Fire journal 1, photo

I watched a fiery sun inexorably rise through a thick wall of carmine smoke. I am tucked beneath thick blanket of smoke from the northwest, it’s an oppressive stormfront of dark grey tinged with orange and green—like mercurochrome for a wounded sky above me, with a distinct orange fringe. There is a band of clear cyan blue skies to the east over Santa Rosa, but the smoke from the Solano fires will soon fill that void. The smoke thickens, and even as the sun rises, the daylight is getting darker. Crepuscular. The morning pattern of sunlight on the wall is vermillion, making everything look like a darkly varnished canvas. I know that my exit route to the south to San Geronimo, will be filled with even more smoke from the Limantour fire that is climbing Mt. Whittenburg. But for now, the air is sweet and smoke-free right where I am. I drink deep. For how much longer, I don’t know. Enjoying the serenity while I can. But the birds are silent. Never a good sign. I saw my first falling ashes, like gentle snowflakes drifting down. Last night I fell asleep while poring over a wildfire report, cricket arias, I slept fitfully, not knowing what the morning may bring. The evacuation line was moved up to right before my friend’s driveway. Not mandatory yet but soon. Spent two hours packing my car with all my stuff, and then played car Tetris to be able to drive, not enough room for the stick shift—and see out the window. I don’t think I ever really unpacked all my stuff from the Kincade fire. I can see the smoke on the horizon at Napa, a big plume—like an erupting volcano. As I crossed the llano, the Santa Rosa Valley looks like it’s in the center of a tornado. Smoke from the Stewart’s Point, Skaggs Springs/Sweetwater fire is spreading exponentially. It’s moved into The Cedars too. All those ancient rare trees and plants. Mt. Jackson. Meyer’s Grade right below Fort Ross. Soon the fires will converge into a megafire complex. The fire has been named Walbridge. Hopefully the fire won’t move south, or we’ll lose Armstrong Grove as well. Wildfires all over the state from the lightning. Someone said 500 fires, 5000 strikes. Big Basin is burning. Big Sur is burning. The Sierra foothills. And we don’t have the manpower to fight all these fires simultaneously.

Anne Kent Library roundtable on SF Drake history, 6/26 Rodoni roundtable notes

Marin County Library Drake Boulevard Learning Resources

A video of the recent public online learning session about Sir Francis Drake Boulevard is now available in both English and Spanish on the Library’s Drake History Resources webpage. Our Anne T. Kent California Room librarians were essential in gathering information to support the ongoing public dialogue and opportunity for community learning. Check out the Anne T. Kent California Room Community Newsletter for additional features and highlights about local history and available archival resources.

The dystopia continues… gutting the USPO

 

• The Last Words of the US Postmaster General

Yet another heat wave and where is PG&E?

Yesterday’s heat was brutal—it was 104° in West County—and then the power went out. A year ago, the same thing happened with absolutely no warning from PG&E!

This post was from a year ago today. It seems PG&E is in the habit of not warning customers that rolling blackouts will happen. All they need to do is make a press release. I mean, how hard is that? It would go a long way towards ameliorating our residual anger towards the company. I worry about those folks who are dependent on medical equipment. They don’t get any warning either? Criminal, as usual.

A friend said, “And the news I read here claims this is a first rolling black out since 2001 in California.” Yeah, no. My notes say differently. But there were others. I remember, and I also lost my most favorite iMac during one blackout circa 2015. I can look that up via my blog, I mourned the loss. Such a fantastic screen for photo editing.

I guess the best defense  is to prepare for power outages. The problem is where I am staying, the house is entirely electric, including the water pump that brings the water to the house. The attic fan needs electricity. You wouldn’t think too much about that, right? When the attic fan quit working the temperature in the house soared to oven temperatures and it became unbearable. Ironically I had a battery powered fan with a spray bottle last year but I gave it to someone who needed it more than me.

But I worry about is the people who are on respirators, oxygen tanks and other medical equipment that is dependent upon electricity. I guess they have generators that will kick in. But it seems that PG&E knew that it was going to cut power, therefore all it had to do was do a press release on Facebook. Oh my God how difficult is that?

Massive lightning strikes, three fires on Mt. Barnabe

After a spectacular morning of dry lightning, the likes of which Is ve never seen, reports of fires everywhere. Massive lightning strikes, and ignites three fires on Mt. Barnabe.The first one struck the fire cam and cell tower, another strike exploded a tree on the Portola fire road near Nuneses, and a downed line near Devil’s Gulch in the park ignited a third larger fire which was the most worrisome. A portent of things to come. That dry lightning storm that keeps on giving and giving.

Cancel culture

Next month was supposed to be our 50th anniversary high school reunion. Cancelled. And now, the name of our high school, Sir Francis Drake, has been canceled as well. So now, we literally don’t even have our old school to go back to either. Talk about the void. 2020 sucks, and lacking vision, it keeps on myopically sucking us dry, broadsiding and blinding us to oblivion.

After the Black Lives Matter protests last month, factions of protestors pulled down the Confederate statues in the South. I was uneasy with the concept of erasing history to suit present agendas. But the South is far, far away from us. Or so I thought.

Then the statue of Ulysses S. Grant fell. That didn’t make sense. He was on the side of Lincoln who freed the slaves. Mob mind has no rational thought process. It is very in the moment. Statues of men on horseback are the enemy. We’re in the midst of an Orwellian time warp. “The enemy is the gramaphone mind...” But sadly, these factions acting out on impulse like this only serves to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement.  I can’t think, let alone, breathe.

Leap to the West Coast. Last month, a friend handed me a phone and said, you gotta meet this guy—and I talked with artist Dennis Patton who made the whimsical 30’ tall Sir Francis Drake/Don Quixote sculpture that greets ferry passengers at Larkspur Landing. 

Dennis told me the impetus behind his sculpture—the ability to grasp a dream. It was a Prospero’s Cave moment. But a handful of  protestors were going to pull his quixotic Drake sculpture down. He was devastated. 

