Closing the 'Stick with Paul McCartney

We're closing down the 'Stick tonight with Sir Paul where The Beatles performed their final concert nearly 50 years ago, this month. Epic event. Ironic also, in  that the last night at Candlestick will also be my first time there. I will wear all my clothes as if it was Moscow on the Hudson. I will wear my sleeping bag too.

"Hey, Paul McCartney here. Listen, I'm gonna be coming to Candlestick Park on the 14th of August. Now, it's actually gonna be the last night, we're closin' it down. It's gonna be a very emotional night, gonna be a great night, we're gonna rock. I have some very special memories, as you know, of Candlestick Park, so come along, be a part of it, 14th of August, Candlestick Park, let's do it!" —from a video 

The concert began more than an hour later than scheduled, because the biggest San Francisco traffic jam in history literally prevented thousands of fans from arriving from the north to even reach the park. Like, the entire North Bay and East Bay.

Paul held up the show as long as he could in the hopes that some of the fans could at least make the show. Even with an hour's delay, some 6000 fans still didn't make the show. Officially, 49,000 to 50,000 did arrive. Unofficially, who knows? The show sold out with blinding speed, within two hours. It was reported that scalpers were selling tickets to the sold-out event for more than a thousand dollars, I wonder how many fans who paid a king's ransom didn't make the show?

There was a lot of last-minute rearranging of banks of chairs in front of the stage to accommodate more last-minute fans on the green. Meanwhile, the bleachers to the south remained empty until intermission. It was a visual aid for all the fans who couldn't get in. And the Candlestick parking lot kept receiving a steady stream of cars—people paying homage—even as we were still leaving at 2 AM.

We got to the concert on time because we went across the San Mateo Bridge, literally a last minute snap-descision, a fluke, otherwise we too would have been stuck in traffic. The long way around turned out to be the quickest way there. The real traffic jam was trying to leave Candlestick Park. It didn't let us go easily: it held us hostage for two plus hours, a foul cloud of smog with thousands of cars idling in the parking lot. Apparently Uber & Lyft drivers made a killing.

I wore a long-sleeve shirt, (longjohns), two sweaters, a vest and a coat, topped with a neckscarf, and hat. About as much clothing as I wore when I was in Leningrad one winter. I felt like the Micheline Man. We were still cold. Hot town, summer in the City, San Francisco is not. Paul did sing Back in the USSR. Burrrr. Then, the wind quit blowing in off the bay, it became balmy right in time for Live and Let Die! Spectacular light show.

Paul's set last night went heavy on Beatles and Wings cuts – plunging deep from "I Saw Her Standing There" and "Maybe I'm Amazed" down to "Lovely Rita" and "Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five." Songs doubled as exhibits: He played "Paperback Writer" on the same guitar he'd used to record the song. Between-song banter doubled as a docent's monologue: He told a story about Jimi Hendrix covering "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" at a 1967 concert, days after the record came out, and asking Eric Clapton, who was in the crowd, to come up and help him tune his guitar. McCartney prefaced "Blackbird" with a few words about the "civil rights troubles, particularly in the South," that inspired the song and attended the Beatles' 1966 tour. McCartney didn't need to focus his gaze southward, of course, to find injustice:

McCartney arranged his schedule to send the stadium off, with a pre-demolition show that few in attendance will forget. The key word there is "in attendance." Some of the worst Bay Area event traffic in recent memory forced thousands of concertgoers to say goodbye to Candlestick from an idling car outside the stadium. McCartney did his best to accommodate the stragglers, starting at 9 p.m. and playing a nearly 2 1/2 hour show with more than 30 songs... —Candlestick Farewell

It was a night of homages. Paul wore the maroon undertaker's jacket (or facsimile) that he wore at the final US concert at Candlestick Park, August 29, 1966. And he opened with Little Richard's "Long Tall Sally," the final song performed at the 'Stick in '66. Though laden with nostalgic Yesterdays, the concert was very much set in the present. 

Paul looked tired, he was battling a long tern virus in May, but then, he's 71 years old! He played more than 30 songs during the three-hour set, plus encore. I'm not going to cover the innuendos of the concert here, as everybody else has already done that ad nauseum. Here's a great review from Rolling Stone: Paul McCartney at Candlestick Park: 'We're Going to Close It Down in Style!'  Let's just say we were Out There!

But I will say is whadda night that was. Paul blew the proverbial roof off the amphitheater. I'm not a mondo concert fan, but it was spectacular. I was also still in mourning over the death of Robin Williams. But for a few hours, grief was transformed by music, the entire crowd, 50,000 of us singing through the night. We watched the moon rise over the park and fireworks lit the night sky as we said goodbye....

