My stolen car was found in the Oakland hills

My car was found in the Oakland hills! The thieves traded my car in for an older model—as it was out of gas. I commiserated with the man whose son's car was stolen, hence the rapid turnaround time on my car. Inside of my car looks like a hurricane hit it. I also gained some useless electronics—half a CD player, broken earphones, Costco bags and a froufrou bag from another heist. I think it was either a woman thief or a man and woman team. They stole other things, like 2 pair of jeans for Costco, etc. Thoroughly trashed the inside of the car. I took it to mechanic to fix the ignition, etc. as it's trashed, and permanently stuck in the On position. Ignition replaced, but OUCH! There's a $250 deductible. Waiting in vain for a hoodlatch, as they busted it trying to get under the hood.

FasTrak killed my FasTrak responder so the thieves couldn't leave East Bay, and Costco put a stolen merchandise hold on those two pairs of jeans with receipts so they can't be returned at any of their stores. Damage control went well. Dispatch officers and police were amazing. Everyone wishing me well. I think it was  story of the' poetry journals that got their attention. Thanks to everyone for your support and concern, it seems to have made a difference.  Poetic intent rules!

Most the drawing stuff, and the kids' poetry journals are intact. Sadly, now I can't get journals back to kids, school is now closed, and under construction until next year, and they graduated. Most of my small drawing critters went MIA: the thieves left the lizards, turtles, creepy crawly bugs (a few fish misfiled in with cockroaches & ants), and barnyard animals. MIA ladybugs, frogs, dragonflies, bees, African Savannah animals, North American wild animals, etc. In other words, they stole all the animals I use. Still haven't checked for toy cars. Hoping I didn't load them in the car.

Stolen cars are generally found within homing range. Wish there was a long-range tracker app, like Find my iPhone. or a spy bug to find stolen cars.

The Caged Bird Has Flown

Maya Angelou pauses while reading a poem for Archbishop Desmond Tutu in 2008.

Mays Angelou (April 4, 1928–May 28, 2014)

So sad to hear of Mays Angelou's passing. She had to cancel an event, Major League Baseball Civil Rights Game where she was the honoree. It did cross my mind when I read the news. Bottom of the ninth. I was mentally holding vigil. Her heart may have failed her but it never failed us.

"An unexpected medical emergency caused me the greatest disappointment of having to cancel my visit to the Major League Baseball Civil Rights Game ceremony. I am so proud to be selected as its honoree. However, my doctors told me it would be unadvisable for me to travel at that time. My thanks to Robin Roberts for speaking up for me and thank you for all your prayers. I am each day better." —Maya Angelou, May 26

Statement from Dr. Maya Angelou’s Family:

"Dr. Maya Angelou passed quietly in her home before 8:00 a.m. EST. Her family is extremely grateful that her ascension was not belabored by a loss of acuity or comprehension. She lived a life as a teacher, activist, artist and human being. She was a warrior for equality, tolerance and peace. The family is extremely appreciative of the time we had with her and we know that she is looking down upon us with love." —Guy B. Johnson

"The world has lost a great voice today. A self-taught master of the written word, Angelou also spoke no less than six languages. A traumatic and violent childhood, marked by years of silence, led to a blossoming of her artistry and her gifts. She was a champion for civil rights and justice, and on the inner circle with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. In 2011 she received our nation's civilian highest honor, the Medal of Freedom. We know now why the caged bird sings, and we release her spirit today back to the starry heavens. May your light shine ever on, Maya Angelou" —George Takai

I remember Maya telling me that she was a fan dancer at the Hungry I and at the Purple Onion in North Beach. That the act of writing was a catharsis after hours of mind-numbing dancing in those bawdy skin joints.

My mother was also a North Beach habituee and I remember thinking they must've known each other—same Beat crowd. Women were merely tolerated by the Beats. Solidarity in sisterhood.

If I recall correctly, Maya Angelou wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings while she was living in the town of Sonoma.

Anyway, I read Caged Bird when I was young, for a women's studies class, ca. 1971—long before it was considered an American classic. Our College of Marin teachers were pretty radical. We also met Margo St. James and other sex workers from Coyote. Maya was not as unschooled as she would lead you to believe. But she was largely self-taught, and world-wise.

Maya Angelou was always very supportive of our local poetry events. I once read with her and her son Guy Johnson, for Herman Berlandt's National Poetry Week.(I've B&W negatives somewhere.)

Maya was always kind, always gracious, and very direct. I'll never forget when she and Lucille Clifton swapped bawdy tales on the vagaries of aging as we were waiting in the wings to read. I guess that was the origin of her poem, Phenomenal Woman from Still I Rise (1978). And so she was.

As our California Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera said:
"You were always unbound, and you could see beyond—let's call it love, that is why the caged bird sings—in memory, in presence, Maya Angelou."

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better.  For they existed.

—Maya Angelou

Just make sure she gets that good long cool drink of water. OK?

My car stolen in broad daylight

I can't believe this: my Honda Civic Hatchback was stolen from in front of our house in broad daylight. I had all my art drawing supplies loaded in it in order to teach classes tomorrow. All my toys for drawing assignments, I also had 38 mirrors for self portraits, and dozens of drawing pens for our end-of-year art classes to illustrate our poetry books. So now this means that I can't teach drawing, or teach self portrait lessons to kids. I have taught thousands of kids in more schools that I can remember, to draw with those toys. We unlocked magic with those drawing pens.

It literally took me years to collect all those toys. I had boxes full of cool plastic toys, large iguanas, spiders, frogs. I had ziplock bags full of hundreds of little animals, and an equal amount of toy cars. I was leaving to drop off kid poetry books and head north. It means that one class won't get to draw the bugs, dinosaurs, and cars for our poetry book. It also means a whole bunch of kids from a SSF school won't get their poetry journals back, ever. Some drawings from 1st graders were lost too.

Handsome big critters are harder to find—and are often better for drawing than little critters. One very large toy beetle I will surely miss the most, was 8x10" I think he's HUGE aphid. Yes, realistic. The big buggy bhoys were really gorgeous. Especially the geckoes and frogs. Big boys 4-6", little guys 1" but those I can replace from the Dollar Store. Fish, lizards, butterflies, bugs, but no snakes —two dimensional, too flat = boring drawings. Ditto that with centipedes. I tend to teach by phylum: invertebrates, vertibrates, etc.