I suggested making a plaque that said something like  “What dreams are made of” or adding his horse, Rocinante, tying it back to Don Quixote, since everyone thought it was the errant knight, but Dennis was heartbroken, and he was adamant— he wasn’t going to do that—not even to save his own sculpture. He could not be swayed. He said, “I’m too old to fight this. Fock them. Fock them all. They don’t deserve to see my work.” And he took a lengthy pull off a long neck.

I subliminally got that the iron and bronze sculpture was supposed to represent the pirate, Sir Francis Drake, but it also was a nod to the restaurant in the brick kiln, called Don Quixote’s. In fact, the restaurant may have been the original inspiration for the sculpture.

Dreamers, lost pirates and rainbow tunnels certainly fit the perceived images of Marvelous Marin. Since the 1960s, Dennis has erected many whimsical large sculptures embodying Marin including a naked sleeping maiden, an homage to the creation stories of Mt. Tamalpais. Don had once made a driftwood stickman (Don Quixote’s prototype), and a Trojan horse on the tidal flats. CalTrans was not amused. 

To Dennis, Marin embodied “the Free Zone for intellectual and spiritual advancement.” But now the tables have turned. We are myopically challenged. The train of thought has left the station, sans cargo. A handful of protestors have taken the initiative, and the law into their own hands and attempted to pull down  the sculpture of Drake on two counts of piracy and slavery. 

In the wee hours, the City of Larkspur took it down “for safekeeping.” Dennis Patton was devastated. He said it wasn’t a statue, it wasn’t an embodiment of the man, nor an effigy of Drake—it was a sculpture, a metaphor for a dream. A dream deferred, apparently.

And then this same Marin group, fired up with bloodlust, went after my old alma mater, and demanded that the school’s name, along with the highway that bisects Marin, also needed to be changed. Its new interim name, High School 1327 doesn’t quite do it for me.

George Orwell wrote, in his novel, 1984: “Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.” Try and find a recent narrative on Drake that isn’t a wholesale manipulation of history to fit the present needs. Somewhere between the past and the present, the historical truth is on the run. Shades of 1984 and Animal Farm.

In an alarming trend to be "politically correct" Marin County school boards are hellbent on whitewashing the past. The Tamalpais Union School District jumped into the fray and pulled the words Sir Francis Drake off the facade of my old school “to protect it from vandalism.” I wonder what else they’re hiding?

Once again, this illegal event occurred behind closed doors,  sans public input, or any formal procedure, other than a closed Zoom school board meeting. No public input. Just like what happened with the hijacking of, and the removal of the name Dixie School district last year. Because, well, it sounded like Way down South in Dixie. 

But Dixie, a diminutive of Benedict, was also the name of John Miller’s foreman, a Coast Miwok man named Dixie. Miller, an Irishman from Wexford, had a large family to educate, not only his own large brood, but two orphaned Coast Miwok children he adopted, so he built a school, and it was named after Dixie’s wife, Mary. His eldest daughter was the teacher. And for the record, Miller supported the north.

That historical tidbit fell on deaf ears as the likes of blow-ins, Marnie Glickman, Kerry Perison, and Noah Griffin who shredded history in order to fit their political agenda (and according to inside sources, it sounds like Glickman and others may have also been paid for their efforts. Follow the money.) 

A classmate said that by removing the words Sir Francis Drake from the high school facade, The Tamalpais Union School District has violated the law, broken the Brown Act (1953), which guarantees the public's right to attend and participate in meetings of local legislative bodies.

On July 14, during a closed session school board meeting, Tamalpais Union School Board made an authoritarian decision to change the name, excluding public input. It’s certainly not a case of Vox populi, it’s a case of an equally select handful of people imposing their will upon the rest of us. Go Pirates!

Outsiders with an agenda are once again hijacking our history. The supreme irony is that the protestors wanted to name Sir Francis Drake High School “Coast Miwok High School.” Full circle. Apparently Mary Dixie wasn’t good enough a Native name, but the generic term, Coast Miwok is. Go figure.

The only consolation prize is that my high school may eventually be renamed after the Olympic medalist runner Archie Williams. Now, I adored Archie, he was a mentor. I certainly would prefer to see his name as compared to some of the other suggestions. 

But I am divided by the way in which this was handled, wrested away from the majority of us at the hands of a few. Kind of like our current political regime. Flip sides of the same fascist coin toss. Destroy what doesn’t fit your agenda. Kill it dead. Call it a victory where we all become the losers.

• Retroactive racism and the BLM movement
• Anne Kent Library roundtable on SF Drake history
• Dennis Patton website

Spectrum 24, poem & drawing, reading Aug 29 via Zoom

• Spectrum 24 KILLING THE CAT
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Retroactive racism and the BLM movement

I must admit that I have some ambivalence towards the current trend of calling out retroactive racism via BLM deconstructionism. Call it presentism when something is taken out of time and context and then critiqued with modern values and morés placed upon them.

By this reckoning we would need to throw out Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, William Faulkner, and John Hume, as well as a litany of literary greats. First, get rid of the artists. Playing right into Putin’s hands. When I was in the Soviet Union, I was horrified to see how whitewashed our literary legacy was. From Ginsburg to Levertov—even Robert Frost all of their work censored, gutted.

The article from LitHub on Flannery’s O’Connor was interesting, but the politicized aspect was heavy handed. A lot of preamble and assumptions were made. And it’s unfair to attack they dead for they cannot defend themselves. The work is its own merit, it stands alone whatever their politics of the times. Behind closed doors as it were. 

And I do love Flannery’s visceral work. She’s one of the most innovative and original writers of our time. I think in many of her stories she brings to light the underpinnings of social injustice—just by the sheer brutality of chronicling it. 

It is inherently, and patently clear that people critical of her work are unfamiliar with the milieu and context by which O’Connor wrote, in the politically incorrect colloquial dialect commonly used in the South during that time. If anything, she was deeply critical of an unjust society, especially Catholic hypocrisy. Read A Good Man is Hard to Find, and Wise Blood. It’s a grim, realistic portrait of the south. I suppose they will ban Faulkner next? First, kill all the artists. For they present an inconvenient truth.

