Basking in the sea

Vito says you can’t bask in the sea. Shiva says But you can bask in the sun, but I am thinking of floating in a warm sea, basking, floating, with no destination in mind. Surely the creatures of the sea can bask? What about the basking shark? I have seen turtles basking on the surface of the sea, with no destination. They were more than just floating, they were basking. Once, during the total eclipse, I sea turtle startled me and I nearly drowned with excitement as he swim beneath me. He was huge, like a sled or a boogie board and all morning I followed him around that bay as the sun in the moon wrestled in the sky between light and dark. It was a free time where all bets were off even in the natural world. We were out of time as tide and wind were in stasis. I followed that turtle ballet until I was so far out to sea, all alone. But when the sun returned as Maui the sun god pulled the moon's face from the sun's…. But not before I saw the diamond ring and the penumbra. Meanwhile a couple exchanged wedding vows and let their leis loose in the sea. Puuonuaohonaunau, the place of refuge. That turtle pulled me far out to see like a siren. That day I had no fear of drowning though drowning was at hand.

2/24//2006 Writers' Group

A place called El Refugio

Where do we go when there’s no place of refuge, when all has been taken from us and we are left with the pale ashes of self after the phoenix has flown, and a breeze left lifts us from the balcony to some distant shore? The Aegean has been haunting me again in my sleep as if I had some unfinished from a lost century. The scrunch of sharp golden sand underfoot, the blue sea inviting us into our dream refuge. Refugio. I am in another language, another sea, traitorous Cortez's sea and in a place called El Refugio that is anything but. When was it ever someone’s refuge, surely not within this century. Not this wide greasespot in the road, a dusty town we can’t seem to get out of. I watch dawn turn into midday, a man in huaraches herds his goats and pigs to another sparse patch of desert sand. I’m desperate for coffee and the next bus will not come, ever. At the bodega I manage to order a cafécito of sorts. Nescafé and Cremora. I find out too late to the amount I thought trifling was worth a day's wages to this man who kisses it and crosses himself and hold sit up to the sun exclaiming Madre de Díos. Mother of God indeed. Perhaps El Refugio was the site of many lost missions strung loosely together from Sonoma to Loreto where the wolf boy was born. They all have hair on fire faces—soft, downy and black. For them, even the girls, the only refuge was to run away across the border to the circus. Wolf boy send money home to his family each week. He looks in the mirror brushes his cheeks and brow, squares his shoulders to meet the public. For him there is no refuge, only gawkers. He longs for the normal life, with friends and family. No more freak shows but he will miss the money. In Refugio, inside of the sea, prison walls, prisoners within sight of the sea the brine dark sea. 

2/24//2006 Writers' Group

Morning Tea Ritual

The perfume escaping the Meyer lemon tree, exotic as gardenias in winter, or like sweet-scented coffee blossoms. I've never seen tea blossoms but I imagine them to be exotic, also like camellias. This morning I saw a photo of women picking tender leaves, hand pruning bushes with leaves glossy as camellias. Centuries of fingers have prised the leaves into topiary hedges. I am fond of my black tea in the morning. It gives substance and balance to my day. A morning without tea, and I feel sullen and sleepy, on the wrong side of the bed, even if there's only one side of the bed to begin with. Tea allows me to turn over a new leaf each day, not that I drink it black, or with citrus, like the English. No, the Irish are the singlemost largest consumers of tea, beating the national average of India or China. They drink out of such tiny cups, it would take them all day to catch up with us. No green tea or chai for me (once I thought I was having a heart attack, replete with palpitations, after a Pakistani friend fixed me a proper cup of Indian tea… He boiled the leaves with canned milk and cardamom for what seemed like hours. He added copious amounts of sugar. Lethal stuff.) No, I drink my tea with milk and sugar, added by the scant teaspoon full. The mug is important, as is the spoon. My only silver spoon, a castoff from someone's grandmother, garlanded with roses, the shank balanced just right so you can teeeter-totter it on your index finger while waiting for the tea to brew exactly 5 minutes. And the mug, sky blue on the outside with Paleolithic symbols, bear paws and Kokapelli, the water sprinkler guarding it. On the inside, it's orange as the Grand Canyon and wwritten on the rim like a watermark rise. My oversize handleless coffee mug that has never seen morning coffee, opens my eyes and offers me up to soaring heights of morning with that charge and verve of a citrus sunrise.

2/10/06 Writers' Group

Too hot to handle

Too hot, too hot to handle, my mind croons like a demented rockstar. Lorene's tea has slammed me sideways after an errant lapse of absence—from the cup, that is. As I threaded my way north with the precision of a Panama tailor, enroute to the writers' group, hot tea fans out over me as yet another moron in a truck bigger than his ego, (his other car is a Harley) cuts me off. And my tea spills again as I dust off and polish my invectives. You MF pussysucking cnt, I yell. And there it was, a scalding cup of tea wending its way down my front to my crotch. Lorene is laughing at me as I try to mop it up with a paper towel. Thank gawd its dark out, no one can see me grabbing my crotch. I'm laughing because I'm also holding a banger on a bun and Freud is riding shotgun in the backseat of my mind. This is too hot, too hot to handle, indeed. I love that first rush of spring when the pollen spores coat the windscreen in a chartreuse powder—like gunmetal tea. (Now, where did that come from?)With that, I shed my winter coat, though there's still a nip in the air. Epistolary bullets spraying the mind. It's an Al Capone kind of gangster evening circling Alcatraz with the perfumed air redolent with promise of yet another year to come. I wear a green millefiori heart from my childhood. Valentine's Day is almost upon us. Vito and Sinead's birthdays coming up. Vito, at 70, after chemotherapy, is also too hot to handle, but he is jubilant to be still in the game. I'm in a public place. So, should I drop the "l," is the word pubic too graphic? There's nothing like that prickly feeling when your pants are hot and sticky from spilled tea. I can't help but feel renewal with that turning of the sun, also too hot to handle. 

2/10/06 Writers' Group

BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT

BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT

At that time between day and night
when everything is crepuscular in notion,
& the Cole Porter violin cresendo swells,
opens the doors between worlds,
is where the liminal and the real world collide,
where we dream, where we drift,
where you’re not sure where you’re going
or where you’ve been,
living both lives simultaneously. 

Vicariously.
Meanwhile, a petty dictator 

gets in the way of truth.

2/4/06

No guarantees

Who was it that said, no guarantees? When it was first used, and under what circumstances? Imagine sitting around the hearth fire, stone walls singed with smoke and facing the empty spit, mid-winter, the world outside dressed in white, blinding even in fog. The stomach protesting under the fur parka, you stand at the ready with spear in hand but with nowhere to go, except forward into the snow where an uncertain future awaits: either the full belly or the full sleep of death. The cold coagulating your dreams into the shape of ice crystals, and stars bursting in your veins. But the insistence of the empty belly makes itself understood in no uncertain terms. It wants out now, regardless of the risk, taking tentative steps into the cloud-white snow where you sink into the purity of winter, the light edging its return. The days widening by an infinitesimal fraction each day. You step forth anticipating the kill, for to kill is to live. But there are no guarantees, only the hunger and the cold. Soon the snowmelt will bring the game back to your door moving you into action.

1/6/06 Writers' Group

Every note counts (better wait than never, said the dyslexic)

It was a slip of the eye, I misread a sticker. Too tired to untangle its confusing message, I went along with it, laughed at the inner joke: Vote for Note. But then today, all my  notes, votes, vowels, nouns and verbs are a play on the syllables of the tongue—to the point where my eyeteeth are more like seeing-eye-dogs in the braille backwaters of the mind during the day after the night before Little Christmas—The Epiphany. Every note counts.T ell that to the drab female blackbirds whistling drills in the marsh. Today the sea and sky were brilliant beyond belief, everything righting itself after the storm. She sang her haunting call, it penetrated a place somewhere beyond language—a drowsy awakening and collapsing of time. I was 4, I was 12, 19, 30, 45, 53 in that marsh, listening to her plaintive song. The realization that every note counts, whether song, or mnemonic device, or word-counting notes in the marsh. For a moment I was that drab bird clinging to saltgrass, singing every note, making it count. I voted for her continuance.

1/6/2006 Writers' Group

"Cactus Heart" photo tryptic for SSU's Art from the Heart show

"Cactus Heart" photo tryptic for SSU's Art from the Heart show, the date says 2006, but this may have been a later entry. It didn't sell. I have another heart that did sell, aquarelle on morillaboard. I guess this was too weird.

Mabli, Neil, his nephew David, and I visited the USS Hornet in September, 2006 (I think). The middle image is a pipe assembly from the ship. The cactus was from a school garden in Fremont where I was teaching poetry (probably 2005), the kiwi was from the Monterey Market, super cheap because of the so-called deformity.

ART & SCIENCE Introduction to Color/ cycles, Silk Mural

OBJECTIVE: To incorporate science and art. Choose a theme: the elements (air, earth, fire, water), an environment (land, sea, sky), cycles (weather, day/night, seasons, etc.) Prepare by studying science lesson/concept you wish to enhance with art. (The history of the Chinese Silk Road and materials used[silk, brushes] is another area to explore.) Then brainstorm to show what concepts students have learned. This project spans about 3 to 6 one+ hour sessions.

Pre-planning: for each student have white scratch paper, pencil, black felt tip pens; magazine & calendar pictures of animals, plants, ecosystems, etc. Have students individually come up with drawing ideas, using contour or solid (not sketchy) line (another lesson), and then trim drawings, glue them into a larger piece on butcher paper—this step is especially helpful with young kids (grades K-3). For 4-8th grades: divide students into teams (5+, with one team captain). If you rotate several kids in, keep team captains for continuity.) Students can finalize mural drawing on white-board. Mark out 3 x 3’ squares.

