Sunday, December 05, 2004
comments on "Man-in-the-Moon" version 4
Better. Mostly an edit of version 3. Who are these people? Is it a logical inference that this is "The Man in the Moon"? Does it matter whether it is or isn't? Are dreams stones? Dreams are stories or non sequiturs ... stones?
"Man-in-the-Moon" version 4
Moonless
The cigarette smoke’s wan light takes a shade
of black from the night. The man taps a tiny ash
from the end. “My boy, my boy.”
His words stones, smoothed and softened by
the turning, slow and ceaseless, of an ice-edged creek.
The boy lifts the pot, tips tea out of it,
the tea’s earth-dark dropping into the cup’s
lightly shadowed white. Again the man’s lips
part and the cup touches them, the round white
eye pupiled by the emblem of its maker
rises to gaze upon the boy. The boy blows
steam from the surface of his own cup, sips,
and burns his lip and tongue. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop drained, the man’s cup
cools on its saucer. He pats the blue napkin between
his long hands, lays it over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tears free of the mountain and wipes mist
from the Milky Way. The boy watches his breath
move away from the table. The man’s cup,
white as dawn, has caught one star on its gold rim.
The boy looks from it to the man’s still face.
Then he pours the tea. “I couldn’t,” the man demurs.
“I couldn’t. All good men must sleep. Even young.”
He laughs. No, he does not laugh. “Even old.
Must cross the waters that draw their dark
past the river’s stones. Each stone a dream.
Dream by dream alone he steps the width
of a valley that goes on forever, and a wind
blows softly on him or blows hard and sudden.
You have only hours to get all the way over,
who have to travel, from day to day night by night.”
The boy tightens the circle of his hands around his cup.
He lifts it again to his face, the steam too cool and the tea
again hot enough to hurt. But he drinks. And stops.
And drinks. When he has finished his cup
he feels wounded; he looks at the man whose face,
lit by no moon, only the blue of the snow, the thousand
dimnesses of stars, regards him or looks on something
other. “More tea?”asks the boy, the pot cold.
The cigarette smoke’s wan light takes a shade
of black from the night. The man taps a tiny ash
from the end. “My boy, my boy.”
His words stones, smoothed and softened by
the turning, slow and ceaseless, of an ice-edged creek.
The boy lifts the pot, tips tea out of it,
the tea’s earth-dark dropping into the cup’s
lightly shadowed white. Again the man’s lips
part and the cup touches them, the round white
eye pupiled by the emblem of its maker
rises to gaze upon the boy. The boy blows
steam from the surface of his own cup, sips,
and burns his lip and tongue. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop drained, the man’s cup
cools on its saucer. He pats the blue napkin between
his long hands, lays it over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tears free of the mountain and wipes mist
from the Milky Way. The boy watches his breath
move away from the table. The man’s cup,
white as dawn, has caught one star on its gold rim.
The boy looks from it to the man’s still face.
Then he pours the tea. “I couldn’t,” the man demurs.
“I couldn’t. All good men must sleep. Even young.”
He laughs. No, he does not laugh. “Even old.
Must cross the waters that draw their dark
past the river’s stones. Each stone a dream.
Dream by dream alone he steps the width
of a valley that goes on forever, and a wind
blows softly on him or blows hard and sudden.
You have only hours to get all the way over,
who have to travel, from day to day night by night.”
The boy tightens the circle of his hands around his cup.
He lifts it again to his face, the steam too cool and the tea
again hot enough to hurt. But he drinks. And stops.
And drinks. When he has finished his cup
he feels wounded; he looks at the man whose face,
lit by no moon, only the blue of the snow, the thousand
dimnesses of stars, regards him or looks on something
other. “More tea?”asks the boy, the pot cold.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
comments on "Man-in-the-Moon" version 3
It's a new version, all right. And it was fun to write, I'll tell ya. Playing variations. Less fun to read, I see. Too long. This is not a fourteen stanza poem. But the nothing happening, it's OK I'm thinking. We'll see what the next version looks like.
"Man-in-the-Moon" version 3
Moonless
From the end of the cigarette he rolled himself, the man
taps a tiny ash and smoke leaves his mouth.
He doesn’t blow it. Rather, the smoke’s wan
light takes a shade of black from the night.
“My boy, my boy.” His words soft as stones
being turned in the winter creek. He does not
look at the empty cup, looks instead at the bones
that have refleshed with snow muscle,
ice sinew, the seasonal body of the skeletons.
The boy looks up at them, too. And those
beside them in their spiky and permanent green.
When the man blinks, the time it takes
seems a phase his face must go through
night by night. And the boy lifts the pot,
tips the tea out of it, the tea’s earth-dark
dropping into the cup’s lightly shadowed
white. The boy also tips tea into his own
half-full cup and put his chilled hands around it.
The china too hot to touch he lets his hands
wait, and they receive what heat escapes.
The man, his gray cheeks catching the light
cast from the window, his eyes almost lost
in an old distance, lets his lips part, and the cup
touches them, the bottom of the cup rising,
a wide eye, the tattoo-blue emblem of its maker
regarding the table, looking unmoved upon
the boy who blows steam from the surface
of his own tea, who burns his lip and tongue
and puts his cup down. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop fallen out of it, the man’s cup
cools on its saucer. He pats the blue napkin
between his long hands, lays it softly over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tears free of the mountain and wipes mist
from the Milky Way. The boy breathes the breath
he can see. There isn’t much in the pot and the cup,
white as dawn, has caught one sharp star on its gold rim.
The boy looks from it to the man’s still face.
Then he pours the tea. “I couldn’t,” the man demurs.
“I couldn’t. All good men must sleep. Even young.”
He laughed. No, he did not laugh. “Even old.
Must walk across the waters that draw their dark
around the stones in the river. Each stone
a dream. And so dream by dream alone he steps the width
of a valley he can’t see the length of, and a wind
blows softly on him or blows sudden and hard.”
The boy tightens the circle of his hands, the heat
of the cup less hard. And when he sees the man’s
hand descending and settling the cup in the saucer’s
center circle he sees the cup is dry. “To keep you
from your bed would be burgling from you, my boy
thieving from you the only way laid out for us who have to go,
who have to go on, from night to day night after night.
How cruel I am to take from you, dear one.” This time
it is the boy who laughs. And he laughs until he hears
the dry crackle of his laughter and he takes refuge
in tea which does not burn him. The ember
of the cigarette lights the whites of the man’s two eyes.
From the end of the cigarette he rolled himself, the man
taps a tiny ash and smoke leaves his mouth.
He doesn’t blow it. Rather, the smoke’s wan
light takes a shade of black from the night.
“My boy, my boy.” His words soft as stones
being turned in the winter creek. He does not
look at the empty cup, looks instead at the bones
that have refleshed with snow muscle,
ice sinew, the seasonal body of the skeletons.
The boy looks up at them, too. And those
beside them in their spiky and permanent green.
When the man blinks, the time it takes
seems a phase his face must go through
night by night. And the boy lifts the pot,
tips the tea out of it, the tea’s earth-dark
dropping into the cup’s lightly shadowed
white. The boy also tips tea into his own
half-full cup and put his chilled hands around it.