I used the toy cars (some were Matchbox antiques) to build 3-D model landscapes with kids—like this—you start drawing from the bottom of the page and work your way up to the top. Super successful way to teach drawing.

The mirrors are going to be especially hard to replace. They were postcard-sized 4x6" and encased in plastic, with kickstands. I haven’t seen anything like them in years. Round mirrors won’t do. I got the mirrors at El Molino Pharmacy a long, long time ago... in the 1980s. Also the matchbook cars and trucks. I've been known to raid kid's toy boxes, including my cousin’s child’s toy box.

I lost the last 3 dozen of my waterbase felt tip EberhardFaber pens—they’re no longer even made. Magic pens. Fantastic for contour lines. And I lost 3 dozen new drawing pens to replace aging EberhardFaber pens.

NO, the keys were not in it. The car was very much locked up tight, and I have tinted rear windows, and a hatch cover, so the art supplies weren’t immediately visible. Wheels were turned in towards the curb so the steering column too was also locked. The irony is that I just drove down from Healdsburg to do a good deed, to move Neil's car so it wouldn’t get a ticket, as it was parked on the wrong side of the street—I moved his car into the garage, and left mine on the street, as I was leaving again today. I went to load it up this afternoon and it was gone...stolen within the hour.

Of course I called the police, cancelled FasTrak, and my insurance. Still waiting for police to show up. I was hoping my car was merely towed for some infringement, there’s a tow sign down the street where there’s construction, but the dispatch said no. I think the thieves use a tow truck. It was literally right in front of the driveway—and on a busy street. I'm glad I hadn't yet put my overnight bag back in, I was just loading it up when I discovered the car was missing.

And when the cop asked, "Do you want to press charges? I said, You betcha. And I want to kick the thief in the shins too. He laughed, and said the stolen cars are used to commit crimes. But Honda hatchbacks are in a league of their own—clearly it’s  the easiest car to steal. And kids like to street race them. So apparently my elderly car is out for a joyride. This cop was very empathetic, and actually drove around the 'hood looking for my car. OK, so now I need a car...anyone have an old clunker?

*              *              *

In less than 24 hours, I got my car back—in record time, I might add! A cop found it abandoned way up in the Oakland Hills, Probably graduating kids tweaking. End of school year prank, most likely. Dead battery. I popstarted it and took it to the garage to get the ignition replace—the hijackers used a shim and forced it into the ignition, destroying it, which ran the battery down, as the car ignition was basically on the entire time it was parked. The radio was blaring rap music. Very telling. They probably parked and smoked way into the night, and then the car wouldn’t start, so they had to hoof it out. Some poor guy down the street had his Honda parked on his deck and they merely traded cars.

There were toy lizards and geckoes on the windshield, under the wipers, toys wedged all throughout the car. Not just a case of opening the bags, and scattering them. Very surreal. I'm sure they stole a few bags of toys, as the bucket was only half full. Ironically my bags of cockroaches, centipedes and snakes and worms is what probably saved the rest of my toys from being stolen as they were scattered all over the grass as if someone had reached in to see what was there and pulled out creepy crawlies. Will take inventory later when I'm not so traumatized. Let's just say it was a very trying 24 hours.

Made it back north in time (barely) for my Healdsburg kid poetry reading. So sweet. 1st -3rd graders reading at Alexander Valley School. I've been teaching CPITS poetry there for an entire generation. Did the 50 years of CPITS announcement. They love us in Alexander Valley, they do. And I love what I do. But I am heartsick. And the cost of the theft of toys, along with the garage bill, means I basically worked for free.

But other than not returning poetry journals in time for last day of school, and not teaching one drawing class, I managed to meet all my appointments. Most of my small drawing critters went MIA: the thieves left the lizards, turtles, creepy bugs (a few fish misfiled in with cockroaches & ants), and barnyard animals. MIA are my favorite ladybugs, frogs, dragonflies, bees, African savannah animals, North American wild animals, etc. In other words, they stole all the toy animals I use. Still haven't checked for toy cars. Hoping I didn't load them in the car.

Wow, and now someone just unfriended me because of this thread?  She made a joke of it saying that I had parked on the wrong side of the street, suggesting it was my fault, which wasn’t even true, and I said it wasn't funny, that I felt violated. Well, that really sucks too.

From a Facebook thread

• Got my car back, but the starter's dead....

Que Sera, Serra: Remembering Tony Serra is Pure Poetry

Out of the blue, last month,  someone contacted me on Twitter to ask permission to use an old photo of mine of Brownie Mary for a magazine article in a Capitol Hill rag, National Journal. 

I've been asked before for permission to use that Brownie Mary photo but I've declined as there were always strings attached—like relinquishing my copyright. Wiki, really? Really, 420 Archive? Permission to use my work by a non-profit is one thing. But completely giving it away, nope.

Anyway, once again dusting off Mary's photos, I came across photos of Tony Serra, and wondered how he was doing, if he was still alive. Apparently very much so judging from this blog link I found (posted below). I found myself rewriting a rather longish blerb to go with the link I had on my Facebook page. So, why not here as well?

I first met the legendary criminal defense lawyer Tony Serra, a self-avowed “anti-lawyer lawyer,” when he defended Brownie Mary Rathbun pro bono on a medical marijuana charge. I've been known to attend a poetry reading or two in his law offices.

Though he hails from working class roots, like Fr. Junipero Serra, Tony's no stranger to poverty, having taken an informal vow of poverty. Tony's no stranger to poetry either: he went to Stanford where a post-graduate poetry class influenced his thinking. 

Described as a "warrior with a touch of sainthood," Serra drives a $500 clunker and goes to Goodwill for his threads. He lives in Bob Kaufman’s old apartment building in North Beach, and is also a consummate “semantic warrior. ”Talk about MANIFESTO! 

In his autobiography, Serra wrote while in prison for tax evasion in 2005: “I became armed with a green obsidian semantic spear. My final closing argument thundered with green lightning flashing from the podium.” 

