Literrata

Friday, July 2, 2010

Hiking up Big Rock Ridge

Entrance to Big Rock Ranch—George Lucas's compound in Marin County, northern California. All these photos are © 2010 by Maureen Hurley and may not be used without express written permission from her. Please respect copyright.

Yesterday, I wore the skin right off my feet by hiking 3 hours in last year's worn out crocs up a long mountain range. Crocs = rubber slippers. Not even a proper half-shoe. What was I thinking? I promptly stepped on a stick and punctured a hole in my foot—but it didn't deter me. Though I gimped a bit, I was on an adventure. The euphoric path beckoned and blocked the pain. I had no idea where the trail led, or where I was going. Other than it was there, in front of me.

The path led ever onward. And so I followed the trail switchback after switchback into box canyons, climbing through chaparral, traversing crenulated flanks of steep hillsides—heading east, south, then north, then south-east again. I strolled beneath oak cathedrals where bumblebees droned in the banks of sage, phacelia, star thistle and bush monkeyflower, I crossed damp seasonal runnels in the fern-lined ravines. Not enough to wet my feet, but horsetail ferns thrived. I gazed out on the southern exposure of chaparral slopes from the rails of civilized wooden foot bridges that made the hike seem very Japanese.

Invasive purple star thistle &amp Bombus Californicus, one of 27 California native California bumblebees—threatened species all. Also sighted: diminutive but toxic to livestock yellow star thistle. And the rare native carmine red cobweb thistle—I should've taken a photo but it wasn't very close, and I was in a hurry. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The trail opened up and took a sharp turn to the northwest and held course. I expected it to climb the chaparral ridge to the southeast—on public lands. I quickened my pace. When I crossed the threshold of the ridge, a narrow hiker's vee into the vast golden pastures of Big Rock Ranch, the view was so spectacular, I was gob-smacked.

This was a ridge I have always wanted to hike but it was off limits as we didn't know the rancher at Big Rock. The western slope was too out in the open to successfully trespass. And the rancher was permanently irate because the teen townies from Marinwood kept painting the iconic Big Rock in pastel hues.

George Lucas inherited the rancher's fight but took a Jedi stance. Now Big Rock is sandblasted clean and fenced in—in solitary confinement, replete with surveillance camera. Now, the only graffiti artists are the ravens who shit on its crest.

The view was so stunning, I took myriad photos of downtown San Francisco—Baghdad by the Bay as Herb Caen dubbed it—all three bay bridges (the Golden Gate, the Bay and Richmond bridges). To the southeast, Mt. Diablo loomed nearly 4000 feet straight up from an otherwise featureless plateau. But marine haze hid details. The naked eye was a far better camera lens.

There was s small corner of San Pablo/Suisuin Bay glistening like lapiz; and to the southwest, majestic Mt. Tamalpais peeked out from behind its smoky darkness, framed by the broad open slopes of Loma Alta ridge—where I hiked up in my old crocs at the summer solstice. To the west (or Tír na-nÓg, as my grandmother called it), the familiar eastern flank of Mt. Barnabe (my natal home—a place that haunts me even in dreams) was coyly shrouded a gossamer shawl of marine mist.

As I crested the Big Rock Ridge summit after a steady hour of navigating even more switchbacks, I could see glimmerings of the Coast Range—Mt. Whittenburg, Elephant (or Black's) Mountain—once featured on Jesse Colin Young & the Youngbloods album cover—near Pt. Reyes—and to the north veering to the east near Novato, the tip of Mt. Burdell and the laid back Sonoma Moutain—cradling the Petaluma watershed. This is probably one of the best views in all of Marin Co. And I've traversed most of the coastal ridges between Mt. Tam to Devil's Slide. I've been around.

This is view you really have to earn. Sort of like hiking up Ben Lomond (3000'), you just keep at it, one foot in front of the other, and you'll reach the summit. Why would I compare Big Rock to a classic Scottish icon? Because the last time I got an urge to go climb a mountain was at Ballloch, part of the Trossachs range that cradles Loch Lomond, Scotland. Once I started trudging up the slopes of Balloch Castle, euphoria set in‚ and I wanted to keep on going. Roamin' in the gloamin'. I hiked until it was nearly midnight. We walked back to the village under starlight.

Besides, we have our fair share of Scottish references in the Greater Bay Area: Glen Ellen, Inverness, Ross, Greenbrae, Falkirk, Dunsmuir, Dumbarton, Brisbane, Albany, Stewartville, Scotts Valley, Ben Lomond, Bonny Doon, Campbell, Gilroy. And I haven't even gotten to the creek names. Suffice to say our old phone number was GL-4 for Glenwood—I suspect the suburb name of of Marinwood was an offshoot of Glenwood. I imagine that right now, my sweetie, Neil, is gazing out his ailing mother's door across the Clyde Valley at Ben Lomond and the Trossachs. A munro I plan to one day hike.

Big Rock Ridge, visible from Highway 101, dissects southern Marin—Marinwood—from Novato and is part of the larger Bay Area Ridge Trail system. According to the Marin County Open Space website, Big Rock Ridge is the second tallest mountain range in Marin; it looms more than 1800 ft over Terra Linda—with our local goddess (or The Sleeping Lady—often compared to Mt. Fuji), Mt. Tamalpais, the tallest at 2572 feet.

Mt. Tamalpais, the Bay Area's own Mt. Fuji-san, used to stand at 2600 feet until the army corps of engineers got ahold of it during the Cold War and sawed one pap off readying it like an Amazon warrior princess—so her aim would be true. The implanted Nike missiles were never launched, but to this day, the women of Marin have a high incidence of breast cancer. My mother died from it, my two aunts survived. I live in dread.

California serpentine, aka California jade, and soapstone, or, more properly, serpentinite, is really group of 20 different varieties of serpentinite stones, one of which sometimes has an inert form of chrysotile asbestos, is not the cancer culprit. You'd have to grind up the rock into a powder and breathe non--native antigorite studded serpentine in deep for 20 years to develop cancer—and it would be mesothelioma—lung cancer, not breast cancer.