The china too hot to touch he lets his hands
wait, and they receive what heat escapes.
The man, his gray cheeks catching the light
cast from the window, his eyes almost lost
in an old distance, lets his lips part, and the cup
touches them, the bottom of the cup rising,
a wide eye, the tattoo-blue emblem of its maker
regarding the table, looking unmoved upon
the boy who blows steam from the surface
of his own tea, who burns his lip and tongue
and puts his cup down. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop fallen out of it, the man’s cup
cools on its saucer. He pats the blue napkin
between his long hands, lays it softly over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tears free of the mountain and wipes mist
from the Milky Way. The boy breathes the breath
he can see. There isn’t much in the pot and the cup,
white as dawn, has caught one sharp star on its gold rim.
The boy looks from it to the man’s still face.
Then he pours the tea. “I couldn’t,” the man demurs.
“I couldn’t. All good men must sleep. Even young.”
He laughed. No, he did not laugh. “Even old.
Must walk across the waters that draw their dark
around the stones in the river. Each stone
a dream. And so dream by dream alone he steps the width
of a valley he can’t see the length of, and a wind
blows softly on him or blows sudden and hard.”
The boy tightens the circle of his hands, the heat
of the cup less hard. And when he sees the man’s
hand descending and settling the cup in the saucer’s
center circle he sees the cup is dry. “To keep you
from your bed would be burgling from you, my boy
thieving from you the only way laid out for us who have to go,
who have to go on, from night to day night after night.
How cruel I am to take from you, dear one.” This time
it is the boy who laughs. And he laughs until he hears
the dry crackle of his laughter and he takes refuge
in tea which does not burn him. The ember
of the cigarette lights the whites of the man’s two eyes.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
It's the end
It's Sunday night, end of four days not working. Five days, actually. I had a migraine on Wednesday so that got me started with the sleeping. The headache lingered through Thursday though mostly as background noise. Some nausea, too. No fun! I still dream that I'm working my way to the far side of the migraine story; yoga shall free me! If I saw a causal relationship, food item to migraine, the sort that I associate with a yoga routine, I would carefully avoid that food. Maybe I would continue to eat said food if I thought the migraines it caused were the result of detox, stored poisons being released thus causing mayhem up to now corraled. That's sort of how I see yoga -- I'm stretching muscles in order to get them to release tension. When a muscle gets stretched, however, it often seems to react by tightening up again -- even tighter! After the migraines pass I do note improvements in posture and it does seem easier to release a day's tension. I've come so far! And the rest of my life to go.
Monday. Ugh. I don't hate Mondays any more than Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays or Fridays.
Monday. Ugh. I don't hate Mondays any more than Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays or Fridays.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
comments on "Man-in-the-moon" version 2
I have the feeling I've written this poem before, the celestial visitor at tea. Only then the man was an angel. That poem got me praise from my writing teacher at jr college; he said he thought it could be the one that would get me notice -- maybe even into Poetry. I did send it to Poetry and it didn't get me in or itself. I haven't read it in years.
Like the first "Man" this version is toying with rhyme. I'd sort of like to formalize it but I'd sort of like the poem to say something, too.
Like the first "Man" this version is toying with rhyme. I'd sort of like to formalize it but I'd sort of like the poem to say something, too.
"The Man-in-the-Moon" version two
Late One Moonless Night
The man, loose of the moon, his gray cheeks shining
like a cool lampshade, neither eye brighter
than a dry pearl, his forehead one long ramp to heaven,
dabbed with a blue napkin at the corners of his mouth.
“My dear boy,” he crooned, the words were stones
soft in a winter creek, and the time he took to blink
was a phase he was going through, night by night.
“I owe you, I think. A cup, I think.”
And, yes, the cup before him, white as dawn,
one star caught on its gold rim, let up no more curls
of steam from tea just tipped in, the man having
slid it all past ridged lips. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop had fallen out of it.
The man patted the napkin between his long hands
then lay it softly over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tore free of the mountain and wiped the mist
from the Milky Way. The boy breathed
and saw his breath. He touched his cup to his mouth
and was burned. So he put the cup down.
And tipped the pot to refill the other’s.
“I couldn’t,” the man demurred. “I couldn’t take
the time from you you’d surely elsewise spend,
as all men should, deep in bed, stepping from dream
to dream over the valley brook. If I were to steal
this end of an hour from your proper nightly stroll,
I’d feel I’d snatched from a beggar a buttered roll.”
So saying the man ran a finger over the teacup grip,
then ran it under and a smooth sweep took the cup
to his parted lips and again its bottom rose,
one white eye, the blue signet of its maker in the center,
gazed upon the boy who shivered, who blew his white
breath on the dark surface too hot to sip.
The man, loose of the moon, his gray cheeks shining
like a cool lampshade, neither eye brighter
than a dry pearl, his forehead one long ramp to heaven,
dabbed with a blue napkin at the corners of his mouth.
“My dear boy,” he crooned, the words were stones
soft in a winter creek, and the time he took to blink
was a phase he was going through, night by night.
“I owe you, I think. A cup, I think.”
And, yes, the cup before him, white as dawn,
one star caught on its gold rim, let up no more curls
of steam from tea just tipped in, the man having
slid it all past ridged lips. Empty as a shadow,
every earth-dark drop had fallen out of it.
The man patted the napkin between his long hands
then lay it softly over the unstirred spoon.
A cloud tore free of the mountain and wiped the mist
from the Milky Way. The boy breathed
and saw his breath. He touched his cup to his mouth
and was burned. So he put the cup down.
And tipped the pot to refill the other’s.
“I couldn’t,” the man demurred. “I couldn’t take
the time from you you’d surely elsewise spend,
as all men should, deep in bed, stepping from dream
to dream over the valley brook. If I were to steal
this end of an hour from your proper nightly stroll,
I’d feel I’d snatched from a beggar a buttered roll.”
So saying the man ran a finger over the teacup grip,
then ran it under and a smooth sweep took the cup
to his parted lips and again its bottom rose,
one white eye, the blue signet of its maker in the center,
gazed upon the boy who shivered, who blew his white
breath on the dark surface too hot to sip.
The UN knew better
In the new issue of The Berkeley Review of Latin American Studies (download pdf at the CLAS site) the former Mexican Ambassador to the UN Security Council, Adolfo Aguilar Zinser calls Bush a liar (or, at least, says he "lied ... lied ... and lied," which is the same thing, right?). It's so refreshing to hear a spade called a spade ... rather than something that looks like it might possibly be used to penetrate the earth, among other performable activities, including some having nothing to do with the earth.
