Sunday, January 30, 2011

Save Baja's Cabo Pulmo Reef from Developers


Please protect Baja's only coral reef from being destroyed by developers in Cabo del San Jose. Sign the petition and pass it on.

Pulmo means lung—and this unique northern reef is literally the lung of the Sea of Cortez. It's a singularity. There isn't another reef like it anywhere.

It's a protected marine sanctuary but massive resort development on land will also certainly destroy the reef.

I have snorkeled and swum with whalesharks there and it is a beautiful garden. Coral reefs slowly evolve over millions of years, often with unique species, they're temperature specific.

Raise the water temperature by a degree or two, and the reef dies. Add siltation or pollution—even freshwater runoff to the mix, and it's certain death for the reefs.

The southern regions of the Great Barrier Reef in Australia is dying from the plumes of cloudy, nutrient-laden, pesticide-polluted freshwater runoff and siltation from the recent Queensland floods. It could eventually stress and bleach all the coral and thus jeopardize the health of the entire reef but this will take years for the saga to play out. A slow death punctuated by the unchecked invasion of crown-of-thorns starfish—real reef killers—three years' hence.

By way of example of what can go wrong with tourism and reefs, Hanamua Bay in Hawaii was completely destroyed by tourists tenderly loving it to death while wearing sunscreen (toxic to reefs).

I snorkeled in Hanamua Bay before it was killed with too much affection in the 1970s and 1980s. I revisited it again when it was bleached bone white barren wilderness pounded to death by 3 million loving visitors per year in the 1990s.

I revisited Hanamua Bay again in 2010. After 20 years' protection and vigilant management, Hanamua Bay is only now just BARELY recovering—even with limited access and patrolling park rangers—constantly blowing whistles like referees at snorkelers standing on the reef (touching it kills the reef too). It's still a shade of its former self with only about 10 percent of its original fish and reef population.



This too will be the fate of Cabo Pulmo if the area is developed on a massive scale. That kind of vigilance and protection that brought Hanamua Bay back from the brink of extinction won't happen in Cabo Pulmo if the resort complex is built. And the reef will surely die from overexposure as well as runoff and pollution. Cabo San Lucas already has been destroyed by unchecked development and rampant tourism. Don't let this happen to
Cabo Pulmo.

So, sign the petition.
http://www.cabopulmopark.com/thereef.html


  • On June 15, 1995, President Zedillo Ponce de Leon declared the 7,111 hectares and waters surrounding Cabo Pulmo, a National Marine Park.
  • Cabo Pulmo region was nearly destroyed due to excessive overfishing until 1995 when the area was declared a marine park. The fish populations are returning to a healthy status after 20 years' protection.
  • Cabo Pulmo Reef has eight fingers of unusual hard coral reef
  • Home to nearly 800 species of marine animals found in the Sea of Cortez, Cabo Pulmo Reef's rich biodiversity is unparalleled 
  • Federal enforcement and financial aid is almost non existent and the quest to protect Cabo Pulmo National Park is a burden on the shoulders of the local community—barely 100 residents—who sorely need our help and support.
  • Large-scale tourist complexes (like Cabo San Lucas) will cause irreversible damage, especially because of runoff and excessive use of the area

Saturday, January 29, 2011

RANDOM LINES

RANDOM LINES

The tree quivers with excitement
A flock of sparrows with lots to say
alighted amid the lemons.

A tree quiveriing
with excitement of wild birds
amid the lemons.          

Upperton is the embodiment
of kindness from the soles of his feet
to the top of his soul.

1/29/11

Friday, January 28, 2011

GRAND PIANO


A grand piano
was found stranded 

on a sandbar
like a beached whale
in Key Biscayne
above the high tideline
stuck in the key of sea

now a fancy perch 
for the seagulls


See piano

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Friday, January 21, 2011

Poetry Out Loud, Brentwood News

January 19 x 21, 2011 | Brentwood News, Contra Costs Times, San Jose Mercury News (CA)
Author: Trine Gallegos | Page: 3A | Section: News

A RHYME IN TIME: Pandora Bethea is happy about the success of the fourth annual Poetry Out Loud contest. The Deer Valley High event was held earlier this month, and now the Antioch teacher and event coordinator is looking forward to the next level.
From the Poetry Out Loud database, students choose two poems each by masters of poetry and memorized them for the event. Maureen Hurley from California Poets in the Schools and DV's Bethea coached the students in memorization and recitation skills.

The winners were: Taylor Green, first place; Kayla Alexander, second place, and Brandon Harris, third place.

The judging panel featured poets Maria Rosales and Bruce Moody, county Arts and Culture commissioners P.J. Shelton and Darija Walker (and DVHS grad), school board member Walter Ruehlig, and DVco-principals Scott Bergerhouse and Clarence Isadore.

The fourth annual POL contest was dedicated to Ruehlig, a former English teacher, who has served on the panel of judges at DV for two years. "It was in appreciation of his active presence in supporting literary arts for our Antioch youth, and thus promoting the love and beauty of language," Bethea wrote in an e-mail.

The next level is the county contest, which includes all finalists. They'll compete for a chance to represent Contra Costa in the state championship. For the first time, Deer Valley will host the big event, slated for 1 p.m. Feb. 13. CCTV will be on hand to film it the free event.

For more info, e-mail Bethea pandorabethea@antioch.k12.ca.us

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Tom Waits


I once made sweet potato fries with Tom Waits at a friend's 50th birthday party in Sebastopol. His daughter used to take art classes with us at the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts. I never really interacted with him much. Seemed to want his space as it were. So we left him alone.

But at the party he was stuck with me as he didn't want to mingle with the other guests as we were appointed the sudden short order cooks. Apparently I was the lesser of two evils. But he was so uncomfortable in my presence that I was uncomfortable too. Even talking about his daughter didn't break the ice. So there we were, starin' mightily hard at the stove, a 1960s model, with its strange coils glowing red like Dr. Caligari eyes, drawing us deeper into the illusion. Discordant Calliope as background music.