Tony thinks laterally much like the surrealist French poet, Rimbaud, rearranging the senses—challenging what people think they know. Serra's oratory style has been described as part poetry, pure conviction, and pure theater.

He says he's a criminal defense lawyer in order to to keep the courts and government honest. ''In the courtroom I'm a true believer, and a true believer's the most dangerous man alive.'' Tony was a Latin scholar and a lawyer whose rhetoric and flamboyance in the court is grounded in classical education. 

See the 1989 film based on the legendary Tony Serra, "True Believer", if you get a chance.

Brownie Mary

Eating the Wind

When I was a kid, King of the Wind was my go-to comfort book. So, the Godolphin, the Darley Arabian, and the Byerly Turk were my small horse gods.

I had a sorrel quarter horse mare, Becky Dart, who carried some of the same bloodlines as California Chrome—right back to Man o' War... and the Darley Arabian—they were Drinkers of the Wind. I had the fastest horse in West Marin. I rode the wind. No one could beat her at the quarter mile. 

But at the mile marker, I was always left eating crow.

My horse, Becky Dart (a Three Bars/Doc Bar/Dart Bar lineage mare), looked a bit like this mare, she was leaner and had better conformation—including a higher croup, like an Arabian. She was related to Man o War through War Hug, four generations back.

The thrill of riding an animal faster than any other four-legged creature on earth, save a cheetah, or an antelope—neither of which you can ride—was an euphoric experience.

Fact: the only animals able to run faster than an American Quarter Horse (55 MPH), close cousin to the thoroughbred, and mustang, are the those sprinters, the cheetah (70-80 MPH) and the Pronghorn antelope (60 MPH). However, they're only capable of short bursts of speed. A cheetah can accelerate from 0 to 100 km/h (62 mph) in three seconds. That's something like 96 feet per second. 

Here's the rub: cheetahs can't run fast for an hour, or even a quarter of an hour. Cheetahs can sprint full tilt for about 100 feet before they overheat.

At the quarter mile, the quarter horse would still probably win, as it can easily sustain speeds up to 55 MPH for a quarter of a mile (1320 feet in 21 seconds). Thomsons gazelle, wildebeasts and lions (50 MPH) would be eating the quarter horse's dust.

Becky Dart: Born to Run (I borrowed a couple of sentences from this blog post)

California Chrome, a Cinderfella Horse

He hasn't tapped his true potential. He keeps up a leisurely pace, then jets out, as if the other horses were standing still.

I wrote this after the Kentucky Derby:

He's our bhoy, our "Seabiscuit." California Chrome, a Cinderfella horse, an unlikely star, is pure gold. A horse from nowhere, a horse of humble bloodlines (his sire was a bargain basement stud at Harris Ranch feedlot in Lost Hills), just won the Run for the Roses at Churchill Downs.

Chromie, who doesn't like dirt kicked in his face, ran 1 ¼ miles at 2:03.66. Preakness is up next, and Belmont Stakes makes it a Triple Crown. May he run like the wind.

California Chrome, the first California horse to win the Kentucky Derby since 1962, comes from a one-horse stable. Owners Steve Coburn and Perry Martin, bought a has-been mare who had won only one race at Golden Gate Fields, and everyone told them they were crazy.

A groom said "Anyone who buys that horse is a dumb ass." Martin looked at Coburn and asked, "Dumb ass partners?" So they called their stable DAP, which stands for "dumb ass partners" with a donkey on their purple and green racing silks. Crazy dream.

An underdog from California wins the 140th Kentucky Derby. So much for the superiority of Kentucky bred bluebloods. Cowboy hats flew through the air in the grandstand!

"Coming down the stretch I was thinking: 'Keep rollin' big boy. Keep rollin'.' This has to be the sweetest moment of my life. To be my age and have something like this happen, what can you say? For all my friends in California, this is for you. We did it!" said Art Sherman. 77, who is the oldest trainer to win the $2 Million Derby. Not so dumb-ass.

Chrome is the fourth California-born horse to take the Derby, since Decidedly won in 1962 during the Kennedy administration. The three-year-old chestnut colt Chromie is out of Love the Chase and Lucky Pulpit is his sire.

Chromie's moniker (a name drawn from a cowboy hat by a waitress) is a nod to his flashy white markings, often called "chrome" in the horse world. The red colt has four white feet, is traditionally considered to be bad luck in the racing world. His dam cost $8000, his sire's stud fee was $2000 (racing stud fees run in the millions)—his cost was $10,000 and some hay. Cheap for the sport of kings.

Turns out Chromie had some royal ancestors in the family tree: His great-great-great grandsire was Seattle Slew. I saw Seattle Slew run to win on tv when I was young. Another damsire was Northern Dancer who also sired Nijinsky! (His grammaw was an Irish mare Lady Angela.) Who's preaching to the choir now?

Looks like Chrome gets his chrome markings from his sire, Lucky Pulpit: 
After California Chrome won the 2014 San Felipe Stakes, Lucky Pulpit's stud fee increased from the 2013 fee of $2,500 to $10,000.

 Lucky Pulpit's out of Pulpit, out of A.P. Indy, out of Seattle Slew
and add Secretariat & Raise a Native (both sides) to the brew.

Lucky Pulpit - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Wow. Chrome's mum, Love The Chase's gg-grandsires were Raise A Native and Northern Dancer—whose ggg-grandsire was Man o' War! .... and the Darley Arabian.

One great-great-grandsire was Seattle Slew and the other great-great-grandamsire was Northern Dancer related through Polynesian and Nearctic (and his dam was Lady Angela, an Irish horse).

And his er, cousin, Native Dancer whose dam was Natalma.

Agh. Seattle Slew, the only horse to win the Triple Crown while undefeated was not expected to be a great racehorse, Nasrullah, another Irish horse, Nearco.

Nota bene:I had more photos and links posted that were rendered dead. My posts from 2014 were especially hard hit when Blogger upgraded, as that's when I began to post photos with text. I've been cleaning them up one by one.