MATERIALS: Each student should have a small Elmer’s blue glue bottle for gutta resist to draw on the silk. This will contain the dyes like a dam. Small squeeze bottle acrylic fabric paints with plastic tips work great. I like the metallics. (Save those used bottles and refill them with Elmer’s blue glue. If the fabric paint is dried, soak in hot water to clean.)

Or use real gutta resist bottles with metal tips and water-based resist for thinner lines. Real gutta is made of rubber and solvent (like rubber cement), so don’t use it with small kids. Metallic guttas are great, I’ll let a student use guttas but only with parental permission, and only if they’re careful.

One to six 3’ x 3” silk scarves, or silk yardage. (I’ve made murals with as few as 5 kids assigned per scarf, or with an entire class, but you have to work everyone in during shifts.) Use simple ponge, or habotai weave silk, 5 to 8 mm (thin gauge). Polyester & cotton won’t work at all. (Burn a thread, silk leaves no residue, just a fine ash, polyester leaves gunk.) (OR if you can’t set up for silk, use white butcher paper or heavy 80 lb. white sulfite paper and watercolors.)

Stretch silk onto 3’ artist stretcher bars, or duct tape together four 3’ wooden rulers, or duct tape corners of silk to 4 chair backs to keep scarf taut. I’ve also used cardboard windows to stretch silk. For a paper or tagboard mural, no need to stretch! Like cats, most papers (except w/c& sulfite) don’t like water. Experiment.)

Each student should have a small half-sponge, 2-3 Chinese, or sπumi ink brushes (they’re cheap) resting on damp sponges which are better than paper towels for taking excess water off brushes. DON’T leave sumi brushes in water jar!!! They’ll behead themselves....and jars tip over.

Two students can share a water container, and an ice tray arranged with 3 primary (printer) colors, Cyan (sky blue/turquoise), Magenta (red hot pink), and Yellow. I use Jacquard silk dyes. They’re non-toxic, brilliant, pure color and last forever.

Reserve one brush for yellow as it pollutes easily. (For watercolor on paper, I use Crayola 07W mixing paints to get magenta & turquoise). You can also use diluted silk dyes like watercolor. Also have a few large watercolor brushes or foam brushes for painting large areas, rags, water spray bottles.

ART SCIENCE VOCABULARY: Composition, balance, contour line, wet-on-wet, texture, salting/ osmosis, etc. Utilize the arts components: Artistic Perception (planning), Creative Expression (hands-on), Historical and Culture context (models), & Aesthetic Valuing (sharing) with the Science vocabulary: Observe. Ask questions. Make a Hypothesis. Experiment. Make a Conclusion. Share what you’ve learned. What surprised you? etc. Artists and scientist use many similar skill sets: observation and hypothesis are key components.

Young Audiences of Northern CA Calligraphy Residency

Artist: Maureen Hurley
Discipline: Introduction to Calligraphy & Graphic Arts

Goals of Residency/Teaching Philosophy

Goals: For teachers: to spark ideas for the creation of an integrated curriculum, using visual arts and language arts. For students: this calligraphy residency will teach the art and history of fine hand lettering, and instill in students, the historical and aesthetic tradition of the art of calligraphy.

What is your approach to working with children?

I am an active published artist, performer/writer and educator. The excitement of, and proximity to creativity carries over into the classroom and ignites students and teachers alike with a desire to learn a difficult skill. Sharing this inspiration in the classroom allows me to create an arts community and foster a nurturing and safe space for students of all ages to explore divergent thinking skills.

What approach do you use to teach them skills in your arts discipline?

I love integrating core curriculum into my lessons, whether it be language arts or visual arts, social studies or science. I share my artistic process with students and instill in them my teaching philosophy which includes a sense of excitement, playfulness, and a burning desire for exploration and experimentation. I use specific models, class demonstration, group and one-on-one instruction, review process, critique/compliment sessions, and portfolio assessment.

Learning Objectives
(what do you want students to know by the end of the residency?):

Objectives: During this six-session residency, students will practice various skills in the visual and written graphic arts. At residency’s end, students will have a grasp of the mechanics of fine art lettering, and with the skills they’ve learned and the handouts I’ve given them, they will be able to continue learning long after the residency is over. I often ask them to teach a sibling or friend after class so they have a sense of ownership in the learning process.

Young Audiences of Northern CA artist bio and residency workshops

Poet and visual artist Maureen Hurley has led creative writing and art workshops for 20 years in California, Montana; Europe and the USSR. Maureen was awarded seven California Arts Council Artist in Residency grants, and numerous awards and fellowships for her work. Maureen' holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Art Studio and Expressive Arts from Sonoma State University. She holds a MA and MFA in Creative Writing (poetry/playwriting) at San Francisco State University, she minored in Celtic Studies, and Folklore at UC Berkeley. She is a storyteller for Oakland USD. Maureen often bases her classes on school curriculum— especially Social Studies or Science, or classes that combine the literary and visual arts. Maureen has taught students of all ages and levels—from Special Ed to GATE; pre-school to Elderhostel. Classes include Poetry & Silk Painting or Calligraphy; Murals, Painting & Drawing; Poetry & Performance. Residencies may be adapted to all age levels and skills.

Residencies (Visual Arts)
Drawing & Painting
How does an artist see the world differently? Students will develop the ability to observe like an artist or a scientist by exploring aspects of drawing and painting using contour line, form, and color composition. Media may include tempera paints and watercolors, India ink scratchboards, oil or chalk pastels, specialty pens and papers. Our models will be the great masters as well as other students’ work. Student-artists may develop a portfolio of their own work and display it in an art exhibition at the school site.

Painting "Sun Catchers" on Silk
Discover the magic of light and color with silk "sun catchers." Students will explore painting and drawing (see above). Using gutta serta—a technique similar to batik, and brilliant non-toxic silk dyes, they will apply their newfound skills to create stunning works of art on silk-covered hoops, or "sun catchers," and on silk banners and scarves. Or we might create large themed group silk "mural" or a series of self-portraits. This class also works well with a poetry or science component.

Murals: paint a story on the wall
Make murals for a school play or event using cardboard and tempera, or create a permanent installation with acrylics on canvas or plywood. Mural painting—whether it tells a story, or records a historical event—is a collaborative process where everyone gets to help with the design. We will incorporate drawings into a mural, create an outline or cartoon mock-up, and then under the guidance of a student mural captain, teams will paint the mural.

Calligraphy = Beautiful Writing
Calligraphy, the art of beautiful writing, develops observation and reading skills as well as fine eye-hand coordination. Students will learn the history of the Roman alphabet, from its pictographic beginnings to modern shapes. "A" is an ox; "B" is a house. We will write secret messages in Phoenician, invent our own alphabets, look at other writing systems including Linear A & B, Mayan, Chinese/ Japanese and Egyptian/ Cuneiform to see how the art of writing evolved. This class is an excellent addition to 6th grade Social Studies curriculum.

Residency (literary)
Poetry, the Mother of Art
The Greeks called poetry the mother of all art: Poetry allows us to synthesize what we know, explore new ideas, and ask questions in a safe format where there are no right/wrong answers. Poetry builds language skills and is an important component of both the Performing and the Literary Arts frameworks. Using their own unique perceptions and relevant life experiences, students write, perform, and publish poetry that creatively expresses their feelings, thoughts, and dreams. They will use culturally diverse model poems from both their peers and by world poets while exploring the use of metaphor to develop their own poetic voice. We will unravel language and make it our own. Many of the poetry recipes may be taught in bilingual Spanish. Publishing may include designing broadside posters or a poetry book. Longer residencies might also include the visual arts such as silk painting or calligraphy.
(Available in Spanish or English)

Young Audiences of Northern CA painting and color mixing workshop

Five Session painting and color mixing workshop

Day one will introduce simple color mixing techniques with tempera paint, and give a brief overview of the ten-session art and poetry lessons. Painting exercise will focus on primary colors (yellow, magenta, cyan) mixing with tempera paint using geometric and free form shapes. Students will learn the proper use of brushes, supplies, etc. We will have a class complimenting session at the end,

Whenever possible after every session, we will close each class with a complimenting session (using Visual and Performing Arts Standards (VAPA): aesthetic valuing) of each other’s work. Teachers will also display student artwork in classrooms and in halls.

Day two focuses on building (9 x 18”) simple landscape, using layers and triangles, using calendar photos and artist landscapes for inspiration. We will draw simple miniature (baby) contour line drawings to identify the shapes. We will build landscapes in layers and artist will introduce age level appropriate key VAPA vocabulary and concepts.

Day three focuses on primary and secondary color mixing with the addition of white/black (hue/shade) with tempera and we will make very large paintings based on landscape. We will use culturally appropriate artist landscapes (reflecting classroom diversity), calendar photographs for our models.

An alternate teaching idea is to have students cooperatively paint a large landscape (18 x 24”) in pairs. Whenever possible, all art lessons will be theme based according to grade level language and or science/social studies curriculum (weather/water cycles, land/sea/sky, transportation, CA history, etc)

Day four will introduce the concept of (solid) contour line drawing with black felt pens using toy animals and cars as our models. We will use blind contour drawing, opposite hand and freestyle drawing techniques. Or, if the teacher prefers staying with color exploration, we could do more landscapes using oil pastels or chalks.

Day five is an optional follow-up drawing lesson, using larger scale toy animals and each other to develop comfort and confidence drawing in a black and white medium. Students will do partner drawings and mirror drawings, if there’s time.

FIRST FREEWRITE TO KIRK WHIPPLE on 5s project A E F W & Q

FIRST FREEWRITE TO KIRK    ramblings that wouldn't separate themselves into orderly piles of air earth fire and water let alone, transcendence

In the beginning was verb
fire danced on water
myriad fireflies etched traces of fire and starlight

in the bayou    crossing the bog
where at water's edge
live coals
sang a reptilian siren call
it's an eat be eaten world
and on it goes

GOODBYE JOHN LENNON, 25 YEARS AFTER

GOODBYE JOHN LENNON, 25 YEARS AFTER

A fan wanted a piece of him, 

and the bell rang good night 

and goodbye to John Lennon.