But the sweet potato fries, ah, the fries doused with chili powder and lime, were sublime. For a moment we forgot who we were, we smiled and took pleasure in such a simple delight. Tom's sideburns were an odd aubergine hue—a rough henna job. Romeo was bleeding. Sort of like the color of the chili powder sprinkled on the fries. He hid out in the kitchen as the party raged on in the rest of the house. I gave up, and followed the distant music.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

David LaFlamme's hands


It's a Beautiful Day musician David LaFlamme was living on the Russian River during the early 1980s, and to make ends meet, he worked at the Flying A gas station next to the River Theater. Yup, he pumped gas into my blue VW Bug—with those delicate violinist's hands worth their weight in gold. His eyes held the edges of the void within their dark depths. All I could do was weep. His hands, his beautiful hands, so like doves.

Rain, rain


It's raining, it's pouring,
the old man is snoring,
he went to bed and he bumped his head
and he couldn't get up in the morning...
Well, now, that's a bit macabre! Like, the old man's in a coma? The dark side of nursery rhymes? He bumped his head in bed, not before he crawled into bed? Sounds like it was a rather dangerous bed as it seems to have finished off the entire family. So did the old man die? An awful lot of head injuries in Mother Goose, who was a bit of a misogynist.  "She whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed" always scared the bejazuz out of me.

Perhaps that third line should go: he bumped his head, and he went to bed. Then we're talking concussion for sure.Or perhaps a brain bleed.
It's raining; it's pouring.
The old woman is snoring.
She went to bed and bumped her head,
And she couldn't get up in the morning. 
It's raining; it's pouring.
The children are snoring.
They went to bed and bumped their heads,
And they couldn't get up in the morning.
But I learned it with this end verse:
Rain, rain go away
Come again some other day.
I'd sing it, but I don't want to jinx the weather.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Does anybody really know what day it is?

Does anybody really know what day it is?

When the Gregorian calendar was adopted by Catholic countries, many holidays related to celestial events got stranded—so there was a 4 to 14-day lag between the old and the new calendar. All this fuss was spurred on as to when the Vernal Equinox actually was (the weather being what it was—unreliable), so one could calculate exactly when Easter fell.



Russia has even more date discrepancies as they had a different calendar yet. The October Revolution was not October 25 but Nov 7. (October 1917 Old Style Julian Calendar (O.S.), which corresponds with 7 November 1917 New Style (N.S.). Gregorian Calendar.) —Wiki 


The "Old Style" Julian calendar was still used for movable feasts (Easter)  in 1918. By then, the calends of  Russia & Greece were off by 13-14 days. Things you need to keep in mind when reading history!

The Julian calendar was a reboot of the Roman Calendar—which was way, way off by the time Caesar was waging war on the Celts and needed to check his day planner to see if it was summer yet. Summer was the traditional time to wage war—coinciding with the time the senate freed the annual warchest. 



So, when reading classical history, one has to keep in mind that all firm Roman dates are off...as compared to the Julian calendar as compared to the Gregorian calendar...and so on.

An extra 11 minutes per year in the Julian calendar caused it to gain three days every four centuries so the observed equinoxes, solstices and seasons were also way off. Wrong time to party and pray serious stressed out the natives and clergy alike.



By 1582, the Julian calendar was off by 10 days, which threw Easter way off! 


Easter is calculated as the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring solstice (lunar calendar). The problem was, that no one really knew what day was actually Sunday, let alone, when the vernal Eqiunox was! So Easter was celebrated in May in Ireland, and as early as March 11 elsewhere—all in the same year!

The Gregorian (Christian) calendar system had to drop some calendar days in order to realign the calendar and the equinox times.

Because of the Protestant Reformation, many countries refused to switch to the Gregorian calendar until much later. Scotland: 1600, England 1752—so all those folk holidays we love—were also off. So you have to factor this info in with medieval folk holiday customs. 



In 1424 (guessing the date here—can't find ref, ) the English attempted to reboot the calendar and about 2 weeks were tossed out of September—causing rioting—not because people were suspicious, but because they were being short-changed—literally! They were paid by the day, but were charged rent by the month. Their landlords thought it was cool. And I'm sure they celebrated with libations.


Another huge roboot of the English calendar occurred in 1751—which was a very short year of 282 days, from 25 March (Lady Day) to 31 December. So if your birthday, or any other important annual event occurred from Jan. 1 to March 24 of 1751, you were out of luck. Or you gained a year.


The year 1752 began on a brand new date, with the new style calendar, on 1 January. It was reported that there were public riots after the massive calendar change, with peasants demanding that their "eleven days" be returned—but it is a story. (See the 1424 story, above). I'm sure there were plenty of irritated folks. But the sun and moon carried on, as always.

The Gregorian calendar isn't quite accurate either; it has to drop three extra leap year days every four centuries on top of the leap year every four years except during the 100 year marker. Got that?

Then there's the Hebrew calendar year which has never been rebooted as far as I know—it's longer by about 6 minutes a year, and so, after several millenia, is COMPLETELY off kilter....So if you're a Bible scholar, well, let's say, nobody really knows what day it is, and I can't even begin to fathom the workings of the Muslim calendar galloping off on a similar bent! 
 However, my friend Vins assures me that the intercalary month takes care of that pesky 13th moon.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Happy Perihelion Day! Snow in Death Valley


Today it's snowing in Death Valley—that means it's gonna be a riotous spring. This year, even the desert will bloom—it will be painted in pure California gold! Such a rare, riotous sight, snow plows in Death Valley! Snow level, 282 feet below sea level. When the snow melts, and when Badwater Lake returns to its origins, and becomes a mirror of the sky & Telescope Peak, I'd love to be there to witness it. Happy Perihelion Day! Today, tho it be mid-winter, the earth (n. hemisphere) is closer to the sun than any other day of the year.

On New Year's Eve birds fell from the sky


On New Year's Eve, birds fell from the sky. It was reported that some 5000 blackbirds & starling fell from the sky, dead as stones, and littered the roads and sidewalks, and also some 100,000 drumfish died near Beebe, Arizona. Their strange voices, forever silent. And now 500 more blackbirds have also fallen from the sky in LaBarre, Louisiana? They are lining the roads of LeBarre. And now Gilbert, Kentucky, and Beebe, Arkansas. Blackbird singing a dirge in the dead of night. All those broken wings luffing in the breeze. A wandering toxic cloud?—only it seems to be species selective. Someone claimed fireworks Well, it's happening in a lot of places at once. Either that or the series, Flash Forward is real! All the dead birds falling from the sky. Portent of things to come. 2011, the year all the birds died, does not bode well for the new year. It feels like we're medieval Irish & Saxon scribes recording our doomed year in our own Doomsday books...
 
added, rev. 1/18

Saturday, January 1, 2011

1/1/11 at 11:11

1/1/11 at 11:11! It'll happen again tonight!