But the scientifically illiterate closet hysterics are ignoring scientific facts and trying to ban the state rock of California. If serpentine were the cancer culprit, then men too would get breast cancer too. Breast cancer and mesothelioma are equal opportunity diseases. (A scientifically illiterate, moronic State Senator Gloria J. Romero proposed legislation (SB 624) in May 2010 to remove serpentine as the state rock and lithologic emblem.)

Serpentine soils or serpentine barrens, do host rare endemic species of plants found nowhere else in the world: leather fern, coffee fern, jewelflower, popcorn flower, campion, rock cress, wallflower, wooly sunflower, Marin western flax, linanthus, Clarkia, Indian paintbrush, owl's clover, buckwheat, manzanita, sargent cypress—most of which I've found in my wanderings. Who knew wat we called a wimpy California daisy is actually the endangered pentachaeta bellidiflora. But I digress

Now, I'd always learned that my Mt. Barnabe was the second tallest mountain in Marin (I was surprised to discover it was only 1466'; it seemed so much bigger when I was young—but it does rise up nearly 1000' up from the foothills.) Maybe they meant in West Marin. Big Rock is Central /Southern Marin—West Marin folks consider it enemy territory. As a child, I used to climb up Mt. Barnabe often as it was my own personal playground. Most afternoons I rode up one arm of the ridge or down the other—it cradled me, made me who I am.

I knew all the mountain's secrets—where the best springs were hidden. The castle rocks. Where the dead lie buried. The windswept glens. The names of rocks: serpentine, Franciscan and limestone. The meadows where the abundant wildflowers grew. Mallow and baby blue eyes. Shooting stars and lupine. Godetia and meadowfoam. Butter and eggs. Azalea and horsetail fern. We'd pluck gold-back fern and stamp fern-prints on our jeans with the pale green pollen.

Sometimes I'd take out the little book stashed inside the geological umbilicus‚ a brass marker embedded at the summit, to see who signed it. Not many folks hiked up Mt. Barnabe in those days—and they always came from the Samuel P. Taylor Park side, not from my side of the mountain. But we knew most of the ranchers. So the western world was my oyster.

A friend was on fire lookout duty on Mt. Barnabe one summer, and I used to ride my horse up to the old wooden clapboard lookout tower that was built like a ship's quarters. Not like the ugly new stucco tower. But check out the view in the link. We'd spend hours gazing at the vast ranges—is that smoke? No. Low fog. My favorite views were to the west—Elephant Mountain, the long finger of Tomales Bay. A thin sliver of Kent Lake spillway to the south, and Mt. Tam.

As I stood surveying my new kingdom of wind at the summit, I noted my Mt. Barnabe—named after Samuel Taylor's beloved white mule—who is buried on its slopes, was roughly level with the serpentine-studded Big Rock Ridge (1825')—so I assumed they must be fairly close in height. But Big Rock has 360' on Mt. Barnabe. Poor beloved mountain of my childhood, demoted to third place.

Most of the land I traversed is owned by George Lucas—but now, because of Open Space, we can legally trespass on Big Rock Ridge. Of course, I took obligatory photos of Lucas's compound surrounded by a moat. I won't dwell here about what that new reservoir has done to the ecosystem of Lucas Valley Creek as the huge Big Rock spring and tule marsh I crossed, that feeds the reservoir—is the headwaters.

I could even see bits of Skywalker (Bulltail) Ranch with its hillsides plaited in grapes the next canyon over. I plucked a gold-back fern and stamped delicate decorations on my jeans for old time's sake, and sucked the nectar from an orange bush monkeyflower blossom. I admired the lacy chamise in full bloom. Pale pink-tinged manzanita bells, with tiny tart "apples" ripening, pink honeysuckle, and the shiny dark leavers of the ceanothus—mountain lilac. California buckwheat. Even the lowly morning glories looked good to me.

Clarkia, or farewell to spring, by the roadside. Clarkia, named after Lewis and Clark—has 30 species, most in CA, and some are rare—especially the species that grow in serpentine soil. Pay attention to the markings. Another favorite of mine is scarlet ribbons. I took photos of them too but didn't want to overburden this blog with photos. See Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge for more wildflowers —including scarlet ribbons. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

Mountain chamise and bush monkeyflower. Manzanita and sage were also in full bloom. I've never seen such a lush and colorful riot of chaparral in bloom. To see more serpentine plant images, visit my Picasa site. There were also more images of Big Rock Ridge (but Google killed Picasa so this link no longer works, sorry). © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

At the higher elevations, Mariposa lilies, phlox, clarkia, brodiaea, Ithuriel's spears, blue-eyed grass (really an iris), pearly everlasting (related to eidelweiss), chaparral pea, and bush poppy, and a few spring stragglers—California poppies. No lupine or larkspur—intolerant of serpentine soils?

The California state rock, serpentine, (really a mineral) is the result of tectonic action along fault lines where two continental plates collide: the North American, and the Pacific plates. Serpentinite (the rock, vs. the mineral) is an ultra-basic metamorphic rock, from under the earth's mantle. Tomales Bay is the San Andreas Fault.

Serpentine soils, toxic to most plants, host many rare endemic plants that grow nowhere else in the world. These ridges—geologic islands—are the last refuge for over 300 endangered endemic species: ridge-specific manzanita, mariposa lilies/tulips, owl's clover, wallflowers, flax, campion, and odd drought tolerant ferns. Species found on Mt. Tam are not related to their counterparts on Ring Mountain in Tiburon. From what I can tell—Big Rock Ridge is one vast ridge of serpentine. Not typical Franciscan strata.

Some form of sunflower, gumweed, or yellow aster? Confirmed: Bolander’s goldenaster. This hirsute plant was growing close to the summit (1800') in the open grasslands facing west. Double-click image to enlarge it. © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

The names of plants came tumbling back—names my grandmother had taught me as a child. And the scientific names I'd learned from my biology teacher, Al Molina. I chanted them as I trudged up the switchbacks: dodecatheon hendersonii, shooting stars, escholtzia californica—named after a botanist on the Russian expedition to Fort Ross, nemophilia menziesi—baby blue eyes. Indian Soaproot, or deer lettuce—only flowers after 4 PM. Near the summit, I noted a strange sunflower I'd never seen before—like gumweed grindelia. Where did all those names come from? Where did they go?

