, the whole family traditionally chips in on a chap's 21st birthday to buy him a kilt, and each year, he got another piece of the outfit. By the time he reached the ages of 27 to 30 he was supposed to be kitted out in full Highland dress.

Neil's family is Irish-Scots, so no Scottish tartan is associated with O'Neill. MacNeill, yes. So Neil had to kit himself out in highland dress.

Neil chose the Farquharson tartan because the kilt reminded him of his scout uniform colors. A favorite tartan of Scottish boy scout troops, Farquharson is a Jacobite sept of Clan MacKintosh and Clan Chattan that fought at Culloden Mor, also associated with the Gordons. The Gae Gordons were also our hosts at the Las Vegas Highland Games.

Everything about the kilt is imbued with mystery and meaning. The Farquharson moto is is Fide et Fortitudine (fidelity and fortitude).

The kilt, held up by two buckles and a lot of faith, is a mathematical challenge in plaid. The pleating is either done “to the sett”, repeating the tartan pattern, or regimental, “to the line or stripe." Neil's kilt is sewn to the stripe. All stripes need to match up exactly on the grain. There are 23 to 45 pleats on a kilt, depending on the sett.

Neil's kilt has 48 or 50 "hand deep" 4" pleats, depending on how you count the deeper first pleats on the front and the under apron pleats. It takes six pleats on Neil's kilt to repeat the tartan pattern which is a black watch military pattern with yellow and red stripes—for the colors of the royal rampant lion flag of Scotland?

There are two types of pleats: knife pleats and the more complex box pleats. Luckily Neil's kilt has the simple knife pleat. What you see of the tartan is like the edges of a deck of cards fanned out on the casino table by an expert blackjack dealer.

In other words, most of the kilt is hidden in the folds of the pleats. When the thread begins to rot on a kilt, you don't send it out to the draper or dressmaker, it has to be remade by a specialized kiltmaker, and the repair cost can run more than buying a new kilt at £5-600.

No matter how you cut it, miles and miles of thread and a lot of hand stitching goes into making a kilt. A simple overcast seamless stitch won't do, it has to be the invisible stitch, double-knotted every few stitches so it won't unravel under the pendulous weight of the pleats.

Now I know it's some sort of a hellacious Calvinist sin to use a sewing machine on a kilt but it's stronger than my hand stitching. You're not supposed to pierce the yarn, but sew between the yarns. And the buckle leather does need a sewing machine's special touch.

The old 1929 Singer of mine had the gumption to sew through most of the triple thickness of the tartan. But the motor strained and moaned like a constipated caber tosser.

No matter how hard I held onto the pinned kilt, the material shifted when the pressure foot gripped the wool, throwing off the stripe so it was no longer on the grain, so I still had to massage it back into place by hand. So much for modern shortcuts.

Not much holds the kilt up to begin with, so every stitch counts. Safety pins help too. We were running late for our plane when Neil announced his kilt was falling apart.

Enroute to the airport, he hastily pulled on a pair of shorts, and stripped off the kilt, while I hurriedly massaged his kilt together with a few crucial stitches and some well-placed safety pins. At the airport, he rolled it up and stuffed it into his suitcase and we were on our way to the Las Vegas Games.

My quick handiwork held up and got us through a hectic weekend of Highland Games without a single mishap.

But not through airport security on the way home. Again, we were running late. To save time, he decided not to change and to wear the kilt to the airport. We left directly from a performance and there was little time to spare before our flight took off for Oakland.

Needless to say, when we went through security, bells and whistles and alarms went off everywhere.

Neil stepped into the plexiglas booth and took off every bit of metal he could find. he took off his sporran, the kilt brooch from the apron and every safety pin he could find. Even his sock flashers. Still, the kilt triggered the electronic sensors.

It was a real showstopper. Passengers stood transfixed, waiting to see what would happen next. It began to look like the kilt would have to stay in Vegas.

By this point, Neil was so frustrated that he began to unbuckle the kilt to hand the damned thing over to the guard. The guard stopped him, saying, "Sir, please do not remove it. Do NOT remove it." Neil had on plaid knickers but the TSA airport security guard didn't even want to go there. He even threatened arrest if Neil did disrobe.

The guard frowned and waved his wand. He frowned some more. Adjusted the setting. Waved and frowned for what seemed an eternity. More TSA guards joined him, observing his technique. The final boarding call had just been announced and there wasn't another plane til the next day.