Lá Fhéile Bealtaine shona daoibh

Notch-peaf, or heliotrope phacelia, Mojave Desert, near Ivanpah

When I was a child, my grandmother always bade me wash my face in the May morning dew. Something to do with the fairies and the Otherworld. In this way culture was transmitted. Mayday was the one day we were allowed to bring a branch of the sacred hawthorn into the house. We had two trees she planted below the house. They didn't thrive in the California heat. But each spring, they blossomed, one red, and and one white. In Bantry, her father drove cattle between bonfires, and sent Catherine wheels down the hill. They weren't wheels, but whiskey barrels filled with tar. He lit and rolled them down the hill from the farm at Coom anÓr. This evening commemorates when the dark half of the year dies and the bright half of the year begins. My grannie was always quick to point out that Beltaine began on the eve of May 4. Not May 1. Somehow, the West Corkonians kept track of the old ways, counting the Cross Quarter days, despite the shift in the Gregorian calendar. She also said Bel/Beal was the god of light, he was not related to Balor, who was a solar god, like Lugh. She said May had to do with the arrival of summer, hence Bel's fires. Bal-ti-mor, who knew the American city was named after the fire god of May? Once I was chosen to crown the statue of the Virgin Mary with a pink rosebud wreath—we sang to the fairest Queen of the May. How did the Virgin Mary become associated with May? In school we wove May baskets of colored paper, and filled them with flowers then left them on neighbors' doorsteps. We also sang A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket... It was a day of hair ribbons and frilly dresses with long sashes. At school, we danced around the Maypole. Such magic was afoot, we were giddy with delight. Then the Lagunitas school board declared it pagan. They feared it was tainted with paganism and the the ever-present threat of Communism was a sub-text. We were devastated, of course. Something in us died that day. Something of wonder, something of beauty. They couldn't hear our distress call. mayday, mayday.  ... ---...  A small sliver of culture went down with the ship that day.



from a Facebook memory
added & rev. 4/1/2016 

Bealtaine (be-all-tin-a) from the Irish, meaning ‘Bright Fire’ 

My story on Mayday

Grizzly Peak, after the storm

Looking east toward Grizzly Peak in the Berkeley hills from Emeryville after the storm.

SPRING FEVER (haiku)

So, you sniveler,
declare yourself: are you a

cold, or (spring) fever?

Raining red centipedes on Earth Day

April 22 OK, so maybe I took on more than I could handle by replacing the outside planter shelves. It seemed so simple at the time. I should've swapped the simple shelf unit out two years ago—before I hurt my knee, and before the herb planter box completely rotted through and grew through the shelf. How on earth did it remain standing all this time? 

Centipedes galore, oh my. Of course, I was wearing flipflops so the little red centipedes took refuge under my feet. No no no! I managed to save them all from further harm. When I had to cradle the rotted planter box and shore it up with wood, they fell like a crazy red rain. Didn't get stung either. Saved a couple of worms too. Not a job description I want to share.
 

Made my proper contribution to Earth Day by planting! I remember the very first Earth Day at Drake High School. We made shaving cream pies and lobbed each other. Not sure what that had to do with Earth Day but it was memorable...

Still queasy from knee pain. Managed to avoid taking Advil, but it was hard. They get stuck in my throat and dissolve, their fire is worse than a centipede sting.Not that I've ever been stung. I'm completely covered in dirt and am icing my knee. First things first. Priorities. Hopefully I'm not harboring too many insects in my hair. I don't think I can handle getting into the shower. The tub is precarious when you can't step, stand, or otherwise use one leg. And my other leg is so very tired, it's beginning to hurt too. I am a stork standing on one leg.

April 23: Still very yeouchy today. But also feel good that I accomplished a few big things. I'm sure all that boardwalking in Armagosa Valley is also playing havoc on my knee. Ice is my friend. 

April 30: Finally back in P T, electric injection (osmosis) of topical anti-inflamatory brings some relief. Also ultrasound. And ice, of course. I feel like I am stranded in purgatory. Will this confinement never end?

Revised from Facebook posts, 4/19

The Incredible Shrinking Lake Mead

Once the largest man-made reservoir in the world, Lake Mead Reservoir in Nevada, has already dropped more than ten vertical feet this year; and it's expected to lose another 10-20 feet before next winter's rain and snow comes. Lake Mead is now about 1,106 feet above sea level. The historic high water mark was 1129 feet above sea level. The lowest pump intake is at 1000 ft. After that, no water for Vegas, baby.

This photo puts it into perspective: the bathtub ring marks the high water mark from the 1940s to the 1980s & 90s... That bathtub ring represents a loss of more than 90 vertical feet of water. That's a 3-story ship in the foreground. Lake Mead once held 9.2 trillion gallons. Over 4 trillion gallons of water have vanished since 2000.

The once mighty 1,450-mile Colorado River that feeds Lake Mead (from Arizona's Lake Powell Reservoir some 180 miles upstream) has nearly disappeared. As it turns out, the 20th Century was one of three wettest centuries during the last 13 centuries in the Colorado Basin. So the prospect of abundant water returning to the Colorado Basin in the future, is slim, to none. That's not accounting for global warming either.

A 14-year drought (since 2000—nearly unrivaled in 1,250 years), has lowered the water level in Lake Mead by more than 90 vertical feet, it's the lowest the reservoir has been in over 40 years. This is the second year in a row that the Colorado River will flow with less than than half of its historic average due to low snowpack in the Rockies, its primary source. According to the Bureau of Reclamation, the overall storage of water in the basin is at 47 percent of capacity, down from 53 percent last year.

Lake Mead now holds 162,000 acres of water, and is daily dropping. The 1.5 million acre park has over 550 miles of shoreline (and that too is daily diminishing—Lake Mead once held 760 miles of shoreline). The east end of the lake has completely dried up, the town of Overton, once boasted of lakefront beaches, is landlocked, and two Lake Mead marinas have had to relocate twice. One marina went belly up. Boat ramps now lead to dry desert floor.

If the lake water level drops much more, then, Las Vegas, the Southwest's city of light, will go dark in more ways than one. Intake valves are in danger of being exposed at 1000 feet. That's 106 feet before shut off. Las Vegas (20 million people) gets 90 percent of its water, and 100% of its electricity from the Lake Mead, which is also a crucial source of water for Los Angeles, and for millions of acres of that water irrigates California's Imperial Valley farmlands.

Hoover Dam and Hoover Dam Bypass Bridge. That's a whole lotta dam showing.