Says AAS, "Instead of listening to other views and exploring other options, the U.S. scorned advice about the evident risks of going to war, walked away from collective agreements, revoked multilateral diplomacy and ridiculed the institutional capabilities of the UN. ... Right from the outset and straight through the frenetic and more intrusive inspections which started in October 2002 -- after resolution 1441 was unanimously passed -- Hans Blix, the Chief Inspector, and Mohmed ElBaradei, the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency, said again and again that they had found no weapons and detected no programs to produce them. ... According to the imperial logic of U.S. diplomats, the absence of weapons was first and foremost unequivocal evidence that Saddam had them very well hidden. ... The Bush administration was at no time willing to contemplate the possibility that UN measures had led to the destruction of the weapons, and the UN trade and oil embargo had strangled the nuclear program. ... Resistant to reason and evidence and determined not to acknowledge any proof or opinion contrary to their instructions, U.S. diplomats refused to explore ways to peacefully complete what was clearly a good job of disarmament by the UN. ... In the last analysis, Bush went to the UN just as a stopover before moving on to his disastrous war in Iraq, his true and final destination. ... Bush and his administration lied to the world about the weapons of mass destruction, lied when they affirmed that the weapons existed beyond any doubt and lied when they declared that their only intention was to disarm Iraq and they would be satisfied to achieve only that."
Says AAS, "Instead of listening to other views and exploring other options, the U.S. scorned advice about the evident risks of going to war, walked away from collective agreements, revoked multilateral diplomacy and ridiculed the institutional capabilities of the UN. ... Right from the outset and straight through the frenetic and more intrusive inspections which started in October 2002 -- after resolution 1441 was unanimously passed -- Hans Blix, the Chief Inspector, and Mohmed ElBaradei, the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency, said again and again that they had found no weapons and detected no programs to produce them. ... According to the imperial logic of U.S. diplomats, the absence of weapons was first and foremost unequivocal evidence that Saddam had them very well hidden. ... The Bush administration was at no time willing to contemplate the possibility that UN measures had led to the destruction of the weapons, and the UN trade and oil embargo had strangled the nuclear program. ... Resistant to reason and evidence and determined not to acknowledge any proof or opinion contrary to their instructions, U.S. diplomats refused to explore ways to peacefully complete what was clearly a good job of disarmament by the UN. ... In the last analysis, Bush went to the UN just as a stopover before moving on to his disastrous war in Iraq, his true and final destination. ... Bush and his administration lied to the world about the weapons of mass destruction, lied when they affirmed that the weapons existed beyond any doubt and lied when they declared that their only intention was to disarm Iraq and they would be satisfied to achieve only that."
Happy Thanksgiving
Kent and I were driving up to Davis to have Thanksgiving dinner with friends Margo & Paul and their kids and in-laws ... took us over an hour to drive 30 miles, with 40 still to go ... Kent was beginning to dread the drive home. A junction was coming up that would allow us to turn and scoot home. We did. As soon as we got in the door Kent called Margo and apologized. Now he's working on cooking a turkey.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
comments on "The Man-in-the-Moon"
The poem was written in 1984, July. This was the year after I graduated high school. There's nothing interesting about the poem, except that it so happens I'm reading Andrew Chaikin's nonfiction account of the Apollo missions, A Man on the Moon. I put that book down a few minutes ago, having decided it was time I posted a new poem-to-revise on the blog. I walked over to the paper bag of journals I'd brought back from my mother's house several months ago. I fished out the one with the smiling hippo motif. I flipped open the book and there was "The Man-in-the-Moon". The first lines have a midly amusing voice and the piece starts out rhyming, which tends to make even serious verse snort-worthy. Then nothing. Despite the bravado of "I know the end of this story" I'm sure I hadn't a clue. I figure I said it because the piece was being written as though recounting an anecdote, you know, talking about something that had happened. Something fun, something droll.
I have no idea what to do to revise this as the only thing about it I find even vaguely appealing is the voice. But I have no confidence in that sort of voice now (if I ever did). Vacationing in the Bahamas? Yawn. I'm posting the poem as a challenge. And to honor the coincidence, the echo in my own life of the Apollo missions, which are amazing.
I have no idea what to do to revise this as the only thing about it I find even vaguely appealing is the voice. But I have no confidence in that sort of voice now (if I ever did). Vacationing in the Bahamas? Yawn. I'm posting the poem as a challenge. And to honor the coincidence, the echo in my own life of the Apollo missions, which are amazing.
The Man-in-the-Moon
I had tea with the man-in-the-moon,
at least that’s whom he claimed to be,
and, although I really do not like tea
we got along splendidly,
or rather we got along well
until I started asking details about his home and his job and his family,
and reminded him about Apollo and Neal Armstrong and “one small step” and all that
and I asked him, “By the way
did you happen to run into any of those astronaut fellows
on your way to my house?”
So, of course, this put the entire conversation on edge
(if I’d known this would’ve happened I don’t suppose I would’ve advanced the subject,
especially as I know the end of this story).
The man-in-the-moon dabbed uselessly at the corner of his mouth with his linen napkin
in exactly the way I’ve seen many a nervous gentleman do in the past,
and, at length, he made this reply,
“My dear chap,” said he (and I didn’t think to ask him why he thought me such),
“You strike me as a very intelligent young man
of some manner and some wit
and I do owe you a debt of gratitude for a pleasant hour and a fragrant tea,
so I will tell you three things.
I am not telling you out of any malice on my part”
(here I record accurately, but now I have reason to suspect insincerity)
“but solely for your information.”
“One: At the time of the space missions I was vacationing in the Bahamas.
I watched the whole thing on the telly.
It was very entertaining.”
“Two: I have no other family than the moon and the stars
and the rabbit-in-the-moon
whom I generally avoid.
As to my occupation, why,
I do nothing more than I have to.”
“And three: I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
He brightened. I didn’t.
“Thanks for the tea, old man,” he said
and with that he rose up into the sky and disappeared.
I must tell you I was more than
a little surprised by this behavior,
it being so uncharacteristic of a polite gentleman to leave with quite such abruptness.
Well, to this day I have felt somewhat nervous under the gaze of the full moon,
and every since my teaset vanished
(I must tell you the man-in-the-moon complimented me highly and frequently on that very teaset)
I lock up my valuables on those certain days of the month
when the old boy’s particularly bright.
at least that’s whom he claimed to be,
and, although I really do not like tea
we got along splendidly,
or rather we got along well
until I started asking details about his home and his job and his family,
and reminded him about Apollo and Neal Armstrong and “one small step” and all that
and I asked him, “By the way
did you happen to run into any of those astronaut fellows
on your way to my house?”
So, of course, this put the entire conversation on edge
(if I’d known this would’ve happened I don’t suppose I would’ve advanced the subject,
especially as I know the end of this story).
The man-in-the-moon dabbed uselessly at the corner of his mouth with his linen napkin
in exactly the way I’ve seen many a nervous gentleman do in the past,
and, at length, he made this reply,
“My dear chap,” said he (and I didn’t think to ask him why he thought me such),
“You strike me as a very intelligent young man
of some manner and some wit
and I do owe you a debt of gratitude for a pleasant hour and a fragrant tea,
so I will tell you three things.
I am not telling you out of any malice on my part”
(here I record accurately, but now I have reason to suspect insincerity)
“but solely for your information.”
“One: At the time of the space missions I was vacationing in the Bahamas.
I watched the whole thing on the telly.
