SIREN CALL

Classmate Steve Tristano in Oregon 1952-2015

SIREN CALL

We were in 2nd grade, Mrs Burge had left the room,
Lennie's son, Steve Tristano climbed up
onto the piano bench to bang out a boogie woogie,
we were all rocking out—until she returned.
Busted. Instead of praising him, she raged
and let out an anachronic scream
that ripped open the fabric of the universe.
The planets cowered as Steve took the brunt of her anger.
In that way, we knew jazz was bad, very bad.
A siren call, a farewell to arms. An addiction.
And with that, Steve slipped off his moorings a bit—
the descent into darkness had begun.

8/11/17

Tristano & Son (Amie Street)
Sutton & Tristano

Defiant Fruitcakes

Filed under "Lost Desserts" Hundred-Year-Old Antarctic Fruitcake Found in 'Excellent Condition Conservators with Antarctic Heritage Trust have uncovered a perfectly preserved fruitcake that dates back to Robert Falcon Scott’s ill-fated Terra Nova expedition, which began in 1910.

A curious headline made me think of my Victorian grandmother who made fruitcake, or steamed pudding, every fall for Christmas gifts. It did seem like they would keep forever. I guess that Hundred-Year-Old Antarctic Fruitcake Found in 'Excellent Condition is proof enough. The proof is in the pudding, literally.

When the nights began to draw in, my grandmother would haul out the dried fruit she had stockpiled in the closet, usually three types of raisins, including tiny tart currants (real currants, not tiny raisins), and golden sultanas; prunes (sometimes she added dried figs, or Medjool dates— but that was rare); candied ginger, and the prerequisite jars of preserved glacéed fruit—a mixture of citrus, citron (candied melon peel) and candied cherries. (She used to make glacéed fruit from scratch—I remember helping her make candied orange rinds.) She'd gather kidney suet for the lard. And a bottle of port.

We'd crack pecans and walnuts from 25-pound bags, tossing the buggy ones in the fire along with the shells. They'd sizzle and hiss like snakes as we gazed into the fire while she told me stories.

In Ireland, Valencia oranges were a special Christmas gift. They arrived from Spain wrapped in foil, and were cherished right down to the rind. Dried raisins and nuts were hard to come by, and spices were a luxury few could afford, so women hoarded the ingredients, when they could get them, for that special steamed Christmas pudding or wedding cake. In Ireland, wedding cakes are traditionally fruitcakes: a symbol of wealth and abundance.

The key ingredients of the fruitcake were part of a curious family history. They were foot soldiers marching in an act of defiance against unjust American land laws. During the 1920s, Asians and Indians, ineligible for US citizenship, couldn't own farmland in California. This made my Irish grandfather angry, so he bought farmland in Fresno for his friend Jahn Singh, and held the land title to circumvent the unjust alien land laws. 

As she assembled the fruitcakes, she told stories of my grandfather and Jahn Singh. Every autumn Jahn Singh remembered our family with bushels of fruits and nuts. My grandmother would receive crates of oranges, raisins, pecans and walnuts as payment for the Fresno farmland that my grandfather had bought for Jahn. 

When the anti-Japanese California Alien Land Laws of 1913, and of 1920, also known as the Webb-Haney Act, were repealed in the 1950s, my grandfather turned the land title over to Jahn Singh. 

The law prohibited "aliens ineligible for citizenship " from owning agricultural land or possessing long-term leases over it. It affected the Chinese, Indian, Japanese, and Korean immigrant farmers in California....The California Alien Land Law of 1920 continued the 1913 law filling many of its loopholes... the leasing of land for a period of three years or less was no longer allowed; owning of stock in companies that acquired agricultural land was forbidden; and guardians or agents of ineligible aliens were required to submit an annual report on their activities. —Wiki

Something ancient was evoked as my grandmother assembled the ingredients. Assembling fruitcake was a multiple-day affair, from making the candied fruit, to shelling the nuts, and soaking the dried fruit overnight in alcohol.

My grandmother soaked the dried fruit overnight in port, or rum. Next morning, she sifted the flour with baking soda, and a litany of spices (equal parts cinnamon, ginger, and a scant measurement of nutmeg, allspice, clove and mace) to coat the dried fruit and nutmeats. Then she doused the dry mixture with a mixture of creamed butter, eggs, brown sugar and dark molasses. During Prohibition, bootleg whiskey was used to soak the dried fruit if a bottle of port couldn't be finagled from the church stores.

My grandmother mixed the ingredients up with her large knotted hands in vast ceramic vats, standing over them like a field marshall. The round, and half-round cake pans were already well greased and the bottoms lined with oiled brown paper bags.

She filled the cake pans to the brim (fruitcake doesn't leaven, or rise—though the dried fruit soaking in alcohol, may have contributed some wild yeast), tamping them down on the table with soft thuds to dislodge any air bubbles. Then she placed the cakes in three tiers on tall racks inside the vast aluminum canning pot half-filled with water. The canning pot was a modern day version of the cauldron—double-trouble, boiled and bubbled. 

The fruitcakes were steamed atop the stove for several hours, they were never baked in the oven. That would’ve been sacrilege. The steam vent atop the canning pot lid, with its three roller latches, chattered a little song and tapdance into the evening hours as I drew pictures with my finger on the steamy kitchen windows dripping with condensation. By the way, fruitcake, a steamed pudding, is a medieval dish, pretty much unchanged across the centuries. Her recipe was practically straight from The Forme of Cury. 

Once the fruitcakes (or steamed pudding) had cooled overnight, there was a three-fold bathing ritual (in port or whiskey) a swaddling ritual (wrapped in thin muslin or in cheesecloth), and a cloaking ritual (in tinfoil), before they were placed in their air-tight Christmas tins. They needed to be carefully tended during the first few months, dressed and bathed every few days until they ripened. She kept a few extra fruitcakes on hand to ripen, as fruitcake was deemed best when it was left to ripen (or ferment) at least 3 months, to a year, or longer. A union of space and time.

Fruitcake (aka figgy pudding) was never eaten fresh from the steamer. The flavors needed time to mellow and meld into a rich marriage of spiced goodness. Months, years, even. She had a few fruitcake that were ancient. Not 100 years old, but old enough. The time-defying secret was in the ritual bathing in booze. Fruitcakes were unwrapped to receive an annual anniversary bath of booze to preserve them, then rewrapped, placed in tins, and stored in dark cupboards. And later, they were delegated to the back of the refrigerator. And forgotten.

Whenever unexpected guests came over, she'd bring out thin slices of the dense, boozy, nut-studded fruitcake, along with the pot of Irish tea and a sidecar of whiskey. The thin fruitcake slices were like a rich mosaic of stained glass panes on the shining plates, Sadly, the guests wouldn't touch the fruitcake, perhaps thinking it was the commercial American version, a baked sawdust hockey-puck affair, studded with plastic candied citron and day-glo cherries, so she eventually quit making it. And I never thought to ask her for the recipe.