The Dakota became a pilgrim spot, 

a holy shroud, where the

spilled blood on the pavement

marked the end of an era.

Imagine there's no heaven… 

I remember his round glasses, stringy hair, 

he was dressed in white, as if ascended, 

with Yoko, in a staged bed-in, 

they sat as if on a floating cloud, 

preparing for ascension 

to a heaven where rock 'n' roll 

could be heard at the Pearly Gates.

12/9/2005

Remembering John Lennon, 25 years later

On the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s death, I stayed in bed, snuggled and sandwich between layers of memory foam and goosedown. I was the cats pajamas. They say that John and Yoko stayed in bed for months on end. they staged a bed-in, and receiving visitors as if they were laid-back royalty at the Dakota Hotel in Central Park where that half acre of bed slumbered like a fairytale castle. I thought of Princess Diana and the story of the pea, once upon a mattress. What songs came out of that gestation, what art? Neil asked me where I was the day John Lennon was shot. I was at home in bed, writing as it turns out. Someone must’ve called me, because I remember turning on the radio and for 24 hours we listened to every song John ever wrote. I recorded a couple of hours' worth of music before I ran out of tape. As it was, I recorded over all my old poetry reading archives and whatnot. I remember, when I heard the news I was facing south, towards the sun, it was an indeterminate day of sun and clouds. It was raining inside all of us that day John Lennon died. It was like JFK, RFK, MLK all over again—singular days etched into the mind forever.

12/9//2005 Writers’ Group

Letter to the Montana Historical Society, Madeline Bedal, Memoirs with Maureen

Subject: Madeline Stannard Bedal

Hi

For over a year, I've been collecting the folk stories of Madeline Stannard Bedal (of Fielding, (Stannard Creek is named after her family), and, later, Whitefish. She would like to send her stories to interested folks. 

She is at the Westlake retirement center in Fremont, CA and was born in 1914. Her family homesteaded in Fielding. She's an excellent storyteller. I take down her stories verbatim (she's legally blind) and type them up, read them back, and she makes small corrections.

We've a class called Memoirs with Maureen. I have been trained in folklore collection at UC Berkeley with Professor Dundes. I have not applied analysis to the stories as they're folk narrative. 

I am a Montana Arts Council artist in residence and was listed with MAC during the 1980s and 1990s. I taught poetry to students in Laurel, MO.

SECRET HEARTBEAT

From the earth comes love
Trees, beast and bird
From the sky above
Stones fall at your feet
Secret heartbeat
Desert skin, mountain
valley, green meadow.


2005 November?

found on the back of a receipt from Office Depot, hence the date.

I think it was from my writers' group.

HALLOWEEN, BANTRY BAY STYLE, ca. the 1890s

While writing a note to a friend, trying to explain the origins of Halloween, I decided to collecting dust off my dribs and drabs that I’ve collected over the years, and send them out as a Halloween blog. As many of you know, I grew up with a foot in three world: America, Ireland, and a somewhat Victorian version of the Otherworld. Hopefully you will enjoy this melange of stories. Actually, dressing up and using the phrase, "trick or treat" (also "trick and treat") was commonly used in southern Ireland in the 1890s... Contratry to popular belief, it was not a backwards traveling idea that came from the Americas as there was very little by way of American customs returning to Ireland until very, very recently (St. Patrick's Day celebration is an example). 

My grandmother, Jennie Walsh Reilly, who grew up in Bantry Bay, used to tell me of the trick or treating customs she celebrated as a girl. They dressed up in rags, they made and wore masks to disguise themselves so the uneasy returning dead let loose from the side (or barrows) to wander the earth for one night, wouldn't recognize or take them, and boys made bull roarers from pig bladders to scare the malicious ones away. They trick or treated. They had to either sing, dance, recite a poem (perform) and only then were they were given a treat...sometimes even a shiny copper half-penny.

She was quite irritated by the American custom of kids demanding candy without first performing. Id bring home from school the American traditions and she would "correct me, show me how it was supposed to be done. I do remember her giving us walnuts, oranges and apples. We played games: bobbed for apples, chased apples on a string with our teeth, peeled apples in one long core and let it fall to the foor to see what letter it would take (who we would marry), etc. I remember she lit a candle and I used to jump over it a la Jack be nimble /Jack be quick/ candlestick. She told me of hollowing out turnips to protect the wondows and offer a light for the souls returning home. Pumpkins are a new world food that replaced the big turnips of Ireland.

She also burned rosemary and sage from the garden in the newly lain fire: smudging the house to cleanse the air/banish the spirits on Nov. 1, and of course, we went to mass to pray for the dead. I remember all this so vividly because I used to help her with these tasks (which I thought odd), I was 5-10 years old, during the 1950s. We lived out in the wilds of N. California, where she singlehandedly raised my brother and I.

Soda bread and tea were made. She'd cut a deep cross on the top of the round loaf baked in a cast iron pan(other times of the year it was merely made in rectangular loaf pans). She told us of the special barmbrack bread but she rarely made it as she couldn't be bothered with making yeasted breads. But we knew the significance about receiving the ring, the coin or the rag.

She said, that in Ireland, they cleaned the house before Halloween, threw out any standing water, decorated /framed the windows with ivy, mistletoe and evergreens, placed hollowed turnips in the windows to light the way for the dead. They put out the fire, cleaned the hearth (once she used a plastic bucked, and it promptly melted when she put the hot ashes in), relit it from the bonfire on the hill at the farm (she used the pilot light on the stove).

At our farm, Coom an Or, my great-great grandfather drove his cattle between two bonfires, and he also made Catherine wheels out of wagon wheels covered in tar and rolled them down the hill... this custom was also done at Beltaine. Not all the All Hallows events practiced were solely for the Celtic New Year.

Some customs were used on St Stephen's Day (the wren on a stick), and Dec 31, and May 1.) Interestingly enough, she did pronounce the "m" in Samhain (it was sort of an m/v), she did learn school (Gaelic League days), she said it was not aspirated (the term they used for changing the s of certain letters. I know that because the typography of the day did not allow for making the dot o aspirated letter, that h's were introduced (thus creating a lexicographical nightmare)...

I found out later, when I attended UC Berkeley's rather rigorous Celtic Studies program (1999-2000) that sometimes that "h" was used in the medieval MSS as an aspiration, but dots were also more commonly used... We translated the Tain(s) Bo Cuailnge, & Fraoch, as well as other stories. I alsc studied with the late Provessor Alan Dudes, and collected much of my family's folklore for the foll archives. Anyway, my grannie argued that the sowen pronunciation was a post 1900 change, and, therefore, wrong. It may have been a Cork dialect or custom/or even just learned wrong... But she always fiercely tracking words in her Irish font dictionary dating from the 1880 or 1890s...Dineen’s think. but the cover was burned off in a kitchen fire.

• Hallowe'en customs in Bantry Bay, Cork, Ireland, .. 
• https://mohurley.blogspot.com/search?q=Halloween

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

LISTEN TO THE LEAVES

Listen to the leaves, 

to the beating of your heart 

and sing to the moon.

Sing to the sun, sing to the stars.

It's time to go, to catch up, 

to smell the roses. 

Lemon spice, the names of roses

disintegrating into the mind, 

into the senses, a bouquet of thought.

Listen to the falling sycamore leaves, 

crimson against the pavements gray. 

Starfish hands grasping the air,

lightly dancing down the street 

like the scurrying of small rodent feet. 

Once I dreamed that the fall leaves 

turned into carnivorous beasts 

like strange lizards nipping at our heels 

driving us out into the light.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

Samhain freewrite

What follows the hunter’s moon, those nights when something is in the air, an expectancy. stirs us to pure verb. Muted horizons, the hills blend into a haze, marking a time for when the gates of the Otherworld will open, a time of harvest, a time of gathering in, the end of the agrarian year. Samhain, the new year in the old year's arms. Pumpkins like multiple suns, sleep in the fields of Half Moon Bay. They say on average, every American spends $16 on pumpkins each Halloween. I’ve almost reach my quota. Mini pumpkins and squash on the windowsills gaze out at me. Large pumpkins nesting on the table glow amidst seashells, ancient spirals of the conchs of Sanispac Island. I wonder if there’s an identity crisis amid the shells and squash? Shells so old they might’ve been opened by Arawak Indians. Cannibals, Columbus called them. Gone now to the otherworld. In the year 800, the pope gave up trying to get the populace to give up the old ways, celebrating the day of the dead when the doors of the sídhe rolled open in enchantment walked the land, taking fairy lovers and demons alike into the fold. And when Pope Adrian heard the Indians too celebrated the dead, he took All Saints Day from May and moved it to November. He couldn't comprehend the Aztecs taking a beating heart, holding it up to the sinking sun, crowned with marigolds and perfumed with copal. Everyone carrying on and partying in the graveyard offended the padres and so they renamed it El Día de los Muertos, the day when the boundaries between the living and the dead dissolved into el oscuridad de la noche, welcoming the dead into our lives for one day of the year.

10/21/2005 Writers’ Group

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

THE THOUGHTS OF TREES

Language is key to the thoughts of trees.
The leaves, small tongues against the wind.
Roaring river unlocking the thirst of a far shore.
This sibilance of syllables, the hissing
and glottal stop of branches cracking underfoot,
a warning the thoughts of trees, the key to language,
the small tongues of leaves against the biting wind,
thirst unlocked floods the farthest shore,
the sibilance of syllables the glottal stops,
a branch is a warning in the cambian layer
and danger rises unbidden in that deep secret place
within the brain were no words live,
only pure action. All is verb.

undated Oct 2005?