It was very entertaining.”
“Two: I have no other family than the moon and the stars
and the rabbit-in-the-moon
whom I generally avoid.
As to my occupation, why,
I do nothing more than I have to.”
“And three: I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
He brightened. I didn’t.
“Thanks for the tea, old man,” he said
and with that he rose up into the sky and disappeared.
I must tell you I was more than
a little surprised by this behavior,
it being so uncharacteristic of a polite gentleman to leave with quite such abruptness.
Well, to this day I have felt somewhat nervous under the gaze of the full moon,
and every since my teaset vanished
(I must tell you the man-in-the-moon complimented me highly and frequently on that very teaset)
I lock up my valuables on those certain days of the month
when the old boy’s particularly bright.
Friday, November 12, 2004
unreasonably satisfying
I find the election results horrifying. Like a car wreck. That you wake up in and you feel around in the dark for your body parts. And it turns out they're all there. Some of them are wet. Hard to know what that is. Blood? Gasoline? One spark and you could be suddenly aflame. And I understand that hurts. If you survive it. But you've survived the car wreck, haven't you? So you look around for a way to extricate yourself from the twisted metal. Pulling yourself out alive becomes its own interesting problem. You think, I'm trapped but I can still move and feel around for an opening. Are you still cursing the driver? Full of dread for the impending crash? You're out on the highway, aren't you? Dark. Any car, truck, hurtling along at the usual 30 above the speed limit will cream your little wreck. Won't see you at all. Crash! That'll be it. Do you panic? What will that do for me! Panicking! You take a deep breath; it tries to find room in you to hold on, but it wooshes out again.
When I hear about people killed in Iraq now I say, That's what the American people wanted.
When it's an American soldier I say, Well! The American people voted for you to die! It's democracy in action! I gotta get with it.
America voted for lies and failure! Yay! Can't be surprised about it when we get what we want.
But we Americans love lies! (Different from the rest of the world?) Love to lie down in down comforters of lies. Don't give me that truth! Too prickery and it annoys me. I have what I been told and that's it. I have a right! A right! Right not to learn. What about the 3 Rs? WAR? Writing ... Arithmetic ... Reading ... Don't tell me bout that in school. Just tell me about the pretty bombs. The pretty surgery of boom. Whee! If God wanted me to listen he would've given me ears, instead of these lie reception devices. What about eyes? Did you get eyes? I haven't seen eyes for days.
When I hear about people killed in Iraq now I say, That's what the American people wanted.
When it's an American soldier I say, Well! The American people voted for you to die! It's democracy in action! I gotta get with it.
America voted for lies and failure! Yay! Can't be surprised about it when we get what we want.
But we Americans love lies! (Different from the rest of the world?) Love to lie down in down comforters of lies. Don't give me that truth! Too prickery and it annoys me. I have what I been told and that's it. I have a right! A right! Right not to learn. What about the 3 Rs? WAR? Writing ... Arithmetic ... Reading ... Don't tell me bout that in school. Just tell me about the pretty bombs. The pretty surgery of boom. Whee! If God wanted me to listen he would've given me ears, instead of these lie reception devices. What about eyes? Did you get eyes? I haven't seen eyes for days.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Today is Mom's Birthday
On the Hawaii vacation I had a dream with Mom in it.
She was piloting a 747, flying the family to Brazil. She was maneuvering the plane through a steep valley (like the ones we flew over in a helicopter on the Big Island), the rest of us getting nervous about a big plane in such a narrow valley. Our nervousness was making Mom nervous so we tried to reassure her that, yes, we really did believe in her flying ability but if she saw a place to land we could use a rest. Just then we emerged from the narrow valley to one with a much broader floor. We spotted a divided highway and Mom agreed to land the plane on the highway, which she did quite smoothly. Being as a highway is not the place you're supposed to land a plane we shortly saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles approaching.
Except for Mom getting a little flustered by criticism the dream had a good feeling. I'm really quite tickled by the idea of Mom flying a big passenger jet.
She was piloting a 747, flying the family to Brazil. She was maneuvering the plane through a steep valley (like the ones we flew over in a helicopter on the Big Island), the rest of us getting nervous about a big plane in such a narrow valley. Our nervousness was making Mom nervous so we tried to reassure her that, yes, we really did believe in her flying ability but if she saw a place to land we could use a rest. Just then we emerged from the narrow valley to one with a much broader floor. We spotted a divided highway and Mom agreed to land the plane on the highway, which she did quite smoothly. Being as a highway is not the place you're supposed to land a plane we shortly saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles approaching.
Except for Mom getting a little flustered by criticism the dream had a good feeling. I'm really quite tickled by the idea of Mom flying a big passenger jet.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
critique
A critique that stands alone? I wrote a critique for a poem posted on a bulletin board. I wrote it as though I were writing a poem, with the particular concentration I apply to writing a poem. But I figured it would be just one of those things you write and let go out into the world. Never see it again. Then one of the other poets at the board, a poet whose writing gets more interesting as I watch it, said she thought the critique read rather like a prose poem. Does it stand alone?:
The 3rd stanza repeats the first. In the 2nd stanza a car goes by -- is it the car's door that shakes? I was placing the speaker at home, listening to the next door neighbor's dog bark, watching it bark, the dog in the yard? The door that shakes could be a house door, could be a car door.
The speaker "with eyes closed ... look[s] inside [himself]." Sees "nothing there but white with teeth." The speaker's own teeth? Speaker experiencing empty-mind? A clear whiteness? The dog barks at fog, which is white, so perhaps the speaker is visiting his own fog. And the teeth could be threatening. Teeth bite, dogs use them thus. Teeth also speak, people use them thus. Perhaps these teeth will tell the speaker something and the speaker will pass that along in his next poem.
I am not convinced the dog is barking at the breeze that moves the fog. Dog might just be barking at the fog. Dog might be barking at something else, the car maybe. I am not convinced the way the speaker has observed the dog barking gains strength (or gains anything, maybe loses something) when it is repeated. I am not convinced the speaker sees anything inside, even white. Though teeth maybe. Colors probably. White? Maybe it is the white that comes out, that is outside. Maybe it is the white that is moved by a breeze rising from the speaker. Maybe it is only white outside.
Is it night?
The poem to which the critique is addressed.
The 3rd stanza repeats the first. In the 2nd stanza a car goes by -- is it the car's door that shakes? I was placing the speaker at home, listening to the next door neighbor's dog bark, watching it bark, the dog in the yard? The door that shakes could be a house door, could be a car door.
The speaker "with eyes closed ... look[s] inside [himself]." Sees "nothing there but white with teeth." The speaker's own teeth? Speaker experiencing empty-mind? A clear whiteness? The dog barks at fog, which is white, so perhaps the speaker is visiting his own fog. And the teeth could be threatening. Teeth bite, dogs use them thus. Teeth also speak, people use them thus. Perhaps these teeth will tell the speaker something and the speaker will pass that along in his next poem.