How did the fruitcake, something once so opulent, and made with love, become such a hated symbol of the holidays? The substitution of facsimile ingredients: rancid nuts, inferior dried fruit, and the prerequisite jars of commercial glacéed fluorescent plastic fruit that swept the market during the 60s and 70s, directly led to the fruitcake's fall from grace. The honeymoon was over. Americans said, Let's call the whole thing off. Another tradition bit the dust. And the very word was beggared and denigrated to an insult of insanity: She's a real fruitcake.

It must've made my grandmother sad to let go of such a venerable tradition, to let die a family labor of love that was passed down the generations from her mother, and her mother's mother, in Ireland. A family heirloom. I still collect the fruitcake tins, though I haven't made a fruitcake, ever. None of my cousins would dream of making fruitcake today, My mother was not domestic, and all my aunts are gone now... no one left to carry on the tradition.

One of many fruitcake recipes in my grandmother’s extensive recipe collection, I found this one from Helen Civelli Brown:

Now about that case of 100-year-old Antarctic whisky on ice they found....

Mill Valley's Unknown Museum and the Gluers Junk Art Movement

Embedded in my hitchhiking blog post, was a small story on the Unknown Museum, time for its own post, something i've been resisting for years—then I found the old photos. This is still very much in progress... Also, I found some slides I took and I scanned them. I'll need to add them in. But you can visit the gallery I made on my Facebook page Nico Morris was able to ID most of the work.

In 1969, on the long coattails of the Summer of Love, at the age of 22, eccentric LA artist Mickey McGowan moved to Sausalito with nothing more than the proverbial shirt on his back. Penniless, he shared a studio with a friend, Rat Soup, at the Sausalito Art Center for $80 a month. 

"A lot of us had our first shows there, myself with my drawings. Rat Soup with his sculpture." To make ends meet, he slept in his car, or sometimes in the studio, and worked at the Trident kitchen for chickenfeed. "Every night Miles would stroll in and Janis, or Crosby, the mainstays of the place." (Marin Nostalgia). My mom, who was working at the Trident, between theater performances, said even Perry Como used to drop in. And of course, the Limelighters All, were in situ.

McGowan, taught himself to make shoes, called himself the Apple Cobbler, and set up a funky little shop in downtown Mill Valley in 1973, and soon was court shoemaker to the rockstars (Grateful Dead, the Doobie Brothers, The Tubes, Journey), artists, and fashionistas. His wild hand-stitched leather boots and quirky one-of-a-kind brocade boots festooned with doll heads and toy tanks were in high demand. 

Mickey also made non-functional art shoes. (Combat Boot Stepping Out Shoes in World Culture, on exhibit at SFO International Terminal until Nov. 12, 2017.) Mickey was a Marin City flea market regular, often seen collecting kitsch for his art shoes and assemblage art. The small accumulations of ephemera and knick-knacks decorating the shop corners soon became a monstrous collection threatening to engulf the shop.

Around 1974, McGowan, in need of larger digs, moved into an old radiator shop at 35 Corte Madera Ave., at the corner of Lovell, across from City Hall, in Mill Valley to house what later was dubbed "the world's largest private collection of pop cultural artifacts" (Paul Liberatore). He also took over Ted’s Richfield gas station next door. Mickey shared his low-rent garage-atilier ($200 a month) with a motley collective of psychedelic-era glue artists, and the Unknown Museum was born.

Mickey had teamed up with other like-minded junk artists, later dubbed “gluers” or glue-artists, Larkspur artist Dickens "44" Bascom, Larry Fuente, and David Best at the Sausalito Art Center. 

A reflection on Women & Technology: James Damore's Google Manifiasco

It seems yet another Facebook post got the better of me (but not bested me), and my comments have manifestoed and manifestered into fodder for a blog post of sorts.

Wow! When I read Google engineer James Damore's Google manifesto argued that biological differences make women less apt to perform in the tech industry, I saw red. Biology has nothing to do with a lack of women in technology. Why it's a hot issue is because Damore's so-called 'manifesto" advances patently incorrect assumptions about harmful gender stereotypes. 

I have several relatives who are/were forefront in the field of technology. A cousin, key mathematician on the Manhattan Project, an aunt who did programming for IBM back in the early 1960s, cousins who work/ed for Apple, Pixar, Dropbox, etc. I happen to fix (or rebuild) the computers, and problem-solve all the software issues in our household, and for family and friends too. Not my male partner.

So, I'm quite sure competent women in the technology field are not an anomaly, nor the only reason why they're in the industry is solely because of equality, or affirmative action, as Damore suggests in his ten-page Alt-rightish manifesto. Alas it's couched with a request to open up dialogue—after taking potshots at women in general. The reason for the low numbers of women in the technology workplace is about discrimination at the grassroots level.

And for the record, among the first to create a computer program, to create a compiler, and create object-oriented programming were women. (See my list below).

BTW, I'm taking some flack over on Facebook from a few men for daring to counter their perceived male enclave, and swim with their sharktank mentality. One asshat had the audacity to ask me to stop posting on my own FB thread, thinking that I couldn't possibly a) have read said manifesto, and b) didn't understand or comprehend what it said.

I object to Damore's use of absurd clichéd gendered stereotypes to support his argument that enough women aren't in the technology field.Biology is not the reason why there are fewer women in the technology field. Discrimination is. 

KQED News, SF Gate, and Tech Insider paraphrased, but did not publish the memo, which you can read on Gizmodo, along with prefaces and an interesting epigram. What was more enlightening was a post from Yonatan Zunger, former senior Google employee: 

"So it seems that someone has seen fit to publish an internal manifesto about gender and our “ideological echo chamber.” I think it’s important that we make a couple of points clear.
(1) Despite speaking very authoritatively, the author does not appear to understand gender.
(2) Perhaps more interestingly, the author does not appear to understand engineering.
(3) And most seriously, the author does not appear to understand the consequences of what he wrote, either for others or himself.

It’s true that women are socialized to be better at paying attention to people’s emotional needs and so on — this is something that makes them better engineers, not worse ones. ...
And this is addressed specifically to the author of this manifesto.

What you just did was incredibly stupid and harmful. You just put out a manifesto inside the company arguing that some large fraction of your colleagues are at root not good enough to do their jobs, and that they’re only being kept in their jobs because of some political ideas.  Read the entire rebuttal at Medium.

ADDENDUM
(With much thanks to BizTech Insider's excellent article: Mothers of Technology: 10 Women Who Invented and Innovated in Tech)

Among the first to create a computer program, to create a compiler, and create object-oriented programming were women (in no particular order):

• Ada Lovelace invented the world’s first computer algorithm. Lovelace was hired by Charles Babbage in 1843, to document his never-to-be-realized “computer,” the Analytical Engine, intended to count Bernoulli numbers. 

"Many persons who are not conversant with mathematical studies imagine that because the business of [Babbage’s Analytical Engine] is to give its results in numerical notation, the nature of its processes must consequently be arithmetical and numerical, rather than algebraical and analytical. This is an error. The engine can arrange and combine its numerical quantities exactly as if they were letters or any other general symbols; and in fact it might bring out its results in algebraical notation, were provisions made accordingly,” —Ada Lovelace

• Dr. Erna Hoover invented a telephony switching computer program that kept phone lines functioning under stressful loads. Her 1971 patent for telephony technology was one of the first software patents ever issued. She developed on her idea while in the hospital after the birth of her second daughter. 