27th annual ART FROM THE HEART silent auction, silk painting

"Russian River 2" 10x10" habotai silk, gutta, dye batik © Maureen Hurley 2011
Art from the Heart

Founded in 1984, Art from the Heart is one of Sonoma County's premiere fundraising events—an evening of fine art, food, and wine where artists and collectors join to support the University Art Gallery. Art from the Heart is a silent auction featuring original works of art in all media donated by professional artists from Sonoma County and the United States. Stays at local inns and hotels, theater  and museum tickets, unique bottles of wine and VIP tasting at local wineries are also included in the auction.


You may bid on my piece Feb 12th at Sonoma State University.SATURDAY, February 12, 6-9 pm: 27th annual ART FROM THE HEART silent auction to benefit the University Art Gallery at SSU. Free Preview Exhibition Wednesday, 11-8; Thursday, 11-4; and Friday, 11-8. For more information, call (707) 664-2295 or go to http://www.sonoma.edu/artgallery

Feb 13: Great to see Joel Bennett again (and his trips to Cuba) and Joe Jaqua—believe it or not, I've known him since I was 17! Joe, Chester Arnold and me were in Marty Stoelzel's painting class at College of Marin for years and years. And Neil acted with Joe's brother at DVC way back when. Small world. 

So the former (Scottish) mayor of Rohnert Park's wife bid on my piece but it went to the woman who runs J wines! A bidding war. I got to meet both of them. Very cool. Got to visit with Stella Monday, Sylvia Seventy and Marsha Connell too—it's been ages. Didn't see Greer Upton (or her piece!). ;-( Too crowded. A great turnout and a great time was had by all. 

added 2/17 

I made several variations.

 
Russian River, finished drawing 9x12

Outline for silk template

Friday, December 31, 2010

Random Word matrixes

I fall for those end of year word matrixes, then wonder why I bothered. Top 10 obsessive words posted were writer, poet, poetry, novelist, gods, love, God, Irish, author, languages, 

My Year in Status is a bit more of a word salad, so I'll pick out the interesting ones.
Being a writer requires an intoxication with language.
Some people become so expert at reading between the lines, they don't read the lines.
I said neither of those lines.

The Little Shits

When I was barely a teenager, my life was held hostage by the wiles of two Shetland fillies who went where they pleased, when they pleased—dubbed the Little Shits by irate neighbors. No corral could hold them. I even tried hobbling them, but they could gallop, hobbled at both ends and with a cross tie. Shackled like prisoners, they still got out to terrorize the neighborhood. I dreaded full moons and the staccato of tiny hooves on pavement. One spring the bigger one disappeared only to return with a colt. So cute! My heart melted all over again but I realized I couldn't deal with a third hellion. Then I was joined by a 4th Shetland—who ran away from a distant neighbor. Then all manner of ungulates began to appear in our lower field. Once a miniature stud horse with his sidekick—a huge horse. I may have been horse crazy but I was overwhelmed trying to feed them all on babysitter's wages.


Monday, December 20, 2010

Lunar eclipse on the Solstice

Would someone please tell the moon she's late for a very important date?
Manual for about 1.5 seconds, auto is too overblown.

 I set my weenie Nikon on manual, forgot to check the F Stop & speed....it was on F400 @ 4.6. Ironically, I blindly pointed the camera shot—and it was the best one of the moon. Of course, there was more light. Even when the eclipse was barely discernible, the amount of light drop off was hug.  

Someday I want a real DSLR camera that has a low F Stop...it kills me to be stuck at F4.5. I tried Hi ISO too, and resorted to P (Auto for the red moon shots as Manual mode completely gave up with so little light. I had to lie down on the steps and hold camera to my forehead and not breathe—the movement is the moon itself. 3-4 second exposures.

I noticed journalists have been complete spazzes in reporting the actual time/date. Not knowing the difference between Greenwich and PST, for example. I'm sitting outside with my laptop. Chilly but noice.

 
It's looking a little nibbly at 6 o clock. And we have lift off!
the little rainbow tutu is the cloud cover—it was pretty thick so I held lens open for nearly 3 seconds...then I had to breathe...phew!

  
I've lost imagery—too much cloud cover. I'm shooting at 1/30th @ 4.5 (can't lower F Stop any lower—digital weenie camera. My poor little camera could barely cope. Seriously socked in now—a mooonbow! Ring around the moon...  

This cloud cover is killing me. I've gone & lost the frickin moon... Lunar eclipse on the shortest day, first time in over 400 years and it's hidden by cloud!

  I was going to use the binoculars to enlarge the camera lens...but one eyepiece came off the binoculars and bounced down the stairs and over the wall. So Neill was rootling around in the bushes for the lens during the time the sky was clear. Very Mutt & Jeff.

I have two very weenie Nikon 8.1 megapixel Coolpix P60s (one's CCD image sensor is better than the other—I keep the other one around as Plan B), and I have an older 7.1 MP Coolpix S200 which Neil was using. The P series, you can control the Fstop and shutter speed (sort of). The Automode was a bust until totality. Then it worked (sort of), but there was so little light, half the time I was shooting blind. 

I set the aperature on Mountain mode—as that gave me the greatest depth of field (focus) but even still, there were a lot of out of focus moons. I found that the 5x optical zoom was necessary—I even used the interpolated zoom vs optical (real lens).

My cameras failed, the noise dots are stars. You can see some of them moving.

I remember once we were on our way to see Tom Stoppard at ACT in SF ca. 1999 and between the buildings, hung a red moon—my digital camera couldn't cope.  

The first total lunar eclipse like this one that I remember circa 1972 or 73, I'd stopped off at the Forest Knolls post office to get the mail and looked up and shrieked—my first thought: it was a dragon's eye, then, blood. In that moment I understood why the Chinese called it a dragon's blood moon. The Aha! And another one circa 1986. Both accidental events. I had no idea they were on the schedule. I do remember earlier eclipses when I was a child—but none where the moon turned red. 