Now, Neil has tiny metal plates in his face from an old car accident. So the wand beeped crazily around his head too. The TSA guard shook his head in double consternation but eventually he let Neil go. Good think Neil didn't have on his skian dubh.

Neil had to run the entire length of the Las Vegas airport concourse with all nine yards of his kilt flapping dangerously behind like a laden scald crow on a battlefield.

I was yelling, "Run, Forrest, run!"

Passengers sniggered and parted as he chugged down the ramps. He got an ovation when he boarded the plane, all wild-eyed and out of breath. He was the only man in a kilt on that flight. Everyone else was already dressed down in their skivvies. The flight attendants loved it and gave him a drink.

Airport security was not amused by a Scotsman in national dress nor did they want to find out what is worn under the kilt. And that's another whole story.

POST MORTEM:

I found out later that another kilted Highland warrior clansman, dressed in traditional garb also attempted to fly home on an earlier flight. Understand that a traditional kilt is not the same as the rather prudish Victorian kilt we all know and love. The traditional kilt is comprised of a looooong bolt of cloth, and a belt. Nothing more.

You lay your yardage on the ground and pleat it. Then you roll yourself up into it, and cinch it around your waist with a belt, the excess end piece creates a mantle, a shirt and a pouch. And then you hope and pray that everything stays in place.

At various Highland games I've watched full grown men thrashing about on the ground like strange flailing narwhals—getting dressed is tricky at the best of times, and apparently even more so when you're hung over.

Watching the guys from Albannach get dressed the next morning after the night before—was hysterical. I also got a glimpse at a whole lot more than what I bargained for so early on a Sunday morning. Talk about flashing.

OK, back to Las Vegas Airport: the TSA agent insisted that the Living History re-enactor—who also happens to be a genuine Scottish Laird, to remove his belt. That's what the manual says to do. Right? The laird tried to explain what would happen if he did so, but the guard would have none of it.

So the laird removed the belt. As the kilt fell to the ground, he rotated in the glass booth with arms spread wide—to show the entire airport what was worn under the kilt. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

No wonder the TSA guard wouldn't let Neil remove his kilt. He'd already been flashed.

Badgering the Dog

Stitching Together Memory

My old Singer sewing machine pulley belt is in tatters and shreds and no longer adequately drives the wheel. The canvas belt is separating from the rubber and has shredded so as to interfere with the wheel pulley. I trimmed the belt with a nail scissors and got a little more life out of it but now the old belt's literally hanging by a thread.

I haven't been able to properly use my Singer for years. Last time I used it was five years ago to mend Neil's 1920s military kilt. It's literally falling apart again and the polyester thread I used to hand-stitch its myriad pleats back into place, doesn't hold up to the considerable weight of the fabric. The kilt must weigh 7-10 pounds so that's a lot of strain on the thread and the buckle fastenings.

Hard to find the old Coates and Clarke thread these days. "The best thread in the world," my grandmother always said. "Good sturdy stuff," she'd say, pulling on the thread, making it taut until it twanged and sang like a harp string. "Made in Scotland too." Little did I know that my domestic destiny would be caught up in that bobbin of thread manufactured in the cotton factories along the Clydebank.

I haven't been able to use my old Singer for years. The little motor spins and moans when the belt slips and I have to coax it along by hand.  At this point, I'd be better off with a treadle sewing machine. I really need a replacement belt. But when I look for belts, I can't seem to find one for that model.

Sure, I could get a new sewing machine. Lord knows they're cheap enough new. I could even get one for nothing on Freecycle. But I have a fierce loyalty to my old outdated Singer sewing machine. Sure it'd be lovely to be able to zig-zag or embroider or make button holes, or even have a reverse option.

My grandmother had a similar model Singer bought used from a peddler during the Depression in San Francisco. She gave him five bucks a week until it was paid off. She sewed all the clothes for 8 of her own children (4 boys and 4 girls), and also for my brother and me (she raised us) on that old Singer.

She also sewed generations of curtains and bedsheets on that Singer. When the sheets got worn out down the middle, she ripped them apart and sewed the relatively unworn outside ends together. I even had a set of summer sheets pieced together from old flour sacks. I loved their fresh laundered line dried stiff scratchy feel. It heralded summer.