EGRETS

EGRETS

I had a dream of birds,
naked birds all lined up
in Joseph Cornell art boxes,
they were devoid of down.
Someone handed me a small egret
which I ate while alive.

undated Oct 2005?

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

ADRIFT ON A RAFT OF TIME

We are adrift on a small raft 

and we moue small kisses into the air 

as if to say goodbye. 

The relentless ticking of the clock, 

never stopping its measured beat, 

a metronome in an empty kitchen.

Where is the music, the piano of thought?

We break out cord progressions, 

seeking patterns. 

Meanwhile time's measured march 

strings the minutes into years

until this parting where we pass 

from one existence to another. 

Oh yes, there was a time 

when we understood the language of trees, 

translating the creek's thought into song. 

The slow thoughts of trees, 

the birch writing on leaves.

Concentric time measured 

in cambian layers 

and speaking in tongues.

undated Oct 2005?

Madeline Stannard Bedal Chapbook

Madeline Bedal was a student of mine at Merrill Gardens, an assisted living retirement home in Fremont, CA, where I taught a memoir class. It began as a poetry writing workshop but nobody was particularly interested. I tried out all kinds of writing exercises with them. I brought in Big Band music (a hit) and memorabilia, I worked with themes— anything to spark their creativity. So many of my elderly patients were very nearly brain dead from lack of stimulation. I struck gold when I stumbled upon the memoir process. 

Madeline, who was legally blind, and so she dictated everything to me, grew up in Whitefish, Montana, where she led a pioneer life, rich in memory and tradition. When she died, I was devastated as I had become quite fond of her. Her brother, Bill Stannard made a chapbook of her work, which I never knew about until after her death in November 29, 2006. Kudus, Madeline. Bill said that he sent the manuscript to Montana Arts Council, I don’t know whether or not he did that. I would like to think so. The Pruneyard in San Jose was once the Bedal Ranch. There is one tiny road named in memory of the ranch. I hope to find more of her pieces and post them, so this is a placeholder. Though he sent me the letter in 2006 I decided to post it in 2005 when he sent it out to all their relatives.

—Maureen Hurley (added 8/2023. I have so little work from 2005 to 2006, I don’t know what happened to it all. So every little thing I find helps me to flesh out those years. This becomes a diary of sorts.) See also: Della Madeline Stannard Bedal obituary 

Fall colors freewrite

The fire in the throat of the wind, the way it flickers and lickshas me worried. There is an inferno combusting in the trees. The leaves gathered in the sunlight all summer long and at the first cold wind, they dream in sun colors, and let go. Soon the leaves will give away all the pieces of summer to that tramp of a wind that licks at the eddies and crevices until the trees stand bare in naked skeletal splendor. A branch rubs against a windowpane, a street light flickers like distant fire, and all the stops are pulled out. An aura of wind, water and earth. Fire in the hole. Incongruously, I think, is that a canary in your mind shaft?

9/23/2005 Writers’ Group

Autumn Equinox freewrite

The turning of the seasons, looking back over the shoulder, eyes cast on the remnants of summer, with one foot stepping towards winter, the other leaving spring. Equinox. But the nights are growing in sooner, no dog days, no halcyon days of Indian summer to carry us across the threshold of the year. A cold wind nipping at our heels, so uncharacteristic of September. The cold seeps into the bones, it creeps under the open corridors of loose shirts, and preternaturally dwells in the psyche. The cat wants in. He’s bracing himself against the cold, he wants in, he wants shelter from the storm. As do we all. And has Dylan finally cashed in the cow during the September of his years? We listen to his lyrics sell, sell, sell And now Scorsese has made a film of him. What happens when the idols become the icons? It’s Equinox, but where? Surely, not here, maybe at the equator where the nights and days are always equal. No cold nights to remind you of winter’s frailty. Meanwhile another hurricane pounds the Gulf, and the homeless living in tents, in sthe weltering heat, still have warm summer nights. No pestilence infested night to contend with. Yet, I bet they’d happily trade places with us, even with the cat.

9/23/2005 Writers’ Group

Huckleberrying with Bears

SUE: How’s it over there?

BOB: Pretty good.

DAVE: I found a really good patch. Handfuls of berries. Big ones too. Blues.

SUE: Really? Where are you?

DAVE: To your right. More. A little more.

SUE: Keep on talking. I still can’t see you.

DAVE: I’ll rattle the bushes, OK?

BOY: Aooooo!

LORA: What was that?

SUE: It’s just the boy.

LORA: Are there any bears here?

DAVE: Naw, not yet.

BOY: Aooooo!

LORA: Whaddya mean, not yet?

DAVE: Not bad, kid. Scared the shit outta me. They're working their way down the coast. Already got ‘em in Sonoma County.

SUE: I still can’t see any of you. Rattle the bush again. Thanks.

BOY: Aooooo!

DAVE: Wait. I didn’t rattle any bush. Did you? Mmmm, these berries are good. Sweet too. I’m coming over. Quit playing around, now Boy. Won’t be long now. Grrrr! Where are you?

BOY: Grrrr!

SUE: Over here. Are you moving around? How come you rattled it from a different place? You're freaking me out. You trying to get me lost or something?

DAVE: But I didn’t move. And look at the bushes. Can you see them? Do it again.

SUE: Do it again Dave, I missed it. Man this wood’s thick. A fire waiting to happen like Inverness Ridge.

DAVE: Hey, I'm talking. Ya find it?

LORA: Think he was guilty?

DAVE: Who?

LORA: OJ Simpson, of course.

DAVE: What brought that one on?

LORA: The fire. It was during the trial. We were stuck a week in this camp and the only news we got was the fire and the trial. Yeah, I was stuck a whole at Camp Mendocino Woodlands. Not bad. Hey, has anyone heard Bob lately?

BOB: I can’t get through. The brush is way too thick. I gotta go around. Dang! I lost my watch. You gotta watch out for sinkholes too. Next time bring a machete, will ya? We gotts ta head back, it’s nearly sunset. I'll catch up with you at the car. Everyone move west, towards the light. Stay in pairs, OK? See you on the other side.

 DAVE: Bob? Bob?

(this piece was a victim of epic ASCII fail....I was only able to resurrect fragments of it.)

INDIAN SUMMER haiku

INDIAN SUMMER

Fall slaps us surely
in the face, shaping us up
for coming winter.

8/26/05

Summer's End Galore

Plenty, and good enough, my grannie would always say. I grew up tin-eared to so many of her odd turns of phrase. I was too easily tortured by schoolmates because my English was lilted. Pure Bantry Bay it was, and I fought my tongue's inclination.  I ruthlessly stripped those phrases from my speech the way a gardener tackles spring weeds in a no-nonsense sort of way while I became mute, lacking for words, between languages, I was. English to English. The ancestral tongue structuring a bearla and nearly a half a century later, I can still hear the Irish word go leor (galore), that meant plenty and enough.  My grannie was keeping the old tongue alive in a transplanted language. How many centuries were those words passed down, an unconscious act, a weed in the garden. English flourishing, despite England's best effort to strip Ireland of its Gaelic. She always said that the Irish beat the English at their own game when they took to writing. Revenge is the best sword. Drop the s and the word becomes the last word. there was nothing left for me to do but pick up the pen, a gauntlet thrown down in the grass. Ten paces at dawn. Summer's end, the end of innocence. Galore. Good enough, she'd say.

8/26/05 This was from my Writers' Group. I wrote little poetry but the prose went deep enough.

Roadside Weeds

Deep summer. Weeds by the side of the road, fallen pieces of the sky. Won't do any good to pluck them. All that periwinkle blue going to waste. A blue blur I acknowledge at 70 mph, as I careen north, crossing the Russian River, muddy, churning. Late rains have confused the flowers. First, the yellow flowers, then the poppies, followed by lupine and chickory. There's an order to the blooming of flowers. As if there was a grand scheme of color opposites at work. Yellow / blue. Orange / purple. The mallows and clarkia have little competition, it's magenta all the way, baby. No complement of color, unless you count the grass, but it's gone tawny as a lion, despite the late rains. All next year's seeds will germinate, only to sizzle under August's hot anvil. Dog days of summer. In my Elderwriting memoir group, Catherine says it's because the dogs always go a little crazy for lack of water. People too. The discussion circles the phrase, hackles raised, a low growl at the back of the throat. What does it mean: end of summer? The threat of disease. Lael says Rabies. A farmer's daughter would think of that. A neighbor lost his cattle when an august dog hankered after a shank of beef. Afraid to drink at the trough, bright green algae curls amid fish and cress. In a fit of domesticity, and brandishing a green thumb, when the mesclun lettuce had roots, I planted a few seeds in the herb box: arugula, and raduccio, not knowing its ancestry. But the lettuce bolted in the heat, reaching for that shiny patch of sky, it flowered and opened its blue hands. Chickory weed by any other name, by the roadside, a weed in my salad bowl, I garnish with sun-ripened tomatoes and basil. I am rabid with desire, all that red and blue and green and purple in my bowl. A bouquet for the dog days, and for what is to come. Sharp tang of fall in the air, knocking on the door of the sky.

8/26/05 Writers' Group

Novato woman found dead in pool, Verona Seiter

August 5, 2005 | Marin Independent Journal (San Rafael, CA)Author: Gary Klien | Section: Marin Independent Journal 

A 68-year-old Novato woman was found dead of an apparent drowning yesterday in her neighborhood pool, police said.
Verona Seiter, a longtime resident of the Crossroads area in southern Novato, was found around 5:30 p.m., when a neighbor saw her face-down in the deep end, said Novato fire Battalion Chief Mark Heine.

The neighbor called 911, and two Novato police officers arriving at the scene jumped into the pool and brought her to the surface.

"Initial rescue efforts were attempted, but she died at the scene," Heine said.

Police and the coroner's office are still investigating Seiter's death, but Novato police Lt. Tim Christensen said it does not appear suspicious. An autopsy is planned for today.