Aerial view. We motored into Castle Cove, near the top of photo (longest finger). Black Canyon & Hoover Dam is at bottom. You can't see Hoover Dam from this photo.

Lake Mead Water Levels — Historical and Current

More on Colorado River & drought.

NASA CA & NV snowpack gif from October 2013 to April 2014.

Bio Notes for Brian Kervin

For all you North Bay folks, Neil O"Neill and Maureen Hurley will be on the air live reading poetry (and music) on The Learnin' Kirven Show April 6th, from 4-6 pm at KWMR West Marin Community Radio  at 90.5 FM Point Reyes Station, and 89.9 FM Bolinas kwmr.org (live stream). Maureen will be reading poems of place, growing up in West Marin, highlights of our upcoming CPITS' 50-year anniversary, West Marin kids to read their poems. Neil will talk about coming to Marin in the 1970s, Ross Valley Players, his 30-year gig with Bread & Roses, and play some music.

I began to write Brian some bio notes and it got out of hand. Bloggy material, it is.

It's time for April Poem a Day!

It's time for April Poem a Day! Are you at the ready? 

April is National Poetry Month. The goal is to write a poem a day—30 Days, 30 Poems. That'll put a poem in your pocket, and keep the doctor away. Or the taxman.

Cruel April
in rolled trousers,
is dressed in death and taxes
it's National Poem Writing Month.
Let the madness begin.

I'm going to repost many prompts here in one place as it makes for too much confusion to post them daily (and I get lazy.) Besides, I don't think anyone actually uses my collective writing prompts. And when I do use them (I've a 50/50 average), then, I can't find my own work embedded within the posts.

Figby & Pishkin

Someone dumped a calico cat and her three young ginger kittens in the field below our house—at the end of a country road. Someone else's idea of letting the cat go back to the wild to fend for herself. Someone from town stupid enough to justify that rationalization.

The young cat was was literally starving, she didn't know how to hunt, and was unable to care for her babies. Barely more than a kitten herself, we'd watch her flop down on the dry winter grass, as she tried to nurse them, but no milk came.

She was shadow thin. I tried to reel her in with food but no luck. Her trust in humans was nil. We tried to leave leave food out for her, but the bluejays would beat her off the kibble, and she was too skittish to eat if we came near. Raccoons kept a tight night patrol.

Something had to be done, nature was running its inexorable course, but I could no longer bear to watch them starve. As they were sunning themselves in the lower field, I snuck up on them from behind a stump and managed to grab one kitten as the rest scattered to the four winds. I had one chance, and one chance was all I got. I snagged one bedraggled orange kitten and brought him into the house, but not the other. They ran off, forever spooked. I never got another chance.

Figby tamed up easily and he grew into a huge cat in an amazingly short period of time. He lost his pale baby fluff and his sleek adult coat grew in a bright orange with fierce tiger stripes. I realized that the kittens were much older than they looked—which was about 6 weeks. They were more like three or four months old. Because the wild brother didn't get much food, he stayed stunted, and never lost his baby fur.

It was odd to see the twin brothers together, one the size of an adult cat, the other, a dwarfed kitten. Mutt & Jeff. One pale blond, the other a real redhead. They were a perfect example of how nutrition played a large role in the development of young animals.

When my grannie came to America and saw all the sickly children, she said,  They're not feeding the children, in this richest country in the world—she said, horrified. Her ancestors had survived the Potato Famine. So, starvation was always a back-burner story in our family.

I tried everything to lure the wild kitten in. I was winging it. Nothing worked. Then Mamacat and the third kitten died and the little guy was by himself. About as big as a minute. All alone. He'd mew piteously and Figby would amble down the hill to visit him in the lower field, but even his brother couldn't convince him to approach humans. Figby had crossed over to the realm of humans. We were his tribe now. But his brother would have nothing to do with us. 

I tried to lure the remaining wild kitten toward the house on a food ticket. Then he was so lonely, he approached Figby and me, so I sat cross-legged in the dirt, and he tentatively drank from a saucer of milk. Unused to drinking, he did a few faceplants into the saucer, blowing milk bubbles out his nose. He shivered and drank cold milk until his tiny belly was a tight balloon. His pale fur was matted and skimpy and crawling with fleas. Poor fellow didn't even have a decent fur coat.

I tried to tame him. I'd sit for hours behind that saucer of milk, until he got used to my presence. I lured him into the house. It was now or never. I closed the door. He took off and hid under the couch. I bribed him with milk. He'd have none of it.

Ham finally did the trick. So I began trying to pet him...he latched onto my hand and nearly bit through it. I left my hand there in his jaws, and he finally let go, he looked at me uncertainly, then he licked my hand. Went back to his food and shivered. I knew I'd won the battle. (Yes, it got infected.) I scratched his chin and he purred—perhaps for the first time ever.

Runty Pishkin never grew up to be as big as Figby—who, pardon the pun, really was a ham—and he remained skittish to the end. However, with regular meals, his adult coat came in glossy and orange. He too was a handsome cat, but he never grew up to be as big as his brother. Too little nurturing, too late. My grannie said he was a little piscín, a little kitten. That's how he got his name. From the Irish.

Pishkin never grew up. He never tamed up. It really was too late, he was a wild animal. Nature vs. nurture. We fed them inside the house but the kitchen door always had to be left open. Pishkin never learned table manners. He'd growl and yodel as he ate, afraid the food would be taken from him—no matter how much we fed him. He'd hiss and lash out if you approached his dish. Figby was a perfect gentleman, he's sit tall and gaze benignly at his bother, he'd wait until Pishkin had his fill, then he'd eat.

            *               *               *

During my early childhood, I was never allowed to have cats in the house, only outside cats. There was Mamakitty, the founder cat, also a calico stray. But her line eventually died out (with a little help from the pound). We started out with one cat. At one point we had 13, cats; a week later it was a clouder of 26 cats. Dinnertime, they'd come running in thundering herds for table scraps. I'd sing: Here kitty-kitties, here kit-kits, here, kittywits, kittywits, kittywits....

