So, It's midnight. I've been working cleaning up the studio for hours, getting ready for another show. My spine is killing me, so I go outside to have a smoke. The cat is going wild, the dog next door, Bodi, is chasing a mother raccoon and I'm hearing squeak squeak squeak. Very unhappy babies on one side of a fence and mama on the other side running for dear life up the Baptist Church steps all the while I'm holding onto the dog collar and telling the mother she can come back now and I drop the matches...Some nights nothing goes quite right.
Why do I say yes to everything? Yes to a poetry recording in Sacramento and then a reading the second night. Yes to an art exhibit (sales allowed!!) in three weeks. Can this be done? I am not sure. But I say YES! because I never know how close Mistah Death is. It's just that simple. Heart meds, spine meds, Muse meds? Wouldn't that be nice to dial up the Muse and get lucky and write the best poem ever instead of drafting and re-drafting all night long, even if I do like it?
Good night.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
A Lasting Man
This seems to be the year of death for me. Another friend of mine died in Hawaii while snorkeling, he had a heart attack and didn't survive. Yesterday afternoon his brother and wife had a memorial for him at their home and it was packed, for he was a Willits Boy at 60, eternal boy of genius and thought and movement. He was an artist and had had lithos made of his pen and ink nature renditions. He could make a buffalo look like it was traveling off the page, a bunny appear to leap from the white it was drawn on.
I am proud to say I began him on his journey as an artist. He lived a while with my husband and I. We had a fourteen room Victorian and often had people stay in a spare room. We sat one summer day under the plum orchard and he said, "I wish I could draw. I wish I could set down on paper what I see inside." I quietly got up and went into my studio, returning with a box of new oil pastels, a pad of good paper and a pencil with sharpener. He grinned when I put them in his hands. He pulled his chair up to a wine barrel filled with blooming blue penstemon and began. I have the original hanging near a chair I like to sit in to catch the light to read by.
At the memorial, his brother or sister-in-law had laid out copies and copies of lithos of various animals and botanicals and at the bottom, a basket full of note cards with envelopes. I took perhaps five packs of a nest and eggs of mine he had drawn so beautifully. I had made in the late eighties wreaths for Christmas presents one year and one was a heart with delicate pastel flowers I had dried from the garden and hung on our door. He drew that too and called it Robin's Heart. I didn't know it, but his brother had the original which Drexell had colored it and Mike gave me that as well as three remarkable pieces that Drexell had promised me years ago of poets or philosophers and quotes of their work: Karl Marx, Allen Ginsberg, Jean-Paul Sartre. They were so surreal and I love them with my whole heart. I encouraged him to do more of those. I believed that genre was where his world acknowledgment would come from. I already had a few from various birthdays, one of Rilke and one of Bob Dylan and Milton. Quite a wonderful collection.
But what struck me the most were those simple notecards. I was sorry I hadn't taken more. I envisioned, just a half an hour ago , in that twilight place between wake and sleep, having more packets of them and giving them to various people for the holidays. I had to get up from bed and write this out. I saw Drexell all over the world. Like he had drawn an astonishingly sexy Iris which I thought I should send a packet to Zaby in New York because she is one of those people who is not afraid of her own sexuality, a packet of violets to my friend Betsy in San Bernardino because "The Secret Garden" is one of her favorite books and violets grew in the garden and Mary weeded it first in order to make the Garden. When he first had those cards made up from the originals I bought dozens because I had the money and I sent them to my mother, my aunt, different friends. I saw in that waking-sleeping place, my friends sending those cards to their friends one at a time, all over the world until Drexell's spirit was all over the world and he would never die in the sense of a regular person. He was not a Picasso, but I believe on a more simple level he could continue in the memories of many many people simply by them receiving a note card with a loving message on them. I was at peace finally and knew when I finished writing this that I could go to bed and not toss and turn. I saw in living colors even though he worked primarily in blacknwhite, a rainbow of my friend reaching from one continent to another.
I am proud to say I began him on his journey as an artist. He lived a while with my husband and I. We had a fourteen room Victorian and often had people stay in a spare room. We sat one summer day under the plum orchard and he said, "I wish I could draw. I wish I could set down on paper what I see inside." I quietly got up and went into my studio, returning with a box of new oil pastels, a pad of good paper and a pencil with sharpener. He grinned when I put them in his hands. He pulled his chair up to a wine barrel filled with blooming blue penstemon and began. I have the original hanging near a chair I like to sit in to catch the light to read by.