It was not immediately known how long Seiter was in the pool, but it might have been a relatively short period of time. A longtime companion, Herman Berlandt of San Francisco, was scheduled to meet her yesterday afternoon but his bus was delayed in traffic. Seiter left a note at her Cheda Lane residence for Berlandt to meet her at the pool.

When Berlandt arrived, police were already there with the bad news.

Berlandt, a poet and theatrical director, said he had known Seiter, an actress, for 30 years. He first met her when she auditioned for a Maxwell Anderson play he was producing.

"We became inseparable friends," said Berlandt, founder and director of the International Poetry Museum in San Francisco.

Neighbors and associates described Seiter as an irrepressible character - active, free-spirited and bold. She was known in the neighborhood both for her distinctive English accent and her penchant for sunbathing openly in the nude.

"She was very theatrical," said Mary Van Muckey, a neighbor.

Residents said Seiter performed regularly as an actress and also did voice-over work. Her recent productions included Samuel Beckett's "Happy Days," "Footfalls" and "All That Fall" at the EXIT Stage Left theater in San Francisco.

"Verona was a delight," said San Francisco director Ugo Baldassari, who directed Seiter in "Happy Days" in 2001. "She was a free spirit, an imp and a very dear old soul. It was a pleasure for me to have worked with her."

Seiter had spent the last several years battling bone cancer, enduring repeated chemotherapy and radiation treatments, neighbors said. Still, she remained active, swimming regularly and traveling. She had returned earlier this week from a trip to Europe.

"She's gone through it all and keeps coming back," Van Muckey said. "She was such a fighter."

Funeral arrangements are pending.

Goodbye God, Gone to Bodie (Monologue)

Jim Cain's house, Bodie used by permission @Allen Saywer

"Winter is here—the snow part at least.  A nice little cabin on Wood Street.  A winter's supply of grub; a few books, including a pack of cards; and—half a barrel of whiskey will carry a person through until spring." —Free Press, Nov, 1881

James "Jim" Caine and Joe Maguire got themselves a nice little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber up to Bodie, and they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that.

Stranger bedfellows have been made. But in Ireland the Catholic & Proddies are oil and water with a little fire and brimstone all mixed together in a strange baptism. Now, that was a long-standing taste of hell if ever I saw it. See, they had to come to the New World to put aside their differences.

At nearly 8200 feet straight up from the bosom of the sea, it was damned cold at night. Bodie had the worst climate out of doors, save Alaska. Up on the plateau, it was exposed as an ass in the outhouse, and cold as a witches' tit. Shaving water froze in the cup. And when the winds blew at 100 miles-per-hour off the mountains, it was the banshees straight from hell singing a funeral dirge with your name on it.

Joe Maguire said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. And here it was, mid-August. He missed the sweet taste of new potatoes roasted in their jackets in the embers, all slathered with butter and salt, he missed it more than the Emerald Isle itself. About the only other thing that would willfully grow in Bodie was the hops plant in front of the Donnelly house. Handy for making beer.

All this brown and dust and sage, sometimes if you didn’t look at the long narrow valley head on, and sort of blur your side- vision, it does look a bit like Ireland with all that green growing in the crevices and the wild irises nodding their dainty purple heads.

A pity about old Waterman (William) Bodey dying in that freak blizzard in '59 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. He would've been real proud. Just look at it now. That's B-O-D-E-Y, not I-E; some illiterate sign-painter got it wrong. Said it looked more refined that way.

They say Bill Bodey got caught short in an unexpected storm while making a supply trip to Monoville. November. Shoulda been fine. Some say it was the Bodie Curse, he took some ore with him. Bodie's mighty protective of its sugar quartz, there's always the risk. 

Bill was the first one to find the placer gold, you see. Sparked off the biggest gold rush in the west, he did.  Would you believe that 20 years later, they dug his body up and reburied it again just to celebrate him with a big bash. We were waking the dead twice.

Joe Maguire came up from 'Frisco with Johnny and Tom Parr. Joe was Bill Irwin's foreman at Standard, and Johnny was foreman of the Syndicate Mill. Irwin put a donkey hoist on one of the shafts and did right well, indeed. That's when they called themselves the Standard Mine and built a 20-stamp mill. That's what kick-started the town of Bodie.

They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 lost souls, to 7,000, then by '79, to 10,000 headless, bedless, and souless grubbers and claim jumpers that kept streaming in from all four corners of the globe—and hell and highwater all that summer long in search of gold. The dividends alone sent a thrill throughout the world.

Bodie has better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek, a lot prettier too. Funny, how some folks believed that hell was hot when Joe knew firsthand that hell was cold as a frigid hoor on a Bodie winter's night.

Well, then, when the news got out in '77, all the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and hunkering down with all forms of whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty & stable turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed—and pronto.  

It was the worst winter on record, to boot—20 below zero and thousands were dying of pneumonia. Why they stayed on through the winter was foolish. No food, no place to sleep, but still they trudged up the mountain to Bodie. With stardust in their eyes. Only the town Madam, Rosa May, braved the cold to minister to the sick and dying. Lord knows how many she saved, and later, the church wouldn't even give her a Christian burial when her time came.

No wood was to be had for miles around, see? Bodie was above the treeline. That's where Jim came in, he transported timber for the mines, and the steam engines. Then he had so much gold, he opened up a bank, and well, the rest is history. He built himself an empire, he did.

What few newspaper to be had were pressed into service insulating thin walls against the cold, if it was rescued from the outhouses in time. The valley was filled with 10,000 illiterate asses up to no good. Couldn't read a newspaper sideways and certainly not with their backsides. Staking and jumping claims like rabbits, they were. And we had two rival newspapers, we did. 

And we had a lawyer too. Patrick Reddy was his name, and boy was he was ready for anything. Maybe for a piece of the pie as bail for the "guests" was $5. As Johnny Parr said, It was dangerous to run a bluff on a gun play in Bodie. There was an open season on killing but it didn't last long. Eventually law and order prevailed. But we ran Sheriff Davis out of town when he got too trigger happy. We took care of bidniss ourselves.

Imagine milling all that wood and barging it across that hellish alkalai sea, what do they call it? Mono Lake, yeah—hauling timber 2000 feet straight up Coyote Creek Canyon. That's just what Jim and Joe did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla shortbread cakes. And sweat of salt mixed with success. Eventually they got some track laid out for a train, but most supplies arrived by stage.

They made plans to lease out the old Bunker Hill Mine claim, I mean, the Standard Mine. At the time, it wasn't paying out much, hardly worth keeping it open. But as luck would have it, danged if they didn’t have a cave in (they didn't properly shore up the roof—wood was so scarce) and uncovered a rich quartz ledge right before the lease went through: they hit paydirt indeed! 

Some $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! That was over $1000 a day between them. They went wild with joy. Luck of the Irish haltered to the business wagon of the Scots and several fortunes were in the making. Not just theirs.

Luck must've rubbed off on the neighboring hills too because suddenly there were claims everywhere: in one month, the Syndicate Mill and Mine produced more gold that most of the claims in California and Nevada combined. The engine and boiler were said to have come 'round Cape Horn.

Here was Joe, at 25, filthy rich beyond his wildest dreams. Jim already had a taste of the fine life. It was all imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. A rich, fine ash, indeed. He began to buy up the town.

No more ready-made sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot for Joe, though he had to admit it was right handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all. Someone was always willing to lose a little goldust over a bad hand of cards. Like Wild Bill Walsh. Sold his own wagon in Ione for a good hand of cards and a barrel of whiskey. Joe was no stranger at the poker table. No siree!

Big Black Bill's cook crew still made the best grub. Bodie attracted men from far and wide. Uncle Bill was a South African, with an Irish name—O'Hara. Figure that one out. He must've come from the Cape with the mining equipment. Everybody called him Uncle in reverence.

Fortunes were routinely traded every night in the 65 saloons lining Main Street. You could drink in a different saloon every week and still have a baker's dozen extra to spare for emergencies in case you needed to double up your drinking routine. That’s where the real money was to be had, in the transaction process.  Not the town bank. The straw bosses knew that much. 

It kept the mortuary in business too. Not that it needed help where murder was a daily event. Caskets had spring-loaded false bottoms to keep up with the burial demands. Stagecoach robberies, to shootouts, Bodie was one wild and lawless boomtown, second-to-none in wickedness and sin. 

Jim began to dream about his future. A man need a family. He was a Stuart. Substance. Put down some roots. A son and a daughter. A mail-order bride, say, a sweetbud of age 14, not like the bloozy "Ladies" on Maiden Lane at the north end of town—that was the ticket. 

No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Lottie Johl or Madame Mushtache with the wooden leg for him! He'd dance with his pure flower of a bride at the Fireman's Ball in the Miners' Union Hall, he would.

He'd move his new bride into his new house sporting the only glassed-in front porch in Bodie. Glass was damned hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother seeing as it would crack in the cold, come winter, if the transport mules didn't get to it first. But she’d keep him warm. Yesiree indeed!

He'd put some real kimberly glass on her finger, he would. Get married in Carson City. No churches in Bodie, see. Saloons was our religion. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his evil ways, he would. Yep. No more Rosa May with the wild eyes and windblown hair for him either. No sirree! 

Would the little mite come up the mountain? But if you were sick, or got the lung disease, or having a baby, you sure wanted Rosa May on your side, she had the healer's touch. She did.

I can't help but think of that little girl who wrote the last entry in her diary, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie," she probably wound up working the pox-infected cribs as Cain pondered popping the question. 

Lottie Johl gave up her wicked ways and took up painting, she was purty good at it too. Never knew whatever happened to Joe. Some say he went to San Francisco, some say he went back to Ireland, but I think it was the mountain that called him home with a good hand of cards, and a six-gun.