• Common Business-Oriented Language, based on the FLOW-MATIC language, was invented by Grandma COBOL, Grace Hopper. Hopper was the first person to create a compiler for a programming language and one of the first programmers of the Mark I computer in 1949. The programmers of the ENIAC computer, were six women mathematicians; Marlyn Meltzer, Betty Holberton, Kathleen Antonelli, Ruth Teitelbaum, Jean Bartik, and Frances Spence. Adele Goldstine was one of the teachers and trainers of the six original programmers of the ENIAC computer in 1944. Hopper also popularized the term "debugging" from a moth fowling up the works. 
•  
• During WWII, Hedy Lamarr and composer George Antheil developed an Allied torpedo anti-jamming radio guidance system which utilized a spread spectrum and frequency hopping technology to defeat tampering by the Axis powers. The US Navy did not adopt the technology until the 1960s, but the principles were incorporated into Bluetooth technology, and legacy versions of CDMA and Wi-Fi.
•  
• Margaret Heafield Hamilton was Director of the Software Engineering Division of MIT Instrumentation Laboratory, which developed on-board flight software for the Apollo space program. In 1986, she founded Hamilton Technologies, Inc. The Universal Systems Language was based on her paradigm of Development Before the Fact (DBTF) for systems and software design.

• Adele Goldberg was one of seven programmers that developed Smalltalk in the 1970s, one of the first object-oriented programming languages, and the base of today's current graphic user interface. Smalltalk was utilized by Apple to launch Lisa in 1983, and Macintosh in 1984. Windows 1.0 was launched in 1985. 

• IT trailblazer Barbara Liskov of MIT, invented CLU, a programming language that was the foundation for object-oriented programming; Argus, a programming language, an extension of CLU, that supports distributed programs; and Thor, an object-oriented database system. Which led to the invention of Mac OS X, Objective-C, Visual Basic.NET and Java. 

• Another object-oriented language, Simula 67, was created by Kristen Nygaard and Ole-Johan Dahl of the Norwegian Computing Center in Oslo. 

• In 1985 Radia Perlman developed Ethernet technology. Her Spanning Tree Protocol (STP) made it possible to build massive networks by creating an innovative mesh network of layer-2 bridges—by disabling the links not part of that tree. This had a significant impact on network switches, thus making Perlman the Mother of the Internet. She has done extensive and innovative research, in the field of encryption and networking. 

• Mary Lou Jepsen co-founded and served as chief technology officer of MicroDisplay in 1995, and created the small display screen. She also headed the display division at Intel, until she co-founded One Laptop Per Child. She invented the X O, the lowest-power, and lowest cost green notebooks ever made. She is the the founder of Pixel Qi. 

• Meg Whitman is President and CEO of Hewlett Packard Enterprise. 

• Then there's Marissa Mayer, Google’s first female engineer. Mayer, who stepped down as President and CEO of Yahoo! when it was sold to Verizon, was Google’s first female engineer. She led product management and engineering for Google Maps, Local Search, Google Earth, Street View and Latitude. Her user interface designs and product vision placed Google at the forefront as the leading web, mobile, and search engine company. 

“The number one most important thing we can do to increase the number of women in tech is to show a multiplicity of different role models," Mayer said in article for The Huffington Post. “The stereotype of that very complete and rigid picture of what being a computer scientist means really hurts people's understanding and ability to identify with the role and say, ‘Yes, this is something I can be in and want to be in.’”

Yeah, please mansplain to me again Mr. Damore, or is it Mr. Want (I am entitled to) Damn More, why women don't belong in technology because of "biological differences." You got your 15 minutes of fame. The Alt-right is rolling out the Breitbart carpet.



SEE ALSO:
Women in Computing
Mothers of Technology: 10 Women Who Invented and Innovated in Tech
Google Fires Engineer Who Wrote Memo Questioning Women in Tech

James Damore, the Google employee fired for his anti-diversity manifesto, is (almost certainly) not a victim of a free-speech violation
Sorry, Google memo man: women were in tech long before you | Holly Brockwell

Contra Grant On Exaggerated Differences
Fired Google engineer who wrote controversial memo sues tech firm
Google engineer James Damore, fired over gender memo, sues company

CANTINFLAS THE CAT

My mom had a Burmese-Abyssinian cat,
called Cantinflas, after an old friend,
who was fascinated by water.
He lounged in the tub, a dark comma,
and watch us with jade eyes.
He'd serenade us with a rough song.
Or take a dip when we were bathing.
The toilet, the tub, and the kitchen sink
were his stage.

8.4.17

The day Sam Shepherd died

My mind works in peculiar ways on a good day. We were having a yard sale at my cousins' house in Nicasio and I was lamenting that everyone who stopped were strangers. But then it all changed. First the Peter Coyote lookalike dropped by and left empty-handed, then one of the McIsaacs from Tocaloma (Bud) stopped by. I told him I used to go out with Allan McIsaac. Suddenly it was old home week. And then I sold my toy spool Nessie to Phil Waddell for a buck, he was in a red car and the toy matched. He's from 71 Alta in Lagunitas. He said it was the house next to the one where all the musicians came to play....probably Jean Paul Picken's place, which led to a rather convoluted discussion of the good old days, to Big Brother & the Holding Company, to Janis, Herself (we lived near Barbano's summer camp on Arroyo) because meanwhile someone was wailing away on some blues number at the Rancho Nicasio, which led to a story on Ken Kesey, and the Diggers...which made me think of Lynn Deutra and the Forest Knolls Freestore in the basement of Ron and Marsha Thelin's old red house on Resaca. Which made me inexplicably think of Sam Shepherd. Don't ask. Even I can't make out that connection, other than I used to see him in Mill Valley when I worked for Mimi Fariña. Then I just found out that he died. You see how it goes? The old homes of memory. Circular breathing.

Camping in Baja

One time we were camping in an old abandoned mission in Baja Norte, in the Sierra San Pedro mountain range, and in the morning, I awoke to find the canyon wall glowing in the early morning sun—filled with petroglyphs, and padres' marks—curly Spanish crosses from the 1760s. We arrived at dusk the night before, set up camp in the dark, and hadn't seen the ancient graffiti. Astounded, I gathered the top of the air bed to my body in a big hug, to revel in the sight, only to discover the small rounded rocks beneath my arms began to move on their own: a family of scorpions, seeking warmth, had moved in beneath the air mattress during the night. I believe some rather primitive an ancient form of screaming and dancing ensued on my part. John, who was still asleep, leapt up in a warrior stance to meet the enemy at his feet.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

I
Climbed up Huayna Picchu above Macchu Picchu on steel cables to see the Temple of the Sun and Moon. What was I thinking?
I
Climbed Half Dome cables twice. What was I thinking?
I
Climbed inside el Caracol, the observatory at Chichen Itza to take a photo of the Solstice. Then couldn't get down.
I
Jumped into a sea cave (alone) at Double Point, Limantour Spit, without thinking how I was going to get back up again.
I
Rappelled down the inside of the dome of the Church of Religion and Atheism, while helping a friend to restore the fresco, Leningrad, USSR. I won't mention bouncing on the trapeze net stretched across the neck of the dome. What was I thinking?
I
Got stuck mid sea in a small boat when fishing net jammed the propeller, between islands in the Galapagos. Someone had to dive under to boat to cut it free. Swam through a tunnel at Corona del Diablo, to snorkel alone (a no-no), and was attacked by an irate sea lion. I was thoughtless.
I
Washed my hair in Laguna Hanson the only freshwater lake while camping in Baja, at the base of San Pedro de Martir. Swam with whale sharks in the Sea of Cortez, and with sea turtles in Hawaii during a full eclipse. I couldn't think at all, as the sun turned into a black sunflower in the sky while the birds stopped singing, and all the golden fish slept in my arms.