At the memorial, his brother or sister-in-law had laid out copies and copies of lithos of various animals and botanicals and at the bottom, a basket full of note cards with envelopes. I took perhaps five packs of a nest and eggs of mine he had drawn so beautifully. I had made in the late eighties wreaths for Christmas presents one year and one was a heart with delicate pastel flowers I had dried from the garden and hung on our door. He drew that too and called it Robin's Heart. I didn't know it, but his brother had the original which Drexell had colored it and Mike gave me that as well as three remarkable pieces that Drexell had promised me years ago of poets or philosophers and quotes of their work: Karl Marx, Allen Ginsberg, Jean-Paul Sartre. They were so surreal and I love them with my whole heart. I encouraged him to do more of those. I believed that genre was where his world acknowledgment would come from. I already had a few from various birthdays, one of Rilke and one of Bob Dylan and Milton. Quite a wonderful collection.
But what struck me the most were those simple notecards. I was sorry I hadn't taken more. I envisioned, just a half an hour ago , in that twilight place between wake and sleep, having more packets of them and giving them to various people for the holidays. I had to get up from bed and write this out. I saw Drexell all over the world. Like he had drawn an astonishingly sexy Iris which I thought I should send a packet to Zaby in New York because she is one of those people who is not afraid of her own sexuality, a packet of violets to my friend Betsy in San Bernardino because "The Secret Garden" is one of her favorite books and violets grew in the garden and Mary weeded it first in order to make the Garden. When he first had those cards made up from the originals I bought dozens because I had the money and I sent them to my mother, my aunt, different friends. I saw in that waking-sleeping place, my friends sending those cards to their friends one at a time, all over the world until Drexell's spirit was all over the world and he would never die in the sense of a regular person. He was not a Picasso, but I believe on a more simple level he could continue in the memories of many many people simply by them receiving a note card with a loving message on them. I was at peace finally and knew when I finished writing this that I could go to bed and not toss and turn. I saw in living colors even though he worked primarily in blacknwhite, a rainbow of my friend reaching from one continent to another.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
...beggarman, thief
I wasn't going to write about this, but I keep having re-occurring flashbacks, and that tells me i need to get it out of my system. Last week I was robbed. It wasn't a lot of money, I never have a lot of money. I had just cashed my disability check (heart condition and spinal injury)and I paid the water bill at $37 (which I thought was a bit high for rainy weather,) bought a hundred dollars worth of food, which left me $70 ducats and change.
I was in a thrift store which is just around the corner and I am like a cousin cuz I'm always dropping by for this or that or nothing, but a howdy. I took the five dollars worth of clothes and fabric to the counter which was three steps from the fitting room where my purse was and a woman went in to try on some clothes, saw my open wallet (I'm an idiot, i admit it) and took it. I saw it all in a blinding flash and grabbed her hand as she came out of the fitting room. I said to her, "That's mine, you know it, so give it back.". She, of course argued and wouldn't let go. I saw the tracks on her arm and saw the need in her face for a fix, so I knew I was the stronger. I could not go home with nothing. I couldn't do that to my husband who takes care of me so well. It would have been a failure in personal responsibility. So I hung on. I told her I used to be married to the town judge and it would be easy to find her, (I recited the car's license plate # at her) and in that moment, she faltered and I got back fifty dollars. I demanded the last twenty, but she was just seeing a fix. I just couldn't get it out of her hand. I told the thrift store women to call the police. They came, not fast enough because, come on, it was just a thrift store, but they came. I explained what happened. He took me more serious when I came to the judge part. (I hate using that damn piece of info. I feel like I'm cheating. Name-dropping. But I'm so poor, I had to get the money.) I ended up losing that last twenty. The policeman turned out to be Vice. He said I could report it, but I would have to appear in court. I told him physically, I couldn't sit that long, so for $20 I was gonna have to let it go. He was so nice to me, I was almost in tears. But it was the first time ever in my life I stood up for myself and didn't let it go. All my life I have let people tell me it's my fault (i know this one was, but...), that I'm wrong, that I'm a failure, that I won't amount to much, that I'm too dramatic, that I betray, (I don't) but getting this money back made me feel so proud of myself. We live on $1,172 a month. My husband does odd jobs that amount to about a thousand. I didn't get it all back, but I felt strong getting back what I did. The women around me were weak, and didn't know what to do. They were of an older generation than me. I stood around in shock til I yelled call the the cops. It's not their fault. It';s how they were raised. I love them, but I wish they had helped me physically. I was sore in my muscles for so many days afterward.