Then, at the end, as we were leaving, we paid homage to the park itself, we gathered sod from the infield, and took it home as a souvenir, and planted our own little 'Stick park in the circle of bricks in the middle of our driveway. I kept it alive all through the drought watering it with greywater from the bath.

People taking the turf home with them.
You know the party's really over, 
one lone yellow suede shoe in the sandpit.
I guess the woman limped home.

My photos on Facebook are probably more eloquent than I am at this point: 
Paul McCartney's Farewell to Candlestick Park

and Goodbye, Candlestick Park, We sure hate to see you go... 

Preparty, strangers shared food with us.

I was shooting with a 2ox zoom on a Panasonic Lumex (Leica) camera, wide open lens at a low shutter speed aperature (as low as 4 to 30th sec) with my depth of field wide open, set  on mountain scenery, etc. Most of the shots of Paul are from the Jumbotron. You can see the dots. The ones of the stage are pretty blurry. They're not great, but they'll do. If you want to see great shots, check out some of the links below. The pros with stage access and good cameras. We were really in the bleachers, the boondocks.

A fan with a fantastic tophat

Another big fan, Neil & Paul share the same birthdate

The program came with 3-D lenses

Paul paid homage to the first gig at the "Stick

with the same maroon undertaker's jacket

He played the same guitars used to record the songs.

And he played for us. One of the few photos I took that was more or less in focus

He wove in backstories from the past

with historical references with  unreleased  photos from the 1966 concert never before seen

We had a moment of silence for Robin Williams a vigil, people lit lighters and candles.

We knew all the words to all the songs, we were a collective, hive mind singing well into the night

Sir Paul played well past the official closing time,
more than making up for the concert's hour delay,
and then too soon it was time to say:
And it's Goodbye Candlestick Park,
we (really don't) hate to see you go....
But hey, we put the Candle out in style.

#OutThere #Candlestick #PaulMcCartney #Candlestick #FarewelltoCandlestick 

Robin Williams' Magic Mirror

The truth is, if anything, I'm probably addicted to laughter. —Robin Williams 1951-2014

It's really been upsetting reading the news with myriad gossip-mongers having a field day at Robin Williams' expense. Folks have been busy blaming Robin's turbulent drug-ridden past and/or a lack of money for his suicide.

According to his financial advisor, despite two divorces, Robin was not on shaky financial ground. He was solid. Royalties were coming in. He has three new movies about to be released. Income (or a lack thereof) wasn't the reason for his death.

Nor was vice the cause. His vices: he was clean from drugs having gone cold turkey since the day John Belushi died in 1982, and he was also sober for 20 years. Yes, Robin fell off the wagon in 2003 while on a movie set in Alaska, and when he began to fall off the barstool, with family intervention, he got back on the wagon in 2006—so he was eight years sober on round two.).

His vices didn't kill him; being bipolar is not a vice, it's an illness. Profound depression was the real enemy. I've seen what it did to my mother, the failed suicide attempts. When slitting his wrists failed, Robin hanged himself with his own belt, wedged over the top of the closet door. He could've saved himself, but death was the only escape route. The toxicology report is still out but I'm willing to bet it will come back clean.

Robin was also recovering from massive open heart surgery (2009), an operation that often leaves survivors profoundly depressed and suicidal. As if his plate wasn't full enough, we come to find out that he also suffered from early onset Parkinson's Disease, a neuro-degenerative disorder that affects balance, movement, and cadence; other symptoms include tremors, and facial paralysis.

One million Americans have been diagnosed with Parkinson’s; it affects as many as 10 million people worldwide. Men are more likely to get it than women. There is no cure. I wonder if Robin Williams had gotten a chance to talk to Michael J. Fox about his symptoms, if it would've made a difference? Or was being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease the final straw? With that prognosis hanging over his head, his future must have seemed like a bleak Godot.

Robin was a very prolific man, he's left behind a prodigious body of work with nearly 50 movies to his credit, and almost as many TV shows, not to mention comedy shows, and charitable work. In 1986 he helped found Comic Relief USA, raising $80 million for the homeless. He's won two Oscars Screen Actors Guild Awards, two Emmys, four Golden Globes, and five Grammy Awards.

His work literally defined who he was. Robin's very identity was wrapped up in his ability to mime and to mimic others. A man of a thousand voices and thousands of  characters. The magic mirror itself was shattered. And no amount of drugs or superglue could fix that.

RIP, Robin. You had the courage to dream big. You made your life spectacular. And we are all the better for it.

Oh, Captain, my Captain. 

Robin Spotting

Robin Williams at Redwood High School ca. 1969.

I met Robin at College of Marin in 1970. Even then, he was mesmerizing. I used to follow him everywhere around campus. Especially when he did silly walks while wearing a swimming cap and not much more than skimpy green gym shorts. He was the pied piper. I was just seventeen.