GHOST IN THE MACHINE

I'm still trying to figure out

how to pronounce palimpsests. 

When my dyslexic brain has a field day, 

I never know what ghost story 

will appear behind the print.

Magic Fire

I once found some flint in a glacial toe, or an ancient cobbled riverbed, near Groningen, the Netherlands. It was the summer solstice. The sun took a long time setting. The sky was on fire for hours. I knew the rock was special just by the feel of it. Unctuous, soapy, with a clear ring, like a bell tongue. I had no idea what it was, until I struck it and sparks flew. And it sparked mightily when I struck it together.

I then I spent hours lying on my belly amid the cobbled rocks searching for flintknapped bits. Even though the hunnebeds (cairns) were nearby, I found few worked pieces. I lay down on the stones, discouraged, picked up a random handful of flint (chert), to mindlessly toss away in disgust, and there it was, a hand-worked piece. Like night and day, the difference. 

I held nascent fire in my hands. Flint! Of course, I was insufferable, dragging people into dark closets to show off the sparks.  Magic fire! Loved the odor, like fireworks and petrichor, but stronger.

I once freaked out a bunch of 5th graders by striking chert in a darkened classroom. Nobody wrote great rock poems that day but the boys saw other possibilities... Pyro poets on fire. Charles Simic was teaching at Santa Rosa Junior College at the time so I developed a lesson plan around his poem, Go Inside a Stone...

7/17/17 & 8/1/17

Herman Berlandt Memorial, Bolinas

Celebration of the Life of Herman Berlandt

Ilka meant July 16.

I am not ready to write about Herman. I spent years working with him and even lived in Bolinas for a while I've included some links below. This is a placeholder.

Herman Berlandt, who founded San Francisco's National Poetry Week, and the Beat Museum, was an integral part of the SF poetry scene, and a dear friend of mine, who was instrumental in my development of poetic voice, will be remembered this Sunday at The Bolinas Community Center. During the 1990s, I was co-editor of Mother Earth News, and primary layout artist, typist, researcher for the regional issues. Our first issue, Soviet Poetry since Glasnost, led to Eastern European Poetry, then African Poetry, until we covered all the continents—a massive undertaking. With Jack Foley, we were also co-producing Poetry: USA as well on the local front. When the African issue reached one of our co-editors in Africa, he said everybody was so excited in the post office, that they had a massive impromptu reading right there in the post office....from a Facebook post...

Note been: I never did write that tribute, I was too overwhelmed, then, the following year, my own life was tossed into catastrophic upheaval with the breakup of a 20-something-year relationship. I was homeless, drifting, for a time, but I did manage to create a blog for him, Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa, from a collection of papers I had gathered from his cabin in 2018. I scanned clippings from the memorial binder in his cabin and created a blog for him in January, 2019. I always meant to go back and add to it, finish the job, but I never found the time, and now here we are, July 2020, with nowhere to go. I have the time, but no material to scan.

Meanwhile, check out my blog posts on Soviet poetry since Glasnost, the periodical we made for National Poetry week that launched Mother Earth News.

Soviet Poetry Since Glasnost 

The New Zamizdat 

Poetry Unites the World by Dr. Andrei Bantaş 

Andrei Vosnesensky, National Poetry Week 
Letter from Oleg Atbashian 

Worked stone

One of the things I do when I find what looks to be hand-worked flint/chert, jasper, or obsidian, is to look for those telltale flintknapped strike marks, then see if it fits comfortably in my hand. (Most tools I find are not arrowheads, or Clovis points, but harder to identify scrapers, and cutters.) I know it when I see it. 

I liken the worked stone to the wind-stippled surface of a pond, and the larger overlapping ripples as if someone were skipping a stone across it. It is odd to think of worked stone in terms of dropping a rock into a still pond, but the metaphor holds: the rock hitting the water, the scattered splash, followed by concentric waves moving outward. Naturally broken rocks do not have those features. Only those worked by human hands. Basho's mossy pond.

25 random facts, another Facebook quizzy thing

25 random facts about me that may surprise my friends.

1. Do you make your bed? I take the easy way out now, a down quilt and a duvet cover. Making the bed means flipping the duvet over. But I prefer not to, to let the sheets air out. But I'm a fiendish pillow plumper. Can't stand grit or crumbs in the bed, no matter how small, or imaginary. I've been known to flip the sheets in the middle of the night for a cleaner surface.

2. The first car that was officially yours? A 1958/9 Volvo 544 panel truck with wooden interiors. Three on the floor, you had to get a running start it get up over White's HIll. A fact that affects my driving to this day. It was always falling apart, and you couldn't get parts for it as it was so rare. I used baling wire to fix the gas linkage. Learned to swap needle valves in the twin glass carbs, use a screwdriver to bypass a stuck starter solenoid.

3. Three grocery items you don't [want to] run out of. I never run out of pasta, oatmeal, or condiments. I don't want to run out of milk. Ever. Too traumatic. That, and chocolate, the darker, the better. And wine. Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio.

4. When did you start doing your own laundry? I always helped with the laundry, my granny had an old school wringer washer which meant hauling water, and filling the tub for the rinse water. We used a broomstick to stir the clothes. Then hauled them out to the garden to dry on the clothesline and rosemary and lavender bushes. There were always hitchhikers: mainly earwigs.

5. If you could, would you go to high school again? No FN way! It was bad enough to be bullied and beaten up in grade school, but the indifference and cruelty of those same girls in high school took on a whole 'nother dimension. TG for the Summer of Love, things changed for the better. I was so glad to get to college and leave that scene behind. I blossomed and came into my own, emotionally and intellectually. I was a late bloomer. I wouldn't even have gone to my high school reunions if it wasn't for Ken Bullock.

6. Can you parallel park in under 3 moves? Of course. Unless the tires are low. (No power steering).

7. A job you had which people would be shocked to know about? A horse stall cleaner at Fairfax Stables. Salad girl at the Rancho Nicasio. Canning factory worker in Bishoffzell, Switzerland.

8. Do you think aliens are real? Really? Really real?

9. Can you drive a stick shift? Yes, and column shift too.

10. Guilty TV pleasure? All Saints, an Aussie medical drama.

11. Would you rather be too hot or too cold? Too cold. I don't mind wearing more clothes or blankets. I don't do heat well.

12. If the world ends, do you want to be one of the survivors? Oxymoronic question. If the world ends, there won't be any survivors.