© Maureen Hurley
6/2005, 2008, 2009

Bodie, Jon Sullivan photo—Wikipedia

Gone to Bodie, v. 3

GONE TO BODIE v. 3

After Jim Caine and Joe Maguire got a nice little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber to Bodie, they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that. Stranger bedfellows have been made. But in Ireland the Catholic & Proddies are oil and water and fire all mixed together. Now that was a long standing taste of hell.

At nearly 9000 feet, it was damned cold at night. Shaving water froze in the cup. Joe said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. He missed the sweet taste of new potatoes roasted in their jackets in the embers, all slathered with butter and salt, he missed it more than home itself. All this brown and dust, sometimes if you didn’t look at the long narrow valley head on, and sort of blurred your side vision, it did look a bit like Ireland with all that green growing in the crevices and the wild irises nodding their dainty heads.

A pity about old W.S. Bodey dying in that blizzard in '56 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. Just look at it. They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 lost souls, to 7,000 bedless and souless grubbers that kept streaming in from all four corners of the globe all that summer long in search of gold. Better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek too. Funny how some folks believed that hell was hot when he knew firsthand that hell was cold as a frigid hoor on a Bodie night

All the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and hunkering down with all forms of whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed—pronto. Imagine milling all that wood and barging it across Mono Lake, 2000 feet straight up Coyote Creek Canyon? That's just what they did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla cakes. And sweat of salt mixed with success.

They made plans to lease out the old Standard Mine, it wasn't paying out much, hardly worth keeping it open. But as luck would have it, danged if they didn’t hit a quartz ledge right before the lease went through: paydirt indeed! Some $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! That was over $1000 a day between them. They went wild with joy.

Here he was, at 25, filthy rich beyond his wildest dreams. It was imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. No more sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot, though it was handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all, someone was always willing to lose some goldust over a bad hand of cards. Fortunes were routinely traded every night. That’s where the real money was to be had, in the transaction process. The straw bosses knew that much.

Joe began to dream about his future. A man need a family. A mail order bride, say, age 14, not like the bloozy "Ladies" on Maiden Lane--that was the ticket. No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Madame Mushtache for him! Move his new little bride into his new house sporting the only glassed in porch in Bodie. Glass was damned hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother seeing as it would crack in the cold, come winter. But she’d keep him warm.

He'd put some real glass on her finger, he would. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his evil ways, he would. No more Rosa May for him either. No siree! But would she come? The little girl who wrote the last entry in her diary, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie," was probably working the pox infected cribs as he pondered the question.

6/2005

Steadfastness

I am uncertain of this new writing system I feel a little uneasy as I don’t like contemplative states—at least not for art or writing. But they're all big meditators. I have issues with most conceptual nouns. Image/comparisons: That’s my wicket. But the steadfastness of writing puts me on an even keel. That’s something I can do. My meditative world. But I can’t help but enter the visual world too. 

There’s a name for the roots of kelp, standfast. Stand/stead share the same etymological root. Or call it a holdfast. I am visualizing afternoon light in a kelp forest. Filtered green, suspended plankton and debris, small glistening bubbles escaping from below. And that snapping sound in the ears. I think it’s krill snapping their claws, or the waves retreating. 

I don’t care to name it, but, to experience it. I love that buoyancy as we hover, suspended between worlds: air and water—male and female. Once in the Galápagos, I was snorkeling in the cold water off Bartolomé Island and an equatorial penguin buzzed me, zipping up from under me, swimming upside down, so he could see me better. We stared at each other for a split second but in a flash, he flipped over and took off so fast, I could’ve imagined it all, except that I got so excited I screamed and my snorkel filled with sea water and I nearly drowned. Silvery bubbles like shooting stars trailing from her body.

OK that three-minute pause definitely intruded and interrupted my train of thought. the train has left the station. no one aboard. So now I can’t pick up the penguin line, or rather the feeling of awe. I was reliving the moment. Perhaps that’s the key to good writing is to relive the moment. 

Last Sunday as I read my poems with pianist Kirk Whipple and Marilyn Morales I read a piece I had never read before in public to the woman for whom the Nocturnes were written. Ilá, dressed in white, danced a fluid tai chi movement as I read my poem. 

The audience were strangers to poetry—which requires another kind of steadfastness, an anchor, in order to hear it. And so I filled the auditorium with my intention and my voice, wrapping it around the backs of chairs, and sending it to every corner. But I was chained to the microphone and I couldn’t pace. I was anchored to the floor as surely as the kelp and all I could do was to sway with the words. Believe in them again, truly a re:vision as I find tuned an updated version of the words to fit this millennium. I was the sea. the sea, thalatta, thalatta. The sea.

52/2/06 Writers' Group

MAYDAY: HOLDING VIGIL FOR SINEAD

The sun is shining,
and the sky is that incredible cerulean
I stare straight up at infinite blueness,
and forget everything for a moment
only to have an egret enroute to the lake
cross my trajectory and I remember
we're in the city after all:
that distant pounding of surf:
really cars on the freeway
I hold vigil for my cousin in NICU,
a victim of that same stretch of road.
Hit and run. who could do that to another?
With shaking hands, I paint three silk scarves,
the gutta, forgiving. I painted beauty:
Roses, egrets, orchids,
and the sky emerges from void.
We wait for a pattern to emerge from the catscan.
Any sign of recognition will do.

5/2005






Where the sun is shining, and the sky is that incredible cerulean when you stare straight up at its infinite blueness, and you forget everything only to have an egret enroute to the lake cross your trajectory and you remember it's in the city after all: the distant pounding of surf, the cars on the freeway while I hold vigil for my cousin in hospital, a victim of that same stretch of road. With shaking hands, I made three silk scarves, the gutta forgiving. Roses, egrets, orchids, sky emerge from the void.

Confessions of an iPod Roadie

CONFESSIONS OF AN IPOD ROADIE:

FROM CLASSIC LEGACY TO THE OS X GENERATION

Our peculiar form of iPod madness began last June in conjunction with my partner Neil’s Big Five-Oh birthday. For months, I’d been fretting over what to get him. Something special, something interactive that would involve all his friends for such a momentous occasion, but what?

I needed a happening, but I kept drawing a blank. Zip, zilch, nada. Neil had just been laid off his teaching job and he was not going gentle toward the half-century milestone. More like kicking and screaming. Fifty body blows to the psyche. The bases were loaded. No way to ease his pain as the dreaded birthdate inexorably drew nearer.

Pondering that notion, I found the answer at the bottom of a bright yellow MacWorld Expo bag, a poster. I unrolled it. I was gazing at Apple’s 20th anniversary “Think Different” commemorative poster of that amazing 1984 TV commercial of the woman runner—who so famously interrupted half-time and changed computing history as we know it.

For the 20th anniversary poster, the jogger is updated with an iPod. Very cool. Synchronicity struck with the force of a sledge hammer. Give him an iPod to ease his pain!

We decided to update Neil O’Neill (who is a musician, actor and teacher) with an iPod for his 50th birthday. He was constantly losing CDs and his CD player was acting strange. Via clandestine emails, I tapped some 50 friends to fork over some music and dough for an iPod and accessories galore.

When I had collected enough moolah to buy a plane ticket to Tahiti, I ordered an iPod, an iTunes music store gift certificate and chotchkies from Apple’s red tag store and it arrived the next day!

Now, I had a an elderly cobbled together Mac PPC 9600—someone’s obsolescent technology was my ticket to paradise (alas, no firewire; OS 8.6), so I couldn’t upload music onto the iPod even if I knew how to do it, which I didn’t.

I smuggled the iPod off with a bunch of Neil’s favorite CDs (Beatles, Van Morrison, the Corries, Bob Dylan—Neil shook Bob’s hand, and wouldn’t wash it for a week! But that’s another story). I took the iPod to a friend with an iBook to DJ it up. (Friends also gave him a favorite CD to download special songs into the iPod.)

During the party, while Neil, now officially 50 and loaded, was jamming with Mike Husser on the base guitar, I ushered everyone into the back room where they signed the 20th anniversary “Think Different” poster. It was a cool sacrilege.

Neil was pretty blown away when the iPod was presented to him hidden inside the poster—after he blew out all 50 candles that melted the frosting, singed his hair and nearly set the deck afire. We all ate cake with wax, jammed on, and a good time was had by all. A real 49er send-off. Hello 50, the last good decade to be middle-aged. Time to hit the road, Jack. Have to pack our things and go.

We took off on vacation and shared earbuds as the new iPod sweetly serenaded us with a little Ray(ban) Charles at 40,000 feet, on a series of rather hellish plane rides with far too many layovers (and 12 hours of no food) from Oakland to Florida. Most fellow travelers will whip out pictures of their kids faster than pistols at the OK Corral, so we retaliated, we drew out our iPod and fired back a tune or two.

The iPod did famously at Miami’s “unconservatory“ school of music; most folks we met had never seen an iPod in the flesh—er—chrome and Lucite. The musicians loved it. Everyone oohed and ahhed—especially over the accessories. It had a stereo adapter? a FM and a car cassette converter? a microphone? Hook it up to MIDI and digitally record with it? Use it as a jump drive? You could see their (click) wheels spinning.

The iPod was such a cross-cultural smash success, even our friends’ Cubans relatives all wanted an iPod too. No translation needed. I think I must’ve “sold” a few dozen virtual iPods while in Miami.

I didn’t know a thing about downloading music into iPods or how to use iTunes, neither did anyone else. Hot Miami nights, no AC in the practice studio, plenty mosquitoes and geckoes galore. While the musicians jammed on Calle Ocho (a kilted Neil in a Cuban guayabera playing “Those Were the Days” to a frenzied Cuban audience is another wild cojone story), While a former Californian, composer and world class pianist, Kirk Whipple, and Neil were in the studio talking shop, I was figuring out how to use iTunes, and the iPod on a borrowed iBook with OS X. Baptism by fire.