Imagine Robin wearing a women's swim cap with strap dangling. (Redwood HS ca 1969)

To my mother's delight (she was an actress at the Gate Playhouse in Sausalito), I joined the College of Marin theater department so I got to see Robin in all his zany roles. He did an incredible yellow-stockinged cross-gartered Malvolio that absolutely stole the show. He also stole my heart way back then and never gave it back. I was too frightened to audition for roles but I did costume design and ushered shows.

Robin was a brilliant actor. The comedy angle, he just couldn't help himself. It was always bubbling over. Robin would spontaneously riff on Shakespeare solliloques until we wet ourselves laughing. He drove director James Dunn nuts but we all loved Robin. College of Marin was like an extended childhood—we both attended CoM for three years. 

Offstage, Robin was just about as shy as I was, so at cast parties we'd sort of sit there looking down at our feet kicking rocks and go au-um. I absolutely adored him. I think he knew it too because he once invited me to a party at his house in Tiburon. I hopped into in my old Volvo panel truck (at least it started), and followed his VW Bug to Strawberry. We gassed up at the station, he dropped a rolled-up dollar bill and took off. The wind fluttered it to my feet. I picked it up. Portent of things to come.

I remember going over to the Trident restaurant on the Sausalito wharf just to watch Robin who was working as a busboy/waiter. He'd juggle plates, knives and glasses, do cartwheels, and a side dish of stand-up comedy while bussing dishes. It was always hilariously entertaining until the owner shooed us out.

I was no stranger to the Trident. In the mid-60s, my actress-mother was once a famous Trident waitress wearing little more than a bustier and fishnet stockings—she knocked 'em dead nightly with those showgirl legs—Bing Crosby autographed a napkin for her. Even in the 70s, Trident glitterati included: Grace Slick, Carlos Santana, David Crosby, Bill Graham, Jane Fonda, Donald Sutherland, and Bill Cosby.

Another favorite Robin-spotting pastime was watching Robin-the-mime greet perplexed shivering tourists at the end of the trolly car line in San Francisco's Ghirardelli Square. Or watch him improv at the Old Spaghetti Factory. I saw him once at The Boarding House, but by then his fame was growing, and it was crazy jammed, so I left without saying hello or goodbye.

Robin took the LA comedy clubs by storm, and in 1973, he was accepted to Juilliard along with other classmates of mine, Mark Rasmussen, and Joel Blum (a 2-times Tony winner), but Robin always kept up his west coast connections. Marin was home.

Robin Williams & Joel Blum in the wild west version of Taming of the Shrew, directed by James Dunn,  1971, went on to win the Best of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival that summer. Many of us helped raise funds (car washes) for the tour, but didn't go with the cast. Harvey Susser was also my drama teacher. It's his photo. Don't know why the Daily Mail is claiming it.  Great interview with James Dunn, though. 

I only saw Robin once again in 1981 at a concert after he got famous. Backstage, after a Bread & Roses show at The Greek Theater (I was the resident calligrapher for Mimi Fariña), I ran into Robin later with Michael Pritchard, and Eric Idle. Robin did a wild ribald set with Michael Pritchard that had the audience rolling in the aisles.

Robin Williams & Michael Pritchard at the Other Cafe reunion in SF (photo: Nathan Nayan)

I watched the show from the wings. Robin came offstage and recognized me...which shocked me. He gathered me up in his arms saying, I know you! I know you!!! and kissed me soundly. I said: Eww! Gross. Stop. Sweaty! swatting him off...

I got to hang out backstage with Robin, Mike and Eric Idle and watch them crack each other up. I don't remember what was said, one-upmanship was involved, and I had laughed myself senseless. Somewhere I have photos of the show.

Robin said he'd keep in touch. Never happened. 

I always thought I'd see him one more time again.

So long, old friend.... Robin Williams

My friend Molly Fisk posted a photo of Robin on my Facebook page and said, such sad news this afternoon. thinking of you. intensely sad. i'm unfriending people right and left on FB who don't seem to understand depression or how people soothe themselves.

Thanks for the photo post Molly. Jim Carmin said: Robin William joins more than 105 Americans each day in such a sad fraternity... Back in the day, Molly and I sat next to each other in costume class at College of Marin. She once said, We used to dress Robin. It’s true. Malvolio’s crossed garters and all.

When I first heard the news, it was a visceral sucker-punch to the gut. I nearly threw up in the parking lot at the Redwood Credit Union in Petaluma. I was stealing their wifi while waiting for my cousin when I saw the news. I was devastated, then angry. I always thought he had the demons under control—or at least under the barstool.

Someone said Robin just had open heart surgery—and a lot of people commit suicide afterwards. A friend, Richard Beebee, couldn't bear the depression oand pain—nothing worked and so he hung himself. Robin's been on my mind a lot lately.