13. Sweet or Salty? Salty, spicy. Sometimes cranky.

14. Do you enjoy soaking in a nice hot bath? Yep for about 10 minutes, then I'm out. Showers are quicker.

15. Do you consider yourself strong? Yes, both physically and mentally.

16. Something people do, physically, that drives you crazy? Rudeness, especially drivers.

17. Something you do, physically, that you are sure drives people insane? Chew my nails, (not now), clear my throat a lot. Blurt. Talk too fast.

18. Do you have any birth marks? No.

19. Favorite childhood game? Riding my horse, hiking, swimming,drawing, reading.

20. Do you talk to yourself? Yes I jabber like a bluejay, and I answer myself too. How I problemsolve.

21. Do you like doing jig-saw puzzles? Nope. Nor do I like Rubick's cubes.

22. Would you go on a reality show? No freaking way.

23. Tea or coffee? Tea, then coffee. Then wine. Repeat the next day.

24. First thing you remember wanting to be when you grew up? A veterinarian.

25. No matter how much money you have or don't have, what are you an absolute snob about? Food & wine. Color. Composition. Good writing.

Summer of love, PD article

FOUND POEM from a Facebook word bubble

Apparently this is my Facebook word bubble. Can't say I want to do a freewrite off of it. But let's have at it.

Summer rains
lemon colored mornings
I resist the call and make petitions
send them to the House
Another federal attack on the arts
by my so-called president
reverbrates around the world.
I am surrounded by women,
good, no, great support.
The camera sees
what it wants to see.
Photos in black & white
I gather my thoughts
my final page of poems
a small endowment
care on the page
What is time? A rock?
But we are California strong
and the water is singing
freedom.

7.3

Every day brings another atrocity from our government, so I created a meme

Every day brings another fresh atrocity from our government, I can barely survive the onslaught, so I created a meme.



This one I did not create. I wish I did. It's brilliant.

Prana feathers

Last night I dreamt I had down feathers coating my lungs, and awoke to paroxysms of real coughing. What was that all about? Other than the very real coughing, it was a funny, rather mythic dream, perhaps it was in reaction to .45Care.

Well, I did recently make a spate of new down pillows from an old comforter as my old ones were flat as pancakes and leaking. I may need to wash my new pillows,, to settle them in, even though I did wash the comforter a while ago.

It really was a funny dream. I guess I have been a bit down in the mouth, or I have been terribly flighty as of late. Maybe I'm molting. Featherbrained.

Someone suggested that I get rid of my pillows. She said: Maybe you're allergic to down pillows and comforters? Logical conclusion. But I don't have any asthma symptoms. Besides, I can't sleep on anything else. I've tried it. There is no substitute for down. Synthetic pillows make my head hurt, and my scalp sting. I may need to double bag them, though. It could be that they need another washing.

I think I was pondering Icarus and other forms of flight...it was more mythical than that. The creative mind at work vs. a health warning.

Think of it this way, I changed a sleeping pattern, disrupted an old process.... the old pillows, I last gave them new covers in Forestville, ca. 1980, and the feathers I've had since I was young. But the pillows no longer luff. They've lost their loft. A lot of karma in an old pillow. All the misplaced dreams. And the ones replacing them have a history too. A new start from old things.

And I had been playing the what-if game as I made the pillows, so the idea was planted, and I was very careful when I made them. I came up with an ingenious way to make them in situ without opening the quilt, so hardly any feathers escaped. What I really need to do is clean my room!

And I have had some lung congestion from when I tweaked my back and couldn't cough. I could hardly breathe.

I was also rearranging old art supplies yesterday, lamenting how I haven't used my pencils in a long time. I need to draw. Lungs, to breathe, as in inspiration, feathers equal flight. Escaped prana feathers. Inside flight.

Looking for lost artwork of painter-poet, Boschka (Betty) Layton

Montreal/California Canadian painter-poet, Boschka (Betty) Layton, former wife of Canadian poet Irving Layton, friend of Leonard Cohen, sister to Donald Sutherland, was a dear friend of mine in Guereville during the 1980s.

Her son, Max Layton is searching for his mother, (Betty) Layton's lost work: specifically paintings, drawings, literary mags, etc. Max Layton is working on a project to create a collection of her work online. If you, or someone you may know, have any of her artwork, especially her paintings, he'd love to obtain high quality photos of her work. He was also wondering if you had any photos, memorabilia, or memories to share?

There is very little on the internet about Boschka, so any little bit would help. Betty was an art student at St. John Vocational School in Nova Scotia during the 1940s, and moved to Montreal to found Canada's first avant garde modern poetry magazine, First Statement, with her brother John (Jamie) Sutherland.

Boschka Layton lived near the Peewee Golf Course, on the Russian River, in Guerneville, California until 1983, then moved to Goat Rock, near Jenner, and passed away from pancreatic cancer on Valentine's Day in 1984.

 Apparently her daughter, Naomi Layton lives in Santa Rosa. Her friends, Kat & Boz Williams of Sebastopol have one painting.

 If you know of an artist, or an art collector, or poet, who lived on the River from 1970 to 1984, please feel free to tag them too.  Any information you might have would be most appreciated.

You may leave me a message here, or you can post stories on my artist Facebook page. —Thanks, Maureen Hurley


Boschka Layton (Betty Sutherland) 1921 - 1984
Guerneville Poet Boschka Layton to Read at Copperfield's

New Panasonic camera with a Leica lens

New camera, next iteration from the last one which I returned, in disgust, after fighting with it for three months. It was so bad, despite glowing reports. I even traded it in twice thinking I had a defective lens. Not. I was so persuasive as to its sheer crappiness, replete with photos, I was able to return it to Costco after the three-month deadline. This latest ZS60 camera got so-so reviews, but it's light years ahead of its elder sibling. And it has a touch screen!

Lately I've been using the Panasonic cameras ZS (or F) series because of the Leica branded lens. I need a point and shoot camera body in order to keep it portable, If it ain't in my pocket, I won't carry it with me... you know the adage: the best camera is the one you have on you.

The mid-to high range cameras are still far too expensive, too bulky and are battery monsters. So finding a small pocket camera with DSLR features is almost impossible. Ironically the old school film Leicas were just that: svelte, tiny, but with fantastic lenses.

Panasonic cameras are sort of a bridge camera. I can control shutter, aperture, focal distance, F.stop, etc. and I can shoot RAW as wewll. The CCD picture imager is tiny so higher MP (18) compensates for it somewhat. That postage stamp sized CCD Imager could definitely be improved.

 My first Panasonic Lumix DMC-ZS25 was pretty good (I fried the imager, I still use it as a back-up camera), however it did poorly in low light situations, no bueno, but the DMC-ZS40 was fantastic (lens got stuck), the replacement  ZS50 was a piece of crap. I returned it three times. Blurry side focus. So if you see a ZS40, let me know....

Apparently the new model is even-numbered, the following year's odd-numbered knock-off model is crappy. I suspect the uneven numbered versions are cheaper knock-offs of the even numbered versions. In other words, note to self, wait for the DMZ-ZS80, for the next iteration.

Before that, I went through several versions of Nikon, but their lenses became progressively worse and worse on the point and shoot. Last good one was the P60. I did get a larger Nikon, and I absofuckinglutely hated it. It's OK in broad daylight, but otherwise, it's awful and you can't tweak it, not like the P60s.