Sunday, December 12, 2010

MY GRANDMOTHER’S HANDS

MY GRANDMOTHER’S HANDS

My grandmother’s hands
were torn and speckled with pigment
fair northern flesh burned by the fierce California sun.
A rebellious knotted vein rose up like a stone.
Souvenir from a strand of barbed wire
strung to keep the deer out of the garden.

Her freckles were an archiplelago of islands
adrift on a moon-milk sea.
They were Brendan voyagers in curraghs
headed for the New World
with a warrior phalanx of shields
raised up against a common enemy, the sun.
But they failed to protect her children,
when the melanoma set sail for that country
from which nothing ever returns.

I remember her wide spatulate fingers
that rubbed floursack sheets against the washboard
that mended jeans, made dresses for first day of school
and how I was ashamed they were not store-bought.
I remember the way she weeded the gardens,
dug up the praties, stacked wood for coming winter.

From her, I learned the survival of hands.
No caresses were needed because her love
was as fierce as the sun that burned her skin
as she labored in the garden or at the clothesline
she kept us safe, and provided when no one else would.
As she knelt to pray in the Sunday pew,
the sun shone on that knotted vein
and it was so beautiful—the scarring and freckles,
a skin painting of faith and tenderness.

8/28/10 rev. 12/12/10
Medusa's Kitchen, 2012
From Ellery Akers' workshop, Petaluma, CA, 

POETRY FEEDS Benefit For Share First Oakland Program, 12/12/2010

I read too, no idea where in the program, as I am not listed, Elmaz Abinander did not come, I might have read during his slot.


POETRY FEEDS Benefit For Share First Oakland
Program, 12/12/2010
MC's: Loma Dee Cervantes, Ishmael Reed, Francisco Alarcón
6:00-6:45 pm 

Hall - Feast or Famine Chance Dinner: $5 - $10 meal ticket;

Foyer - Holiday Book and Craft Fair; Instant Publishing Poetry Wall. Come attach or write your latest autographed creation on our paper wall for

"instant publishing." Artist? Add your finest. Conserve space for others.

We will be auctioning and/or raffling off the results at the end of the event.

Sanctuary - Slides and Music Presentations

6:45 pm Sanctuary - Welcome: Lora Dee Cervantes

Invocation: Francisco Alarcon

Opening Remarks by J. Webb Mealy, co-founder and Executive Director of Share First Oakland

Reading of poem by Oakland poet, Reginald Lockett: Lorna Dee Cervantes

7:00 pm First Group with Lorna Dee Cervantes

1-2. Special Presentation: Jack Foley and Adelle Foley
Rafael Jesús González
Nina Serrano
Paul Lobo Portuges
Vicki Vertiz
Cecile Pineda
John Oliver Simon
Lucha Corpi
Special Presentation: Ishmael Reed

7:45 pm Second Group with Ishmael Reed
Tennessee Reed
Timothy Reed
Odilia Galvan Rodriguez
Elmaz Abinader
Ruth Schwartz
Becca Carmona
Sharon Doubiago
Francisco X. Alarcón
Special Presentation: Cherrie Moraga

8:45 pm Raffle / Auction / Donation Drive
Special Music Presentation
Special Presentation: Avotja

8:55 pm Third Group with Francisco Alarcón
Leticia Hernández
Tomas Riley
Javier O. Huerta
Linda Watanabe McFerrin
Cesar A. Cruz Leolol
Blackberri
Trina L. Drotar
Sandy Thomas
Lorna Dee Cervantes

El Mensajero, Lorna Dee Cervantes Hunger reading, 1st Congregational Church, Oakland

12 de diciembre del 2010 | El Mensajero (San Francisco, CA)
comentarios@elmensajero.com

OAKLAND:

Unos 50 poetas y escritores locales, como Francisco X. Alarcón, Lucha Corpi, Ishmael Reed, Reed Tennessee, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Ruth Schwartz, Cecilia Pineda, Maureen Hurley, Jack y Foley Adelle, y más, leerán su obra para alimentar a los más hambrientos de las calles de Oakland. Habrá venta y presentaciones de libros, además de venta de artesanía con tablas de datos y de artesanía. También habrá subastas que serán útiles para donaciones. En la Primera Iglesia Congregacional de Oakland, ubicada en el 2501 de Harrison Street. Este domingo 12 de diciembre. Consulta el sitio en internet: www.sharefirst.org.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Poem and photos published in Medusa's Kitchen

Repent Nothing

Mythopoetics, or why I write


The Pleasanton Poetry Poet Laureate asked me:
Why does Maureen Hurley write poetry? 

“I grapple with the unconscious dendritic history buried within the personal mythopoetics of my writing while keeping an ear bent to the myriad voices of landscape and memory.”

My poem & photos are up at Meusa's Kitchen blog: 
I WAS BORN WITHIN SIGHT

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Me and Dana Teen Lomax CPITS

Me and Dana Teen Lomax, Presidio, David Sibbit's office, CPITS event

CPITS workshop on pocket poems. She won the lavender. It looks like a pot plant.

Dana was my CPITS protégée, I trained her during the 1980s at Mark West School in Santa Rosa, where I had my California Arts Council grants. Poet-teaching became her life's work. Though I've trained many CPITS poets, if I had only one person to choose to pay it forward, it would be Dana.

added 4/24/2016

Monday, November 15, 2010

MIGRATION

              —for Bruce Moody

After the poetry reading, we sit on the balcony
it's sultry for November, real earthquake weather.
The lights of the new bridge glaze the bay
and the train hugging the shore wends its way
along the narrows, sounding a two-chord jazz note.
The frosted pink C&H sign sweetens an indigo sky.
We offer pinot grigio toasts, catching-up with the years,
myriad stars and the Big Dipper whirl above our heads.
Bruce asks, if you had a billion dollars,
where would you go? Not what would you buy.
Death will discharge our debts.
On the far shore of the Carquinez Straits
the new houses ring the hills like fireflies.
Mesmerized by their own beauty
they crowd the shore, a thirsty herd of wildebeasts
waiting for a sacrificial leader to take the plunge
into dangerous waters and force them into the drink.
Perhaps an earthquake will do.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

WHY DID THE TOURIST CROSS THE ROAD?