Now this was a find—I dismissed it as pea chaparral—until I saw the seed pods. I did a double take and counted the petals: 4, not 5 or 6. My first sighting of a bush poppy in Marin! © 2010 by Maureen Hurley

I'm not sure of the total miles I hiked—my body said at least 7 miles but then, it's no spring chicken. Nor is it reliable. My knee was holding its own—tore it in Andreas Canyon, Palm Springs one 4th of July—but my ankle wasn't as cooperative. So the built in pedometer may have been lying. There were many switchbacks. I lost count. But a new view filled my senses at every turn. So my pain was assuaged.

I am a cranky hiker—I don't like to hike with friends or to meet another soul—it interferes with my hearing the song of place. All afternoon, I had the mountain to myself. I was startled to meet two mountain bikers up this trail—they earned their view. I envied them, their swift descent.

I didn't go all they way to the radio tower as it was fast approaching sunset and my feet were killing me. I had to keep moving for fear my body would seize up and I'd be stuck up there overnight, clad in a tanktop & shorts. I didn't have a watch nor a cellphone. I did, however, have my grandfather's wee brass penknife on me—but little else by way of survival tools. And I didn't fancy munching on brodiaea bulbs as there wasn't much else to eat at the top. Besides, a blanket of fog was rolling in. So back down the mountain it was. I was racing daylight.

As I turned to the west, I involunntarily gasped—Nicasio Reservoir—sheets of silver shimmering in the distance, nuzzling the hills like a mirage. Shrouded in mist, Tomales Bay and Inverness. Where I had come from—so far away. Another country. To the east, the lights of the city lighting up like fireflies. But I couldn't tarry. A garter snake whipped across the trail in front of me. I yelled, leapt straight up in the air first, and asked questions later. Prime rattlesnake territory.

Once, a coiled fellow was sunning himself on the path as I trudged up our steep hill to catch my horse. She had an uncanny way of heading for the ridge around 3PM, the time I got home from school. I grasped a tussock of grass and heard him and without hesitation, I leaped backwards—straight out into space. He lunged.

I landed in the brush some 20 feet below. Gophersnakes mimic rattlesnakes—the prime difference is that the rattler holds his rattle up, the gophersnake trashes the tip of his tail against leaves. This fellow was shaking the business end of his schtick.

As I stopped by the tule spring with a water trough dedicated to Lorene French Volpe, I was literally straddling two different watersheds—Miller Creek to the east and Lucas Valley/Halleck Creek to the right. Sweet water from the pipe. I risked it. Serpentine above, no upper seep. Less chance of giardia. Ugh. Been there, done that.

One time, circa 1969, my grandmother and I traversed Halleck Creek looking for the last surviving band of Coastal Miwok Indians. We found only abandoned farm houses but the view sustained me. I could see into a small rincon of Halleck Valley as well. Hiking up Big Rock Ridge brought my small myriad worlds into focus. The great Aha! Pieces of the puzzle fitting together at last. My own inner topo map I carry with me always.

Last time I trusted a man with a topo map while hiking on unknown fire roads near Austin Creek, Sonoma County one April Fool morning—we foolishly hiked too far out, and as dusk fell, we couldn't make it back.

At least we had a blanket that time and the moon was full. At one point we used the durry blanket as a rope to slide down crevices and wash outs on the abandoned fire roads. Some of them were not even roads but donkey trails to cinnabar mines.

I lingered a few more moments at the Big Rock Ridge summit, then I spun a slow dervish of joy as if to take the landscape with me. But it was shank's mare back down the ridge. The shadows grew long and it was as if I was in another landscape.

A good hour later, I staggered into Peets' around 8 PM where my cousin plied me with double decafe lattes, muffins and Advil. My dogs were tired, I think I need to retire my crocs which, at this point are little better than thin moccasins. I was literally walking softly on the earth—for fear of stickers and stone bruises. The next time I decide to go for a little impromptu hike, I think I'll wear shoes.

Topo map from MCOS site—where you can download a pdf.

For plant resources I used Wiki, various native plant societies, and UC Berkeley's CalPhotos.

More info on Serpentinite from the real rockhounds:

Looking For Detachment—Serpentine: A Group of Minerals

Geotripper—The Other California: Geology and our State Symbols

Long way Home Wildflowers of Marin—some are specific to the serpentine soils of Marin, San Francisco and San Mateo counties. Loma Alta and Big Rock both host rare and endangered wildflowers. Marin dwarf flax (Hesperolinon congestum) is a threatened plant species.

Hiking up Loma Alta Trail

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Digitalizing old audio cassette tapes

For the first time in ages, I’m listening to an old, old Skara Brae audio cassette tape. Unfortunately it’s a poor copy of a copy—from my Irish class at UC Berkeley, 1998. I’m transcribing it to digital format (with an iPod speaker wire attached to my MacBook—a major technological breakthrough—thank you, Chris Breen)—thus saving all those old songs from obscurity. Caidé sin don té sin made it to YouTube, but many of the old songs in Irish didn't fare so well. In the process of salvaging obscure media, I’m also listening to Jane Bark’s tapes of her distant cousin Chrissie McDonald of Barra singing the old songs. A nugget to find Mari's Wedding in Scots Gaelic. A delight.

I experimented and took an iPod speaker splitter wire—to plug iPod into analogue stereo—and merely swapped the configuration. (Took me a VERY long while to arrive at a solution via Occam's Razor). I plugged it into the speaker output vs input—duh! I thus reversed the connection, and then plugged iPod headphone end into my MacBook line in. Half-way there. I then found a program that would record off the desktop. WireTap (old v.) will work, or open source Audacity, as does CD Spin Doctor—usually bundled with Toast. Mad audio scientist at work with no manual, as usual. We don’t need no stinkin’ instructions.