My grannie said That was it, enough was enough. The cats have to go. (During the 1950s, there were no spaying options. Not like now. Ranchers either shot or drowned excess cats. Billy Joe Bianchi's father, Big Joe, drowned a litter in a gunnysack. I was distracted by the ducklings circling the pool. But I knew what had happened. The pound seemed more humane an option.)

I was allowed to keep two toms: Blackie and Winky, brothers from Mamakitty's first and second litters, were my constant companions. I dressed them in doll clothes, and dragged them everywhere.

The cats put up with my childish ministrations for years, never clawing or biting—though they were, by right, feral cats. Except the time I put a collar and leash on Blackie and dragged him down the road. The Rautio's dog came bounding up, gentle Blackie having no place else  to go, ran up to the crown of my head—raking my face and eyelids and spitting for all he was worth. I had scars for years.

I tossed the cats in the creek at the beginning of summer for their yearly bath. It was a tough love—they were stinky cats. They hated water, but they loved being clean afterwards—and they managed to keep up their personal hygiene for several months. Then, being boys, they'd get slovenly.

Blackie was a gorgeous black-tipped longhair, with a smoky undercoat. He worked hard at keeping all that long fur clean. Winky was a tabby striped shorthair, also with a cloudy undercoat. (They must've had the same father.) Blackie was also a bit of a lavender poofter, he had a thing going with the other male cats. Must've been his green eyes that drove them wild. He'd also steal kittens and tried to nurse them.

Not like the Stone's ugly rogue cat Grayboy, from down the road, who ate all of Mamakitty's kittens one night, and left the heads in the crib for me to find. I reached into the nest expecting to find a cuddle of warm kittens. I screamed and screamed when I pulled out a little orange head the size of a tennisball. Mamakitty grieved and grieved.

But sans litter, meant Grayboy's progeny would soon be on its way. I hated Grayboy, I never wanted one cat more dead than him. One time I managed to catch him by the tail, and dropkick him, but like Bill the Cat, he always came back.

Blackie was fearless and stood his turf. A raccoon got Blackie by the scruff of the neck and tore his throat open one time too many, he eventually ran off and died of an abscess. Another cat—probably that psycho-cat Grayboy as he seemed to relish killing our cats—snagged Winky's eye, pulling it from its socket during a brawl. Winky came back to visit, an apparition from a horror story, as if to say goodbye, and then ran off to die. I had nightmares for months.

Then we had no cats for a long while. Until someone dumped that second mamacat and her kittens in our lower field. Another calico. It was divine providence.

            *               *               *
In one fell swoop, Figby broke all the house rules. He moved into the house and slept on my grandmothers couch—she had a shaggy orange car throw that he thought was his. She was partial to redheads and ginger cats. Figby was a lovefest. He knew that we'd saved him. And that was that. We were his people. He was polite, he never had accidents—he waited patiently at the door to be let out. We were his humans who needed bathing and bathroom supervision.

Figby & Ziggy

When Figby moved into the house, then my Siamese-alleycat cat Ziggy (Stardust) moved in too. They were like bookends. I don't remember how Figby got his name, perhaps from sampling my grandmother's figs. He was a strange cat—he'd try anything we ate—but the name fit him. Figby was also a copycat. Anything my grannie ate—he sampled it too. He loved sharing her tea. OK, so there was milk in it.

But when he sampled her old fashioneds, Manhattans, and Irish whiskey, she'd half-heartedly swat him with a newspaper and he'd just sit there staring at her, purring and critching his toes, gazing at her with big yellow eyes. I can understand a cat eating avocados—and bananas are an odd choice—but booze?

Figby was more dog than cat and every morning he'd stroll in the garden behind my grannie, his tail like a mast, cricked over at the tip, never leaving her side. Pishkin slinked along behind, like a scared shadow, muttering to himself all the while. Hanging laundry and composting also needed Figby's close supervision and approval.

Ziggy & Pishkin

Pishkin was the feral cat, and Figby ruled the house. Each morning the brothers would snuggle like bookends and sunbathe on the kitchen window ledge. Sometimes Pishkin would let me scratch under his chin, he wanted petting too, he'd purr, but he was always too skittish for a full petjob, or, come into the house. He and Ziggy never bonded, other than by species.

I was devastated when Figby died of distemper a couple of years later. (Pre shots days.) Pishkin was inconsolable in his grief, Figby was all he had to anchor him to our world, and so he became wilder and wilder, and each visit more infrequent than the last. The law of nature, wild in tooth and claw, had won out in the end.

Pishkin lived to be a venerable age, always circling our house, always keeping tabs on us, always looking for Figby. He'd look at us as if to say: What have you done with my brother? Then he'd slink off into the pale grass muttering to himself.

LATE NIGHT SNACKU HAIKU

Flotsam & jetsam
on the kitchen floor again
Refrigerator

(Sorry, I couldn't resist that last line—cheap bank shot. A 6th grader actually used it as his own poem in one of Neil's poetry classes and he—new to the wiles of young plagiarists—fell for it.

Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator. —Rolf Nelson

Between you, me and the fence, I don't think Rolf actually wrote it. But he got first dibs credit for it when he slapped it on a teeshirt design for Threadless.com.)

Ahem. Tap, tap. Take 2. Where were we?

Flotsam & jetsam

on the kitchen floor again

midnight snack shoreline

Messy kitchen floor:

I sing "Neil has eaten" to

Morning Has Broken

Dental floss—really?

kitchen floor's toothy practice

Late snack cavities

Tooth floss on the floor
Too far to toss, lazy? Or
trashbin lid glued shut?

Dental floss—thin worms
turning trash into soil
Crumbs seeding the floor

Secret late night snacks

a buffet of detritus

rings the kitchen floor

Ants ring last night's crumbs

like cowboys and indians

Snack patrol posse

I herd evidence

to the jaws of the dustpan

devouring crumbs

Broom song sweeps across

a kitchen floor crumb buffet

Dustpan mouth awaits

Late night snacku full
of empty calorie words
thickens the waistline

Counting syllables
playing a piano scale
left-handed solo

I don't like to count
words, but here I am counting
haiku insanity

(yeah, yeah, last line is six syllables.

Haiku are made of
Five syllables then seven
Then end with five more. —Anon

At least Anon's more honest than some.)