In a reference to Nazi Germany, novelist George Orwell wrote, in his science fiction novel, 1984: Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past. In an alarming trend to be "politically correct" replete with an Orwellian twist, we seem to be intent on whitewashing the past. Irony intended. 

Golda Meir said, “One cannot and must not try to erase the past merely because it does not fit the present.” In a toxic move to be politically correct, it seems we’re doing just that. Erasing the past, or inconvenient truths, in order to feel good.

It is so difficult right now, people have completely gone off the deep end with the social justice warrior mode. They’ve even stripped the name Drake from my high school, now they want to change the name of the main road through Marin County. And it just goes on and on....

Personification poems with Blake More Tomatoes, Carrots & a collage

WHAT THE TOMATOES SAID

We arrived in black bags filled with loam
and waited for them to come.
We had no idea of our destiny,
or what was to become of us.
We waited along the fence
in haphazard formation.
The sun rose to its zenith, and we wilted,
uprooted from the coolness of the garden,
we were awaiting adoption,
not knowing who would claim us,
or where we were going.

She found deep pots for us and gave us water.
After we recovered from the shock,
we began to grow, reaching for the sun.
She gave us gilded cages
where we could rest our heavy arms.
And we leaned in conversationally,
we blossomed, and then we fruited with gravitas.
At first, we were shy green orbs that swelled,
and then we doubled in size

with each new watering
until we were constellations,

or perhaps even planets.

And then we reached for the sun
and we became the fire of sunset.
We waiting for the cool green depths 

of salad bowls rubbed with garlic 

and dressed with olive oil. We glowed 

like the glistening blood of rubies.
Summer's gift to those huddled 

around their meager tables
waiting out the siege.

8/5/20

THE CARROT SPEAKS

The carrot speaks of the night,
it speaks of the stars
glistening in the gloaming.
Once it was the color of darkness
but then it saw the sun for the first time
and the shape of its dreams
began to change to include the light.
And then it glowed with the tendrils
of the summer sun.

8/5/20

Digging Deep: Revealing Nature Through Poetry & Art

Covid journal, freeway wreck

I’m stuck in a rare traffic jam on 101 outside of Santa Rosa, so I contemplate the mundane roadside attractions, debris, new homesteads in the bushes, in the no-man’s-land between freeway and fence. The traffic jam eventually unveils its ugly secret. A big truck hauling a trailer, someone else’s home, did a 180° turn right off the freeway—facing back the way he came. The trailer crumpled like tinfoil, or a Coke can. The truck, still upright, with a starburst pattern in the windshield from someone’s head. 

Myriad cops circle the scene. I wonder if the couple survived. And I realize that though the driver did 180° turn going back from where he came, he can never go back there again. Was he yet another victim of COVID homelessness? As this pandemic continues on its inexorable path, more and more people are becoming homeless. It too is a pandemic. Seeking shelter wherever they can. During these dark days of summer, it’s not so much of a problem. Pitch a tent, or pitch a tarp. But come winter, then what?

And a jerk in the SUV, seeing a long line of cars, tries to pass me on the freeway shoulder, right in front of the wreck. He is part of the problem. Let’s just say hand gestures were involved all round. 

Some Sunday morning. Our new normal horizon keeps shifting its parameters. What was unthinkable a year ago is now the new normal. But hope is ever present, the Halloween maze corn is growing in the Petaluma field. Waiting for the maze to grow. A bleacher overlooks the green sea of corn. Come October, The Day of the Dead. How many, countless deaths by then?

Indeed, the gates of the Otherworld are open wide, waiting to receive us all.

Oh, Portland….

Oh, Portland, Kali and Shiva. Now the Feds are tear-bombing the grannies and the mothers. The soccer moms, FFS. Will this madness never end? Let this be a reminder. Democracy itself is at stake. #fascism #dictator #martial law

Driving backroads

As I drive the West County backroads to work, the actions of the person in front of me at a junction or a stop sign, often determines which backroute I will take. I will do anything to avoid complacency and erratic driving. I abhor those who drive seemingly without a care in the world, unaware that someone behind him may have a time frame and a destination in mind. I have no trouble with joyriding, or touristing, it’s just that some of us use the backroads to get from point A to point B in a timely manner. The courtesy of pulling over for someone who is driving faster than you has gone by the wayside. People seem to think they own the road in front of them no matter what, expecting those of us stuck behind their overinflated ego-driven SUVs, to follow suit. What if there was an emergency? Honking or flicking your headlights does little good. But they won’t yield the road even when five or more cars are piled up behind them. It’s against the law. If I’m driving slow, I either speed up, or pull over and let them pass. I don’t refuse to yield the road. It comes with the territory.

A lone Canada goose on Llano road

A wild Canada goose was standing by the roadside on Llano Road near the Laguna treatment plant. It stood amidst Queen Anne’s lace and blue chickory. I thought, what a strange place for a water bird to rest. Then I saw the fallen. It was morning its mate. Then I saw more fallen. One dead goose could have been an accident. But two, then three by the side of the road. Surely the work of man, and not the sewage pond. The one surviving goose stood sentinel among the fallen, a lone survivor to a tragedy that no one will ever know. I feel its grief, as it keens for its mate.The white feathers of the gooses breast luff in the breeze like small clouds on the horizon between life and death.

7/24/2020

Dear AutoDuctape

Dear AutoDuctape, lose the apostrophes already and the random capitalization act really has to go. You're batting 99% wrong 99% of the time. Most common nouns are not TM products. They're simple-minded nouns. You know, person, place or thing? We're talking about things here. Objects. Ditto that for simple plurals. Sometimes an S is just an S. For reals. (I’m surprised you didn't try and apostrosize that last word. You must be slipping. I mean, migawd, reals is not even a real word—yet you missed it, and you turned a blind eye on migawd too, yet you freaked out over plurals. Neither is apostrosize a real word but I can see that's above your paygrade.) 

fascism is futile

And so it begins. Shades of the Gestapo, Stasi, Brownshirts—Operation Legend. Our erstwhile president is threatening martial law across the land. There’s a madman at the helm. What fresh hell is this? No way to run a country.