What I’ve learned is that, if you can get a sound register via the line-in, then, you can record anything, LPs too. Not great quality, but worth a try if the music is obscure enough to not make it to the digital age. I'm salvaging my old audio tapes first—obscure sean nós Irish singing tapes—most of which don't exist in digital format. Saving old audio cassettes from obscurity—bringing them into the digital age before they turn back to base iron—has been a bit of a journey with no map. But the relative obscurity and rarity of these songs makes it worthwhile to go the extra miles.

Somewhat expanded and revised for clarification from two Facebook posts, added 6/21

Friday, June 25, 2010

Sylvia Tota

A chance encounter with a stranger on a Vienna-bound Budapest train that I nearly missed, some two decades ago— literally landed me in the lap of a rather irate Hungarian lady. She was disgruntled. I had nearly fallen off the moving train, I had enough adrenalin to lift an elephant so we got off to a rocky start.

Sylvia Tota was returning home to Miami after a fruitless attempt to get two novels published, "Sárga Nárcisz," and "Különös Karnevál," by a famous Hungarian writer, Fedor Ágnes—a challenge as Jewish Holocaust writing was banned in Hungary for so long.

Sylvia told me harrowing stories of her escape from Hungary that made the hairs on my arms stand straight as soldiers. She was a literary agent—and friend of Isaac Bashievs Singer. I was on my way to Russia to marry a pop singer—who loved God more than me. She advised, No. Marriage is a business arrangement.

Then she rescinded once she saw the photo of Valera. She said If I waited I'd rationalize, and spoil it. It took a long while for her yenta advice to settle in—at the eleventh hour as I was about to board that final train from Amsterdam to Helsinki and Moscow. I never got a chance to tell her how it all came out.

We had become fast friends on that fateful train ride, she roundly kissed my goodbye on both cheeks—I felt as if I'd been adopted — and she pressed her address and phone number into my hands and admonished me to call her if I ever was in Miami. I never did. Guilt follows me.

I'm a terrible letter writer—not that I'm a terrible writer—it's just that I write many letters in my head. Some make it to paper—few ever get mailed. So email and the internet's been a godsend for keeping in touch. But in 1991 there was no internet—no email. Faxes were cutting edge technology.

I transcribed one of those letters I never sent—to my friend, poet, Celia Woloch—a piece about Sylvia Tota, called Budapest Nights. I later tried to find Sylvia on the internet as I had long since lost her contact information. I've been to Miami three times since then and still haven't kept my promise. But I think of her often.

When I visited the Holocaust Memorial in Miami Beach, it was as if Sylvia was by my side—a tour guide in spirit. Maybe it's because I had told her of working with Joe Rapoport and The Holocaust Oral History Project in Sonoma County, CA ("Joe Rapoport, The Life of a Jewish Radical", Temple University Press, 1981.) My friend, the late Marianne Ware, self-professed red-diaper baby, was instrumental in educating me. Whatever the connection, it all coalesced, and became part of my zeitgeist.

I'm quite active on Facebook—it's a great place for writers to keep in touch. I have my own private page and another open to the public "fan" page. Imagine my surprise when I found a note from Sylvia's daughter on my fan page.

Hi Maureen, you don't know me personally but you did meet my mother Sylvia Tota, on the way to Vienna on a train from Budapest! I just read your blog "Budapest Nights" and tears were down my face… Please link to me on facebook so we can chat! Regards.

A flurry of emails ensued and now we're connected and now I have her phone number. I guess Sylvia didn't want us to lose touch after all. I can't wait to find out the backstory. Did anyone ever record Sylvia's story?

Another how many degrees of separation gift from Facebook. The other one was long lost distant cousins from continents apart, finding me out of the blue. But that's another story I'm not ready to write.

To read the original story:
Budapest Nights

Journal fragments Travel re-entry is never easy.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Bald Eagle Sighting

Newly re-established bald eagles nesting over Kent Lake, Marin Co., are eating osprey chicks. Osprey nests plummeted from 70 to 30—so says high school classmate, Steve Emery.

I saw bald eagles circling over the Russian River near Cazadero in the early 1990s—the osprey (aka sea eagles—but hawk-sized) all dove for cover. Someone said they were nesting. Or, maybe they were passing through. I wonder if those bald eagle made it south to West Marin to shack up?

The reason I ask is because most bald eagles spend their summers in Canada and Alaska. True "snowbirds," they migrate down to the balmier states and northern Mexico during the winter months. But come spring, bald eagles return to the place where they were born to build their nests. Places like San Juan Island and Saltspring Island where they're so plentiful the look like Christmas tree ornaments.

As a child I saw golden eagles in West Marin—even a lone condor (once) with a very BIG wingspan. Last time I saw a condor in the wild, was at Big Sur in the 1970s. But never a bald eagle. That, I would've remembered.

And yes, even at a young age—I knew my raptors. My grandmother taught me the names of flora and fauna from the time I could keep up with her on early morning hikes.

How Grief Comes in

My self-proclaimed Jewish Mama friend of 30 years died, & 24 hours later, it's hit me—I am incapable of multi- or single-tasking—because I'm ADDled, & I got a huge parking ticket, a flat tire—missed a chance to see a concert with Andy Irving (Planxty) & now I need a Jewish Mama to recover from loss of my Jewish Mama. I'm drinking wine & eating everything chocolate. Wonder how chocolate and bagels and lox would go?

Weird, how grief comes in. I was good for about 12 hours (call it shock)...then every task became impossible to complete. I was absolutely attention-deficit. I've learned to compensate well–and hide it even—until something comes along and unmasks me. Dyslexia coupled with ADD/ADS are a double whammy—that Camus quote I posted about expending extra energy to appear "normal" —or merely comes at a great cost. Ha!

I tried driving in rush hour traffic. OMG! That's why I came home. I was a menace to society behind the wheel. It's like having PTSD. I was like that for a long time after a horrific car accident in 1997. Everything was hard to do—just going to the store was a major event. How grief comes in, on cobbled stepping stones, small islands in the stream.