I was a classic OS 8.6 California girl mesmerized by an OS X world. Luckily, MacWorld’s Mac 911 guru, Christopher Breen, graciously came to my virtual rescue; he was my sweet email roadie guide; he told me how to upload tunes (you need to be online to get the titles? I’d typed in about 50 titles), and how to make playlists. I uploaded a little Margaritaville (Jimmy Buffet), Gypsy Kings, Celia Cruz, and Kirk Whipple & Marilyn Morales’ nocturnes, “Elemental Portraits,” (for which I’d written a suite of poems in collaboration) and we were good to go on a little road trip of our own.

After our unconservatory gigs were over, we took off for a little snorkel trip down to the Florida Keys and the Dry Tortugas—until three whopping hurricanes chased us home. We shared the iPod with musicians in Key Largo, we listened to the iPod as we drove across the Seven Mile Bridge to the old bridge at Pigeon Key—that’s Flagler’s Folly, Key West railroad bridge for the Havana-bound gamblers during the Depression. The bridge was featured in “Key Largo” with Bogie and Bacall, and again in “True Lies” with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis.

We put our lips together and blew a few sultry tunes to the iPod as we kayaked and snorkeled (it stayed on the boat, alas no wetsuit, but Chris Breen assured me even that was possible) we saw manatees in the mangroves, swam with sea turtles, and dolphins. We even took our iPod on those famous Key West sunset cruises (their music seriously sucked.)

It’s a long way to the Dry Tortugas, a civil war fortress a tiny coral atoll in the middle of the Caribbean, several hours from Cuba, Cancun or Key West by fast boat. You have to want to go there. Samuel Mudd (John Wilkes Booth’s doctor) was incarcerated there, and Ernest Hemingway was shipwrecked there after a hurricane engulfed the atoll.

When the coffee and booze ran out, Hemingway fashioned a raft and made for Key West, 70 miles back to civilization to write “For Whom the Bell Tolls” before Cuba beckoned for good.

Our boat ride back to Key West was hellish, with pitching indigo-black seas, frothed with 10-15 foot swells, lightning striking the water. The first of four storms, Hurricane Bonnie, was brewing. Oblivious to the storm, Neil was in the cabin happily iPodding it with a little Led Zepplin while I rode shotgun outside to avoid mal de mer. I was distracted by dolphins and flying fish off the bow, a wayward barracuda miscalculated a wave and nearly jumped into my arms. Finding or losing Nemo?

Everything was going swimmingly until we got home and decided to upload more songs. We were getting a little tired of what was on the iPod and wanted a sea change. Change is good. But we had very little spare change and an elder Mac, a PPC/9600/200MHz. No USB, no firewire.

So I snagged a beige G3 mini-tower off of Craigslist. Dangerous learning curves ahead. I learned to swap parts, I put in USB and firewire PCI cards, rearranged a few ATA and SCSI hard drives, haphazardly flipped SCSI ID switches until I got everything to load.

I replaced the wonky modem, loaded OS 9.2.2 so we could use iTunes and download music from the iTunes music store. (The USB card is not OS 9.2.2 friendly; it only works under OS 8.6; I’ve tried various combos of USB drivers. No luck, To use my jump drive or download pictures, I have to load OS 8.6).

I added more memory, a 500 MHz Sonnet chip to speed the Gossamer G3 up, but we still couldn’t use the danged iPod, other than as a hard drive. I was able to load an old version of iTunes under OS 9.2.2. But it didn’t recognize the iPod. We’ve got great playlists, with some PC speakers, our G3 is a really great juke box. Neil rarely uses the analog stereo or the PC anymore. Well, I gutted the PC, so he couldn't use it anyway—even if I wanted to get it up and running again.

Back to the drawing board. It turns out, this particular iPod needs OS X. Well, I found out that first generation G3s (ROM v.1) are not happy with OS X, especially with a 500 MHz Sonnet card.

(I won’t mention the Superdrive (v. 105) I installed, that needed serious convoluted software patches under OS 9.2.2 because Apple doesn’t have a DVD Player driver in classic mode (not an issue under OS X. No media/video card meant the Superdrive was merely a hood ornament/CD -R burner. DVD files show up but DVD Player won’t load. Alas, no Nemo screensaver for us. But at least we could burn CDs of our growing iTunes collection).

I loaded OS X (10.1.3) onto an auxiliary hard drive, and it worked for a while. I loaded iTunes 4.6 needed for this third generation iPod, only to find out that it in turn, needed OS 10.1.5. ARGHHHH! It actually worked for a while. The IPod showed up in iTunes! We were good to go. Not.

Meanwhile, all manner of strange things happened, mainly Siberian-sized freezes; I was eventually able to jumpstart the G3 off an OS 9 formatted hard drive after hitting every panic button I could think of, but the OS X christened hard drive became a shy truant, it quit showing up to work on the desktop altogether. So we’re back to using OS 9.2.2, and using friends’ Macs to load new music.

I am at present cobbling together yet another beige G3 (ROM v.2) with OS X (10.2.8) to tide me over the next few weeks (or months) until I cobble together a blue and white G3, or maybe even a G4 (but I can’t use my Sonnet card in a G4-and all the G4s at 300 MHz are slower than molasses: 500 MHz is bare minimum requirement). I need a Mac with SCSI PCI card slots & serial adapters so I can still use my legacy SCSI & serial stuff.

If money were no issue, horses were wishes and pigs could fly, I would’ve bought an iMac last summer, and a Mac Mini, last Fall. But hey, I wouldn’t have learned all this obsolete Mac technology. I can now rebuild damn near any PPC you put my way.

The lucky recipients of my rebuilt PPCs are the public schools where I work as an artist in residence through non-profits, Young Audiences and California Poets in the Schools. A Title 1 (poor) school, Golden Gate Academy, in the Western Edition got a carload of  my 75xx series PPCs.

I believe in the Apple credo to think differently empowers us, it changes people’s lives. It changed my life. As a practicing dyslexic, I could not use computers, it was their way or the highway. With Mac, I can problem solve in any manner of ways. If one way doesn’t work, at least I can fix it. I discovered too, along the way, that I could strip & rebuild a PC too if needs be...I ripped wires and hard drive out of our dead PC to fix up the G3—Neil was once a confirmed PC junkie but he's since seen the light.

As soon as I get a new Mac, I’m fixing up all the old G3s I have lying around (3) for Cabrillo School in Fremont. Meanwhile I’m waiting for my ship to come in, onboard is a Mac Mini and a Powerbook. And maybe an iMac with Airport Extreme while we’re at it. It looks nice coordinated with the iPod. maybe a buddy, an iPod Photo would be nice too so a California girl can dream big. Maybe take a few pictures, play a few tunes of her own.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)

Enough Rain

California has enough water – after years of rain, after years of drought, there's plenty more rain where that came from. Call it El Niño. Laden skies—even the Central Coast is still green, no tawny cat hills slumbering before the fire, yet. Lupines painting the hills with deft strokes. Monet, Pissarro in the rain, in muted greens, shapeshifting into dark trees, keeping the best secrets, counting their ages within each ring, diligently measuring times of rain and drought. General Sherman, a redwood dating back to the migrations that spurred the rise of the Roman Empire against the Barbarians, faithfully recorded each season—wet or dry—until some numbskull who couldn't stand the idea of something so old, cut it down with one of those big push/pull saws. They began counting the rings, never expecting to work past the birth of Christ, but count back they did. They were preoccupied with European data, the Magna Carta, the birth of Christ, Hannibal crossing the Alps, the burning of Carthage. But the trees recorded another kind of history, of weather, and drought, and rain. We are so newly come to this place, we speak of variables as if they were constants. California has enough, or not enough rain, depending on the need—but the redwood that framed this coast have measured time in eons—this last fragile ring of green we follow from the Ice Age to time-present. This time, this rain, this abundance, where everything is rainbow rainbow rainbow —to borrow a line from Elizabeth Bishop's silvered fish carrying God's flooded promise forth unto greener pastures.

Tsunami Dreams

After the first blush, dreams invade the psyche, but I can't remember them any more, or I don't want to remember them, but sometimes one slips through to haunt my waking hours and I am trapped between worlds, neither fully in either realm. It's times like this I worry about my driving, afraid of continental drift, merging into someone else as we barrel down asphalt ribbons hell-bent on destination with little thought to those dotted white lines—place holders, your space, my space. We fleetingly occupy a revolving ribbon of turf, calling it our own for a breathless second or two, before we move onto the next bit of road. Hopefully the guy next to me in the oversized truck isn't too preoccupied with his cellular dream, that he won't merge to my little red crackerjack of a car built during a time when we lived in a kinder, gentler nation, and we actually had the time to dream. In those days, I awoke each morning in a small cabin under a vast live oak tree and dutifully recorded my dreams. Some were prophetic, some were erotic, most were laden with metaphor—the stuff of poetry, and I filled journal after journal. My dream life was as active and rich as my waking hours, but I left that cabin in the meadow for Oakland's identity crisis; there is no there here, as Gertrude Stein penned, and I and discovered there was also little here for my dreams too. Just a longing for a home, for a nonexistent place, my dream cabin having grown many rooms, stairwells, balconies, porches, until it resembled the Winchester Mystery House—the old lady kept building building building to keep death at bay. I know that one all to well.