I am not convinced the dog is barking at the breeze that moves the fog. Dog might just be barking at the fog. Dog might be barking at something else, the car maybe. I am not convinced the way the speaker has observed the dog barking gains strength (or gains anything, maybe loses something) when it is repeated. I am not convinced the speaker sees anything inside, even white. Though teeth maybe. Colors probably. White? Maybe it is the white that comes out, that is outside. Maybe it is the white that is moved by a breeze rising from the speaker. Maybe it is only white outside.
Is it night?
The poem to which the critique is addressed.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
poetry is not one thing
On her blog Kelli Russell Agodon muses about people's attitudes toward poets & poetry:
"I think to limit yourself to one class or type of poetry is to limit your own writing. You may prefer a certain type of poetry and be drawn to poets who write in a certain way, but it's important to continue to explore other ways to write, even if they seem too simple or too complex. It's similar to music. You may always have your station on jazz, but check out what's happening on a pop station once in awhile, or alternative music, or country."
I don't have any objection to this. It's a good way to look at poetry. When I first started reading poetry I saw right away that there was poetry I didn't like. A lot of poetry I didn't like. This was bothersome. Wasn't I supposed to like Poetry? If that's Poetry and I like Poetry what's wrong -- with it, with me? Maybe I don't like Poetry. I kept reading it to find out. I started my copying project, where I copy out poems I read that I don't want to leave behind. Yes, in fact I don't like all Wallace Stevens poems, but this one I've written into my notebook is really really cool. I like reading it. I look forward to reading it again.
Poetry is not one thing. Can you say Issa and Tennyson are the same thing?
Issa:
sparrows at the gate--
the brothers' first
fight
Tennyson:
Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Can the complaint be that one is poetry and one is not?
I prefer the former to the latter. I'm much more likely to copy out the Issa. I can appreciate the effects of the Tennyson, even find it stirring. I'm not big on martial themes, especially when they're bound to glory. The Issa is simple but it unfolds. Brothers compete. Cain and Abel knew that.
And no claim that Issa and Tennyson exemplify the diversity of Poetry. But they are different enough.
"I think to limit yourself to one class or type of poetry is to limit your own writing. You may prefer a certain type of poetry and be drawn to poets who write in a certain way, but it's important to continue to explore other ways to write, even if they seem too simple or too complex. It's similar to music. You may always have your station on jazz, but check out what's happening on a pop station once in awhile, or alternative music, or country."
I don't have any objection to this. It's a good way to look at poetry. When I first started reading poetry I saw right away that there was poetry I didn't like. A lot of poetry I didn't like. This was bothersome. Wasn't I supposed to like Poetry? If that's Poetry and I like Poetry what's wrong -- with it, with me? Maybe I don't like Poetry. I kept reading it to find out. I started my copying project, where I copy out poems I read that I don't want to leave behind. Yes, in fact I don't like all Wallace Stevens poems, but this one I've written into my notebook is really really cool. I like reading it. I look forward to reading it again.
Poetry is not one thing. Can you say Issa and Tennyson are the same thing?
Issa:
sparrows at the gate--
the brothers' first
fight
Tennyson:
Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Can the complaint be that one is poetry and one is not?
I prefer the former to the latter. I'm much more likely to copy out the Issa. I can appreciate the effects of the Tennyson, even find it stirring. I'm not big on martial themes, especially when they're bound to glory. The Issa is simple but it unfolds. Brothers compete. Cain and Abel knew that.
And no claim that Issa and Tennyson exemplify the diversity of Poetry. But they are different enough.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Mom's checks III
I'm looking at a Wells Fargo Bank check register that covers "5/29/69 to 9/10/72". On the inside Mom has written a P.O. Box for Wells Fargo in Santa Rosa. This, I believe, is the first check register after the divorce. My brother's birthday is in May, which means he was five when Mom recorded the first check in the register. I was 3 1/2. That's the age Mom always quoted when I asked how old I was at the time of the divorce.
It's just a check register. The only thing that gives it emotional resonance is the time it was filled. I'm nervous. It seems like I'm exposing something.
Starting balance: $119.45
[Gee, that don't seem like much. I know Mom didn't fill her checking account beyond what she felt she needed, preferring to keep the bulk of her cash in savings.]
"5/29 A&B -$20.00"
[I think this is a grocery store. A&B recurs frequently in the pages that follow.]
"6/3 Bruce ck +$256.34"
[Dad's first child support check?]
"6/6 Bon Air Apts -$120.00"
[Bon Air. Our first home in California? I think Mom brought us to Southern Cal initially to her mother's but I don't guess we stayed there long. I remember Bon Air. I remember a calico cat. Learning the word, "calico." Fascinated by its mottled coloring. It wasn't our cat, just one that lived in the building. I remember a room, a hall?, that was entered by at least 2 doors. It was tiny and close, comforting and scary when dark. I remember being shut in there, when playing. I remember it being something I liked. I remember Mom not approving -- maybe because it was a passage Do I have any other memories from this time? A presence of adults. I think Mom's friend Beverly lived nearby. She had two daughters a bit older than me & David. Some of my memories of playing with them may have come from this time. Nothing specific. Tag or something. I think they were enough older they seemed Big. But I was a shy kid. ... That rent. $120. Wow. The only thing you'd find for that these days is a shared room in a house or apartment. Maybe.]
"6/6 C.T.A. $5.00 Member, $5.00 Placement -- -$10.00"
[California Teacher's Association membership. The teacher's union. Mom taught elementary school.]
"6/6 PG&E -$8.20"
[First utility bill. Pacific Gas & Electric.]
Dad's $257 reappears on 7/8. Lots more A&B.
8/4 records the last rent check to Bon Air.
"8/26 Bishop Hansel Ford -$700"
This entry paired with "Gr. West Saving +$900"
[Confirms the theory that the bulk of Mom's money was in a savings account. Here she buys a car with cash. She was not one for borrowing. Mom had credit cards, although I only remember the store-specific kind. One for Penney's, one for Mobil. I'm sure she paid them off each month. When I was little there were commercials for something called BankAmeriCard, which at some point transmuted into VISA. A generic credit card. Did Mom ever have such a thing? Seems to me she eventually cut up all her credit cards and paid for everything with cash/check. ... The car must have been the Cortina. It was copper-colored. We named it Charlotte. I don't know who chose the name. David or me. Sadly, Mom was ever disappointed in the car. "A lemon," she said. Always giving her trouble. A station wagon, it had a rear door that opened upward giving access to a flat bed. You could fold the back seat down and have good cargo space. I think we slept there on a mat when car camping sometimes. ... The savings account was at a savings & loan, long before the savings & loan crisis killed off that category of bank. Great Western. I don't know what her savings came to.]
"8/27 freight -$15.30"
[Moving ...]