In the old days, I carried Pentax K1000 cameras. Indestructible, and I had some great Vivitar lenses. But I ruined my posture carrying that monster camera bag. Right shoulder is still lower....

Added bonus of pocket cameras is that they're less likely to be stolen. Or your getting mugged for your expensive camera gear. However, the delicate zoom lens arrays are fragile, meaning they’re more apt to get stuck, or suck dirt and dust into their housing than other point-and shoot cameras.

Panasonic Lumix DMC-ZS60

Facebook Quizzy Things

Every answer must start with the FIRST letter of your MIDDLE name!

Middle name....... ....V(****)
Animal.....................vole
Girl's Name..............Victoria
Boy's Name.............Victor
Color........................violet
Name of Movie.........Vertigo
Something you wear...vee-neck sweater
Drinks......................Viognier
Food........................Vichyssoise
Item in bathroom.....vasoline,Vick's Vapo-rub
Place.......................Verona, or Vladivostok
Reason to be late....Vermin ate my homework

Now turn it into a short story or prose poem using all the words on your list.

Voracious voles in Victoria are called the victors of the victory garden because they eat their weight in snails and other pests every night, but the sweet scent of violets gives me vertigo. I was wearing the vee-neck sweater he gave me. We sipped chilled Viognier in the vale, and supped on Vichyssoise. She played the viola naked, no, it was a cello: Saint-Saëns Danse Macabre or was it Danse Bacchanale emanating from between her thighs. It was that kind of morning. Not the winter misery of Vick's Vapo-rub on the chest when your feet are as cold as Vladivostok. And the only excuse you can offer is that vermin ate your homework while the gentlemen of Verona dreamed of other plays.



Your actual name: Maureen Hurley 

Your soap opera name (middle name and a street you lived on): Vee Mirabel, or Barranca

Your stripper name (baby, or nickname and your mother's maiden name): Baba Reilly 

Your Star Trek name (first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 of middle, last 2 of first): Hurvien

Superhero name (color of your shirt and item to right of you): Purple & Teal Mouse

Goth name (black and name of one of your pets): Black Ziggy, or Black Figby

Rapper name (Lil' + last thing you ate):  Lil' Scalloped Potatoes or Lil' Waldorf Salad

New Singer, Old Singer: Pillowmaking & Sweet Dreams

First day of summer ritual: I hauled out my newfangled Singer sewing machine and set it up on the outside porch. I needed to do a bit of mending, to take in several pairs of jeans that keep falling off my ass, and to make a flotilla of new down pillows from an old down comforter.

My old down pillows are literally falling apart, I can no longer wash them (another summer ritual) as the pillow ticking has rotted on the corners. The innards from one old pillow probably dates back to my childhood. (The replacement ticking is at least 30 years old—a world record). The feathers go flat as a pancake despite a monthly rousing resurrection round in the dryer. TIme to let it go. It's done lost its loft. No more spiff in its spoof.

Last time I made pillows was at least a decade ago. Maybe longer. It's been on my to-do list for many summers. Yeah, I know, most people just go out and buy pillows. But I don't like most commercial pillows. I can't use the polyester ones, an old whiplash precludes that. I wake up with blinding headaches. Nix to feather pillows either. Like sleeping on concrete. More headaches.

Rain on Juneteenth

Rain on Juneteenth? I did not see that coming. Forecast said 0% chance of rain. Certainly not rogue lightning either. Really big drops. Neil thought it was hail. Monsoon! Must be because Berkeley Rep is doing Monsoon Wedding! Thunder & lightning. Isolated rogue thunderstorm and petrichor. Well, that went well. I had my sewing machine set up outside. Most of California is under excessive dire heat warning... Several high temperature records were broken across the Bay Area. New record high for June in ten Bay Area cities.  It was nearly 100° today, now it's 65°. And now a 35° drop in temperature. And of course, I just took off my flannel sheets.

Birthday Dinner

My beloved's birthday dinner was salmon glazed with honey mustard dill, cheesy Scotch potatoes, bib lettuce salad, and a Meyer lemon curd chiffon meringue pie affair liberally laced with Limoncello, that took six hours to make in this record-breaking heat. It was so hot, the meringue was doing the merengue. Then it wilted. Not a day I would normally fire up the oven three separate times. The sweltering kitchen resembled the seventh ring of Dante's Inferno. I imagined someone yelling Beatriche! or was it Stella! from the back porch of a Streetcar named Desire.

IS IT BLOOMSDAY YET?

Someone asks: Is it Bloomsday already?
I answered: All day, the entire day,

it is Bloomsday, every hour, every minute,

right up to the very last second, 

until it sloughs off its mortal coils 

and declares that the calendar 

indeed has turned over a new leaf. 

Then it will be tomorrow and tomorrow 

and tomorrow, which, we all know,

never really comes, now, does it?

6/16/17

Song fragment for Bliss Buys

Haven't done any writing in a long time.
Just singing now, picking up strays.
The hot wind blows in from Mexico.
Never thought I'd wind up counting the days
weaving the past into stories of long ago.

Taming the political junk mail

Whelp, after subscribing to a few worthy email political activism causes, I found that they in turn, shared my email with other less worthy social activism causes. Soon my email box was overflowing with hundreds of petitions daily, but most were veiled request from political organizations asking for donations. That, in tandem with myriad new onslaught of spam emails was just too much (I think they're somehow linked). So I unsubscribed from most of them, which took a bit of doing.

If they asked why I was unsubscribing (and very few did), I said: Though I endeavor to support progressive causes, I receive far too many emails from political activism and social reform organizations. 

This is a general letter to inform you that while I am happy to sign petitions, I've had it will all the faux emails and and numbingly repetitive surveys whose ultimate goal seems to consist solely of soliciting or demanding money at every turn. I will NOT donate any money to any cause via an email solicitation. I donate to specific causes once a year (via website), and I did not choose to be hounded on a daily basis with a hundred emails every day. I am sick of receiving hysterical or churlish emails demanding, hounding, scolding, or shaming me into sending in a donation, asking me if I care, or not. I do care. But I don't care for your tactics. You, all of you, are losing your solid grassroots support base with your clickbait tactics. Worse, you lull people into thinking they're actually doing something proactive by participating in your online surveys. That's the biggest travesty of all.

I routinely send all social activism and political emails to my Spam box, as it only requires one click to delete (vs 2), and keeps my email box less cluttered. I will slowly reintroduce myself to new petitions and causes.... FWIW, I no longer forward or share petitions via email. And I never sign petitions on Facebook.

Today, a blessedly quiet email box. A few stragglers. They get the axe if it's a donation request. Period.

Hotroddin' my MacBookies

These days I'm using as my main computer, a headless 2011 MacBookPro 8,1 tricked out with 16 GB memory & a Seagate hybrid drive (smokin'!), with an old 23" Apple monitor that has a decidedly lavender cast. (It was free.)

My friend Margretta gave her MacBookPro a little drinky-poo, a very generous glass of chardonnay. But the MacBookPro was far too young to drink. Apple carded it, said it needed a motherboard and possibly a video card as well. Toast points were mentioned.