Numeric madness
a haiku insanity
unleashed on the page

Kitchen floor round up
riding shotgun with broom locked
& loaded again

A good thing the broom
isn't loaded or there'd be
a feast of carnage

A Rainman moment
counting last night's crumbs like rocks
no frogpond in sight

A good thing the thief
can't hear carnal kitchen thoughts
scribbled on the floor

Crumb calligraphy
commemorates late night snack
for literate ants

Ant literacy
written on counters and floors
erased by a broom

A Largely Unsupervised Childhood

I had a largely unsupervised childhood, and instead of bikes, for wheels, we had donkeys, then we had ponies, and later, when we were teenagers, we graduated to horses. When we were young, we weren't allowed take the donkeys across the highway, but that didn't curtail us—we found many backroads and firetrails to travel far and wide.

We found novel ways around the restrictions placed by my best friend Stephanie Stone's parents—who otherwise left us all alone. We played until dark, no one was ever watching us, or asking where we were going—as we rarely knew where we were going until we got there and back again. Oh but the adventures we had.

We used creek culverts as byways to cross the highway. That meant we had to leave the donks tied up as they couldn't fit into them. The one at Arroyo Road/Creek was spidery. Luckily they were daddylonglegs.

We'd take the fire lane past Dougie Jarret's places to Bellefuelle's (woodlady) and tie them up, then break the rules—crossing over at Tamal Road. We interpreted in shades of gray. We slant-rhymed parental negotiations with childish logic. Steph's parents said we couldn't take the donkeys across the highway—not ourselves.

Or we'd dink on down to Yerion's Garage as it was technically on the same side of the road, so we weren't technically crossing the road. It was probably more dangerous than crossing the road as there was no shoulder. The lure? We could get a huge RC Cola for 15 cents—we'd hunt for coke bottles along the road (3 cents each), until we had enough to buy one.

By the time we were mounted on horseback, the world was our oyster—or it was about as far as we could ride there and back by nightfall. Only real rule: we couldn't bring the horses home wet. Even riding into nightfall wasn't a huge deterrent. However, missing dinner was.

Full moons, we'd ride up Mt. Barnabe—magical. Surreal. A few times we bit off more than we could chew. That buggy ride to Mt. Tam became epic trying to get home when the gates were locked on the Pine Ridge fireroad above the San Geronimo Ridge. We could lift the buggy over the fence, but searching for a portogee gate under a full moon, to squeeze Christian's horse, Brandy through, was a challenge. 

We played with fire too. Frozen orange juice can rockets powered with firecrackers, matchhead torpedoes. Roasting raw oatmeal, or corn-chips in a coffee can. We liked that burnt taste. We knew better than to light a fire in the barn—we were careful. We knew the consequences.

Not so, for my little brother whose match experiment resulted in a grassfire backside the house. Luckily my grannie was able to put it out before it raced up the hill—and there was enough water in the tank. He was very careful afterwards. 

Fort-making was another important unsupervised activity where we learned to repurpose found objects and recycle wood. Elaborate treeforts, hobo camps—we were always creating structures.

Christian Burkhart's treefort was like a real house with windows—and a telescope trained on the Stone's bedroom window. Hay forts were the best. They didn't require smuggling tools and stealing nails. We were engineers and doctors (um, think I'll leave that one unexplored), rocket pilots and architects.

We built the scaffolding of our playtime to the sky and back. For that freedom, I am ever grateful. For it sustains me even now. There was a wild freedom, limitless imagination, and daydreaming were our closest companions. 

I feel sorry for the kids of today who have every playtime minute structured. It creates a paucity of imagination.

This piece was inspired by The Atlantic feature article, The Overprotected Kid

Cat bite

My hand was the victim of jealous kitty turf wars, and sustained collateral damage, but it looks like I was bitten by a cobra. Nellie was probably overstimulated after a good ear and headrub—and then Spartan walked into the room. I wasn't even scratching her, my hand was resting on the white bolster as she blissfully snoozed. Spartan was using the cat tree. She leapt straight up in the air and chomped me hard on the hand. He took off, skidding down the corridor. It woul'd've been hysterically funny any other time. She clearly didn't take offense to my swat, or to me, no grudge was held—and she was back for more pets within a few minutes, or is she schizophrenic, Alzheimer's? All this happened right before the automatic catfeeder timer went off... Wonder if that was also a factor? Since Nellie & Spartan are housecats I know there's no danger of outside disease. I wish she had brushed her teeth, or at least gargled before she bit me. Owww. How to sensibly treat it? That Mayo Clinic info is a lot of hysteria.

Soaking it now. Feels good. Seems like swelling is abating. it's a puncture—two punctures. I’m too late for hydrogen peroxide; so I doused with triple antibiotic cream. I get the toxic part, but not the hysteria. If all that is posted about catbites were true across the board, none of us would've survived childhood. I've been bitten many times. The wounds didn’t bleed a lot but I did squeeze it. Top of hand.im in a bit of a dilemma in that I can’t have a Tetanus shot w/o violent side affects. These cats NEVER go out. Ever. Hydrogen peroxicde doesn't fizzle so at least the wound surface is clean. Im soaking it—no Epson Salts—so I used baking soda.

My grannie always bathed our infected wounds in potassium permanganate, or boric acid. Localized swelling—each puncture is about nickel-to-quarter sized, but it's combined to about silver dollar size. yikes! Jane the NP  I called up said 80% of all catbites become infected. Cellulitis (not thunder thighs!) is the problem. Localized swelling, no fever. Been making little baking soda poultices too. Nothing like a little kitty jealousy to stoke the fire. Soaked it all day long on the hour in Epson salt/baking soda water (from my baking soda poultice)—swelling's almost all gone. Punctures are open. Nothing to drain. I also have the cleanest whitest nails ever. A UK site said to wait 24 hours  before panicing—24 hours later, it's almost back to normal. Slightly warm, not hot like this AM.

Problem is that Spartan is skittish, so Nellie takes advantage of it. You can't quite pet him. Always out of reach. Clearly Nellie didn't even want to share that ephemeral petting space.Yikes! when I was a chile I decided I would put Blackie the cat on a leash and take him for a walk like a dog. Neighbor's dogs came bounding down to say hello. Blackie ran up to the crown of my head and proceeded to hiss and spit and rake my face. I had scars on my eyelids and cheeks for ages. They eventually faded. NO antibiotics, no doctor...I've been chomped and scratched many times.