Naked Athena vs the Feds

I never thought I’d ever be saying this, but hooray for the soccer moms, and for helicopter moms, and for the naked yoga moms. The great Shiva has been unleashed. We are revolution. We are both noun and verb. We are Lysistrata. We are the original AntiFa. And we are pissed. We have taken a stand against the staggering incompetence of the affairs and machinations of the federal government. We will rise. We will rise. ‘A masked Naked Athena’ has turned the tide. She is Godiva, unhorsed. She is Sheila-na-gig. Nudity as protest, nudity as free speech. She is the malasana in garland pose. She is Gaia giving birth to the new world. She is the primal scream. This is the official dance of these covid times. Portland is keeping it weird for us all. If you’re not pissed off by now, you should be. When George called out for his mama on his dying breath, he called out all the mamas. Yea, verrily, we will rise.  “Feds stay clear. The Moms are here.” Game on.

Medieval playlist

I love love love this, a Medieval French cover of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ as it would have been sung in 1270 AD, by Bardcore—replete with bilingual sing-along text. Gimlet-eyed Lawrence Whelk never looked so good. Alas, no bouncing ball to cling to like a limpet, though. Life sucks.

Next up on the morning playlist is a Medieval rendition of ‘Jolene’ as performed by the ethereal Hildegard von Blingin of Bardcore. Think of Jolene as a forgotten VII wife of Henry VIII.

Addiction, and angst and love gone bad and unrequited love. Sex, drugs and rockin’ lutes. I want thine ugly, I want thy bad. I want love, love, love. It’s time to party like it’s 999. Now make your own Medieval playlist here. I wonder if they do a macabre Macareña? You say you want a revolution, well you know…

Next up is a lovely reimagined Medieval rendition of ‘Jolene’ as performed by the ethereal Hildegard von Blingin of Bardcore. Think of Jolene as the forgotten seventh wife of Henry VIII. 

I say If Jolene wouldst taketh mine lord with such sweet ease, then she may keepeth the bolloxed scoundrel of a cur for herself. Fie!

Not sure if the J in Jolene would sound the same in Medieval English, though. But I’m sure Dolly Parton, who is a great literacy advocate, would love this cover.

Followed by a crumhorn and harp instrumental of Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie,’ so apropos for these Covid fluff times.

And kicking it up a notch, Holding Out for a Hero, a Medieval trope if ever there was one, will get your toes tapping. And maybe shake off some of that Covid fluff. Dance party time. Think First Knight. Or maybe dragons on the run.

Let’s slow it down a notch with Nothing Else Matters. Cool off time. Breathe. That’s it. Walk it out.

Of course, we are in the Final Countdown. Do you detect a theme here? Through fire and flames. I totally get it. There be dragons. And orange menaces. 

What do we want? Apocalypse. When do we want it? Now.

Remember to vote early and often. Preferably not posthumously. Unless you are from Cook County. Then, by all means, carry on. Preferably not as toxicity carrion.

Let’s party like it’s 999! Cuz, like, dude, nothing else matters.

Well maybe nostalgia matters. All those regrets. The unfulfilled bucket list. O weep your hearts out. We all have Somebody That We Used To Know. I’m not naming names. Hildegard von Blingin is a past mistress of unrequited love, she really knows how to plunge that dagger deep into the soft heart’s core.

And I’m sure we’ve all had one bad romance, or two, or maybe quite a few of them. So relatable. I want thine ugly, I want thy disease. I want love. Love, love love in a time of coronavirus. I’ll drink to that. Too early? What is love but a second-hand emotion?

The title says it all. We’ve all met a few Creeps. And those buskin boots are made for walk-in in your Pumped up boots. Beware the washer at the ford is all I can say. There be trouble ahead. That damned bridge, Jolene don’t take your love away. Hold your head up because Sweet dreams are made of these. And walk like an Egyptian. And We will rock you.

Hopefully the Land of Down Under is for none o us during these Covid times. Sail on by. Don’t Paint it black.

Medieval beauty tips. Not for the faint of heart.

If you, dear reader, want to be polished
with morals and manners,
if you want the esteem of worthy men,
or want to lead a civilised life among noble lords,
to be a shrewd overseer of your property,
keep these everlasting verses in mind.

Thank you Dara Hellman! This totally made my morning. Anachronism rools. (Rhymes with fools.)

ARMED CHICKENS

What if you were to arm your chicken
would you need a permit for it to bear arms?
Would it need a a bulletproof vest? Or an alibi?
Perhaps some barbecue sauce for the extra wings?
What if it crossed the road while bare armed?
Would it be a wingman? Would it get a leg up?
Would the now rather cross road roll up and leave town?
What if it was a leghorn? Then what? Would it have an arm up?
Would it be a Rambochicken or a T-rex throwback?
Would it wear wingtips? Would you shoot the little clucker
if the cockerel percheth too long in thy ladie’s chamber?
(Medieval reference explained in the comments)
Would you read your chicken Miranda rights?
No chickens were armed in this process. Really.
But they sure were insulted. What about the bears?
Do they want to bear arms too?

Rest in power John Lewis

Chickens are very good listeners. My friend’s chickens tend to clock me because I feed them. My car is my afternoon office, and apparently I keep office hours with a flock of chickens. They tilt their heads as if to comprehend what I’m saying, before I resort to their clucky language. The idea of John preaching to the chickens is an endearing and enduring image. Chickens are far smarter than we tend to think.

“John loved to tell the chicks the Good News. When he fed and watered them, he spoke about the value of hard work and patience. He would tell them, ‘Enjoy this day that God has given us.’” A leitmotif for us all.

"Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble."