Memorial info here: Marianne Ware

Please share your stories, poems, photos or leave condolences on Marianne's Memorial blog. I will post updates on it as well. Spread the word. I've lost contact with so many Sonoma County poets: Anne Erickson, Lee Perron, Peggy Ellingson, Gerrye Payne, Laura del Fuego, Simone Wilson, JJ Wilson, Richard Benbrook, Doug Powell, etc. We're adding poems. Do visit her page.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Marianne Ware

Longtime friend—poet, novelist, and grand madame of belles lettres, the epistolary packin' momma and mentor of countless Sonoma County writers, Marianne Ware passed away this morning on June 21. Marianne was co-founder of the Russian River Writers' Guild —an organization I was part of for over 15 years—and she was an English and Creative Writing instructor at Santa Rosa Junior College.

Marianne wanted to hold an "Awake" while she was still living, but her illness took her too soon. She slipped into a coma soon after she made a decision not to receive treatment for a systemic infection that caused the amputation of her right leg. We don't know what her family has planned for a remembrance service, as she didn't want a memorial service.

There's a short bio of her here.

Unlimited Publishing LLC, California Writers Club, Redwood Branch

And I've made a blog here for Marianne so people can post their stories.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

An Athena of Owls

Edinburgh's Owl & Lion Gallery and the West Port Book Festival hosted an Illustration challenge for a Twitter collective noun contest All-Sorts.org

I've been collecting and inventing Collective Nouns for years—ever since I read A Parliament of Birds. My winning entry, "An Athena of Owls" was selected and illustrated by Isabella Ting. (Not clear in the book—it looks like she wrote it). But here's a link to my original entry.

The winning entries are on display at the Owl & Lion Gallery from 15-27th June, 2010. You can purchase an artists’ book featuring all 15 illustrations as well as individual prints at A4 size.

The Owl & Lion is at 15 Grassmarket, Edinburgh, EH1 2HS +44(0)131 220 0900The West Port (street) Book Festival, in Edinburgh's "Soho" district will run from 24th-27th June. Free tickets from tickets@westportbookfestival.org

Saturday, June 19, 2010

BP OIL SPILL: DAY 60

BP OIL SPILL: DAY 60

I'm still in tears after seeing the blackened egrets
majestically standing in the marshes—heart-breaking.
And I was lambasting myself for my fits and jags
of uncontrollable weeping—
Then I realized that there was something
far more wrong with NOT weeping.

6/19/10

Stonehenge summer solstice

Many folks are gathering for the Stonehenge summer solstice. The only time I saw Stonehenge, was when our plane was stuck in a holding pattern over Heathrow in 2008. Around and around we went. I was the only one squealing like a stuck pig every time we passed Stonehenge. So close, I could almost touch it. My eyes were slathering on the window. So I guess you could say I've seen Stonehenge from the air.

Friday, June 18, 2010

HOME AGAIN

Ah, but it's good to be home,
to sleep in one's own bed again.
The couch gets old fast.

Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge

I take the long, long way home via Nicasio.

Hike Loma Alta ridge above George Lucas's place—

the reservoir comes right to the foot of the complex.

But now the creek's dry. How is this a good thing?

Lucas's lordship over the native fish and terrapin:

he liveth here and blithely taketh away

from those who live downstream.

There is water in the creek—at August levels

but it's mid-June and we had a late rainy season.

Already the pond scum is matting the surface—

too warm for the fish who summer over in deep pools.

Mariposa tulip, and Marin dwarf flax

Farewell to Spring (clarkia)

Mariposa tulip

We have an ID! Calycadenia multiglandulosa, aka Sticky western rosinweed !

It could be Marin dwarf flax (Hesperolinon congestum) but there's also California dwarf-flax (Hesperolinon californicum). Anybody want to make a guess? Botanist Brett McDougall says it's California dwarf-flax. 1) Leaves are alternate and threadlike with well developed stipule glands, 2) Pedicels are short, 3) Flowers are white to partly pink, 4) Anthers white to rose, 5) Ovary chambers are white, 6) Correct range for plant on coastal ranges of serpentine base. He gave me the same link I had used: Jepson herbarium

Itherial's spears (brodiaea)

As I ascend the ridge, ravens circle & greet,

tree swallows flit amid godeta,

Mariposa lilies & Itheriel's spears—

I chant Blake's Tyger Tyger with each step.

Invasive milk thistle

The sky draws a little nearer to the earth.

Elephant Mountain is a Ukiyo-e of mist and fog.

A tiny brush-covered spring nourishes

late spring flowers banded in yellow,

magenta & lavender, along the seepage—

a painted band of tidytips, clarkia & poppies.

Bush monkeyflower and scarlet ribbons (clarkia).

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see? —Blake

From the ridge above Big Rock,

I see a a worker leaving the compound—

a pickup stalls at the guardhouse—

to live in Lucas' walled city

nestled in our childhood hills,

is a sacrilege.

* *

SMALL BIRD WARNING

When I walked in the oak-lined meadow

below the dam, a redtail hawk keened a warning.
the sky fell silent & all the small birds
pelted to earth like a hard rain.

6/18/10
Soda Rock Lane

Life with DeNiall

Hmmm, my Mac trackpad quit working.

Sticky function keys. WTF?

How could he possibly think

I'd miss seeing chocolate ice cream

on my pristine white keyboard?

6/18/2010

A BAPTISM OF SORTS

The fog rolls in along San Pablo Bay,

right to where I'm heading,

obliterating Mt Diablo in a marine haze.

Freeway is jammed—glinting sinew of light

so I drive the long way home

obliquely through Golden Gate Fields parking lot,

& savor the last glimmer of sun on the bay,

I take photos of the marsh.

Watch an egret skim the shore.

As I make to leave,

a fat golden lab named Stella,

dripping wet from the bay,

takes a shine to me—

greets me like a long lost relative.

Her owner apologizes—says:

I don't know why, but my dog seems to like you.

She was whining to see you.

What was I, a dog in a past life, or what?

Maybe it's the neighbor's dog of my childhood

reincarnated several times over.

She does seem to know me. Gives me a lick.

The dog shakes a little more of the bay on me.

A baptism of sorts. Perhaps for the solstice.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

SODAROCK LANE

When I walked in the oak-lined meadow below the dam, a redtail hawk keened a warning & all the small birds pelted to earth like a hard rain.