This bite. Definitely a deep bone bruise. Hurts when I use it too much. Soaked it all day yesterday and today. No fever, or swelling now, just a teentsy 1/8" redness around thumb joint wound, but not the other.  Peroxide between soaks. I am keeping an eagle eye out. I saw my knee doctor, he said my hand was fine—and that if it swelled, then it was infected. Still hurts a bit. He verified that cat bites were bad—but it’s the body's job is to fight off infection—which mine did, swimmingly. Sans antibiotics, TG. See, I took so many in my early 20s that I had an immuno-meltdown, and became sensitized to everything. Took ages to undo the damage. So I tend to avoid antibiotics, if I can.

Someone once dumped a calico mother and three ginger kittens at our house—end of Barranca Road. Someone else's idea of letting the new mother cat go back to the wild. She was literally starving, unable to care for them—so I snaggged one kitten and raise him, but not the other. Figby grew huge while his wild brother stayed stunted. Mama and third kitten died and the little guy was by himself. He was about as big as a minute. I tried everything to lure him into the house on a starvation ticket. Then I tried to tame him. I'd sit for hours behind a saucers of milk, until he got used to my presence. Ham did the trick. So I began trying to pet him...he latched onto my hand and nearly bit right through it. I left my hand there, and he let go, then licked my hand. I knew I'd won the battle. (Yes, it got infected.) Runty Pishkin never grew as big as Figby—who, pardon the pun, really was a ham—and remained skittish to the end. FIgby loved sharing tea, old fashioneds and whiskey neat with my grannie. Anything she ate—so did he. He loved her that much. Bananas and avocados I can see, but booze? He was more dog than cat and strolled with her in the garden, never leaving her side. He was a lovefest. He knew we'd saved him. I was devastated when he died of distemper. (Pre shots days.) Pishkin was inconsolable, Figby was all he had to anchor him to our world, and so he became wilder and wilder with each visit.

Mango ice for the knee

I’m icing the knee with TJs' frozen mango chunks. Very fruity. Should I get little umbrellas and make frou-from drinking-poos?

Did anyone see the sundog this morning at dawn? A rainbow arm pointing east.

Petting the pussies....I’m kittysitting. Nellie sits on the bolster for a chin kitcheecoo and visiously swats Spartan if he comes too near. She's gotten so fat she can barely fit. Nothing like a cat  hanging over a bolster looking at you upside down beeseechingly. And ten minutes later, Nellie chomped me. I got an infected cat bite for my troubles.

Green peas and gams

Go to sleep early she said to herself, you have to get up early... (why I don't know). Waking up at midnight wasn't quite what I had in mind. Agh! Must be the mushy peas. I don't recommend falling asleep with a frozen pea icepack on your knee. Soggy. I guess it's now officially St. Patrick's Day, she said, slugging her pillow  Back to the drawing board, er sleep...walked too far today, I am paying for it now. Not only does my knee hurt, but so do my gams. No Advil for me these days. Upsets my stomach. I need to pee and another pea ice pack. At least it's green! But I don't like mushy peas even if they do stick to the knife better.

bad hair day

Yeah, I found that Motrin and wine don't mix. Been off all pain meds about a month, and now—finally— wine tastes good again! Praise the Lawdy! Oh, and I'm running away from my hair—I'm out of my shampoo and allergic + frizzy doesn't even begin to cover the hitchee-jeebies. Even Neil complained that I was wearing perfume at 30 yards. I need a nother drink. Asparagus was real, risotto was faux. I don't think I can live 24 hours with my hair. I'm 4 hours into it and I itch itch itch. I'm no Breck girl. I cannot use commercial shampool L'anza it is. But where to find it? All the Beauty supply stores have gone belly up! Knee still hurts like blazes. But I managed to walk on the RR trail from Ross Lane to Green Valley Road in Graton. Hair hitchee-jeebies is the real problem. Not ants in your pants but that lice in your hair kind of feeling. Never could use off-the-shelf shampoo. I rinsed and rinsed. Oh, WHERE can I buy some L'Anza Remedy shampoo? Where's the friggin' wine bottle? I'll bypass the vinegar rinse and just take it internally, thankyouverymuch! So, should I climb in the tub and rinse with white vinegar, or should I stand in the courtyard and chug the chardonnay neck first? Please advise. My head itches.

PI HAIKU & PI-KU

Π Haiku   5.7.5

Repeat. This number
is irrational—perfect
infinite numbers.

Perfect circumference
is highly overrated.
Pi is randomness.

Squaring the circle:
Never within this lifetime.
Transcending the spheres.

Mathematic constant?
Transcendental squared circle
never repeating.

What's irrational?
Pi: infinite by design
circle ratio.

No common fraction
Π rolls to its own rhythm
never to repeat.

Decimal pattern
never ends, never repeats
itself—like others.

Randomness? Prove it.
Impossible transcendence
too, is rational.

Transcendence of Pi
impossible to challenge
or solve with numbers.

To square the circle
space / time: a continuum
an aglow rhythm.

Compas or straightedge:
what would Archimides do
to square the circle?

Wheels of the bus go
round and round and round
never to be squared.

Infinite series
10 trillion digits later
still no end in sight.

Irrational no.
No integers need apply,
nor common fractions.

No number repeats.
What is Pi's musical score?
Random color notes.

Immeasurable
statistical randomness
Pi r square, are round.

A vulgar fraction?
Only infinite nested
fractions dressed to the T.

Giza pyramid
squared circles, did they eat Pi
cornerstone cubits?

King Solomon's pool
was 10x30 cubits
sacred reflection.

Did Pi birth control
use algorithm methods
or polygonal?

Or did Pi use the
approximation method
fertile math sequence.

Give a polygon
infinite corners, will it
ever absolve Pi?

Even infinite
sums can't find enlightenment
in Pi's equation.



Π KU  3.1.4

This number
is
irrational.

Who called you
a
common fraction?

Randomness
is
transcendental.

Q T Π
a
sweet circumference.

Squared circle
a
spheric thought.

Circumference
is
overated.