A friend saw him at Olney Hall, and said there was a heckler in the audience. Robin took out an invisible fishing pole, cast the line out over the audience and simply stated "Fishing for assholes." It brought the house down. Sometimes you gotta do a catch and release on some of those Facebook “friends” who are being assholes.

Robin would have understood.

O Captain! My Captain!

• Robin Williams' Magic Mirror
• Robin Spotting

Squirrel Bath

The red squirrel left three green acorns at the bottom of the half-full glass on the fence so I filled it up with fresh water. They no longer have a potable water source, so my pint beer glass wedged in the fence is their only wellspring. They run up the fence from the street trees for their daily drink. Next morning, the glass was half-empty again and the water was filthy. The acorns were gone. The squirrel went snorkeling to get them back. I guess the bottom of the glass wasn't such a good place to hide his nuts after all. But he's now one very clean squirrel.

Last waltz

Last waltz. People leaving Rancho Nicasio in droves. The turquettes, young turkeys, are lined up and gobbling on the fence, straddling pullet "feed-me" peeps and teenage angst or maybe they're the backup singers for the band. Mama deer  parades her twin fawns, their spots like constellations in the grass. They watch, amused by all this Sunday hubbub. The turkeys risk crossing the road: they have a lot to say while holding up traffic at the 2nd base outfield.


see poem SUNDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC JAM

Half a Hole

Math puzzle: If it takes 6 men 6 days to dig 6 holes, how long will it take 3 men to dig half a hole?

How can you possibly dig a half a hole? That's sort of like being half-pregnant. Or like running a half-distance race (where you never, ever, ever get to point B).

A hole is a whole hole no matter how misshapen or shallow it might be. Some holes are holier than others, but they're also in the dark. They don't see the light. No! No! Don't go toward the light!

I have some questions: Were the 6 men digging for 24 hours each? Or are we talking 8-hour days here? Did they get time off for lunch and two ten-minute breaks? Union? Non-union? Were they US citizens? Were they assholes? Did they dig all the way to China? What about doughnut holes?

You can probably tell I never did well on the verbal math tests—too many variables and then there's the conundrum to consider. I'll take that doughnut hole now, I prefer the chocolate glazed ones, TYVM. But I'd be happy to share half my doughnut hole with half of those three men digging those half-holes. How many pieces would that be, if half-eaten over a three-day period?

WRONG NUMBER

One AM phone call: a man slurred: 

"You'd better come get me. 

I can't make it." And hung up. 

Wonder if he ever made it home?

Bum Steer

Sometimes our neighbor Les Stone would put us up on Ralf, the Jersey milk cow and she'd buck and lunge like a champion rodeo bull. My friend Stephanie named her after the sound she made when she attempted to moo. Ralf had a big knotted abscess on her cheek and a lisp, so her I'm so lonely song came out RALF! RALF! RALF! 

Ralf was also a consummate escape artist. Her middle name should've been Cowdini. So my neighbors resorted to electric fences to keep the cow in. But come morning, there was Ralf straddling the electric fence, udderly devastated by the height of the fence and the fact that her full udder, in need of milking, wouldn't clear the hurdle—facts colluded. She'd stand there, with back hunched up to lift her udder off the electric fence, waiting patiently to be rescued, muttering ralf, ralf, ralf under her breath. 

Come spring, she'd charge right through that fence to find Old Grandad the Herfie bull in Nuneses' upper pasture on Mt. Barnabe. And she'd bust out again to have her calf in the woods. She'd hide out and blend in with the trees. I swear that cow could tiptoe. We'd have to go hunt her down hidden in the oaks with her newborn calf. We'd follow the calf's yellow fresh milk spoor. Busted!

Poor Ralf loved freedom and we couldn't explain to her why wandering the backroads was not a good idea for a fawn colored cow and calf—especially during deer hunting season.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON TRAFFIC JAM

The last afternoon waltz is over.

Revelers leave the Rancho Nicasio in droves

and gun their pricey cars lining the square. 

The wild turkey chicks straddling the fence, 

chime in with pullet-sized "feed-me" peeps 

and squawk with teenaged angst at passers-by,

or maybe they 're hoping to audition 

as backup singers for the band. 

Mama deer parades her twin fawns, 

their spots—like constellations in the dry grass 

as they head down to the creek for their evening drink.

They watch, amused by all this Sunday hubbub. 

The turkeys risk crossing the road: 

they have a lot to say while holding up traffic 

at the 2nd base outfield.