They say Rickard Dibenkorn lived in the white house on Soda Rock Lane. They say his wife still lives there—all shuttered in—from the future or the past?

No cell reception in Alexander Valley—I can't call out but I can pick up messages if I stand just so in the vineyards at the bottom of the driveway. But do I even want to? Tureeda calls asking for a teacher evaluation. There is no Make it So button here. No internet. I've stepped back in time. Mt St Helena is brooding in purple and mauve shawls.

* * *

A tree sparrow miscalculates the boundaries between glass and air. Staggers off mid-flight, nearly paying for that metaphor with his life. The cat is ever hopeful. I have seen him leap mid-air and launch himself off the balcony—a silly wingless angel.

I water the plants & gather lettuce and radishes for dinner. Booker the cat observes my every move and calculates the distance to the table for a flying passage, does an about-face kitty courbette when I yell NO! He is so desperate for attention and food, even radishes will do.

The cat has left me a small present—a tick tries to burrow in the middle of my back. In deep summer, the ticks climb higher in the trees so they can launch onto their victims. Luckily I caught him working the skin on my back, but not before he burrowed in. Will I grow a biological target practice on my back? A bull's eye looking back to where I came from?

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Bloomsday

I read Ulysses 3 times—once when I was a child (stolen from my grandmother's bookshelf), when I was in college, and when I went to Hawaii—myself, alone in Waikiki with a massive sunburn.

Roger Ebert @ebertchicago wrote: "The key to "Ulysses" for me was an audiobook with an Irish accent. Then reading the prose felt natural."

I had my own Irish accent firmly implanted in my head—I imagined my Corkonian grandmother reading to me. It was a bit scandalous imagining her—a straight-laced Victorian woman mouthing the words of Molly Bloom.

Monday, June 14, 2010

A VERY ODD DREAM

A VERY ODD DREAM

When she was a little girl,

she washed all her father's shoelaces

& hung them on the clothes line to dry.

But a night bird came down

& mistook them for worms…

How would she explain their loss?

Would he lose his job

for a profound lack of shoelaces?

6/4/10

(If I was from a traditional American mom & pop family, maybe I could explain this dream, but I was raised in the wilds of west Marin by my Corkonian Irish grandmother. So the obvious father shoehorn doesn't fit.

It did feel a bit like I was channeling, though. But what? Also, the bird mistaking shoe laces for worms—pure metaphor! Somehow the oil slick is tied into it‚ shoes are sexual imagery, right? Laces-ties, what ties us, holds onto us? Child, innocence. Sometimes a dream is just a dream—a storyline came unbidden. I think I was writing in my sleep again...It does sound like the beginning of a children’s story, though.

Bird—flight, night, subconscious...not water (emotions/s unconscious), but washing—and the nightbird is a heron. Like a crane. Crane bag, magic bag, writing. Worms, food/decay.

I was reading Gallego mythology—or trying to as it's in Gallego-Portuguese. I was obsessed with the parallels of women washers at the ford, prevalent in all Celtic archetypes. Limnal boundaries.)

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Found poem

Found poem: 6-word autobiography:

For sale: Baby shoes. Never used.

To see more six-word autobiography poems:

Monday, June 7, 2010

Andrei Voznesensky obituary

So sad to hear Andrei passed away—he was a wonderful poet—one of the Russian great post-Stalin futurist poets, friend of Akhmadulina and Yevtushenko— and a warm, unassuming man. Will have to dig up my old Tri-X negatives from ca. 1992 when he was in SF.

"And death speaks: Away with you! /Aren't you all alone? /Who are you kicking against? /Against four millionfivehundredfortysevenandtwentythreesquaremiles of a monster." —Andrei Voznesensky, May 12, 1933 – June 1, 2010

Andrei Voznesensky obituary Remembering Andrei Voznesensky

Red Queen Madness on Facebook

I am feeling very Red Queen tonight.
As in "Off with their heads!!!

Off with they tiny feckin' heads!

I'm not seeing News Feed wall posts from many friends—I've not blocked anyone either (Well, maybe you. Haha.) It seems FB arbitrarily decides who's posts appear in our News Feed. I sleuthed it out & at the bottom of this page is an edit button that suggests how many friends—it was set at 100, but I only get posts from 15-20 people on my wall—plenty enough to read...but I thought others might have noticed it too.

I thought everybody left FB! I found that you have to choose which friends feeds you want to see:

First choose how many: mine was set at 100. Number of Friends Control how many friends you want shown in Live Feed. A higher number means you will see new posts more frequently. Maximum number of friends shown in Live Feed, And this one: you have to actually click on who you want to see: there were about 20 people chosen.

I didn't choose it so FB must've chosen for me. But I've only been seeing a few people's feeds—especially since the new privacy links were established. I realized something was up when a friend said I wasn't reading the posts—I almost missed a party invite. I think FB choses my friends based upon who responds to each other's posts.

FWIW: I do hide all games. I hates 'em, I do.Ya, and now iPhone 4 has Farmville. Excuse me while I barf on my left foot.

Like I said, I block them all. Do you know how to block applications from friends? Hover mouse on right side of name and hit the button, you'll be given a choice of the game or the person.

Off with they tiny little heads!

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Happy Environment Day! Brought to you by BP

Sign at BP gas station: "Do not leave pumps unattended. You are responsible for spills."

The oil isn't the only mess BP is trying to clean up. Early on, BP executive Hayward made comments that didn't sit well with coastal residents.

On the Today Show in the beginning of May, Hayward said, "Well, it wasn't our accident, but we are absolutely responsible for the oil, for cleaning it up."
Four weeks later on the same program, he attempted an apology. "I'm sorry — we're sorry — for the massive disruption this has caused their lives. And there's no one who wants this over more than I do. You know, I want my life back."

Yeah, we all want our lives back—especially the creatures of the Gulf of Mexico.

In Florida, Escambia County Commission Chairman Grover Robinson has also lost confidence in BP after being blindsided by reports that oil was nearing the Pensacola shoreline.
"No one from unified command called us to tell us this," he says. "We absolutely found that out essentially through actually a captain who had sent it to a private citizen. We got a text message. We trusted someone would tell us before it came up."