So I inherited her MacBookPro for parts. It took some doing to get it up and running. Mostly burping and patting, using all manner of mashed keyboard patterns, until it turned on. Surprisingly, the battery took a charge. It needed memory and a hard drive. I don't turn it off very often, for fear it won't restart. The screen really is burnt toast. Or it's still suffering from an alcoholic blackout. Maybe it needs to join AA.

I cleaned what dried chardonnay I could see on the motherboard but was told that it will eventually short out as the acid from the wine will continue to corrode the connections. A good thing it wasn't zinfandel or a good chianti. Sliss. I always meant to give it a water bath, but I was too chickenshit to immerse it. So far, so good. I'll cross that bridge....

What I've learned is that the best way to revamp and breathe new life into elderMacs is with some OWC memory (some models can take twice, or even quadruple the memory than Apple recommends), and OWC's reasonably priced Seagate solid state hybrid drives (SSHD), if you can't afford the real Solid State Drives.

You can never be too rich, too thin, have enough memory or a fast enough hard drive. Buy the maximum memory your Mac will support, and a solid state drive. You won't regret it. A word of caution: if you plan to go above and beyond those Apple specs, get your memory sticks from Other World Computing (aka macsales.com) as they're guaranteed to work. Other brands don't play well together.

With these two simple upgrades, the MacBookPro, and kin, fairly flies through its paces. Try buying a souped-up 2.3 GHz Intel Core i5 MacBookPro 2011 (8,1) for a couple of C-notes and chump change. Unsouped it goes for $650-800 according to Everymac.com. OK, so, well, maybe not, as it is a headless horseman, ergo, it's permanently tethered to my big LCD screen....

My previous rescue Mac project, and old headless souped up 2007 MacBookPro 3,1 is now the flatscreen TV's very own Mac. The MBP was some skateboarder's thrashed pet MacOllie project, I got it for a C-note off Craigslist. I put another couple of C-notes into it (it needed a battery too), and a $17 BookEndz Docking Station took care of most of the thrashed ports.

It was a real hassle to work around having no screen (bad inverter) when the hard drive went south. I had to reformat it on another Mac. It also had a bad DVD drive, wonky audio ports, no microphone or speakers to speak of. (I bought it for the 64-bit Intel Core 2 Duo processor so I could run TurboTax—probably the only reason why I upgrade my Macs, to pay my taxes, yetch. I need a drink). I persevered with myriad odd workarounds, and got several fabulous years' worth of hotroddy use out of it.

I couldn't turn it off very often either, as the off-on switch is grotty. So, a new battery was a must. I added a Seagate solid state hybrid drive, and doubled the maximum proscribed memory, and the old MBP thought it was a rocket.

My current Mac rescue rebuild project: a 2.26 GHz MacBook Late 2009 Unibody, for Neil, and for me, a 2010 MacBook (swappable polycarbonate case, screen, trackpad, keyboard, memory & batteries). An added bonus—it has a working screen. A real laptop I can take with me when I teach. Or run TurboTax.

I did my homework, it took several months of searching Craigslist to find the MacBook model I wanted (at 2.4GHz, the mid-2010 MacBook shares parts with the late 2009 MacBook, and the 2009-2010 MacBookPro). Processor speed and compatibility are important. They all swap spit, as it were. But even more significant, it would support 16 GB of memory, critical to run the latest Mac OS.

The 2010 MacBook was positively crippled with 4 GB memory, which, according to Apple, was the maximum amount of memory it could support, but I found it was barely functional with double that, at 8 GB of memory. Hard to believe it shipped with only 2 GB of memory. No wonder the woman was selling it. Spinning beachballs drive me mad. What was Apple thinking? But with 16 GBs of OWC memory it's now a blazingly fast machine. It has a new lease on life.

Also, I was told that the MacBook couldn't access the full 16 GB memory under Snow Leopard (I'd only get 8 GB), that the tweaked memory hack only worked under Mountain Lion or later. Not true. I have full 16 GB of memory, so much memory, Snow Leopard hardly knows what to do with itself.

Cost for the 2010 MacBook via Craigslist was a C-note, I already had the SSHD from my 2009 MB, I swapped it. Memory was $130, so a souped up 2010 seldom-used MacBook (almost-Pro) for $230, (or $330, counting the SSHD), isn't bad at all, considering that lesser dysfunctional MacBooks were going for much more on Craigslist.

The 2009 MacBook I got for free (bad trackpad and bulging battery, replete with the slow OEM Apple hard drive, and 2 GBs of basic memory meant it was dysfunctional). A new battery, 8 GB of memory (Apple said that 4 GB was maximum supported memory), and a SSHD drive set me back nearly $300, but I got 3-and-a-half years' worth of trouble-free computing from it. Time to pass it onto Neil who's kvetching up a storm on the limitations of the old Macbook 1,1.

It was a little weird taking the bulging battery out of the unibody case. But OWC provided the odd tri-flange screwdriver and clear instructions with the battery. I had it swapped out in no time. Apple never mean for us lackeys to ever change those batteries. Non-user entropy or something. You can look undah mah hood but no touching!

Alas, I discovered the original OEM Apple 5400 RPM hard drive that came with the 2010 MacBook was painfully SLOW! Reformatting did not help. By contrast, the Seagate hybrid drive is a miracle worker. Having that solid state NAND flash chip for basic repetitive functions really speeds processes up. Never underestimate the speed of a hard drive on basic OS functions.

(A note: the combo of the solid state drive and maxed out memory meant the 2009 MacBook ran hot, and the skidproof silicone backing on its bottom partially peeled off, making it a sticky duct tape debris dream in droopy diapers. Not a pretty sight. A plastic outer case kept its drawers in place. When I switched to the Seagate hybrid drive, the MacBook ran cooler, and I was able to clean it up and massage its bottom back onto the aluminum case.

Actually I was looking for a junked 2009 case so I could fix the bottom on mine, and the trackpad too when I stumbled upon the 2010 MacBook. And one thing led to another.)

Souped up, these two models are basically throttled MacBookPros in white polycarbonate bodies and fewer ports. (Not having the flash memory card port is a minus). The large hybrid drives are replete with multiple OS systems so I can swap systems on the go if I want to. Plus, with all that added memory, the MacBooks can handle High Sierra...

I will probably stick with El Capitan, though. (Bottleneck OS speed is an issue with Sierra). But truth be known, I prefer the surprisingly stable, and might I add, zippy (with maxed out memory and SSHD) Snow Leopard. So, I'm straddling the OS decades and hedging my bets.

It's like pulling teeth, weaning Neil off from my old 2006 warhorse MacBook 1,1 which is alive and well, but Snow Leopard is the end of the OS line for the first 32-bit Intel Core Macs. (I tried running Mountain Lion on it. Mistake. I had to pull the hard drive to get it out of white screen.) The old MacBook 1,1 is a souped up (2GB memory (it came with 512 GB memory), plus a real SSD solid state drive) but the trackpad's clicker broke. Try finding a replacement. Yeah. Too old. Time to retire it.

The MacBook 1,1 was the only Macbook I paid "full used market price" for and that was under $1000 as I got it used from Apple Refurb. It promptly blew its 1.0 build motherboard when we were in Scotland, and was replaced with a better one (1.1) for free, thanks to AppleCare. And eleven years later, it's still kicking. Talk about solidly built.