Math Whiz, Not

My personal strength is visual acumen. I can remember faces and images. I score high on those kinds of equations. As long as it doesn't involve numbers. I had to take the CBEST test and failed the SIMPLE math portion. SIMPLE...yes? I scored @ 60%, so I got a math tutor studying for her (she, not he—very important) PhD. She was fascinated by how I solved the problems. She said I was bored with simple math, but had somehow taught myself algebra & geometry—that my reasoning was sound. But I did odd things like add figures in the subtraction columns, I flipped numbers (6/9, and 4/7), etc., a classic case of dyslexia. But I passed the blasted test. Tears were involved. And the spectre of Coach Harry Roche lobbing chalk and erasers at Johnny Kaufman and Mike Frank, didn't boost morale, of course. My grandfather had an eidetic memory. He could speed-read any book and had perfect recall. I have it too, but only partial recall. However, when it comes to math, I reverse numbers....and get all jumbled up. No matter that I've been clocked with an IQ of 138-40, math is my Achilles heel. And I have math whizzes on both sides of the family. The gene's there, but it's all damseled about. Even the late, great Olympic runner Archie Williams who broke track records with Jesse Owens, couldn't teach me a lick of math. And my mother's cousin was a mathematician on the Manhattan Project. So it runs in the family. It just ran away with me. Or more like from me.

Circling Tehema (photos)

We drove around the entire mountain today. We circled the god Tehama. We took a gondola ride up to a ridgetop called Crystal Mountain, or, Paradise and gazed at her face for hours. Rainier was sublime, as were Adams, St. Helena, Baker, Glacier, and many other peaks in between. We found a geocache and a memorial marker for a man who fell from a great height. Because it was a clear day, I orchestrated the mountains with my walking stick. And for a moment we saw into forever. And beyond while ladybugs coated our arms and legs with their carapaces of gold.

Apparently I'm conducting the Olympic Range and Mt. Baker too, from Crystal Mountain near Mt. Rainier, WA (or surveying my kingdom; or maybe I'm fly-fishing). My wand is pointing to Glacier Peak, my arm to Mt. Baker.  Not sure what the other arm's pointing to. Grandeur was to be had, by all accounts. Not one got away.

I was driving through the forest and saw the gondola sign for Crystal Mountain Resort, so I impulsively flipped a U turn (in the midst of a lengthy traffic jam at either end) and I went up the mountain to see what I could see. Great vistas unfolded as we climbed up to the ski resort. And lo, there was a gondola with promises of even more vistas at the summit. I was ravenous for beauty. Despite Neil’s objections, we went up the mountain. It was a spot-on impulse that changed to course of our day—and our journey. I was just so glad to be back in the heart of the mountains, gimpy knee and all, while learning to use a ski pole as a third leg. I hobbled to the crest where beauty times beauty was equal to the equivalent of sublime joy, or euphoria. Perhaps it was merely a lack of oxygen. The resulting knee pain that followed was worth it.

rev 8/17

If you visit the Crystal Mountain webpage, there is a live cam, and  link for a 360º view.

BLOOD ROSES

A deer ambled up to the kitchen window
popped down roses as if they were potato chips.
Beautiful blood-red petals slid down her throat.
She gobbled them up not even taking time to savor them.
I rapped on the glass but she kept on munching away.
We were inches from each other. Eye to eye.
But she knew the difference between glass and roses.

Nicasio

Nicasio Reservoir, drought (photos)

Nicasio Reservoir, July 2014. The old Nicasio road, normally underwater until October/November, is to our right, about 20 feet above us. The water smells like cowshit. I found one dying gull. Shores are lined with feather flotsam. Meanwhile a band of white pelicans were practicing synchronized swimming/feeding in this inlet—in a perfect circle!

Other side. Panorama shot— 180°.

I'm standing at least 15 feet below the high water shore. No wide angle, straight shot. All that foreground is normally underwater, the different plants mark the evaporation trail. 

Old Nicasio Road to the left. Wonder if we'll be able to walk across it, come October? A first ever... Coyote brush in the center of the photo marks the high water shore.
 

Old work, new vision

Lately I've been uploading old work—mostly poems from the 1980s and 1990s. It's a bit of a surprise to revisit one's old writing all at once like that. I started at the beginning. Only work that made the electronic cut was uploaded. It's been a tedious process fraught with technical difficulty (read: incompatible formats) and more than a few poems weren't all there. As in physically not all there (no that's not a value judgement.)

And of course, I don't have hard copy for any of my old work, my big clippie-board mss binder has gone on walkabout. So I can't fill in the missing words and lines, nor date some of my old work. I'm sure there are myriad formatting typos. Long dashes (em lines) reverted to accented ós, and line breaks disappeared. I've been burning the midnight oil—nay, more like 2AM, removing those pesky ascii artifacts. But some are insidious.

See my very first entry of 1979 to read all about it. But rereading and reformatting all those poems is labor intensive. (I'm up to 1993). There are gaps because I didn't date my earlier work—incestuous nepotism? It dated me and now it's haunting me. Everything's relative.