"8/30 House rent -$95.00 (70.00 + 25.00)"
[This was the house in Johnson Park? I think Mom got a teaching job in Burney. Johnson Park was a neighborhood or suburb of Burney, by the way Mom would talk about it. ... Is $70 the house rent, $25 a security deposit? ... I remember this house. It snowed here, drifts which seemed huge -- up to my waist! I don't remember hating the cold the way I later did in Sebastopol (where it doesn't snow). There was at least once enough snow for a snowman. A dirty snowman. A small dirty snowman. Was this where my thumb got smashed playing with an old gate balanced on the ruins of a brick fireplace or bbq? I think so. The vacant lot next to the house. I remember being stunned to see my flattened thumb and its rapidly changing colors. Kids would take turns sitting on the metal gate while others rocked it up and down like a seesaw. No surprise my clumsy little kid hand got caught. It was a lot of fun getting rocked, though I probably didn't get to do it much. I think it was scary, too. The bigger kids would make the gate rock furiously, which made me beg them to slow down. When my thumb got crushed I howled. I was a big howler. I remember the bandage that wrapped my thumb, how it got stained with blood and pus -- and dirt. When the bandage came off my thumbnail came off with it. That was pretty shocking. Looking at the naked flesh where the rigid thumbnail had been. I remember watching the nail grow back, ever so slowly it grew. I remember some neighbor girl eating cherry tomatoes, my briefly liking their taste before finding them inedible. Being lonesome. David & I mostly played together, rather than in a larger group. I remember envying the big kids the bikes they'd swoosh by on. The road was paved at least to our house, I believe, but turned to gravel. Mom recently remembered the pretend friend Kathy. She lived on the other side of the wall. I remember wearing a piece of white sheet like a wig, tied on around the forehead by a black ribbon or sash. Wearing this one became Kathy. Kathy probably came from David, was probably usually played by David. I say that because I was too young to be original. David was a year and a half older. If there was a game it was his idea; I was happy to go along, at most embellish. I'm sure David & I shared a room. Did Mom have her own bedroom? It was a small house. Did we stay long enough for me to go to kindergarten?]
"8/30 Shasta Pines -$27.30"
[hotel?]
"8/30 Burney Army, Navy -$36.76"
[Mom was a big fan of army surplus; we had a wool US Army blanket which she treasured. We had small folding shovels. Metal drinking cups/bowls that stacked, one with handles which folded and snapped tight shut.]
"8/31 Safeway -$25.00"
[A&B no longer appears. Now it's Safeway.]
...
OK. This one is spinning me around. I was right to hesitate before plunging in. I'm going to put it aside for now.
It's just a check register. The only thing that gives it emotional resonance is the time it was filled. I'm nervous. It seems like I'm exposing something.
Starting balance: $119.45
[Gee, that don't seem like much. I know Mom didn't fill her checking account beyond what she felt she needed, preferring to keep the bulk of her cash in savings.]
"5/29 A&B -$20.00"
[I think this is a grocery store. A&B recurs frequently in the pages that follow.]
"6/3 Bruce ck +$256.34"
[Dad's first child support check?]
"6/6 Bon Air Apts -$120.00"
[Bon Air. Our first home in California? I think Mom brought us to Southern Cal initially to her mother's but I don't guess we stayed there long. I remember Bon Air. I remember a calico cat. Learning the word, "calico." Fascinated by its mottled coloring. It wasn't our cat, just one that lived in the building. I remember a room, a hall?, that was entered by at least 2 doors. It was tiny and close, comforting and scary when dark. I remember being shut in there, when playing. I remember it being something I liked. I remember Mom not approving -- maybe because it was a passage Do I have any other memories from this time? A presence of adults. I think Mom's friend Beverly lived nearby. She had two daughters a bit older than me & David. Some of my memories of playing with them may have come from this time. Nothing specific. Tag or something. I think they were enough older they seemed Big. But I was a shy kid. ... That rent. $120. Wow. The only thing you'd find for that these days is a shared room in a house or apartment. Maybe.]
"6/6 C.T.A. $5.00 Member, $5.00 Placement -- -$10.00"
[California Teacher's Association membership. The teacher's union. Mom taught elementary school.]
"6/6 PG&E -$8.20"
[First utility bill. Pacific Gas & Electric.]
Dad's $257 reappears on 7/8. Lots more A&B.
8/4 records the last rent check to Bon Air.
"8/26 Bishop Hansel Ford -$700"
This entry paired with "Gr. West Saving +$900"
[Confirms the theory that the bulk of Mom's money was in a savings account. Here she buys a car with cash. She was not one for borrowing. Mom had credit cards, although I only remember the store-specific kind. One for Penney's, one for Mobil. I'm sure she paid them off each month. When I was little there were commercials for something called BankAmeriCard, which at some point transmuted into VISA. A generic credit card. Did Mom ever have such a thing? Seems to me she eventually cut up all her credit cards and paid for everything with cash/check. ... The car must have been the Cortina. It was copper-colored. We named it Charlotte. I don't know who chose the name. David or me. Sadly, Mom was ever disappointed in the car. "A lemon," she said. Always giving her trouble. A station wagon, it had a rear door that opened upward giving access to a flat bed. You could fold the back seat down and have good cargo space. I think we slept there on a mat when car camping sometimes. ... The savings account was at a savings & loan, long before the savings & loan crisis killed off that category of bank. Great Western. I don't know what her savings came to.]
"8/27 freight -$15.30"
[Moving ...]
"8/30 House rent -$95.00 (70.00 + 25.00)"
[This was the house in Johnson Park? I think Mom got a teaching job in Burney. Johnson Park was a neighborhood or suburb of Burney, by the way Mom would talk about it. ... Is $70 the house rent, $25 a security deposit? ... I remember this house. It snowed here, drifts which seemed huge -- up to my waist! I don't remember hating the cold the way I later did in Sebastopol (where it doesn't snow). There was at least once enough snow for a snowman. A dirty snowman. A small dirty snowman. Was this where my thumb got smashed playing with an old gate balanced on the ruins of a brick fireplace or bbq? I think so. The vacant lot next to the house. I remember being stunned to see my flattened thumb and its rapidly changing colors. Kids would take turns sitting on the metal gate while others rocked it up and down like a seesaw. No surprise my clumsy little kid hand got caught. It was a lot of fun getting rocked, though I probably didn't get to do it much. I think it was scary, too. The bigger kids would make the gate rock furiously, which made me beg them to slow down. When my thumb got crushed I howled. I was a big howler. I remember the bandage that wrapped my thumb, how it got stained with blood and pus -- and dirt. When the bandage came off my thumbnail came off with it. That was pretty shocking. Looking at the naked flesh where the rigid thumbnail had been. I remember watching the nail grow back, ever so slowly it grew. I remember some neighbor girl eating cherry tomatoes, my briefly liking their taste before finding them inedible. Being lonesome. David & I mostly played together, rather than in a larger group. I remember envying the big kids the bikes they'd swoosh by on. The road was paved at least to our house, I believe, but turned to gravel. Mom recently remembered the pretend friend Kathy. She lived on the other side of the wall. I remember wearing a piece of white sheet like a wig, tied on around the forehead by a black ribbon or sash. Wearing this one became Kathy. Kathy probably came from David, was probably usually played by David. I say that because I was too young to be original. David was a year and a half older. If there was a game it was his idea; I was happy to go along, at most embellish. I'm sure David & I shared a room. Did Mom have her own bedroom? It was a small house. Did we stay long enough for me to go to kindergarten?]