Apologetic BP ads get criticism, not sympathy. BP exec. Hayward narrates over images of clear water, uncontaminated marshes and healthy pelicans. Cleanup crews comb white sand beaches as he touts the oil giant's response efforts: 2 million feet of boom, 30 planes and 1,300 boats deployed, along with thousands of workers at no cost to taxpayers. BP's ad imagery clashes with disturbing news photographs of pelicans coated in oil, gunk dripping from their beaks. But what's missing is a concrete plan or vision for what they plan to do next.

Meanwhile:

President Obama reeled off a ream of statistics to show the scale of the response so far. He said that more than 20,000 people are at work protecting the coastlines, and that he had authorized the deployment of 17,500 National Guard troops to help in the response. He said that 1,900 boats were in the Gulf working on the clean up, and that more than 4.3 million feet of boom had been deployed to try to keep oil from reaching the coastline. —NYT

President Barack Obama sends e-mail blast about his Friday visit to Grand Isle:

"Here, this spill has not just damaged livelihoods. It has upended whole communities. And the fury people feel is not just about the money they have lost. It is about the wrenching recognition that this time their lives may never be the same."
"We have also ordered BP to pay economic injury claims, and this week, the federal government sent BP a preliminary bill for $69 million to pay back American taxpayers for some of the costs of the response so far. In addition, after an emergency safety review, we are putting in place aggressive new operating standards for offshore drilling." —NOLA

As poet Martin Dickinson said:

Gulf: Stop calling it a "spill" We'd be lucky it that's all it was. It's a horrendous nonstop explosion of oil in a fragile ecosystem.

* * *

A look at the aftereffects of the 1989's Exxon Valdez spill—it's still with us. It didn't go away or morph into benign clumps. Alaska and Exxon never cleaned up the lethal mess. It's as toxic now as it was 16 years ago.

In Alaskan coastal zones fouled by the Exxon Valdez in 1989, scientists discovered oil, scarcely changed, 16 years later. In some areas, its composition had not altered much from the toxic clumps and goo that had formed just weeks after the spill.
Contrary to early expectations, oil still oozes from Alaska’s beaches, toxins intact, and is expected to remain — perhaps even for centuries. NYT

* * *

From 1960s to 1992, Texaco (now Chevron) trashed the Ecuadorian rainforest worse than this BP spill and were let off the hook—scot free. The region still hasn't recovered.

I remember being in Quito and sitting behind a group of oil execs in an restaurant—hearing them talk, raised my hackles—there were rumors in the early 1980s something was terribly amiss—but tourists/travellers couldn't get into the region to verify. It was about the time the (downstream) Amazon freshwater pink dolphin began to disappear.

* * *

Happy Environment Day? Ironic. Happy Mass Extinction Day In Requiem. Brought to you by BP.

Facebook Typos

Facebook pages laden with typos make me cranky.

David G. Dinsmore Ya, me to.

Maureen Hurley Aw, go eat some feckin' fish food!

Malcolm Carden U gys no eech oter?

Genevieve Lim Yeah, for an ol' spelling bee champ, it's irksome to see how spelling's degenerated.

Lin Marie DeVincent ha ha, you set yourself up on this one, Maureen! I used to get annoyed, now I do it 2!

Maureen Hurley I don't mind creative spelling or numbers for letters; what rilly get's my goat are exces's a'postrophe's and your for you're, etc.... as in "Hope your well." What about my fecking well? Want me to shove you down it? Of course, you know Malcolm's got a well in his basement where he shoves unwanted dinner guests if they don't eat all their Ps & Qs!

And Dave, well, we're related. However I can always post some sans-diaper shots of him swigging a beer bottle & eating cigarette butts if needs be.

Genny, I too was a spelling bee champ—the big breaker word was antidisestablishmentarianism—piece a cake in 3rd grade!

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Hypnotizing a Wild Duck

Apparently I can hypnotize wild ducks: can you see it on the resume? At Lake Temescal we found a rather irate wild mallard with fishing line wrapped around his foot. Leah stepped on the line, I grabbed the shocked duck. Luckily, I fished out my penknife beforehand as I had my hands and arms full of a vigorously protesting wild duck.

I thought he was going to beat me to death with his wings. Then I remembered the old chicken hypnotizing trick, I flipped the drake over on his back and he lay comatose in my arms, as Leah cut away the line. He was tracking my feet, watching every step I took. Wrestling with him and his long wingspan—I thought to myself—Leda and the Duck?

What a canard he was, playing dead like that. I could feel his wildly pounding heart. I thought it would burst in its cage. I'm surprised he didn't faint, considering how everyone was coughing up recipes on how to roast him in orange glaze sauce.

Then I let the bird go–he took off for open water swearing up a proper storm. Ungrateful foul-mouthed fowl.

Close encounters of the quacky kind? Someone said: Send him the bill. Nah, I didn't take his bill, he needed it more than I. Besides, it was so yellow and shiny as the sun. Without a bill he couldn't quack & curse a cacacoughany in the bulltail reeds.

Today is Dead Duck Day—'splains a lot. I let him go, really. Though there was plenty of talk about how to prepare wild duck. Enjoy the final hours of Dead Duck Day. Quack!

Think I need a shot of Wild Turkey.

from Facebook
added & rev. 6/17

Monday, May 31, 2010

The MV Rachael Corrie flotilla, Gaza

My heart is heavy, all I can do is to sing songs in Irish w/ Skara Brae. My hands—small wings of grief. Thalatta, thalatta—the sea weeps. The Irish humanitarian aid flotilla is surrounded. At the UN, Britain has just said that the only response to the attack is to end the blockade of Gaza. It’s so ironic, that the Irish fought for an Israeli free state (against the British) and now Israel has traded places with the British and has become the oppressor, Israel has crossed the line at Gaza, and because of that crime against humanity, now many of the Irish are in solidarity with the Palestinians. Full circle. As Colin O'Herlihy pointed out: This has nothing to do with Israelis, it is the government. There has long been a great movement for peace and justice there but it rarely if ever gets noticed by western media. (This editorial reiterates Colin's point.) Israel blocking humanitarian aid to the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip is a crime against humanity. The Israeli military killed Rachael Corrie, they ran her over with a bulldozer, and now they will destroy the humanitarian aid ship, the MV Rachael Corrie named in her honor. For what? What kind of monster?