It was such an ugly dance how we were locked in each others' arms, because I would not let go, I wouldn't let her go out of the store and flee. The man she was with told me her name and I recognized it as a trouble-family in our town. Violent, drug-takers, guns, knives, shouting, beating women kind of hurtful people. I had compassion, but it wasn't on the top layer of my skin. It was underneath where I pray. And interestingly enough, I didn't pray that I can recall that whole time. I don't know why. Usually I pray in the moment. She ran before the policeman came and I let the twenty go. But it's been on my mind this whole time and I know I need to seriously write about it. A poem, not just a diary entry.
I was in a thrift store which is just around the corner and I am like a cousin cuz I'm always dropping by for this or that or nothing, but a howdy. I took the five dollars worth of clothes and fabric to the counter which was three steps from the fitting room where my purse was and a woman went in to try on some clothes, saw my open wallet (I'm an idiot, i admit it) and took it. I saw it all in a blinding flash and grabbed her hand as she came out of the fitting room. I said to her, "That's mine, you know it, so give it back.". She, of course argued and wouldn't let go. I saw the tracks on her arm and saw the need in her face for a fix, so I knew I was the stronger. I could not go home with nothing. I couldn't do that to my husband who takes care of me so well. It would have been a failure in personal responsibility. So I hung on. I told her I used to be married to the town judge and it would be easy to find her, (I recited the car's license plate # at her) and in that moment, she faltered and I got back fifty dollars. I demanded the last twenty, but she was just seeing a fix. I just couldn't get it out of her hand. I told the thrift store women to call the police. They came, not fast enough because, come on, it was just a thrift store, but they came. I explained what happened. He took me more serious when I came to the judge part. (I hate using that damn piece of info. I feel like I'm cheating. Name-dropping. But I'm so poor, I had to get the money.) I ended up losing that last twenty. The policeman turned out to be Vice. He said I could report it, but I would have to appear in court. I told him physically, I couldn't sit that long, so for $20 I was gonna have to let it go. He was so nice to me, I was almost in tears. But it was the first time ever in my life I stood up for myself and didn't let it go. All my life I have let people tell me it's my fault (i know this one was, but...), that I'm wrong, that I'm a failure, that I won't amount to much, that I'm too dramatic, that I betray, (I don't) but getting this money back made me feel so proud of myself. We live on $1,172 a month. My husband does odd jobs that amount to about a thousand. I didn't get it all back, but I felt strong getting back what I did. The women around me were weak, and didn't know what to do. They were of an older generation than me. I stood around in shock til I yelled call the the cops. It's not their fault. It';s how they were raised. I love them, but I wish they had helped me physically. I was sore in my muscles for so many days afterward.
It was such an ugly dance how we were locked in each others' arms, because I would not let go, I wouldn't let her go out of the store and flee. The man she was with told me her name and I recognized it as a trouble-family in our town. Violent, drug-takers, guns, knives, shouting, beating women kind of hurtful people. I had compassion, but it wasn't on the top layer of my skin. It was underneath where I pray. And interestingly enough, I didn't pray that I can recall that whole time. I don't know why. Usually I pray in the moment. She ran before the policeman came and I let the twenty go. But it's been on my mind this whole time and I know I need to seriously write about it. A poem, not just a diary entry.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
An ocean of good byes, a wave of hellos
Today Dan and I drove over to the coast and down a good long way to Navarro Beach where a funeral was held for my dearest male friend James Rogers, American painter.His family was there and a few friends and us. I have to make distinctions between male and female friends, because there "are" distinctions between male and females relating to each other. We became friends about the time a friendship with a woman was ending its active nature to a hopefully dormant for only a small amount of time phase and he filled a gap that was a raw aching wound. We met through my writing and his love for it and then we became closer as we shared who we were in the world with each other. I have found that I cannot really, yet, accept that he is dead. That I can't call him up, write him a long letter, (oh I wrote him some long long letters). He promised to come back for another visit this summer so we could walk his beaches that are my beaches too.
His family had his body cremated, the idea being we would place his ashes in the Pacific Ocean in Mendocino because he said that was his real home. He was only living in Palm Springs because his mother, at 83, lived there and wanted him close. As I began emptying my little plastic bag of ashes into the sea, a rogue wave came up all the way to my crotch, wetting my long voluminous skirt, long underwear, (it's still winter-ish here) doc marten shoes and my once warm wool socks. I stumbled back onto the sand and it was only later I realized there was a bit of ash left in the bag. I am going to plant them under the buddha statue in my garden that James loved so much. When he was discouraged he would write me, "If only I could sit in yr garden and have a bit of a smoke, I could puzzle it out, Sensei." (I hope you don't mind, Debra.)