Yearning for another time
we strutted along Petaluma Boulevard,
once the chicken capitol of the world,
and clucked fuck-fuck-fuck-AFF
to a startled gaggle of tourists
aimlessly clogging the sidewalk.
We arm-wrestled them down
to the ground with our eyes.
Reclaimed our turf, and moved on.

Halloween 2010, Petaluma

11/14/2010

Remembering John Prine's Brother at Garbo's


Chicago Sun Times columnist and movie critic, Roger Ebert, wrote "John Prine is the poet of my life. People say he's great, but he's a lot better than that." I recommend reading Roger Ebert's Journal, a column he originally wrote in 1970, "John Prine: American Legend—A Singing Mailman Who Delivers a Powerful Message in a Few Words."

(Ebert's also updated the original story by posting some great John Prine YouTube links. The " Angel From Montgomery" backstory is worth the price of admission.) Bob Dylan once said "Prine's stuff is pure Proustian existentialism." I concur.

I have an interesting John Prine segue too via his brother. Circa 1980, John Prine's brother played John's songs for drinks at our Russian River Writers' Guild Monday Nite Poetry & Prose Reading series at Garbo's bar in Guernewood Park, CA. That's how I first learned to really listen to the words of John Prine's songs as poetry.

Ironically, it was songs—Irish ballads that first led me to writing. But that's another story. Prine always had such good angst-riddled lines: "You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness...How can you ask about tomorrow?" My kind of lines. I was living in a perpetually warped möbius strip time.

(In the 1980s, we were living under a dark cloud: many of the gay club owners who housed our poetry venues were succumbing to a mysterious disease. Nobody knew what it was. Or its name. But we personally knew the names of the fallen: Peter Pender, the pianist/gold medal figure skater, bridge/chess champ who owned Fife's Resort with partner Hugh Ross, Stumptown Annie's owner, decorated Vietnam Purple Heart veteran, Leonard Matlovich, the first gay man to "come out" while in the military—was no longer looking like Kevin Spacey. It was too much to bear.

There was also my neighbor, handsome Bill Dutra, the original Marlboro Man, his beautiful face ravaged... Note Bene: I can't find info on Bill on the internet but he may have been Christian Haren. The info on Christian (or Chuck) fits—he owned The Chocolate Factory in Guerneville. But I can't find a photo.

Bill showed me an old tear sheet photo of him as the Marlboro Man—which I recognized. Bill told us amazing stories of being an actor, working with John Wayne—how I found out Dr. Kildare was gay—and stories of Key West. So all the pieces fit—just not the name of the Castro Street Cowboy.

I could have confabulated the name—but I've an uncanny memory for details. Whoa! Now I've segued so far from my story, I'm even scaring myself. So sorry. Another story, another time. (The Russian River basin attracted many Hollywood types, Fred MacMurray, Raymond Burr, Irene Dailey all lived in its watershed.)

My personal John Prine favorites were the songs that had recently made the charts. I loved "Paradise," but we all called it " Daddy Won'tcha Take me Back to Muhlenberg County," a song Prine says he wrote for his father. There's some good backstory video on the song here.

When I was a senior in high school in 1969, the town of Paradise, in Muhlenburg County, was drowned by the floodwaters of the Green River when a dam was erected, so barges could get to the Peabody coal fields. All about progress.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

BUKOWSKI IN ORANGE


Ever notice how the really orange cats, the ones with the tiger stripes tend to be male? I know, this is supposed to be about the Buk. Bukowski was orange. Nothing to rhyme with that. Savior's a nuisance to live with at home as Joan Baez once said. Not that I lived with him. I was living out of my car at the time. A rusted blue VW Bug. Bukowski was crashing on a friend's couch at a farmhouse by the railroad tracks in Cotati. I was running the poetry center, trying to hide my backstory. Bukowski wanted to lasso a reading but he was always drunk on cheap red wine by 3 PM, and he stank of stale cigarettes. I was recovering from an illness and they called me a China doll, taunting me as they grabbed at me as if in jest because I was pale & wan. Little did they know I was near death's door. Anorexic. An abortion gone south. A river of blood raged in a flood tide. Redredred. The edges of the world closing in. My periphery darkened before the clamping down. And the will to live had something to do with it. But they saw my slender self as desirable. And so they, showing their stripes, grabbed at life, grabbed at me, but I was dead inside. I felt lucky to make it back outside‚ gasping for breath, I doubled over. Puking in the weeds. An orange cat frantically wove his way between my ankles as if to shackle me too. But it was a clear fall day, facing south, the sunshine cradling me. That was before Rohnert Park overran Cotati and there were still vast tracts of adobe fields and blankets of oat hay surrounding the campus. George Rohnert's seed flower beds bloomed in wide ribbons of pink and red. Waiting for the harvest, fields wrapped like a present.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

RANDOM NOMADS

RANDOM NOMADS

A painter of hollyhocks
constellations
a treatise of light 
where the laws of departure 
collided with mirrored chaos
 an apricot cloak across the sky 
but a departure of words 
ceaselessly scraping against 
the drama of ink.

Random nomads
A purgatory of treatises
whisper about the pleasures of the heart
a eulogy of delicate pointillism. 
So we have the words
we must shake them out of our heads. 

11/6/2010
Susan Wooldridge workshop

IF I WAS


If I was a container
I would hold the stars closer
If I was a source of light
I would burn at absolute zero
I'd be a constellation of chaos
I would write treatises of surrender
I would be a purgatory of fire
I would whisper an elegy of delicate smoke
against a horizon of bleakness

We need Joycean words to hibernate our shadow souls
Sometimes the words just start writing themselves
Sometimes we're just stuck inside  our own heads.

NICHTALALLOUDI


She was a painter of night-blooming flowers
She made color: apricot, tangerine, cerise
swirling around a dervish of bright pollen.
There was something profound about that act,
the brush spiraling in towards the center like a dancer.
Dawn was a treatise of light, a constellation of fire.
The lake mirrored the feathered cloak of the sky.
It was a departure of worlds, a murmur of words
ceaselessly scraped against a dark drama of ink.
Sometimes the poems just started writing themselves.
She was mesmerized. There was no turning back.