My brother and I, we both learned how to sew on that old Singer. He became an auto upholsterer. During the hippie era, I even sewed leather skirts, vests and purses on it—not to mention rather, er, inventive dressed and tops! My mom once sewed up a multicolored red and blue canvas panel tepee on that Singer.

My brother and I, we both accidentally sewed up the tips of our fingers on that Singer. We sang and howled with pain but it made us much more careful sewers.

Apparently it was a family right of passage. My mom also sewed up the tip of her finger several times over on that old Singer. She later did a lot of theatre and costume designing on it. One costuming stint at the Cal Neva casino for Sinatra's fan dancing show girls—not a whole lot of material involved on that job—mostly feathers and beads.

I remember another sewing stint of hers with the famous Hollywood designer Ruben Panis (she married him so he could get his Green Card; he was later brutally murdered by a jealous lover) making Miss World costumes—I did the seed pearl beading on Miss Korea's pageant gown. The point is, that old Singer was running 12-16 hours a day under deadline and it never once faltered.

My cousin Kate has my grandmother's Singer now and it's still working fine (it's on its 2nd or 3rd motor), but she needs a belt as well. (BTW, she too has sewed up the tip of her finger. A good thing we have fingernails. It usually stops the needle from traveling up to the tip of the metatarsal finger bone.)

When I moved away from home, I bought my Singer in 1972 for a whopping $40 on 2nd Street between C and D Streets in San Rafael, CA. A neighbor had given me a gorgeous similar vintage White model but it didn't work as well as the Singer. After about 6 months using it, I was ready for a better sewing machine. So one morning when I was driving down 2nd street saw this old black and gold Singer exactly like my grannie's in the window, I slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car and ran into the used appliance store.

The owner tried to dissuade me from buying that old Singer, saying, "what-aya want that old thing for? I got some real nice Kenmores here. How 'bout a White? They're better than that old Singer. More features. It's old. Won't last long. Won't be able to find parts for it. You'll want the newer features" He really wanted to sell me a more modern 1960s sewing machine. But I had my heart set on that Singer.

Besides, the old White, though it was truly magnificent to behold, with its plethora of dizzying gold foil and colored enamel scroll work to admire, it was a real Jezebel. Despite its fancy inlaid walnut cabinet and painted beauty, it was really a lousy machine. The spindle bobbin was always jamming and balling up into a tight knot of thread (I. M. Singer improved the old bobbin and tension assembly) and I never got used to using the pressure foot pedal. There were gas and brake pedals more accurate than that pedal. I missed the much more accurate and precise knee pressure pedal on my grannie's Singer.

I wanted that old Singer. I wanted the best. You might say I was destined to own that old Singer. I emptied my wallet on the counter, but I was about a dollar short of $20 so I ran out to my car and scrounged for lost coins in the ash tray but I was still a few cents short, so I looked under the car seat: a nickel, a penny a dime. I had the down payment! I had an old hand-me-down '58 Volvo panel van from my uncle John—are you ready for this?—originally imported as a Singer delivery van, and thanks to its coin swallowing crevices managed to scrape up the $20 down on it.

Unbeknownst to me, I had entered into the original innovative Singer Hire-Purchase process—put a little money down, pay in installments—precursor to the credit card. It took me a few months to earn the rest of the money for the Singer. When I finally came to claim it, the shopkeeper, shaking his head doubtfully at my folly, he thought the Singer was a more modern 1939 model than my Grannie's.

So did I—until today when I stumbled upon the Singer website. Looking up specs on another machine being offered for free on Freecycle, I was shocked to discover that AC515997 was a 1929 model. I don't know how many motors it had from 1929 to 1972, but I've only had the one motor for nearly 35 years. I have used it for 30 years... until the belt shredded about 5 years ago.....

Well, suffice to say, nearly 35 years later, I still don't need any parts for my Singer but I do need a new pulley belt. My machine was never quite  as robust as my grandmother's Singer, it can't sew through thick material like a tepee with French seams, or leather without a lot of coaxing, but it usually did the job. I miss it. I really don't want a new machine.

ADDENDUM 9/6/08: After hauling my Singer into several sewing stores in Oakland and after calling almost every quilting store in Alameda County during the 3-digit heat heat wave in June, I resorted to trial and error, trying every sewing machine and vacuum cleaner belt I could find that was around 13 inches long. Nothing worked. Most belts are far too short.