He's resisting the migration to the newer 2009 MacBook I fixed for him—even with the royal blue cover and keypad skin. So I'm refusing to fix the old one. Time to move up, but I still can't get Neil off Snow Leopard—even though I have Mt. Lion and Mavericks systems on all the newer MacBooks. I can't even get him to use an iPod, or an iPad, let alone, an iPhone, or an Android smartphone.

I haven't the heart to tell him that the newest Macs will be more like the iPhone/iPad  iOS, and that the wave of the future is already here. Beasties of different colors in sleekit iOs coats are milling at the gate.

BOTTLESHOCKED (looon/haiku)

Last night he washed the kitchen floor
with a bottle of two-buck Chuck chardonnay
This morning the floor seems a little hung over.

I prefer wine in a glass, or even a jam jar
but I considered breaking out the straws 
when I thought it was the bottle of Beaulieu.

The floor was clean as a whistle
but the bottleshock proved to be too much.
Our sticky feet whispered guilty accusations.

6/6/17

Looon is spelled with 3 ooos 
(aka lune/American haiku).

format:
Use three words,
and add five more words
and three words.

Or five words,
seven words,
five words.

(....vs. counting syllables). I can't count, obviously.

Adding old journal entries

I am still working on expanding and filling out my blog, especially the early years, where I previously failed to find relevant work. In addition to mining Facebook's On This Day posts for pithy tidbits from the past (but that only goes back to 2007), I've taken to mining my old journals too.

I think I've nearly come a full year cycle mining Facebook's On This Day posts....there are days and weeks where I missed checking to see if there was anything relevant, but I think I've mined the lionshare of potential material.

You'd think that by now I would've covered all the salvageable, or should I say mineable On This Day posts, but I haven't been diligent about it. I am still surprised by what surfaces. Take my mallard rescue story, also a recent Facebook rescue:

Hypnotizing a Wild Duck
Solstice rant after getting flame mail from a stranger (from flame mail)
Gems in the Basement
Broken Crockery

I am always interesting in salvaging original posts that led to longer stories, or poems. Some are prose poems in their own right. I've been trying to save first drafts, as it were, and then I "marry" them with finished pieces.

Picking Strawberries from the Strawberry Tree
which became
Arbutus, Madroño, or a Strawberry Tree by any other name

I've already gone through all my poetry e-files, and scanned all hard copies, so no hope there. On the years with few entries, I've only made modest gains, a piece or two per year. So, I've gone back yet again to fine-comb my journals looking for lost nuggets. Tedious work. But the end is in sight.

I've been working on 1998, which apparently was a particularly dismal year for writing. I only found 13 entries and one was a repeat poem (2 versions), and 3 were art (only nine bits of writing for an entire year?) I'm now up to 26 entries (but 3 are still fluff), and I don't know if I can squeeze much more out of that year.

But I rescued this: The Higher Functions of Lower Math (Archie Williams). And a few work-related pieces: Catering the US Open Golf Tournament which intersects with Tiger Woods' rise to fame.

The output for 1999 is equally as dismal. My goal is 52 posts per year (poetry, prose, journal, or art). On some of those lean years I'll be lucky to get 25 posts. I'll settle for 40 posts per year. But there are definitely holes.

I've taken to lifting random journal entries, that when separated from my larger tirades, document an interesting space in time. Some of it's exhausting to read, and it's just plain weird to re-enter a timeframe nearly 20 years in the past, and try to pick up where I left off and render it into something readable.

Perhaps the most surprising discoveries were my Pat Wall entries. I didn't even realize I had written them. My friend Micaela's father, Pat Wall opened the first modern art gallery on the west coast in Monterey, which was an artistic and literary intersection that included the likes Edward Weston, Ellwood Graham, Joseph Albers, Jean Varda, Robinson Jeffers, Henry Miller and John Steinbeck. Pat's avant garde gallery changed the face of art on the West Coast.

Of course, there's next to nothing on Pat or the Pat Wall Art Gallery on the internet. Something Micaela and I always meant to do was to formally collect Pat's oral history. I know Micaela did some work, but it's not readily available and I no longer remember the specific details. So it was lovely to rediscover this particular entry.

There's also a large chunk of notes on Miller and Dali that I bogged down on, so I jettisoned it. Maybe I'll get back to it later. I've only just barely scratched the surface with this material so painstakenly collected during the pre-internet days.

• Pat Wall, Modern Art Dealer: 1 Ellwood Graham
• Pat Wall, Modern Art Dealer: 2 Betty Wall

• Pat Wall, Modern Art Dealer: 3 Henry Miller

Wake the Dead

Gonna Revel. Gonna see Wake the Dead. Revel on! When I was marketing Neil O'Neill's CD on AmieStreet, I discovered this fabulous Celtic fusion rock group. I had no idea that old Marin/Sebastopol friend, Danny Carnahan was part of the group! How small the world.

From the Revels Artistic Director

Dear Reveler, I am writing you because I want to urge you to attend our Revels benefit concert being performed by Wake the Dead on Thursday, June 1st. There are a couple of very good reasons for going.

 A big one is that all proceeds will go to California Revels. This will help guarantee that we can produce the annual Christmas Revels in December. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we are in the midst of a crucial funding drive, and this show is an important part of that.

The other reason is simply that you will very much enjoy attending. I’m sure that you’ve heard a lot about the Grateful Dead, and all of the current buzz about the anniversary of the Summer of Love. This may or may not be your cup of tea. But I can say with great confidence that this concert will be. Wake the Dead is not a mere “cover band”.  They explore the roots of the music of Robert Hunter and the Grateful Dead, as well as other classic rock pieces of that era, and they reinterpret it to reveal the underlying values in the text and music – values that are very much Revels own.

It may surprise you to realize that you have already seen this band. If you have attended the Christmas Revels is recent (or even not-so-recent) years, you have enjoyed the performances of Danny Carnahan, Sylvia Herold, Kevin Carr and Paul Kotapish. Wake the Dead is steeped in Revels performance and you will feel the reveling in their show. This isn’t an electronic rock concert. It’s a beautifully crafted celebration of the era played on fiddle, mandolin, guitar and pipes.  We’re also featuring our own Revels Roses ensemble and the energetic Gaita Gals on the program.

So be there. Join us to welcome in the summer, support your Revels and be a part of the best musical celebration you’re likely to attend –  at least until the Christmas Revels.

This is how I celebrated the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love. I rolled right over for JCY's Darkness, Darkness....I was so there. Followed by White Room, and Uncle John’s Band. I was in hog heaven. Alas, I had the "broken" camera so I was lucky to get anything at all. Mostly blurred photos of Ellin Barret, and Judith Gips. New replacement camera is on the menu. It was an old folks crowd, everyone was greyhaired and long in tooth, but we boogied on. We still had the moves. During intermission, Danny Carnahan and I caught up, he didn’t remember me, per se, he certainly remembered Chris Caswell, Sebastopol. They were the Celtic duo, Caswell Carnahan playing at the Celtic music festival. All the people we have in common. It was a perfect nostalgic Summer of Love evening.