Yeah, there was a lot of love gone wrong stuff. Rites of passage. Painful stuff. Painfully funny stuff: comparing women to pears with PTSD, imagining myself as an asparagus stalk, eating white oil paint because it reminded me of ice cream. OK, so I was four, it was my first metaphor.

Weird to review one's life for the past 35 years via poetry—shuffling the poems into the right creation date has created an interesting timeline.

Don't know how much more I'll upload during this round. My eyeballs hurt. I've moved all the orphan poems to relative dates within a 2-4 year period. Usually to Jan 1,19xx, so I can find them later. I still have a rat's nest of early poems filled in 1994—that was the latest file date saved. Need to track them down too.

Too much circular reading. Sorry for the typos, Working on them.
When This Blog Really Began—Aug 2008
Old Posts, New Posts
The Paper and the Sonoma County Stump

Poem titles are in CAPITAL LETTERS, and you can search the blog, using the word 'poem" in the search box at the top or clicking on the word "poem" on the hotlist below the dates. Other poetic categories too: haiku, ekphrastic poetry, collage, etc. Some poems also sorted by region: from the Andes to the USSR, and Zenia.

PARCHED EARTH PRACTICES

A surprise bonus:
recycling dishwater
forks in the planters.


Dumping dishwater
in thirsty planter boxes
a fork serenade.


Tossing the dishwater
a cacophony of forks
dig into the ground.


I'm giving up on
5/7/5 haiku lines
to count water drops.


When I tossed the dishwater into the garden
the plants drank in a cacophony of forks
A good tine was had by all.


The dishwater sang
tine-y bubbles whined about
a fork in the road


But the owl flew off
with a runcible spoon think-
ing it was a mouse.

When in drought save gray

water, the whales are dreaming

of rain on this plain.

Anonymous comments button turned off

So very tired of the spate of Anonymous commenters posting spammybits to my Irish Redheads post (my most popular blog post with 38,352 strikes—OK, so 5000 of those are probably Vampirestats). Like cuckoos laying their eggs in other birds' nest, these nefarious commenters sneakily embed URLs in their posts–which I can't disable. So the Anonymous comments button is turned off for now. Wish I could just turn it off for that blog post, But it's all or nothing. To leave a comment, you must now register, or have Open ID. So sorry. I hate captchas. Some of my best commentators have been Anonymous posters. (Sigh).

Naked man in a filbert bush & a case of spotted dick

Did you ken what kind of nuts? It was a filbert tree—aka hazelnut. Which is a shrubby oxymoron like our former president. So when does a shrub become a tree? Or is it a trub by any other name? Corylus is in the birch family. I guess the guy should be birched for showing his nuts to the cobnuts. Or was his wattle daubbimg? Oregon is the largest US producer of hazelnuts. Get this: they use blowers to collect the nuts. A real blowjob. And I'm allergic to them. Hazelnuts, that is. Here's a fish-story for you.

In Irish mythology, the hazelnut (or coll) is the nut of knowledge that the salmon at the well of wisdom (who also the oldest being in the world) ate. The nut, that is. Each red spot (breac, or freckle) on the salmon's sides represented a hazelnut (or a bit of knowledge, like a library). And I'm allergic to them. Hazelnuts, not books. But not salmon.Well, it also means a spotted trout. A potted trout? Is that a trout in your pocket or are you glad to see me?

The OED would never admit that freckle probably came from breac (brecc). (Old Norse, my ass. Tho it probably entered into English from Old Norse. Old Irish is WAY older than Old Norse—and Old Germanic (spreckle). It's a cognate from the Indo-European *sp(h)er(e)g- 'to strew, sprinkle.' Irish usage of breac predates the arrival of the Norse: creatures from the Otherworld was breac—spotted or brindled. There's even a Medieval book called An Leabhar Breac ("Speckled Book"). Besides, we Irish are freckle factories. Proof positive that Ireland was permanently overcast for at least 10,000 years.

Speaking of freckles, you do know where this is going: spotted dick anyone? Who spotted a dick in the nut orchard in Oregon? What was the guy's name, Richard? It's a rich story. I have a photo of my friend Micaela holding a can of spotted dick—on her honeymoon, no less. No, her husband's name is not Richard. And for your just desserts, I bring you a recipe for spotted dick.

from a facebook post

GREEDY SQUIRREL

Greedy squirrel knocks
my china cup off the fence—crash!
He's looking at me so guiltily

he's beating his chest
as if to say mea culpea.
I'm so sorry.

Waterdogs

Our waterdogs were MUCH more stocky than this fellow, more like a coastal giant salamander but they weren't spotted. For all we know, they could've been a new species. —Wiki

When I was a kid, there were giant salamanders that lived in a creek that ran down from the slopes of Mt. Barnabe, behind the Stone's house.