Women stopped to admire my black and gold Singer strapped to the wheelie luggage rack like a lovely child in a pram, they, with their modern sewing machines, couldn't believe their eyes. A mirage. I felt like I'd stepped out of a living history museum time warp. We swapped stories on the longivity and sheer sewing power of the old Singers that could sew through most anything.

One rather toney sewing store owner on Piedmont Avenue (my last hope), haughtily rendered a suburban sniff at my machine as if it was something dragged in from the gutter, wanted to know when's the last time I got it serviced. I said never, I did it myself. She looked at me as if I was deranged. "But you can't do that," she said. Of course I can. I replied. Dead simple to lube and tune it. Like a Volkswagon Bug. An idiot could do it. I resorted to special ordering a motor pulley belt that never arrived.

After three months of waiting for the Singer pulley belt, when Costco had a special sale on Singers, I broke down and bought a newfangled machine for $150 that makes buttonholes, embroiders & zizzags too. But though it has 51 stitches, and it even self threads, it's more cumbersome and bothersome to use than my old Singer. it's claketty as a train, sounds like it needs a valve job and a lube. Too many levers in the way. Little plastic knobs come off at the slightest touch.

I can't see what I'm doing without hunching down for fear of sewing up my nose. I hate the micro LED light. No pulley belt in sight. Everything's locked away behind a bulky white plastic case. Even the thread guys. The thread spool now lays sideways, you need a toy wheel to keep it on. A piece guaranteed to get lost sooner rather than later around kids. How hard would it have been to put a hinge on the spool holder rod and let gravity keep it in place? Like the old days? No room for oversized industrial spools here. Just the weenie expensive spools of thread with exotic names. No Coates and Clarks. Alas, I've entered into the realm where one gets one's machine annually "serviced" for the price I originally paid for it.

I miss the knee pedal. I wound up dragging the foot pedal onto the bed and sitting cross-legged, I could lean on it and approximate the knee pedal action by using the foot pedal as a knee pedal. One woman said it's easy to use the foot pedal, like driving a car. I'm from the four-on-the-floor, pedal-to-the-metal driving school. Not easy to switch when you've learned to sew with your knee for 45 years! Programming's utterly different. Like comparing dressage to drag racing. The slow stitch finger button makes up for it. Maybe I'll adjust to it in time. Meanwhile, an mountain of sewing repairs, in some cases, dating back five years, awaits.

This summer, I did stand at the falls on the River Cart in Paisley, Scotland, and took photos of the old Coates & Clarkes building, now renovated into fancy loft offices. All the cotton mills and thread factories are being torn down for condos in Johnstone, Elderslie, and the other industrial towns that sprung into being during the 1800s. I couldn't even find a sewing machine belt there either, for love or money.

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

I loved the story of how the modern sewing machine was invented and perfected via a dream. Whether or not it's true, it was a flash of inspiration. I can't find the reference, but I.M. Singer couldn't resolve the thread breaking, he dreamed of two swordsmen fighting with needles with eyes on the tips...and that's how the solution to create a needle tension mechanism came to him.

I was also once tight friends with Sonoma County poet Pam Singer Raphael, distantly related to Isaac Merritt Singer. God only knows what branch she descends from, there are many. I never asked. She was a real New Jersey girl, talked kinda funny, with a heart of gold and in those halcyon daze we had a strong taste for Humboldt Heaven, Acapulco Gold and Maui Wowie.

Pam was a real waterdog, she was once a champion water skater back in Jersey. We spent many a summer day swimming hidden pools along the Russian River and the Gualala River. Back in 1979, we apprenticed together under Lee Perron and trained to become poet-teachers for California Poets in the Schools, teaching poetry (and art ) to kids—a job which became my lifelong calling. I never thought to ask if Pam was also related to Isaac Bashievs Singer, I think she was... I'd met his literary agent Sylvia Tota on a Hungarian train one summer. (See blog: Budapest Nights).

Pam's father was a chemist who invented Sensodyne and Qwell! After the Summer of Love, Pam said a lot of her hippie friends used to profusely thank her father for inventing Quell when they met him. her boyfriend Michael Yesbik said he shook Pam's father's hand for inventing Quell.