11/6/2010

BALANCE

I am without flagrant words
the family transports 6 million pieces
of angst into every room, the hearth
I am not a bittersweet song of iron tracks
the oncoming train, or stunning constellations
a silver center deep in the mines
or a lone candle by the river
I am the forgotten pointallism
the ears of night listening to blue piano notes
I am the river of singing stones
I am the Apúrimac, while the Andes wept
an ancient glacier of rhythms melting
into dry sobs of the coming summer.

11/6/10

Friday, November 5, 2010

When in Rome freewrite

When in Rome, and… an elipsis following a trail, breadcrumbs for the birds. A trick? When in Rome, the idea is to follow the customs of another culture. The culture of birds following a trail, the trap, or the Trojan horse? The cat, anticipating fresh meat, wiggles her haunches like a track star brandishing her cleats. She waits, anticipates trajectories and potential outcomes. Don't tell me cats can't plan ahead. The successful hunter requires mathematics and timing. The cat is a quantum dancer ... Oh, hell the breadcrumbs have led me astray. I am following a cold trail because Rome wasn't built in a day, nor did it fall in a day either. The system continued on for hundreds of years after the fall with no one at the helm, I might add, sort of like today. The politicians fiddle and burn, and combust at absolute apoplexy. We follow the Spanish customs and then look at what happens. Yeah when in Rome, it never left us. We carried the Capitoline burden into the second millennium without missing a beat. We are our own Visigoths, Ostrogoths and Moors simultaneously tearing down the infrastructure of our civilization well shoring up the bastions of hope. When in Rome, do as you would, and to others. To the other, take those aphorisms and drop kick them over the fence and let them drown in the pond of regret and despair.

11/5/2010 Writers' Group

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Gold star voting badge

In response to the prompt of a Facebook badge, I snarled, I voted days ago, OK? And I don't need no stinkin' badge to prove it.

Zana Darrow said: My dad held on to "Bohemian" as a descriptive for a long time. When we settled into the San Anselmo house for his project building BART, he knew we would probably stay for awhile. That we would not be living like bohemians anymore. We had been moving every 2 yrs or so. When I came to WI the summer of 70, I was labled a hippie. Just being from CA got you that, In the 90's the competition called me the hippy realtor.

Ken Bullock said: Bohemian. That one may go back to the Middle Ages ... but it essentially meant living like a student, a protracted adolescence. "Hippie" originally meant a white guy trying to act like a black hipster ... a derisive diminutive.

I said, Ah but you were a svelt young waif in 1970, Zana! No hips at all! It doesn't mean that we didn't absorb some of the hippie lifestyle, we were native northern Californians, and therefore, not hippies—who came from elsewhere—primarily NY or LA by way of NY.

Centa Theresa said: You are kind of a farmer/hippie/bohemian poet type, yet completely unique. Are you sure you didn't grow up in Berkeley?

I replied, Born in SF, and grew up in West Marin with the cows. We were a little too young to be true hippies! I was in high school during the Summer of Love. I wasn't a hippie—wrong income bracket/social class. Poor immigrant family. Irish Victorian era roots.

I just hate this Facebook badge thing. Reminds me of why I didn't like school. I'm like Ferdinand the bull seeing red with all these Facebook badges (in general). I appreciate the sentiment, I hate the concept.

Zana said: I ignore that stuff. I don't trust it. How about a gold star? I am waiting for my daughter to get moving so we can go vote together.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Brownie Mary

Brownie Mary

"My kids [people with AIDS and cancer] need this and I'm ready to go to jail for my principles...I'm not going to cut any deals with them. If I go to jail, I go to jail."
—Brownie Mary


I covered this story for The Western Sonoma County Paper as Brownie Mary was busted in Cazadero (scoring her harvest). I can't find the story so the Wikipedia entry below will have to suffice. (Guess I'll need to write a blog about her—the photos are place holders.) Brownie Mary was a a real kick in the pants and I stayed in touch with her for some time after she won her case. We had Irish heritage in common so we got on like a house afire. She took me on her hospital rounds at San Francisco General Hospital, delivering brownies to her "kids," terminally ill AIDS patients—who (figuratively) lit up when they saw her coming. She had that effect on people. I originally posted the photo of her in remembrance for those who've died, but coincidentally California's medical marijuana bill, Prop 19 is also up for the vote. —MH

Mary Jane Rathbun (December 22, 1921 - April 10, 1999), popularly known as Brownie Mary, was an American hospital volunteer who became internationally known as a medical cannabis activist.   —Wikipedia

Que Sera, Serra: Remembering Tony Serra


Tony Serra took Brownie Mary's case pro bono














Brownie Mary
BornMary Jane Rathbun
December 23, 1921
Minneapolis, Minnesota
DiedApril 10, 1999 (aged 77)
Forest Hill, San Francisco, California
OccupationHospital volunteer
Cannabis activist


Dennis Peron & Brownie Mary

Topaz

Yesterday at an Open House at an escrow service deep in the suburbs, an overcast day, sad drizzle softening our thoughts, we sat around a table, strangers from other worlds nibbling food and drinking wine, while drowsily droning on about this and that, name-dropping, pontificating, exchanging cards—seeking common ground the way folks do at cocktail parties…

And then—wham—with little by way of segue, we were suddenly onto the Holocaust, the WWII American concentration camps of Manzanar, and Topaz with a real Japanese American survivor. I was wide awake. I remember the desolation of Manzanar in the early 1970s before it was sanitized and upgraded into a national historic monument. No apple orchards—bleakness and fine red dust everywhere like pulverized blood.

I visited Manzanar around the time Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston's memoir, Farewell to Manzanar was published (1973), but it was before the TV movie was made (1976). I think excerpts of it were printed in the SF Examiner's California Living. I remember meeting Jeanne later, in the early 1980s when I met with James Houston over some poetry matter when he was teaching at the U of Hawaii.

(I once met a Manzanar survivor in the 1980s when (my then boyfriend) John Oliver Simon's mother, Frances Cassandra Kehrlein Adler, was interviewing him for a newspaper—I  was the photographer. Frances was once the Look Magazine staff writer and photographer, and cousin to Ansel Adams, so the pressure was on. But soon I was entranced by his story of survival. I forgot all about taking photos. Someday, I hope to find that story and his name. It is a story that will have to wait its turn. Meanwhile this is a placeholder.)