"8/30 Shasta Pines -$27.30"
[hotel?]
"8/30 Burney Army, Navy -$36.76"
[Mom was a big fan of army surplus; we had a wool US Army blanket which she treasured. We had small folding shovels. Metal drinking cups/bowls that stacked, one with handles which folded and snapped tight shut.]
"8/31 Safeway -$25.00"
[A&B no longer appears. Now it's Safeway.]
...
OK. This one is spinning me around. I was right to hesitate before plunging in. I'm going to put it aside for now.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Sebastopol
I drove up to Sebastopol today. Are there really that many boxes of things stacked up in the basement? This was my first visit since Mom died at the end of July. C & M, who are renting the place, have boxed everything and stacked it all neatly in corners in the basement. I loaded all my records into the Jeep. Also a box of books. Mom's diary. She kept a diary for awhile after I moved out. There was much I didn't even touch, however. Much that just needs to donated or thrown away. It's getting easier to throw things away. But I hate the waste of throwing out usable things. C & M have adopted several pieces of furniture. Vic when last I saw her at her jewelry/minerals booth on Telegraph here in Berkeley referred to "C's place," then realized she was talking about my old house and apologized. "She's just made it so C," Vic explained. Maybe to somebody who didn't live there. I'm pleased to see C & M using the house's nooks and crannies, and asserting their own identities there, even doing some landscaping, but it looks like the old same place to me. I don't want to live there.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Mom's checks II
I posted several entries from Mom's check registry from 1973-74 yesterday. Today I'm going to post on checks written 1971-72.
The front cover doesn't have a bank logo, Mom has handwritten on the "name of bank" blank, "Shasta Co."
Mom named her sister as joint tenant on the account. In case of emergency, I believe. Sylvia could swoop in and take over Mom's accounts (& Mom's kids, of course) ...
First entry 12-20-71 "Joyce -- Glenn sick one week -- end of Jan."
[Mom was teaching elementary school. Did she stay home an entire week while I was sick? I wonder of what? This might have been the time I had mumps or chicken pox. I was 6.]
12/27 "Early Years mag." -$7.00
[self-help subscription?]
12/27 "I can Read Bk. Club" -$2.17
1/9/1972 "E. Burney Milk $1.20 D&G" -$2.40
[paying for milk at school for David & me?]
1/11 "Redding opthamology" -$25.00
1/23 "Johnson Park water" -$3.00
[We lived in Johnson Park near Burney in Northern California.]
...
lots of entries for utilities, groceries, bank ... several entries each for "Joyce Lindler" [maybe she was a babysitter?] and "James Barfuss" [no idea]
...
4/24 "Disabled Am. Vets" -$15.00
[I'm always interested in what charity somebody donates to.]
4/29 "Fall River Pay" +$572.58
[Mom's teaching paycheck?]
5/21 "Hyatt's Bk 2130 Hil Hop Dr." -$5.60
[no idea but it's so specific]
7/25 "Nevada State Dept of Ed" -$1.00
[An application? We were living in California, not very close to Nevada ... maybe she was thinking of an eastward move?]
9/18 "Exchange Bank" -$156.65
[This is the final entry; it's followed by another $500 transfer to Exchange Bank and the balance to Sacto Teachers C.U. ... We moved from Johnson Park? This seems about the right date for it. To Santa Rosa, I think. Or was it Rohnert Park?]
The front cover doesn't have a bank logo, Mom has handwritten on the "name of bank" blank, "Shasta Co."
Mom named her sister as joint tenant on the account. In case of emergency, I believe. Sylvia could swoop in and take over Mom's accounts (& Mom's kids, of course) ...
First entry 12-20-71 "Joyce -- Glenn sick one week -- end of Jan."
[Mom was teaching elementary school. Did she stay home an entire week while I was sick? I wonder of what? This might have been the time I had mumps or chicken pox. I was 6.]
12/27 "Early Years mag." -$7.00
[self-help subscription?]
12/27 "I can Read Bk. Club" -$2.17
1/9/1972 "E. Burney Milk $1.20 D&G" -$2.40
[paying for milk at school for David & me?]
1/11 "Redding opthamology" -$25.00
1/23 "Johnson Park water" -$3.00
[We lived in Johnson Park near Burney in Northern California.]
...
lots of entries for utilities, groceries, bank ... several entries each for "Joyce Lindler" [maybe she was a babysitter?] and "James Barfuss" [no idea]
...
4/24 "Disabled Am. Vets" -$15.00
[I'm always interested in what charity somebody donates to.]
4/29 "Fall River Pay" +$572.58
[Mom's teaching paycheck?]
5/21 "Hyatt's Bk 2130 Hil Hop Dr." -$5.60
[no idea but it's so specific]
7/25 "Nevada State Dept of Ed" -$1.00
[An application? We were living in California, not very close to Nevada ... maybe she was thinking of an eastward move?]
9/18 "Exchange Bank" -$156.65
[This is the final entry; it's followed by another $500 transfer to Exchange Bank and the balance to Sacto Teachers C.U. ... We moved from Johnson Park? This seems about the right date for it. To Santa Rosa, I think. Or was it Rohnert Park?]
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Poetry & Pizza reading
Last night we hosted a Hogtown Creek Review reading at Poetry & Pizza. As I'm now poetry editor at HCR (yay!) I hosted; besides me we had Tim Donnelly, Dale Jensen, and Niloufar Talebi. We had a good turnout. Maybe half the audience was Katharine's students from Skyline Community College.
Niloufar asked me if I'd brought my cats. She can't keep a cat where she's living and misses the critters terribly. She came late and after the reading left for another function. But it was nice seeing her.
Tim read some new work -- always nice to hear new stuff from Tim. I've heard his older stuff ... some of the new pieces were commemorative of friends who've died: cancer, overdose, AIDS ...
Dale has long white hair and white beard haloing pink skin so he has a wildmanish look. Glasses which seem to magnify his eyes. I like his surrealist work. He reads well. Except for the barking, which plays to the wildman look, I guess. He had a new book and was donating sales of it to HCR. I got a copy and look forward to reading it.
I mostly read poems from my latest poetry notebook. I've been feeling disconnected from current work and was pleased to find it presented well.
Sadly the new issue of HCR has not yet gotten here. So I wasn't able to offer any for sale last night. I got an email from Elisa that she'd mailed them. Maybe they'll get here in time for me to lug them to La Pena, Oct 6, when Kirmen Uribe and his band will be playing. He has a poem in the new issue. Looking forward to meeting him and Elizabeth Macklin (a poem of hers is in HCR, too).
Niloufar asked me if I'd brought my cats. She can't keep a cat where she's living and misses the critters terribly. She came late and after the reading left for another function. But it was nice seeing her.
Tim read some new work -- always nice to hear new stuff from Tim. I've heard his older stuff ... some of the new pieces were commemorative of friends who've died: cancer, overdose, AIDS ...