He spilled his blood on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, served in Parchman Prison, rode with the Freedom Riders in the summer of 1961, and served in Congress for more than 30 years, so each and every single American can exercise their civic duty. —Rusty Hicks, California Democratic Party

‪“You must find a way to get in the way. ‬You must find a way to get into good trouble. Necessary trouble.‬ You have a moral obligation, a mission and a mandate to go out and seek justice for all. ‬You can do it. You must do it.”‬ ‪- John Lewis ‬

As John Lewis*, the great civil rights hero who passed away on Friday, said last month near where Trump and Attorney General William Barr had set federal police in riot gear and wielding tear gas on peaceful protesters, “Mr President, the American people … have a right to protest. You cannot stop the people with all of the forces that you may have at your command.” —Robert Reich

I’ll never forget the day he staged a sit-in on the Senate floor. This man who walked with King. Who led us all in the good fight. A man who fought for equality with his last breath. I am proud to have been a chicken in his flock. Rest in power John Lewis and thank you for all your service. Walk with the Wind.

See Brainpickings’ endearing tribute to Preaching to the Chickens, a story about a young John Lewis.

more

Facebook phishing scam, get Anamul a new phone

Facebook phishing scamRE: “Someone tried to log in to your account, User ID: #581906 Anamul tried to log in to your account! Hi (blank), A user  just logged into your Facebook account from a new device Samsung Galaxy S10. We are sending you this email to verify it's really you.”

Dear Anamul, Yes it’s really me. I noticed you didn’t quite get my name. Am I really (blank)? Debatable. Are you really you? Is this an existential question? Should I be looking for answers? Kafka, or Dostoyevsky? Descartes? But clearly, thinking isn’t your strong suit. FYI the word “into” is one word. It’s called a compound word, a pity you didn’t learn that in post-Soviet school. Any luck with logging into my account? 

And  Dear FauxBook, I fail to see why your providing me with Anamul’s name, and user ID, or what the relevance of his new Samson Galaxy S10—has to do with the price of tea in China, or logging into my Facebook account, for that matter. Am I supposed to know Anamul? Anam means  name in Irish, but I wouldn’t expect you to know that. Perhaps you need help spelling the word animal. Because that’s what you are. Or is that a mule? Make that a troll.

Back to the Samson Galaxy S10 in question. I realize the next generation Galaxy has arrived—but that flagship model has also sailed. We’re onto the S20. How long has this phishy email been circulating, anyway? Wouldn’t an even older model work? Should I be worried? Does it have some special hacker properties? Precognitive skills? Is this some sort of lame ad?

Also, FYI, Facebook isn’t allowed to send me emails at this address. Otherwise, your phishy email looks almost legit. You even got the address right. Except for one small detail. BTW, I’ve actually stood on  the corner of 1 Hacker Way. Yes, Hacker Way, not Facebook Way. Got it? Good luck with your hacking endeavors. Looks like you need all the luck you can get. 

I think I’ll have another cuppa tae while you ponder this one out. Take all the time you need.

Signed (blank)

PS. I receive this email weekly, I realize that hope is eternal. But this is a spam mailbox, and you’re never gonna get in this way. You’ve been reported to phish@fb.com. Besides, I wouldn’t touch a Samson Galaxy with a bargepole.

• Dear Facebook, stop blocking me

• Facebook censorship in a time of crisis, Tubbs Fire
• Is anyone else being blocked by Facebook censors?

• Facebook FAIL Rant

I never did finish Herman Berlandt’s memorial blog

Another year steamrollers by and I am reminded, with the help of Facebook Memories, that I never did write that blog tribute to Herman Berlandt who died May 15, 2017. I didn’t hear about his death until July, by chance, but I managed to get myself to his memorial service. So this month becomes an annual tribute month in my mind’s eye.

I was far too overwhelmed at the time to fully process Herman’s passing, but I did manage to create a blog for him, called Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa  from a collection of papers I had gathered from his cabin in the winter of 2018. I also always meant to scan all the photos from our time together for National Poetry Association as well (I was staff photographer)—still on the back burner of the to-do list.

I always meant to go back and add to the blog, finish the big scan job of his papers that I had begun in January, 2019, but I never found the time, my own life was in such upheaval, first, my ex, John Oliver Simon had died, then I was suddenly homeless, living on the run—a 20+ year relationship had ended badly, and now here we are, July 2020. We are all firmly entrenched at one home or another, with nowhere to go. Now I have the time to finish my task, but no material to scan. I assume Bolinas is still closed to outsiders. I hope that Patrick Flynn is OK, and still holding down the home front, and that the cabin still stands. Otherwise, now would be a perfect time to finish the job.

This is a time of closure, completing the undone tasks of one’s lifetime. Facing extinction is a hell of a motivator.

The 2019 blog (which I’m sure no one has even seen)
Herman Berlandt, Poet on the Brink of the Mesa
and my placeholder un-tribute to Herman form 2017

• Herman Berlandt Memorial, Bolinas

True Chanterelles finally published

A shoutout to Art Goodtimes who shepherded this poem into print, he who encouraged me to go deeper into the realm of fungi, and load it up with scientific terms. Ok, so it was an exceptionally long midwifery, two years, but look who else is in this mycology issue, W. S. Merwin! I am honored indeed. And I am exceptionally glad a version of this poem found its way to the printed page. At last. It was also reprinted/published in Medicine for Minds and Hearts, Fungi Press, 2023.

• 
  
• TRUE CHANTERELLES

• Also published in Medicine for Minds and Hearts, Fungi Press, Sept. 2023
• 

COVID Brain is a thing

It’s curious to witness how our brains overcompensate for what we cannot possibly fathom, let alone, process, during these COVID times. Need I mention the danger of an inexplicable need for sudden-onset naps—like while driving. Or forgetting where you are while driving—is like a sneak preview onto the window of dementia. Three pairs of glasses on my head has become the new norm. And yes, I’ve added a second pair of glasses atop the ones I’m using. Just call me six-eyes.

Misplaced things resurfacing in the oddest of places—car keys in the fridge, cellphone in the cabinet. I don’t even want to discuss the places I’ve stashed outgoing mail. Or another favorite, completely forgetting to do simple hard-wired tasks—like pushing the start button on the washer, and then coming back an hour later, completely baffled. Half-completed tasks while multi-tasking stack up like a madhouse litany. I’m grounding my auto-pilot’s plane and canceling his license.