Having read a bit of Pam's paternal ancestor's somewhat philanderous ways (I. M. Singer had several simultaneous wives and more than a Baker's dozen of children), it's an aptly fitting invention! Singer, escaping a matrimonial scandal in New York, fled to Glasgow with his new bride, set up a Singer factory and built a residence on Clydebank.

One time she told her father how much I liked Sensodyne but it was so hard to find in Sonoma County. He sent me a care package, a whole box full of Sensodyne toothpaste. I didn't dare mention to her that I was i also intimate with Qwell as I picked up lice that summer while trying on clothes in Waikiki stores. I was completely hysterical when I found out, but that's another story...

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

My partner Neil's hard working chain smoking aunties and mum were all employed by Clydebank Singer (Coates and Clarke) factories. The old brick and glass walled factories still stand along the River Cart in Paisley, Scotland. Their myriad window panes glint in the sunlight. In the afternoon, the sun shines right through the building so the vast banks of windows light up like vast cathedrals of prisms. Now the buildings have been converted into modern malls.

My grandmother would tell me that the thread was made in Scotland. I still have some old Scottish Coates & Clarke wooden thread spools, once a prime toy find. It rolled, it made a fine a building block and it even made for a crude yo-yo or necklace of sorts. I even made a flute out of several thread spools. It didn't work. I didn't know about reeds.

Little did I know I would actually wind up with a man whose family worked in those same factories. Now his auntie Cathie, the woman who delivered him, is dead. The funeral was held day before yesterday. She was a grand old lady nicknamed Lazarus because she had been at death's door so many times and defied his debt. She gave up her ciggies (coffin fags) at 70. Her grave site overlooks the old mill factories on the River Cart. Come midsummer, we'll be visiting her grave. I have a half a mind to bring along a necklace made of those old Coates and Clarke thread spools and lay them at her grave. Fitting afterlife booty for the barrow.

AFTER AMERGIN

      —After Amergin

I am the water upon the sea
i was the one who challenged the wind
to sing to the sea
I ran from the moon's shadow
that crept across the deserted plain
i dreamt of twilight's sadness
Who but I made all these things?


An in-class CPITS ditty that goes nowhere in particular, ca May 2008.

WIDE OPEN MONTANA SKIES

I met a man named Montana
with eyes like open skies.
Pity, those Raybans
obscured that shining horizon
of his wide blue eyes.


No date: from my Writers' Group notes ca. May 2008. I'm holistically dating it by what's around it in my slush pile. One of those silly lines that comes to you out of nowhere, then, won't let you go.

Butterfly paintings (in class demos) (art)

I have a lot of big drawings I do to demonstrate to kids. Most are vaporware, drawn on chalk or whiteboard. Tempera and water base black marking pen (Eberhart Faber) 12x18" each. Bilateral symmetry is really tough for little kids to master, so I often fold the paper into quadrants. They later cut them out and put them in the classroom. Huge butterflies adorn the walls.

Tempera and water base black marking pen (Eberhart Faber) 12x18" each. I also give kids a slideshow to demonstrate the wide variety of moths and butterflies. Then they invent their own. I also use this demo time to teach insect anatomy. Art and science are one thing. Does it have a thorax, check, antennae? Check. Proboscis? Check!

Tartan Day Ball, 2008 (photo)

Tartan Day Ball, 2008. We're partying like rock stars. Got me green bottle in front of me. Ironic, I view the world (and read) through my left eye, and take photos with my right eye (it's a lazy bugger)—and in photos of me, my left eye is always the squinty one. And, no I didn't need glasses then! I did have a "lazy" eye as a kid, but didn't wear a patch. I think it has something to do with how our brains process information. I'm right handed, but left-eyed. Dyslexic trait? I'm also left footed. And I can switch-hit at baseball. Right eye processed by left brain; left eye processed by right brain. All I know is that in this photo, I'm squint-eyed happy. Floyd Busby photo. 