I had such a hard time accepting his titling me Sensei, but he sent me his poetry often, asking me to edit it, 'teach me how to write' and thus he said I had become his teacher. When we first met, I was a teacher of high school students: he knew how much I loved it, but how much I wished I could retire because my body is breaking up faster than I ever thought it would. I never saw his death coming. I was so sure I would go before all my friends and family. When one is sure of something, it is a shock when the opposite happens. It has made me aware, so very aware, of not assuming anything ever again. The good I have learned is to love yr daughter; it seems we will be fast friends if we aren't already. She has become my wave hello.
Dear James, you gave me so much. I never had the opportunity to tell you exactly how much, because of course I thought we had all this time. I have learned that time is an elusive creature that is skittish and reluctant to come close to anyone, even those who stand quietly outside with a palm open and filled with food to entice it to stay, to come close and snuggle up. I don't know how or why you died. I don't know if you knew how close to death you were or not. I hope you didn't know, I hope you didn't feel pain, I hope you had time to greet God with a welcoming smile, because I know He welcomes those who love and you were a Lover in the full sense of the word. You greeted each day looking forward to what you were going to paint next, but James, what am I going to do with a six by eight foot portrait of myself? I live in a caboose.
I love you , dear friend. See you in Heaven
His family had his body cremated, the idea being we would place his ashes in the Pacific Ocean in Mendocino because he said that was his real home. He was only living in Palm Springs because his mother, at 83, lived there and wanted him close. As I began emptying my little plastic bag of ashes into the sea, a rogue wave came up all the way to my crotch, wetting my long voluminous skirt, long underwear, (it's still winter-ish here) doc marten shoes and my once warm wool socks. I stumbled back onto the sand and it was only later I realized there was a bit of ash left in the bag. I am going to plant them under the buddha statue in my garden that James loved so much. When he was discouraged he would write me, "If only I could sit in yr garden and have a bit of a smoke, I could puzzle it out, Sensei." (I hope you don't mind, Debra.)
I had such a hard time accepting his titling me Sensei, but he sent me his poetry often, asking me to edit it, 'teach me how to write' and thus he said I had become his teacher. When we first met, I was a teacher of high school students: he knew how much I loved it, but how much I wished I could retire because my body is breaking up faster than I ever thought it would. I never saw his death coming. I was so sure I would go before all my friends and family. When one is sure of something, it is a shock when the opposite happens. It has made me aware, so very aware, of not assuming anything ever again. The good I have learned is to love yr daughter; it seems we will be fast friends if we aren't already. She has become my wave hello.
Dear James, you gave me so much. I never had the opportunity to tell you exactly how much, because of course I thought we had all this time. I have learned that time is an elusive creature that is skittish and reluctant to come close to anyone, even those who stand quietly outside with a palm open and filled with food to entice it to stay, to come close and snuggle up. I don't know how or why you died. I don't know if you knew how close to death you were or not. I hope you didn't know, I hope you didn't feel pain, I hope you had time to greet God with a welcoming smile, because I know He welcomes those who love and you were a Lover in the full sense of the word. You greeted each day looking forward to what you were going to paint next, but James, what am I going to do with a six by eight foot portrait of myself? I live in a caboose.
I love you , dear friend. See you in Heaven
Friday, April 2, 2010
Found Holy Week Poems
1.Palm Sunday
The bright sun of spring beats on the metal,
where it seems only last week
Jesus rode into Jerusalem all triumphant
and gentle on the borrowed white donkey.
Now, in the brittle light,
two interlocking shapes a man can hang from,
are sharp and cruel as I stand in memory.
There was nothing I could say but,
"I'm sorry". There was nothing else
He wanted but those two words
as the blood poured from His heart into mine.
2. Good Friday
It was just us, at the end:
a few women bewildered, some crying,
tears mingling with snot
and whimpers of pain
just looking at Him from this long distance
up; and the ones who just stood:
their lips pressed hard against each other
lest sobs escape like rain
from the thickening clouds...
And then there were the two
completely different from each other,
but the same.
Oh Son,forgive me my early mothering
if it were not good enough
and
My Lord, did I listen close enough...
I was the one who looked up through
the blood, the sweat, Yr agony
and through those clouds,
saw Yr Father, again,
like Noah's, like John's dove descending
and I nodded as the sky broke.
3. Black Saturday
Those men, how could they be sure?
At first, they thought it was a revolution,
then they saw a way out from under roman rule.
It wasn't for days, who realized the mystery
because He hadn't ascended yet. That Dove,
the Breath, the tearing back of the veil
hadn't come yet. There was brooding, doubt,
grief. And the tears of the two Marys.