Have you noticed how certain simple coping skills are dropped, or rearranged according to vicarious whims, while other tasks take on an unusual precedence to the point of stark-raving OCD mania? Keeping your eye on the prize often discombobulates into an at-home version of a low-rent Monty Python skit. That THC-free spaciness is a real thing.

My cousin and I seem to be at a loss for certain common, and rather ordinary nouns verging on plainness, on any given day which makes for hilarious, if demented, conversations—each of us supplying the MIA noun for the other in tandem, without either of us missing a beat.

When a friend marveled over how the French don’t pronounce the final continent of a word, I laughed so hard, I very nearly became incontinent, my eyes peed their pants. Becca’s friend substituted the word celibate for being content—which added a surreal twist to the conversation.

Meanwhile, our higher power is distracted while trying to fathom the concept of, or plumb the depths of mass extinction, we’ve come up with some rather amazing work-arounds and patches when the working nouns in any given sentence refuse to tow the line, or worse, flee the scene of any given conversation. I’ve been known to yell at my cousin, Hey, I need a working noun (rarely a verb) here! Our sentences are beginning to resemble autocorrect at its finest. Lately I’ve taken to handcuffing working nouns to the proverbial greased pole.

Things versus actions are becoming an endangered species. And no, we are not experiencing gaslighting, mad cow disease or Alzheimer’s, atrophy, or dementia wholesale. Grief, anxiety, depression, stress all distract our brains as we try to make sense of these trying times we live in.

The ordinary and the mundane fall by the wayside as our processors whirr night and day. Day and night. Every waking dream is post COVID-19. We are all suffering from COVID fatigue syndrome. Call it PTSD if you must name it. COVID brain is a thing. The fogbank of the fugue months is very real and taking names. As my friend said, Every day is Blurrsday. We have lost our point of reference. And every month is Blurruary.

Feel free to leave your current whack-jobs, workarounds, and cures, or at least how you keep the beast at bay, below.

Irish-American women rebel-rousers

IWW activist Elizabeth Gurley Flynn was model for Joe Hill's The Rebel Girl Wiki

Someone on Facebook posted a story about how American women were instrumental in affecting social change. I was surprised that her examples didn’t include any Irish American women—not even the fabled Mother Jones. And when I attempted to add Irish American women to her list—who were not actresses—I drew a blank after the first handful of women. I searched online in vain for a list of Irish-American women rabble-rousers who were real rebel rousers, not just pretty faces on the celluloid screen—which led to this blogpost.  

(Note bene: This is a draft.... a few of the biographies are not done. But I’m close. I just ran out of steam.)

Those foolhardy moments in time

Someone asked me what was the most foolhardy thing I’d ever done. Where to even begin? How about rappelling down inside the inner dome of a decommissioned church of atheism and religion in Leningrad, mid-winter, never having rappelled down anything before? Or working on a fresco, while dangling from a rope 40 feet above the floor on dodgy equipment while helping a Soviet artist to restore it, using razor blades to scrape away debris. 

The singlemost scariest part was climbing an ancient pre-Revolution rickety iron ladder to the roof on the outside of the building, to get to the window that led to the inner dome. Of course the artist gave us a 360* tour of the copper-clad outer dome during a snow flurry. I grabbed the handrail only to have it come up from the lip of the dome in my hand, and the lip was slick, my boot slid to the edge...

It reminds me of the time I came down Half Dome and accidentally pulled the rope rail pipe out of the granite, only to have the 2x4“ plank skittle to the side, with me holding up the loose pipe in my right hand like a cane, while admiring the steep curvature of the dome, wondering how the hell John Muir managed to come back down the dome sans any guardrail at all.

And then there was. the time John Oliver Simon and I decided we needed to climb Huyana Picchu to get to the temple of the sun and moon using a dodgy rope to pull ourselves up a slope that far surpassed the angle of declination. Made the world’s steepest stairs seem like a piece of cake. No fn way was I going to take that rope back down that peak—all this while in the middle of a forest fire, having hiked 42km in, the only way out was through.

There are more stories... it’s a wonder I ever made it out alive. and now, here we are playing hide and seek with an invisible enemy. To be felled by a virus....

A year ago today

A year ago today my cousin Sinead Dinsmore and I were sleeping In her family home in Nicasio when at 5 AM on 4 July, 2019, an intoxicated driver ran into the house, driving his Titan Nissan truck into the living room, launching us from our beds, exposIng us to asbestos dust, leaving us homeless, and with PTSD. We have suffered from wage loss, and loss of work, bodily injury, mental stress, etc. The driver of the vehicle was under the influence, and arrested with a DUI (meth), a police report was filed. He was the manager of several gas stations in Petaluma including Valero. my cousin’s brother David Dinsmore, the owner of the house, has her listed on his home insurance policy. She had possessions and furniture destroyed. The County of Marin may also be liable, as it did not embark, nor did it clearly mark that bend in the road—though the family has repeatedly asked them to do something about it as this is not the first time a vehicle has driven into the house. Since then, the county has put in traffic warning lights. Too late for us.

Smoke from Siberia

Throwing myself a lifeline (photography)

For the first time in ages, I posted several albums of wildflower photos in two Facebook groups that I belong to, California Native Plant Society, and California Invasive Plants. I was feeling extraordinarily downcast the other day, to the point I was barely functional; I was so weighted with cumulative grief from my April to June fugue, I could feel the numbness in my cheekbones.

So I threw myself a lifeline, and took the long way home. The very, very long way home on the most obscure backroads I could find. It took me 4 1/2 hours. By the end of that journey, I was no longer despondent, nor was I crippled with grief. No matter that my camera no longer properly focuses, or that I desperately need a new one, I still managed to fight my way out of the descent of darkness with it in hand.

This photo says it all, between a rock and a .... a photo I very nearly missed seeing, I had my eye on other prizes—Lupinus microcarpus, var. densiflorus, AKA Chick lupine going to seed. They make me giddy with their breakout lavender hues.

This quote below is what I wrote at the end of one of the photo albums I posted. I wanted to share it with you all, as the same premise applies to all of you, and to all of our posts. This silly little habit of people liking or not liking posts means much more than we realize, in this isolated land of no more hugs. For that, I am grateful.