Freewrite, 4 poems, writing from photographs, Diane Arbus portraits, Tobey Kaplan

From a photo by Diane Arbus

On the low rise of the hill,
children sit waiting for the camera.
A moment of time frozen on silver bromide
and gelatin, or perhaps glass.
It’s not of this century,
the photographer adjusts the lens,
the tripod uneven, poses the sky and the hill,
trees lose their footing, the children watch,
waiting patiently in the spring grass, barefoot,
wearing silly summer hats.
One girl smiles, already willing to please.
A lone boy scowls, but he is intrigued,
the other tilts his head with hands on knees
drawn up, the other girl turns her body away,
and chews her fingernails, waits.
Four moods caught on film,
their bodies have long since left the frame.
They are now adults
with lives of their own in the city.
Beyond the frame, the hill stretches
its famous green expanse, the humid air,
heavy with the weight of cigarettes,
the shadows creeping in.


From a photo by Diane Arbus

In a white room not his own,
a man in an overcoat lounges on the twin bed.
It could be a hotel room
but the bedspread I recognize,
fitted velour, stripes faded with age.

Maybe he’s in his mothers house,
having stepped in for his monthly visit,
baked afternoon dust irritates his nose.

An expensive lithograph is on the wall,
it could be Matisse or even a Chagall.
A sophistication of line. A lamp on the bed table
is like a drum of light echoing.
Everything is symmetrical.
Perhaps she was concerned with order.

Let’s say he followed in his father’s footsteps.
The path led away from the house,
towards the freedom of an open bottle
shared amongst cronies at the end of the block.
The traveling salesman, the caged room,
the open road.


From a photo by Diane Arbus

In a room painted white,
through a gauze curtain
that falls like water to the floor
and filters the light,
the window shades corralled the light
into intense squares.

A woman sits in an easy chair.
It holds her like a child,
she is reading, her legs crossed,
ankles slender as a deer.
She hunches forward, her glasses,
the lamp, the window capture light
from another time.

The other chair is empty.
The cushion, lopsided, as if the man
who had sat there only crossed his legs
to one side, to the left.

The rug is freshly vacuumed
you can see the dry trails in the carpet
leading back towards the walls at oblique angles.
The lamp, once a pitcher from another era
 is barely visible, the legs of the escritora,
the edges of a book,
the poem in another room.

From a photo by Diane Arbus

At the dance studio
the couple poses for the camera
She back steps, and arabesque
of unattainableness. He leans toward her.
His pants are too short
he’s in a growing spurt.

The two trophies lined up
on the dance floor at oblique angles
create a triangle of what is wanted,
what is hidden, and what will come.

The pale birch floor, a vast expanse,
leads to a bank of chairs,
empty of thought
or of wallflowers.

4/11/08
Montara Middle School

Bucket list Freewrite, Tobey Kaplan, Montara Middle School

Bucket list Freewrite

I want to see the northern islands
I want to go to the Isle of Man,
the Outer Hebrides, the Aran Islands.
I want to see the graveyard of kings
on the Isle of Iona, and the Holy Isle ofArran.

I want to see Thailand before I die,
the place where the tsunami scoured
fragile atoles, the resurgence of palm trees,
leaves clattering in the wind
I want to bask in the sun of down under,
snorkel the great barrier reef,
see the gardens of fish bloom
in technicolor splendor,
sit beneath the Boojum tree
and admire its strong adaptation
to desert sun and drought.

I want to live in a house in the country.
I might get a cat, maybe some chickens.
A house if I don’t have to take care of it daily.
I’ve already done that. I’d grow a garden,
watch the tomatoes ripen.
I’d eat raspberries right from the vine
I’d beat the birds at their own game
for breakfast.

But I woke up an hour too early today
and I thought I was late for class
so I listened to ancient music,
Uillean pipes in the morning mist.
It took me off. The clock stood still.
Time slipped away.
I was trapped between worlds,
transported to the otherworld
where time stands still
and life is always in the moment.

4/11/08
Montera Middle School

UNTITLED FREEWRITES Draft

DRAFT

I sent

A sunny day, impeccable blue

Clouds roiling like lost sheep, Greenfields

Outback of the bleachers, we threw foam pies under blue skies

We were busy naming the earth our mother under blue skies

God knows where Kelly was in thehay HAI GHC ?

The hate was the siren call under blue skies

And good old Joewas beginning his days in some bar in the city, no blue sky space

One monthto the summer of love for sense eternal under those lost blue skies.

March April, 2008  could be May 2009

with Tobey Kaplan at Montara School

I rewrote this several times, no idea which came first.