Three salamanders were dressed in different shades of liver, brown and russet. And they were built like small stocky bulldogs—about a foot long. They looked much bigger to us then, and of course we thought they were Loch Ness monsters, or Sumo wrestlers. We made our first unoriginal metaphor: we called them moving poops. Unfortunately Stephanie's little brother probably killed them. You know how it is with little boys and rocks and slow moving targets.

I still feel bad when I think of those salamanders. Even then, we knew it was wrong to lob rocks at them. We were probably 7 or 8 years old. We had no idea that they were rare prehistoric creatures. When teacher said that dinosaurs were extinct, we knew better, they were alive and well and living in the gorge at the foot of the mountain.

Apparently the giant salamanders can bark too. Hence the name: water dogs, or mud puppies. It was probably their barking that attracted our attention. Because they were so far outside our experience of the known world, not like the regular salamanders—petite, delicate creatures that came out after a heavy rain, and they barked, or rather croaked, I was shaken.

The terror of unknown was suddenly real. We hiked up the gorge many times looking for those strange monster waterdogs, but we never saw them again. They reappeared in dreams, barking, as if beckoning me towards the unknown. Or alerting me to danger.

I chalked the memory up to a collective bout of unbridled childhood imagination, until a friend, Trane DeVore posted a photograph of a giant Japanese salamander, and at that moment I realized that my childhood monsters were indeed real, and they were barking like wild dogs deep in the wilderness of the past.

WHILE WAITING FOR THE ANACORTES FERRY

Once, long ago, on an unreasonably hot day
like today, while waiting for the Anacortes ferry,
I jumped off the dock to cool off in Puget Sound.
Baby flounders scattered like rusted fall leaves.
One tiny fish swam into my palm—and settled in.
His eyes hadn't yet migrated all the way to one side,
so he watched me as carefully as I watched him.
When his jewel-spots changed to blend with my hand,
his eyes retained the dreams of sea and sky.

7/10/2014

HIGH NOTE haiku

Little girls screaming
in unison—perfect pitch 

with the power drill.

ALAN WATTS

    

Alan Watts, early 1970s, Everett Collection, Brain Pickings

 —The only way to make sense out of change 

         is to plunge into it, move with it, 

         and join the dance. —Alan Watts

When I was a child, I swear

Alan Watts was older than dirt.

Now from a photo, he gazes out 

looking younger than I am today. 

Sausalito in the good old days, 

when Varda lived on the old ferryboat 

and nailed his paintings to the walls, 

& from the captain's cabin,
Alan danced at the helm,
with his seadog legs braced
against the raging '50s tide, 

steering the '60s into oblivion.

7/9/14

Honeybees and the end of the world

Speaking of daft emails and memes (this time, from a reputable social activism site) where The bee-ginning of the end is nigh.

Whereas I am all for saving the honeybees, I object to the doomsday quote being pandered about—and falsely attributed to Albert Einstein: If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live. Bah! I HATE pseudo-science.

Einstein was a physicist. Not a beekeeper. He never, ever said it. Granted, about 130 kinds of fruit and nut crops that we depend upon, are pollinated by honeybees. But European honeybees (tho incredibly efficient pollenators) are NOT native to either of the Americas. It seems that many peoples survived just fine for millennia on end without them. Just sayin'. OK, so some vines, including cucumbers, and also almonds might be in trouble...but there are other critters out there.

Also, though not as efficient, there are many other pollinators out there—including wind, rain, small animals—bats, birds—hummers, butterflies, moths, bumblebees, native bees (3000 species native to the US alone), all manner of bugs, wasps and flies. And soft paintbrushes will work in a pinch too.

And some plants even self-pollinate! Self-pollination: when a flower pollinates and fertilizes itself. They don't need no stinkin' wind or bees to pollinate.

Self-pollination some plants have separate male and female flower parts: when pollen is transferred from one flower on a plant to another flower on the same plant—vine crops such as cucumbers where male flowers produce only pollen and female flowers have only the pistil. Bees are essential for cucumber pollination. I can live without cukes.

Cross-pollination—from a flower of one plant to a flower of another. Some apple trees cannot be pollinated by flowers of the same variety due to pollen incompatibility. Now this cloning thing gets a tad complicated.

Vegetatively propagated trees of the same variety are genetically the same, and the flowers are self-sterile, different varieties must be interplanted to provide compatible pollen for pollination. Need a little strange DNA in the mix.

In any pollination work, it is important to know which of these three pollination methods is involved to provide adequate pollination. Then write those silly memes based on facts instead of using Chicken Little science.

SUMMER HAIKU (photo)

Deer browsing brush pile
red plum leaves taste good to her.
They taste good to her.