“Wow, instant gratification, I love the fact that you are all loving this post. Sounds silly, I know. Sometimes it feels like we’re all in the dark. Sometimes the only thing that makes me feel a little bit better is the beauty that surrounds us. On this particular day, I despaired, and could not get out of my blue funk, the grief was palpable, so I took photos, and went the long way home. Sometimes the only thing I can do is to seek out that beauty and post it here. My microcosmic world. Thank you all. ❤ We are all walking each other home.

COVID Fluff

So, my pants are punking me. Tired of my old jeans w/ shallow pockets, I bought new ones, only to discover the plus-size was no longer quite so plus due to stray surplus COVID-19 calories.

Ironic in that the Gloria Vanderbilt jeans that I swear by, except for that last pair with a shallow pockets, but they always run way too big. But I am between sizes. Story of my life. I am neither a 10 nor a 12. My pants tend to fall off my ass. Belts don’t really help. So I either buy a size 12 and take them in. Or buy a size 10 and hope it runs large enough to not give me cameltoes. Some choice, ass rack or hoo-ha crack.

I assume all Gloria Vanderbilt pants are made in China, but these are clearly post COVID-19 pants. Different style, I like the smaller waistline, and with the roomier crotch bits below. This time the size 12 fits like a 10, sans crack. No more delicate ruptured bits.

I don’t have very much by way of a butt to hold my pants up. Putting my wallet in my pocket sometimes means my pants go south like a gangstah when I least expect it. I am unused to having pants fit—to say the least. Ah, but the craic’s good when it comes to a pair of comfortable tailored pedal pushers in summer. Having two boobs at the same time precludes finding tailored shirts that will fit.

CPITS workshops, Jane Hirshfield, Dan Levinson, Jessica Wilson

“It is important that awake people be awake.” Stafford
Poem Is Small Kindnesses by Danusha Lameris

Writing Prompt:  On left side in a vertical column:  5 -10 concrete nouns.  Make them different from each other.

On the right side of the page, do the same vertical columns - 5-10 abstract nouns.  Any school subject, any emotion, ideas…Things you can’t touch.

In between each two words in both set of columns, write the word “OF”  Should give you a set  “coffee cup of science”  or switch order “science of coffee cups”

Pick one of these sets or constellations of words that excites you and begin a piece of writing.

On left side in a vertical column:  5 -10 concrete nouns.  Make them different from each other.

On the right side of the page, do the same vertical columns - 5-10 abstract nouns.  Any school subject, any emotion, ideas…Things you can’t touch.

In between each two words in both set of columns, write the word “OF”  Should give you a set  “coffee cup of science”  or switch order “science of coffee cups”

Pick one of these sets or constellations of words that excites you and begin a piece of writing.

You have roughly 10 minutes.

Freewrite 1

In the mirror, grief waited
patiently for light to surrender,
and for the darkness to follow.
Its silvered tongue spoke of the past
when women plumbed its depths,
scrying the future from the dross.
I was once one of those women,
living in the USSR, one winter, waiting
for a glimpse of the future.
And now here we are.
The old beveled mirror, someone’s discard,
silver scratched off the back,
faithfully reflects the light, sharpens its teeth,
while I measure shadows crawling across the room
where containment is equal to life.
The banshee wailing at the door, is hunting again.
So many fallen, I do not know where to begin,
or how to comprehend such grief.
My pen is mute, filled with darkness,
my hand speaks of loss, trying on other dreams
in the mirror when I am not looking.
The clock is writing down the calendar of days.
We grow used to the genteel confinement.
It becomes our familiar. We become inured to it.
Yet the world rages on, a lethal stew of protesters,
AntiFa and AltRigh boiling in the streets
as if naming it could quell the civil unrest.
Tearing down statues of oppression
and tearing down what was once good—
there is no filter. It is all fodder for the rage that burns.
And we sit in our towers watching the wind
bending the tall grass to its will
as the ashes of the dead ride on the breeze.

Next Prompt:  Write down some things that people might actually say.

Next, write down 1-3 factual statements. Simple sentences that are true. For example: “The earth is round.”

Last thing to write down:   one question.

Cheating is allowed.  Change any elements. Write a poem which is someway relevant to your reality (and unreality.) Write a poem that has actual spoken words or dialogue in some way in it. Be aware of the typographical possibilities as well as the possibilities of how many ways there are to work dialogue into a poem: in passing, as the main way the poem moves, or something in between, or a momentary breaking of the fourth wall. Optional: include a fact, a question, or both.

Model poems:

The Act by William Carlos Willams

In the Desert by Stephen Crane

A Note on ‘Iowa City:  Early April’ by Robert Hass

[from Citizen] by Claudia Rankine

Table by Edip Canceler, translated by Richard Tillinghast from the Turkish

10 minutes… Write a poem which is someway relevant to this moment in your reality (and unreality.)  Write a poem that has actual spoken words or dialogue in some way in it. Be aware of the typographical possibilities as well as the possibilities of how many ways there are to work dialogue into a poem: in passing, as the main way the poem moves, or something in between, or a momentary breaking of the fourth wall. Optional: include a fact, a question, or both.

Freewrite 2

Where to even begin? The mind wants answers,
and some are satisfied with any answers
that will do, no matter how impossible.
People are grasping at straws as if they were liferafts
in the deep end of the COVID pool.
Lemmings flock to the beaches, as if to find the answer,
the first terrestrial “I am” ever uttered.
I want to tell the gobies and the mudskippers
there’s been a mistake, but I’ve said it all before
in another poem, long ago, when I was someone else.
As we look down the hind site
of that long barreled gun of time,
we can’t even imagine anything else but this moment,
frozen, in the perpetual now.
Each act takes us farther from ourselves,
and what we once held to be true,
makes us re-define our lives with a new timeframe,
so that we can barely remember
anything other than now.
What is happening to time?
As we speed headlong
towards our own extinction.