Eddie reminded me very much of the Manzanar survivor—at first I thought it was him, but as his story began to unfold, I realized he wasn't the same person. Eddie said though he was born in San Francisco, they were given a hour to evacuate. They took only the clothes on their backs. Their new Chevy sold to a neighbor for $5. They lost everything.

As the afternoon stretched into nightfall, we sat transfixed as Eddie recounted the broken fragments of his life. He said of all the internment camps, Topaz, aka The Central Utah Relocation Center, near Delta, four times the size of Manzanar, was the worst. He was separated from his family, never got to know his little brother.

I had recently read Sandra Dallas' novel Tallgrass where a World War II Japanese internment camp called Amache, near Greneda, Colorado, as told through the eyes of a 13-year-old Caucasian girl, is the centerfold of the story. Eddie told us stories of life at camp—similar to Tallgrass—only this wasn't fiction, this was the real deal. Oral history at its best.

Returning to civilization after the war did not improve the plight of foreign-born Japanese Americans. Eddie told us how the foreign-born Japanese weren't allowed to own land and how they had to set up dummy corporations to own land.

(My grandfather helped Indians "buy" farmland in the Central Valley, we had our own Jahn Singh stories of social injustice.)

One place in San Francisco was "bought" by the YMCA for a Japanese American Club, but later, the YMCA decided to "sell off" the clubhouse—a Julia Morgan building. Eddie's brother knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak, himself dying of cancer, he tracked down the documentation, translated the minutes, and with a lawyer, forced an injunction.

Then he mentioned Cecil Williams and how Cecil's wife, Janice Mirikitani read a poem about the internment camp on Angel Island. The hairs rose on my arms, the room stood still. How small the world, how the stories survive us. I was there. I remember that day. Janice reading to us in the basement of Glide Memorial.


Sunday, October 24, 2010

On my broken nose


When I broke my nose for the upteenth time, Kaiser wanted to fix it—make it pretty. The surgeon described how he'd sculpt it into a perfect WASP nose and he'd take the little ball off the tip too. Not pretty. I RAN from the hospital. Over my dead body. My deviated septum & I.

My only regret is that it is hard for me to breathe thru my nose—if the doctor hadn't arrogantly suggested that he could give me a perfect little pert pointy nose—I might have done it. I was ABSOLUTELY outraged. 

My poor nose has met so many mishaps. Horse rearing up, a coke bottle, a football tackle, the back of Sue William's head when the toboggan hit a pocket and stopped dead. The cable core rope swing at Devil's Gulch...

Then there was the round galvanized tin chicken feeder with scalloped edges stored up high on a closet shelf that sliced off the side of my nose. You can hardly tell now. Oh, the blood! The blood!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

On Sáami Culture


This thread was a rambling Facebook post with a friend on Sáami culture. Not quite a blog, and I'm not quite willing to let go of the information and shape it into a piece. But we uncovered a wealth of information in one thread in our wanderings. Note: not edited!

What the Norwegians (and all of Scandinavia—including Russia) did to destroy Sáami culture is similar to what England did to Irish and Welsh (and Native American) cultures. Neo-colonialism at its worst. Sáami are (Caucasian) First Peoples. ...Their language is Altaic (or Uralic)—not Indo-European.

You have heard one Sáami singer—Joni Mitchell! And Mari Boine is awesome.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sápmi_(area)


The Finns are sometimes considered to be a First People who lost much their culture to Christian Sweden with forced conversion in the Middle Ages, but many peripheral cultures willingly accepted Christianity and blending their cultures - until the Church objected.

Tho Sáamii and Fins share a linguistic connection, the Finns don't seem to be a First Peoples. One would have to include Basque into that mix. Linguistically, Finnish is related to the other Baltic-Finnic languages Estonian and Karelian. Genetically, Finns are a homogeneous group with a genetic heritage in common with other European ethnicities. The mtDNA markers of Finnish people do not differ from those of other European ethnicities. Hungarians (87%) and Finns (90%) are definitely closer to Europeans. Lapps/Sáami, by comparison, are 50% European.

Tho, like Sáamii, Finns (aka Fenni, Phinnoi, Finnum, and Skrithfinni / Scridefinnumin in the ancient texts) are present throughout Scandinavia & Russia (Kvens, Tornedalians, Karelians, Veps, Ingrians or Izhorians). A lot of controversy tieing Finns with Lappi/Sáami—which is an old school of anthropological thought,

"it has been suggested that the separation of the Baltic-Finnic and the Sáami languages took place during the 2nd millennium BC, and that the proto-Uralic roots of the entire language group date from about the 6th to the 8th millennium BC." Because there are nine Sáamii dialects—some mutually unintelligible—but related through the dialectic continuum— this suggests an ancient peoples.

There is also oral tradition suggesting the Finns moved into Jutland from the East. They weren't First Peoples in Finland. The original home of Finns "was in west-central Siberia." Or they were from central and northern Europe, moving north after the Ice Age. But even that idea is controversial.

The Finnish word lape, which in this case means 'periphery' could be the origin of Lappi. (The old us vs, them paradigm.) The Sámii were considered heathens, lost from God. You gotta sift thru a LOT of flaming racism when reading about the Sáami...

The nomadic Sáami are the earliest of the contemporary ethnic groups represented in the area, they are consequently considered an indigenous population of the area. Their relative isolation in the Middle Ages protected them from the bubonic plague.

During the 19th c. was when Norway began to stamp out Sáamii culture. "The strongest pressure took place 1900 to 1940, when Norway invested considerable money and effort to wipe out Sáami culture," You couldn't buy or rent land id you didn't speak Norwegian. After years of forced assimilation, Sáamii culture is reviving. The Sáami were recognized as an indigenous people in Norway in 1990.

I had a Lappi friend—she gave me an earful...and studying folklore at UC Berkeley also put this info on my radar...Finns are extremely nationalistic—and invented an epic founding saga Kalevala in the 19th c. (fakelore—from real folklore) so you really have to read carefully there. I'll shut up now.

Nik Gervae  Exhibits at the National Museum of Finland indicated that prehistoric continental or even Scandinavian peoples may have displaced the original Finno-Ugric peoples of south Finland, while adopting their language and culture. That far back, and considering migrations after the Ice Age, I just don't know how to apply the term "First People".