4. Easter Sunday
She hurried, having slept little,
but saw she was too late, she thought the soldiers had already been there:
she gnashed her teeth and cried.
The messengers in white robes sat waiting to tell her,
and she understood as the one spoke.
On the road to those still sleeping,
she kept repeating: He is going on before us to Galilee.
It was a circle, like a net, a fishing net,
and they were to wait for the Dove, the Breath,
the healing and the Work to begin.
*************
I used The Book of Mark for my interpretation.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Nature of a Home in which the Govt is not the Boss, Just An Annoying Petty Bureaucrat
In our left side cork oak tree we have some new additions. I don't know how many, but our pair of Greys had babies in the last few days, and the ravens are trying to eat them. It's horrid. Well, this morning, the raven walked the length of the fence and toward the tree and one of the squirrels ran the fence line which is an inch wide and bonked! the raven in the chest with his/her head. It was the bravest thing I had seen in a long while. That raven was BIG! But he went a-tumblin’! I took a pie tin out to a fence post, nailed it in and filled it with fresh cut organic apples and organic sunflower seeds for the new family. I hope they like apple and I know they like sunflower seeds. I hope they are not too a-feared to 'come and get it!'. Today I am up and out of bed for the first time in awhile. I think it's the excitement of seeing the squirrels up and about. I was nervous when the storms were bad knowing the Mrs was due any day, but apparently the tree has a nice deep hole and they didn't have to build a stick and twig nest. I just hope I can stay feeling this good and get some chores done today. Ain't God wonderful to give that little squirrel some goliath courage about his/her family? There are some human fathers who could take some lessons from that little guy. Though it coulda been the mother doin’ the bonkin’, as my sons say. We stand up here in Mendonesia for our kids, even if they are gonna be 33 in a few days....
On another note, the columbines are in bloom. They are so pretty and gentle.
All this rain has given the flowers a life of their own. The sun is out. My disability check came and thanks to The Hun, it's now a mere $172. Can one live on this? My African greens have swelled and twined and grown all over the bed; I'm thinking of putting the newly sprouted greens in another bed and let Godzilla have its bed with the six puny chard which will also swell and bloom out crazy huge leaves in a matter of weeks.
I am thankful for what I have. A few weeks ago I met a woman with a six year old child who had no home. It was freezing cold weather. I wanted to put her up but a caboose has no extra space. I look back now and know I could have made them fit for a time if my studio had been cleaned up from my last show. I am lackadaisical about this and just plain worn out, which is another reason I find Bed another loving continent. I wish I had help with the up-keep so I could have women in when they need it and then they could help keep it up. But the floor was covered. I have to find a solution to this. I will not live under the banner, that “There is no room at the inn”. This last encounter has shamed me. Shame is a good garment to wear once in awhile. It’s kind of like a kick in the ass, yes?
am feeling much better and plan to go tot he market (we've one of the best organic shops in the area) and buy some walnuts already shelled.Just as a little birthday present. (my disability check comes today and being a vegetarian, I eat a lot of nuts.)
On another note, the columbines are in bloom. They are so pretty and gentle.
All this rain has given the flowers a life of their own. The sun is out. My disability check came and thanks to The Hun, it's now a mere $172. Can one live on this? My African greens have swelled and twined and grown all over the bed; I'm thinking of putting the newly sprouted greens in another bed and let Godzilla have its bed with the six puny chard which will also swell and bloom out crazy huge leaves in a matter of weeks.
I am thankful for what I have. A few weeks ago I met a woman with a six year old child who had no home. It was freezing cold weather. I wanted to put her up but a caboose has no extra space. I look back now and know I could have made them fit for a time if my studio had been cleaned up from my last show. I am lackadaisical about this and just plain worn out, which is another reason I find Bed another loving continent. I wish I had help with the up-keep so I could have women in when they need it and then they could help keep it up. But the floor was covered. I have to find a solution to this. I will not live under the banner, that “There is no room at the inn”. This last encounter has shamed me. Shame is a good garment to wear once in awhile. It’s kind of like a kick in the ass, yes?
am feeling much better and plan to go tot he market (we've one of the best organic shops in the area) and buy some walnuts already shelled.Just as a little birthday present. (my disability check comes today and being a vegetarian, I eat a lot of nuts.)
Holy Week Poems
I have been writing poems for the week and losing them (misplacing them) because I keep getting invited to read in public. I've read in a Methodist Church which is not my denomination, so that was interesting. So far I have several for Palm Sunday and plan to finish out the Week...
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