THE MIND WANTS ANSWERS

THE MIND WANTS ANSWERS

Where to even begin? The mind wants answers,
and some are satisfied with any answers
that will do, no matter how impossible.
People are grasping at straws as if they were life-rafts
in the deep end of the COVID pool.
Lemmings flock to the beaches, as if to find the answer,
the first terrestrial “I am” ever uttered.
I want to tell the gobies and the mudskippers
there’s been a mistake, go back,

but I’ve said it all before somewhere
in another poem, long ago, when I was someone else.
As we look down the hindsight
of that long-barreled gun of time,
we can’t fathom anything but this moment,
frozen, in the perpetual now.
Each act takes us farther from ourselves,
and what we once held to be true,
makes us re-define our lives with a new timeframe,
so that we can barely remember
anything other than what is now.
What is happening to time?
As we speed headlong
towards our own extinction.

June 26, 2020

IN THE MIRROR, GRIEF WAITED

IN THE MIRROR, GRIEF WAITED

In the mirror, grief waited
patiently for light to surrender,
and for the darkness to follow.
Its silvered tongue spoke of the past
when women plumbed its depths,
scrying the future from the dross.
I was once one of those women,
living in the USSR, one winter, waiting
for a glimpse of the future.
And now here we are.
The old beveled mirror, someone’s discard,
silver scratched off the back,
faithfully reflects the light, sharpens its teeth,
while I measure shadows crawling across the room
where solitary containment is equal to life.
The banshee wailing at the door, is hunting again.
So many fallen, I do not know where to begin,
or how to comprehend such grief.
My pen is mute, filled with darkness,
my hand speaks of loss, trying on other dreams
in the mirror when I am not looking.
The clock is writing down the calendar of days.
We grow used to the genteel confinement.
It becomes our familiar. We become inured to it.
Yet the world rages on, a lethal stew of protesters,
AntiFa and AltRigh boiling in the streets
as if naming it could quell the civil unrest.
Tearing down statues of oppression
and tearing down what was once good—
there is no filter. It is all fodder for the rage that burns.
And we sit in our towers watching the wind
bending the tall grass to its will
as the ashes of the dead ride on the breeze.

June 26, 2020

Etruscan Smile finally released

Well, the good news is that the Etruscan smile was finally released, but sadly, to mediocre reviews. I guess it wasn’t worth the wait. Still waiting for the release date of The Etruscan Smile

Feb 2019 Still waiting for the release date of The Etruscan Smile....here’s the trailer. You can see Neil in the party scene to the right of Brian Cox, out of focus, Look for the white hair. I think that me standing sideways to the right of Neil.

Feb 2016 On the set of Etruscan Smile. Some notes.

Solstice

Instead of the usual factual, I felt a wee silly poem coming on....my Granny was always after saying the phrase, morning noon and night. This was a time for worshiping the stones. We have a big monolith of a rock that juts out of our hill in Forest Knolls and she would measure the seasonal path of the sun by that rock.

Today is the longest day of the summer solstice
when noontime shadows are at their shortest.
But it is not the earliest sunrise, that was yesterday,
nor is it the latest sunset—which is tomorrow,
the day after the solstice. Yesterday, today,
and tomorrow; morning, noon & night;
the past, present and future: a three-fold event.
The duality of the year at opposite ends of the earth.

And meanwhile on the Hill of Sin, a Dowth passage tomb, Fertae Chuile. Yes, she said, yes, yes. She was the flower of the mountain, and what of those Iberian men  Should she wear the saffron  Or perhaps the grey leine  Ah, but the stone rose up like a stallion and kissed the sky at dawn  would  she say yes to yes to the mountain flowers  the heath in a furze stretched like cats by the fire and would she put her arms around the stone and say yes yes I said yes I will Yes to the solstice?

This is what happens when Bloomsday collides with the solstice.

On self-identity, and being Irish in America

In response to an IrishCentral article, Why do Irish Americans still identify as Irish?
Why are American-born descendants of Diaspora Irish so tenacious about identifying with their homeland, even when their connections are generations distant?
Wendy C. Fries  @IrishCentral Oct 28, 2019

I wrote: I am thoroughly Irish, born in America—but raised within an Irish household, imbued with Irish culture, meaning I lived a dual life. Outside, especially at school, was America. But that ended the moment I came home. Ours was an Irish household from top to bottom. Jesus, Mary and Joseph in one corner, and John Fitzgerald and the Pope in another. I grew up in the oral tradition, raised by my grandmother from Bantry. I learned two histories—the Anglo-American version of history, and the Irish version of history. It took me decades to reconcile the two disparate threads. Us versus them. We were taught to hold tight onto our culture, not to succumb to American ways. Or Anglo ways. Because being Irish is all we had to sustain us. My grandmother faced discrimination in San Francisco, she refused to become an American citizen, even though my grandfather did. My grandparents were active members of the Gaelic League, and the Knights of the Red Branch, my grandfather collected guns for De Valera. After the uprising, Liam Mellows spent time at our house in Forest Knolls, as did De Valera. I was always terrified that my grandmother would get deported. When she went back to Ireland, after winning the Irish sweepstakes, in 1964, the Irish government met her at Shannon airport with a red carpet, because she had left before Ireland had become a free state. She also left America without a green card, without any passport, and was issued an Irish passport in Ireland— in order to get back to the United States. I remember being terrified that they wouldn’t let her back into the US, that I’d somehow be an orphan if that happened.

George Demont Otis, Point Reyes Valley (a view of the sleeping elephant)

Kathy DePatta owns this George Demont Otis painting of  Elephant Mountain, an image that inspired me to do my own version. In a letter from 1958, he refers to the mountain as the sleeping elephant.She said in the Lost Marin site on Facebook on May 19: “ My husband and I are fortunate to have this landscape by George Demont Otis. He had a studio in Kentfield (for years next to Colonial Liquors) The letter is hard to read but it’s the artists description of the location and details of where it is. The title is “Point Reyes Valley”. And his description is (Distant mountain is Sleeping Elephant).”

Two colored pencil drawings, Elephant Mountain,

Visions of Marin

Two colored pencil drawings, Elephant Mountain, Mt. St. Helena