Irish Boat the MV Rachel Corrie proceeding to Gaza #flotilla

Belfast Palestine Solidarity Committee has received word from the Free Gaza Movement that those aboard the Irish vessel "Rachel Corrie" have decided to proceed to Gaza. A full press release is expected shortly. Niamh Moloughney of the Free Gaza Movement sent the following message: they have all agreed to take the Rachel Corrie to Gaza as intended she's 2 days away, it's a Malaysian & Irish partnership on board we have Denis Halliday, Mairead Maguire, Derek & Jenny Graham, Fiona Thompson (film) and Mathias Chang human rights lawyer, Malaysian MP & media - The Malaysians are serious contenders- they are very close to their government & have FULL support. We have 2 days to turn this outrage into a victory & get the Rachel Corrie into Gaza with the support of the world and open this sea route. It's vital that we now give full support to this ship reaching Gaza.
Niamh

Rachael Corrie

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Visiting the old schoolhouse

I was up in Alexander Valley—pasting up the kids' poetry & art book for the past few weeks. Sonoma County is uber-glorious this spring. We got to visit the old ALexander Valley school house, where we held the third grade poetry reading. Katie Murphy took us inside the old rancho adobe, so tiny, and hiked up the hill to the grave of pioneer Cyrus Alexander—the Wetzel family graveyard with its old wrought-iron fence. The hills are covered with Mariposa lilies and pink owl's clover, we also saw a golden eagle sitting on her nest, and lots of tiny grape flowers. Can't wait for the end result! (Wetzel Vineyards). There were gnarled Russian apple trees—cuttings from Fort Ross ca 1830s— still producing after all these years. Truly a blessed spot.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Camomile, Geyser Peak (photo)

Camomile grows profusely between the rows of grapevines, Geyser Peak

13TH GUEST AT A DINNER PARTY FOR 12

13TH GUEST AT A DINNER PARTY FOR 12

The table was set.
The cutlery gleam adamantine
on a field of snow white linen.
She thought, pearls tonight
with the black dress.
She practiced a dramatic pose
to stand by the chair
at the head of the table
where her husband would sit
taking his rightful place.
The guest list was carefully vetted,
they had grand plans.
She gazed out the window,
the horse in the paddock,
a big bay dressage hunter
felt her presence, intently watched
through the French doors.
His ears pricked forward, as if on alert.
She knew he couldn't see her
but he was ever hopeful for carrots
or for her touch—not like that man who…
Better not to dwell upon it, she thought.
They were strangers in a strange land.
The seething California hills of oak
and blonde grass were aliens – not like home.
She planted delphinium and Canterbury bells
to see if that would stave off the distance.
She surveyed the room one last time,
readied herself for the guests,
the zipper of on her shift severing the silence.
In the hall mirror she surveyed the black sheath,
checked the pearls inner glow.
Dinner went off without a hitch,
everyone marveled at how the Pinot Noir
complement the steak perfectly.
She marveled at how it resembled old blood
stark contrast against the table cloth.
The rental maid topped up her glass,
Mrs Raynes cut a piece of steak,
poised the fork to her mouth,
surveying the tranquil scene, took a bite,
laughed involuntarily, and breathed in
her last breath of triumph and death.
Not the pose she had envisioned.
The guests gathered round, shouting advice —
not one new the Heimlich Maneuver
that could have saved her life.
The black sheath, the coroner's bag,
the final zipper closure.
The uninvited guest paid
his compliments to the hostess.
Slipped out into the night.
She thought who would feed
the horse his carrots now?
The horse whickered
and leaned toward the light.

5/10/2010
rev 10/22/2015

BLUE-EYED GRASS

On the cusp of this hill

where pieces of blue-eyed grass

fall from heaven and no matter how

I try to approach that epicenter

of blue verging on violet,

that elusive crest of blue

moves to the next rise,

and the next, like a skittish rainbow

elusive to the end, like my life.

Who will even read this?

I have long since lost faith.

I have no evidence.

It has eluded me

like those thick concentrations

of flowers on distant hillsides,

painting bright idyllic pictures,

and bucolic landscapes,

but just under the lens.

They are not stars.

Still, I marvel when I find

a mutant strain of blue-eyed grass

devoid of color, quite like the stars,

or snow and I think

maybe it was all worth it after all.

A patch of blue

in the field of consciousness.

And blue equals luck:

it wards off the evil eye,

it wards off death

and mishap.

May 10, 2010

CATHEDRAL OF LIGHT

A CATHEDRAL OF LIGHT

A riot of sunlight falls

on islands of wild mustard.
Tide's out, saltmarsh and mud flat

reflect the sky and clouds.
A cathedral light of light falls

on the Fireman's Fund building

in Novato, and of course, today

I have no camera, only my eyes,

a sleepy mind, and this pen.

May 10, 2010

SURPRISE ROSE

SURPRISE ROSE

Yesterday, while weeding,
I found a lone white rosebud on a branch
I'd shoved into a pot last fall & forgot about it—
so I was doubly surprised.

5/10/10

Sunday, May 9, 2010

ALL MY MOTHERS

ALL MY MOTHERS

All my mothers are long dead
(my grandmother raised me,
my artist mother was far too crazy
for the mortal chains of domesticity).
So I was raised by a periphery of den mothers
(aunts and neighbors).
And I was also raised alone.
And I never was a mother.
No sentimental Hallmark solipsisms need apply.
They never wanted any of that, TG.
Unconventional women, all of them.
honor them all this day for that.

5/9/2010

Friday, May 7, 2010

4 poems published in Medusa's Kitchen

SUMMER ON BARRANCA CREEK, WEST MARIN

ALKALI DUST OVER DEATH VALLEY

ANSEL ADAMS' STUDIO

A FIFTH OF BEETTHOVEN