Dale has long white hair and white beard haloing pink skin so he has a wildmanish look. Glasses which seem to magnify his eyes. I like his surrealist work. He reads well. Except for the barking, which plays to the wildman look, I guess. He had a new book and was donating sales of it to HCR. I got a copy and look forward to reading it.
I mostly read poems from my latest poetry notebook. I've been feeling disconnected from current work and was pleased to find it presented well.
Sadly the new issue of HCR has not yet gotten here. So I wasn't able to offer any for sale last night. I got an email from Elisa that she'd mailed them. Maybe they'll get here in time for me to lug them to La Pena, Oct 6, when Kirmen Uribe and his band will be playing. He has a poem in the new issue. Looking forward to meeting him and Elizabeth Macklin (a poem of hers is in HCR, too).
Mom's checks
Oct 20, 1973 "Cecil Cox -- work on the house" -$130.00
Oct 23 "City of Sebastopol Roof Permit" -$5.00
Oct 30 "Bruce -- Glenn birthd. $210 less $30 cash" +$180.00
[Bruce is my dad; was $180 the usual child support payment?]
Nov 7 "Palm Drive Hosp." -$200.
Nov 8 "Palm Drive Hosp." -$227.04
[more than $400 to the local hospital ... for what? David had his appendix out when a kid, but at this time?]
Nov 25 "Sequoia Mortgage" -$152.00
Nov 26 "Dr Jacobs -- Xray & fill front tooth" -$20.00
[only $20? even for 1973 that seems a small amount. maybe it's a partial payment.]
Dec 4 "Scholastic Bks -- David -- Darn Cat, Good Ol' Snoopy, Caves" -$1.35
[Funny that Mom recorded what books my brother David ordered from the Scholastic Book Service. I remember those book club pamphlets passed around in class. I always wanted to order several books. But I seldom did. I remember the books Mom notes. Except for 'Good Ol' Snoopy', though we had many Peanuts books.]
Dec 15 "KQED" -$15.00
[San Francisco public TV station. I remember Mom would say their basic membership was too expensive. Sometimes she'd send them $5 and would grump when they didn't seem grateful. I remember seeing their magazine around the house. Nothing I was going to read at that age. In Dec 73 I was 8.]
Dec 31 "Bruce -- check Dec -- $200 + $16.00 G. dentist LeDu" +$216.00
[G., that would be me, right? Just a check up? Or one of my many cavity fillings ...]
Dec 31, 1973 "Alaska Children's Serv. Inc Tx" -$5.00
[I wonder what this is. Though I was born in Alaska we'd been living in California for 4 or 5 years by this time.]
Jan 15, 1974 "Scholastic Books -- David -- Pnuts Cook Bk, Frankueler, Ghostly, Tunnel Time"
-$1.80
[It was "Time Tunnel" ... "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler" ... "Ghostly"? ... again I don't remember the Peanuts book, a cookbook? Curiously this entry is scribbled over, but I know we owned at least two of these books.]
Jan 24 "Ranger Rick" -$6.00
[a nature magazine for kids. I liked looking at the pictures.]
Feb 19 "PG&E" -$14.67
[Pacific Gas & Electric]
March 11 "Infernal Rev." -$87.52
[OK. Maybe it's not really an 'f' ...]
Mar 26 "Analy Veterinary Hosp. -- cat shots" -$14.00
...
June 15 "Press Demo -- ad -- Little Yellow Sch." -$6.24
[I remember this. Mom toyed with the idea of starting a private school out of our house. I know I was having trouble with public school and Mom thought it might be a way she could afford to home school me, I guess. She got a couple nibbles from the ad but nothing much came of it.]
July 8 "Back packers Tent, Sleep mats" -$17.81
[Tent? When did we ever have a tent? When we'd go camping we'd sleep under the stars.]
...
A very pruned version of Mom's check register from 10/12/73 to 7/12/74. I left out garbage service, grocery stores, cable TV, telephone, etc. Now I'm dropping this little book in the recycle bin. It doesn't even have Mom's name on it so it doesn't need to go to the shredder.
Oct 23 "City of Sebastopol Roof Permit" -$5.00
Oct 30 "Bruce -- Glenn birthd. $210 less $30 cash" +$180.00
[Bruce is my dad; was $180 the usual child support payment?]
Nov 7 "Palm Drive Hosp." -$200.
Nov 8 "Palm Drive Hosp." -$227.04
[more than $400 to the local hospital ... for what? David had his appendix out when a kid, but at this time?]
Nov 25 "Sequoia Mortgage" -$152.00
Nov 26 "Dr Jacobs -- Xray & fill front tooth" -$20.00
[only $20? even for 1973 that seems a small amount. maybe it's a partial payment.]
Dec 4 "Scholastic Bks -- David -- Darn Cat, Good Ol' Snoopy, Caves" -$1.35
[Funny that Mom recorded what books my brother David ordered from the Scholastic Book Service. I remember those book club pamphlets passed around in class. I always wanted to order several books. But I seldom did. I remember the books Mom notes. Except for 'Good Ol' Snoopy', though we had many Peanuts books.]
Dec 15 "KQED" -$15.00
[San Francisco public TV station. I remember Mom would say their basic membership was too expensive. Sometimes she'd send them $5 and would grump when they didn't seem grateful. I remember seeing their magazine around the house. Nothing I was going to read at that age. In Dec 73 I was 8.]
Dec 31 "Bruce -- check Dec -- $200 + $16.00 G. dentist LeDu" +$216.00
[G., that would be me, right? Just a check up? Or one of my many cavity fillings ...]
Dec 31, 1973 "Alaska Children's Serv. Inc Tx" -$5.00
[I wonder what this is. Though I was born in Alaska we'd been living in California for 4 or 5 years by this time.]
Jan 15, 1974 "Scholastic Books -- David -- Pnuts Cook Bk, Frankueler, Ghostly, Tunnel Time"
-$1.80
[It was "Time Tunnel" ... "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankweiler" ... "Ghostly"? ... again I don't remember the Peanuts book, a cookbook? Curiously this entry is scribbled over, but I know we owned at least two of these books.]
Jan 24 "Ranger Rick" -$6.00
[a nature magazine for kids. I liked looking at the pictures.]
Feb 19 "PG&E" -$14.67
[Pacific Gas & Electric]
March 11 "Infernal Rev." -$87.52
[OK. Maybe it's not really an 'f' ...]
Mar 26 "Analy Veterinary Hosp. -- cat shots" -$14.00
...
June 15 "Press Demo -- ad -- Little Yellow Sch." -$6.24
[I remember this. Mom toyed with the idea of starting a private school out of our house. I know I was having trouble with public school and Mom thought it might be a way she could afford to home school me, I guess. She got a couple nibbles from the ad but nothing much came of it.]
July 8 "Back packers Tent, Sleep mats" -$17.81
[Tent? When did we ever have a tent? When we'd go camping we'd sleep under the stars.]
...
A very pruned version of Mom's check register from 10/12/73 to 7/12/74. I left out garbage service, grocery stores, cable TV, telephone, etc. Now I'm dropping this little book in the recycle bin. It doesn't even have Mom's name on it so it doesn't need to go to the shredder.
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