Finnish nationalism stemmed more from their precarious position between Sweden and Russia than their relations with the Sáami, but it's certainly true that the big nationalist revival saved their remaining scraps of folklore from the grave with Elias Lönnrot's and other ethnologists' collection of rune-songs, which are vaguely related to joik. He assembled the wide-ranging set into Kalevala, a coherent narrative that had not previously existed, and Kanteletar, which was all the rest of the material. (Estonia managed a similar preservation/reconstruction with their Kalevipoeg.) It's that culture that nearly got exterminated by European culture, so I'm really not sure how to qualify it relative to Sáami, considering the records we have of prehistory are largely in grave objects and in peoples' genes....

Nick—you've more than covered the basics here—good job! I didn't delve into the Kavelala because that's a whole 'nother can o worms! But there's no stong evidence that Finns and Sáami are from the same peoples—they may have been enemies as the so called Finnish saga suggests. The Finns probably displaced the Sáami—based on linguistics alone!

Romantic Nationalism was central "in post-Enlightenment art and political philosophy. From its earliest stirrings, with their focus on the development of national languages and folklore, and the spiritual value of local customs and traditio...ns, to the movements that would redraw the map of Europe and lead to calls for "self-determination" of nationalities...

the romantic ideal; folklore developed as a romantic nationalist concept. The Brothers Grimm were inspired by Herder's writings to create an idealized collection of tales, which they labeled as authentically German. ...

Romantic nationalism inspired the processes whereby folk epics, retold legends and even fairy tales, published in existing dialects, were combined with a modern syntax to create a "revived" version of a language. Patriots, it was expected, would then learn that language and raise their children speaking that language, as part of a general program to establish a unique identity. "Landsmål", which is the foundation of modern Norwegian, was the first language to follow this program, and it was joined by modern Czech, Slovak, Finnish and later by Hebrew as nationalizing languages. ...

Romantic nationalism is inherently exclusionary, and that, in the 20th century, proved to be a tragic flaw.....

The concept of a "national epic", an extensively mythologized legendary work of poetry of defining importance to a certain nation, is another product of Romantic nationalism. ...

Beowulf, Macphearson's Ossian and the Kalevala...were examples of new national poetry – forged either out of whole cloth, or from cobbling together folk poetry,...

linguistic and cultural nationality, colored with pre-genetic concepts of race, were employed for two rhetorical claims consistently associated with romantic nationalism to this day: claims of primacy and claims of superiority. Primacy is the claimed inalienable right of a culturally and racially defined people..."

(That vein of this thought directly contributed to the "superiority of the Aryan race...")

"The idea was that Germans should "naturally" rule over the lesser peoples. Romantic nationalism, which had begun as a revolt against "foreign" kings and overlords, had come full circle, and was being used to make the case for a "Greater Germany" which would rule over Europe."

In the US it played out as The Frontier, Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny—not our most shining moments.
Nik Gervae Yow. But yes, that's what I was saying, the original inhabitants of southern Finland (purporteded migrated from what is now Spain during the ice age), were displaced northward by another people, blond, fair-skinned.


I've been very curious to  learn more about the creation of Kalevala. There's only one good book I know of in English (Pentikäinen's "Kalevala Mythology")...and my Finnish is nowhere good enough yet.

From what I remember—w/o digging out my (really old!) notes—Kalevala is a modern Romantic construct, understand there were no folklore collection rules yet in place, it was very much a product of 18-19th c mindset, some real folklore was us...ed—but it's definitely a collage, a pastiche. An attempt to create a national literature.

Think it was patterned after Jamie MacPhearspn's equally romantic (read nationalistic) attempt at trying to abscond with Irish sagas, by claiming that the Scottish Oissin was the extant story—earlier by 3 centuries.

Sadly, MacPhearson really did collect some old Gaelic verse—but he bowlderized (and plagiarized) so much of it—and then deliberately destroyed the notes, so nothing can be verified.

Point being—the two sagas were modeled on the same construct. We did not study Estonian version. Don't know if it too is a construct. Nothing wrong with that—but claiming it as a national literature was the real problem. More like Oh look I just happened to find this old mss in a trunk or a cave—when in fact, it was a forgery in MacPhearson's case.

Something about the form in the Kalevala—was a giveaway. Can't remember what. Not an ancient form? Anyway, there's been a LOT of misdirection and bad scholarship around it—and I can see in the Wiki articles, the attempts to ameliorate the contradicting schools of thought. Thus confusing everybody even more. Not just grains, but vast piles of salt are needed while reading about it.

Read it for what it is, but don't assume its veracity. Weirdly, Tolkien was attempting to do something similar—create a national English literature. it is said the Simillaron (sp?) is based on the Kalevala...

That's why I posted all that stuff about Romanticism—you (not you, but one has) have to understand the circumstances that spawned it. Romanticism was in direct (antagonistic) reaction to the Age of Reason—I like to think of it as a collective battle of the psyche of modern man. Sorta like The Bible told me so—stance.

As for translations‚ no clue there. I did read it in translation but don't remember who. I found it challenging to read—probably because it is a collage. But Irish medieval mss was really my thing—and the occasional Icelandic saga-for cross reference. The Kalevala was, along with Ossian, when we were studying fakelore. Everybody was doing it—it was all the rage.

Joseph Jacobs, Wendt, and Yeats fall into that category—it's not to say they didn't collect folklore but they sure "improved" it, thus destroying its integrity. Luckily for the Irish—there were all these very real medieval manuscripts to back it up. I took this cool class where we plowed through stacks of books and looked at them as cultural artifacts of Romantic thought. An interesting way to read.


Re  original inhabitants of southern Finland (purporteded migrated from what is now Spain during the ice age), were displaced northward by another people, blond, fair-skinned.


Yeah, I was just reading a variant of that theory—But the Sáamii (who seem to be older than FInns—linguistically, etc.) are pale (and many are blond) tho their skin color is more golden—perhaps belying their eastern heritage. So don't know ow that all fits in. Don't forget there were fair people in Northern Japan—the Ainu...who may be related. (Japanese tried to obliterate them too...) Another wild school of thought!

Nick—this is what I mean by so much misinformation: "The Sáami people, an indigenous race related to North American Indians and Eskimo tribes, were colonized by the Christian Scandinavians." Fail! See what the idea of First Peoples conjures up? Argh!