It was late summer in New York City

These voices cracked against the strain of washer

The unmentionable motion of the earth spinning and measured light

The cold cutting into what we have heard what we have found

A room of words wearing lace and sunglasses

The feeble instruments of this body.

First draft late spring in New York City Friday afternoons we played kickball against the back wall of the school these voices is cracked against the strain of water ups and sky the whisper and the measured light the crescent moon a pale candle

A string of light the feeble instrument of this body the measured light the room of words wearing lace and sunglasses the feeble instrument of this body a room of words a string of light, words measured water light measured light a strain of words a room of words wearing lace and sunglasses the feeble instruments of this body

The strain of water what you intend the earth spinning what we have heard the cold cutting into the wind

We played kickball against the back wall generations Friday afternoons after school like spring in New York City

Their voice is cracked against the strain the water and sky

And measured light, crescent moon, a pale candle

The unmentioned motion of the earth spinning the

The cold cutting into what we have heard what we intend a split on the entity in a roomful of words wearing lace and sunglasses the feeble instrument of this body I dance of light upon the waves

At the Black Rose Irish Pub, Santa Rosa, Ca 3/At the Black Rose Irish Pub, Santa Rosa, Ca (photo)

At the Black Rose Irish Pub, Santa Rosa, Ca 3/2008

Tempera fish (in class demo) (art)

Tempera, watercolor, and water-base black marking pen (Eberhart Faber), 12x18". Slideshow of outrageous fish, a little fish anatomy and then kids invent their own fantastical fishes. Introduction of white is always interesting as kids want to go overboard. We put color down first‚ otherwise they try & paint white on white, missing the point of making pastels, hues and tones.

fish drawings (art)

These demo fish drawn on 80 lb white sulfite paper are 12 x 18" each. I've done a lot of snorkeling but I also used photos for anatomical reference.

Demo fish drawn on whiteboard 4x8' (vaporware), The lesson was for kids to invent their own fantastical version of fish after seeing a slideshow of tropical fish.

 

Neil O'Neill and Frank McConville, lurid sunset, Alameda Island, Alemeda, CA (photo)

Neil O'Neill and Frank McConville, lurid sunset, Alameda Island, Alemeda, CA

Daffodils for St Daffyd's Day (photos)

 A potted daffodil opened in time for St Daffyd's Day. Backlighting seems to be a more interesting visual approach.

Daffodil (related to narcissus) admiring itself in a mirror.

Some garden flowers and leaves—good subjects to learn digital photography as they didn't squirm or complain too much. I've always inherited really old technology—people's cast off Macs and cameras. In 2006, I got two small KQED SPARK art grants, which allowed me to buy an iMac and 2 cheap digital cameras. That technology upgrade changed my life and it's been a huge exponential learning curve ever since. I spent off moments lurking in my neighbors' flowerbeds or grabbing photos on the fly. 

My little digital Nikons aren't all that great but they do fit into a jeans pocket and half the battle is being ready to catch the light. I find that the older CoolPix L4 4.1 megapixel camera (dropped dozens of times) is much better at focusing while my S200 7.1 MP camera captures more color info.

My $29.95 made-in-China trainer-bra camera, little better than a cell phone, was half-dead after I accidentally watered it in a creek at the 2005 Kate Wolf Festival (it was 114 degrees) in Memdocino Co. I was sad to see it go as it did such a terrffic job in full sunlight. Though I was able to kick start it on the iMac, it was never quite the same.

It was terrible grainy (3.1 MP) to begin with and had a blue color cast but it had a great macro lens. That's what got me into taking photos of flowers. So I kept it for sentimentality's sake until a fellow Freecycler coming to collect books spotted it. Last I heard, it had a new lease on life and was working perfectly.

Here's hoping the technology fairy will soon send a L14 or a D40 Nikon my way as the trusty little L4 CoolPix that I carry into every class I teach (to document student work), is having a harder time focusing these days.

© 2007-2009 Maureen Hurley All works of art and photographs in these albums is © copyright 2009 by Maureen Hurley and may not be used in any endeavor or context.

added 2/2017 from Facebook

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• The cultivated history of daffodils as we know it 2023

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus! A daffodil for Dewi Sant 2021

• Letter to Gregg Dunnett 2021
• How the Welsh language was really invented 2014
• Daffodils for St Dafyd's Day (photos) 2008
• St. Daffyd's Daffodils 2004