Food is life freewrite

It’s those damn kiwis, the fruit, not the Islanders, that puts my tongue all in a twist. I love their burlap exterior against a jade green mandala, and that aroma, almost strawberry, almost passionfruit, but my tongue objects, turns into an object de art, swollen along the taste buds, inflamed. Bitter and salty buds objecting to the acrid tang of the kiwi from down under. Call them Chinese gooseberries if you want, but but they are more like burlap testicles hanging from the vine. Who would've guessed all that greenness hid beneath that all that burlap? A neighbor I worked for, Alice Kent ,delighted in the rare and the unusual. One of my jobs was to check on the progress of the kiwi vine spanning the trellis. I delighted in the creamy blossoms, a cross between a blackberry and a magnolia, all porcelain and cream. Strange progeny of fruit to follow left the tomatoes girlishly gasping at the stud fruit hanging from the trellis. The roses got all huffy and pulled up their stocks and took to the road, unable to cope with that upstart vine from down under. I remember one full moon, the siren call of the garden led me down to the pond barefoot where the water iris had open their triumvirate arms to the moon. I was so mesmerized, I stumbled into the pond to pluck that alabaster light from the stems. My bare arms were calyxes beneath the moonlight. Having no knife and their resistance to plucking got the better of me, so my teeth severed blossom from the stem, sweet juice like corn on the husk, this food of life for the soul, for the tongue, for Isis.

2/18/2005 Writers’ Group

Exorcism, or what am I afraid of?

What am I afraid of? Let me count the ways. Where is Emily when we need her? All hummingbird and rose wings in the garden. Neighbors dropping in for tea. The world came to her, our Emily. What was she afraid of: does it matter? Post mortems on writers long dead, butterfly wings resurrected and reincarnated too many times for the counting. Maybe some of those molecules made it to this coast from Amherst. Maybe they’re in the room right now as we write. Maybe a molecule or two found Its way into the first strawberries of the season. Unlike Emily, we no longer know the origin, the natal land of the food we eat. They say all molecules are recycled and so we eat dust of the stars. radium, butterfly wings, and yes and bits of Emily too. What am I afraid of? The void, like everyone else. That final answer where consciousness and corporeal body are seven at the naval and all that’s left is the umbilicus of faith, any faith, it doesn’t matter. Port in a storm. What we cling to, our egos building fortresses of thought to sustain us, to offer us hope, but it’s all Maya Maya Maya in the end. Therein lies the fear. The question: what if… yes, if, if, if. And not preposition but question, that is, interrogatories of unimagined futures or will versus shall and all that it conveys. The future is always in the imperfect tense, whether declarative or not, and wishes are horses riding that which never comes and is always too late. Regret is the other name of fear, a complex soup of what if, and should have—that is where fear lies.

2/18/2005 Writers' Group

Age has no mercy tonight or, freewrite

Age has no mercy tonight or, or any other night for that matter. In my latest poetry class a student uncharacteristically asked me how old I was and I said Older than dirt, which drew a few titters. Age has never been much of an issue with me. As the saying goes, You're only as old as you feel. But yesterday I was using a handout I had made on how to teach calligraphy dated from 1980, and then it hit me—these kids' parents hadn't yet been born. I had scribed out the alphabetic family of shapes from my cabin under the live oak in Sonoma County. What meadow, what age? I was not yet 30, negotiating a tricky Saturn Return cycle and poetry was my consolation prize. I was given a bottomless suitcases of muses' words, their glad rags, their hand-me-downs. Today I listened to young girls read their newly minted poems about the goddess within. Amazingly, they were so unselfconscious as they incanted their poems to the four directions. We made something come alive today in that dreamy classroom. So what if Tom Hanks went to school there, it's a dungeon, no monk's cell of arcane learning. But somehow we circumnavigated our surroundings and suddenly we were all of one age, one mind, scribing the words on the water, deep in the well, slaking a thirst we didn't know was there, pondering the ages of Man.

2/4/2005 Writers' Group

What I saw in the garden freewrite

What I saw in the garden was barely there as if an angel breathed, and the leaves shivered as if someone had walked on their grave. Is it spring or is it winter? Flowers make a run for the border and bloom in a fit of passion all at once—just in case winter should return, which it usually does. According to the marmot, it will indeed return for six more weeks. Meanwhile, I haul out last summer's clothes that I never quite got around to packing away, but the edges of shadows say it's not spring, though the jonquils and narcissi madly nod their perfumed heads in the breeze. Spring! Spring! they gleefully announce with their yellow splendor. Yeah, right, the shadows still converse with winter. Angelino Bernini, the old black cat takes a power nap on the stoop, his dark coat is so warm, it's like an electric blanket, sparks fly as I pet him. He looks up suddenly, as if contented, as if to say, aren't I responsible for the nice weather? I envy him soaking up all that joy and radiant heat. But he's no angel, he drools and feebly attempts to take down the more careless birds. But he's just a fat black cat living out the end of his years dreaming in the garden. That's what I saw.

2/4/2005 Writers' Group

How big is the heart?

Big enough, she said, to hold the universe, but not a singularity. A multiverse in verse, the pattern. Systole, diastole. The drum inside the drum, keeping time with the shore. The earth is our mother, the sea is our blood. How big? Big enough. There is so much to contain that the vessel capsized on a lonely shore. Enough to carry it across to the other side. Remember to bring honey cakes and coins, the river is asleep. Charon’s heart beating once every millennium, how big is his heart? The seas rose and no one remembered the honey cakes. The sea took her due. The river inside each of us carves a shore of grief and tears—the same as the ocean or blood. Can you cry underwater? Someone asks. Better to leave the unanswered questions for the city of the dead. They have time enough. They say the earth is resonating like a bell. Systole/diastole; Charon’s heart is beating a drum song, a tattoo of rhythm, life compressed, lived between the two beats of a wave. How big is the heart? Big enough. The elders are closer to hearing it, one step closer…they tell stories of when they were young. First job, first love. Their days carry the rhythm still. There is such a sweetness in the the room after they tell the stories and this room is filled with hearts so big the universe can’t contain them. So we write in verse, multiverse to Sinatra’s Very good year. And now that is enough to hold the world. Do we choose the size of our hearts? How do we measure the size of the heart. A beating heart.

1/21/2005 Writers’ Group

The last of the...

Wine? She asked, serving the guest of honor first. He gazed at her with his hooded cobra eyes, she forgot the other guests, the hangers on, the ones who came under pretext or another when the word leaked out, thrusting their foot into the the jamb of the open door, wedging their way in with tissue-thin excuses. Everyone wanting their brush with fame at any cost. Manners flew out the window, in this ex-pat town, where everyone was purveyor of everyone else’s business. The wine gurgled, cleared its throat in t the neck of the bottle, and then sang in the glass. A ray of sunlight caught the cornice and everyone was transfixed by that trapped rainbow. Then the utter stillness that followed. She too was trapped inside his gaze, like cat and mouse, the white wine trembled as if distant tremors struck the earth. It was possible the islands were restless. Sharp tang of resin, then, the sea. This is a defined moment when nothing happens, but within that moment, from the first restless tapping of the wine against the green well, to the final aria in the glass, an epoch had passed. It was as if all the ages of man were trapped in that bottle, and time itself ended when she poured the last of the wine. Soon, they would be reading about themselves thinly disguised as themselves in yet another novel. They would argue, and disagree as to who was who, never realizing that the wine had been poured and consumed long ago.

1/21/2005 Writers' Group

Memoir

At Celia Woloch's reading at Cody's Books, Sharon Doubiago says she's writing a 900-page single space memoir and I'm afraid of anything longer than a thousand words. She wears golden butterflies on her ankles—curious signs of slavery and freedom. She's living in Berkeley now. Three weeks. It must be a record. But the road is an old lover.

1/9/05
added,rev. 9/17

Celia Woloch's reading at Cody's 1/9/2005

Celia opens her reading at Cody's Bookstore, as an homage to Sharon Doubiago's Hard Country. She read a poem called Late, she says she undressing the idea of choosing to be lovely by wearing an earring as a talisman.

She reads a pantoum about being bareback and how the woods were on fire we rode towards the flame with the sky and our mouths close to that danger, a list poem. She read My Mother's Birds. Sucha was a nickname, she raised chickens. Chocka was the sound of chickens and also the sound of the ax falling. She said, We could escape unlike the chickens.

Blink a child's tattered self-image: being called wool-lock, chink-eye, Saint Cecilia, here is how the world turns on itself, a girl...

Apres la Luna Miel, a love poem the, moon of honey, the sky of milk. Naming the hypothetical children and escaping from them. She does a play on slow children at play, a dyslexic moment, something I know too well. 

Another poem The Passionate Suitcase, for her Gypsy sisters. I believe the moon blink, the traffic of leaving then the night slams shut. Don't look back.

She reads from Tsigani, a book-length poem. My friend Ken Bullock and Celia took another epic Budapest train ride, which led to the poem I knew snippets of the story, then I hear the Gypsy history interpliced. The what if poem… what if I had no documents, no country… While waking into the dream of Budapest, my name in his throat like a jewel. 

Dien dobre, Polish for good morning. Celia told a story of how she was robbed, no passport. Someone said something about selling her to the gypsies, with no proof of country. I had grown thin on a diet of grief, consonants lost between languages. The neighbor, worn as a blade, eggs in his hands. Djen—day: eat what is offered in that light.

Proposals: Happy Independence Day another list poem. I don't know who'd who they think I am dressed in rags of wind with eyes of green fire.

Doren Robins says there's a tenuousness in Celia's poetry. Segue to Sholeh Wolpe, born in Persia, who said who said 10% of the people will never kill, 10% will always kill, the rest of us who will go either way. Then a reference to Hotel Rwanda, the idea of distancing oneself from the current governments of the oppressive. What one man will do to another. 

The Persian culture is now flourishing. But women get the raw end of the deal. They serve men. Condoleezza Rice is a two-man army on her own. In their writing and art they continue to serve men. Bomblets, not leisure, but sperm. Muslim fighters are given a key to heaven to paradise. The idea of the virgin paradise is sewn into his father's pants. Words have no need for light, they shine on their own. 

Afterwards we all go out for a meal at an Ethiopian restaurant and talk until the restaurant closes. The foggy night tightens its prison issue blanket about our shoulders.