Young deer at old well
wallows in the dust. Her spots
slipped off midsummer.


An abandoned well
Young deer wallows in the dust
Look! her spots slipped off.

First summer berries
rattlesnakes lying in wait
I step carefully


My tongue sings sweet praise
to ripe berries. Snake rattles,
wants something sweet too.

Bluebird's maiden flight

grounded. Wait 'til your feathers

grow all the way in.

Birdlet, not the time
to fledge, the snake's dreaming of
feathering his nest.

Asleep on the couch,

3 AM—raccoons cleaning

the BBQ grill.


Raccoons arguing
all night cleaning the camp grill.
No point sleeping now.


Raccoons quarreling
over the grill. Either way
we'll have to clean it.

Greedy squirrel knocks
cup off of fence—crash! Guilty.
He's beating his chest.


I rushed home to catch 

a play only to have him 

cancel at curtain call.


Little girls screaming
in unison and in pitch
with the power drill.


Raiding the freezer.
Old cake with freezerburn, hey!
chocolate is chocolate.


Baby halibut
swims into my hands, looks up
with his sea-blue eyes.


Young halibut changed
his spots to hide—but not the
color of his eyes.

baby bluebirds (photos)

Today, a baby bluebird fell from his nest and landed at my feet. So much for picking raspberries for breakfast.

He wasn't quite ready to leave the nest. He still had on his baby down. He decided I was the cat’s pajamas. He's got his feet wrapped around my thumb as a security blanket. I was Mom for an hour while he snuggled in the curve of my neck—expecting me to feed him. Loud little bugger chirping in my ear.

He attempted a couple of rough flight attempts. Tough logistics. Smack! Into the side of the house. Ouch. He bounced like a ping-pong ball. And then he got stuck under an eave on the ground and turned into a feathered mouse. He couldn’t navigate the downed twigs. They were an insurmountable obstacle course. But his parents were so distraught, we had to do something. Besides, there were cats.

A ladder. A tall young man, young Will to the rescue, a solution—and the little beggar was sent packing back to his nest. Not that he wanted to go back inside once he had seen the wide world. But he needed to ripen a few more days along with his wiser siblings who knew a good thing when they saw it.

Any nest in a storm.

Hand as nest.

He still had his baby down. 

Ok, now feed me.

  

Grey water diaries

I spent the afternoon putting punky wood curbs in along the retaining wall to curb the recycled shower water I use to water the beets and future chardlets. I also found a few forks in the flower bed. Knackered. Tresseme lettuce anyone? Chard conditioner?

It's hotter than a frying pan outside.


Meanwhile, in Napa, another 1200 acres went up in smoke since yesterday. Evacuation orders are still in place. The fire is now at 4,300 acres. (As of last night it was 3,400 acres, or six square miles). That's almost 7 square miles of fire. You can see the column of smoke from Oakland. Evacuation orders are still in place as 1,067 firefighters work to contain the fire in Butts Canyon. We're not out of the woods yet. I'm thinking that we need many more firefighters or this is going to turn into another Yosemite Rim fire. All this, because some doucheguy was cutting weeds with a mower with metal blades during the drought.

And here I am with my drop in the bucket brigade saving every drop for the miniscule garden.

added, revised  7/17

Throwback Thursday, me, all squinty-eyed the Tartan Ball, 2008, Floyd Busbee photo

Tartan Day Ball, 2008. Floyd Busby photo. Partying like rock stars.  Ironic, I view the world (and read) through my left eye, take photos with my right eye (it's a lazy bugger, I have a squandering eye)—and in photos my left eye is always the squinty one, working for two. And, no I didn't even need glasses then! I did have a "lazy" eye as a kid, but didn't wear a patch. Arrr! I think it has something to do with how our brains process information. I'm right handed but left-eyed. Dyslexic trait? Also left-footed . But I can switch-hit at baseball. Right eye information processed by left brain; left eye information processed by right brain. My eye teeth are all in a tangle too.

How Writers Write Poetry

Maybe someone else will have better luck accessing these craft talks. YouTube never works for me. You will need to sign up for this free online workshop led by Iowa Writers' Workshop.

How Writers Write Poetry MOOC (Facebook link)

How Writers Write Poetry

Talks on Craft and Commitment

The Course  http://courses.writinguniversity.org

How Writers Write Poetry, a six-week course beginning on June 28, 2014, is an interactive study of the practice of writing poetry.

INSTRUCTOR(S)Christopher Merrill, Micah Bateman, Mary Hickman, Becky Boyle, Fatima R. Espiritu, Adrienne Raphel, Henry Finch, James Longley, Lesley Ann Wheeler, Alex Walton, Hong-Thao Nguyen, Margaret Ross