April 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
can’t say I take kindly
to this concept of city people buying
houses in the country to rent to city
people who want to spend time
in the country right off the bat
cutting down all the country trees
March 20, 2016 § 2 Comments
I was reading what she An American Declutterer had said about (our) stuff and it touched a nerve, a heartstring already played.
handset and printed, from the first book I printed with my new press, in my new shop.
Ah yes, the relationships we build we things, for better and worse.
November 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
if there is innocence to be had at our age then we already are, beyond that to talk about it wistfully as if we aren’t is a dog(ma) and pony show is the language of privilege, (like vulnerable as if we aren’t which is why we aren’t) or as if the patina of our experience should be disavowed as if it and therefore we are no longer innocent in that bad of good or bad way, in that besmirched no longer virginal now whore way
no I’m thinking open is the least laden of the words I’d choose but there is a suppleness and fertility creativity and delight and readiness by which I mean ripe and keen and fierce and peaceful, by which I mean at peace, at play in the word—not to mention imaginative and generous—that doesn’t look anything like innocent to me
October 11, 2014 § 4 Comments
I’ve lost count
of the sunrises on the road and walking
as if to the river but to the infirmary as if on the path but
in the hall as if from my kitchen but from the cafeteria as if
with my favorite morning mug but a styrofoam cup instead
as if medicine woman grandmother curandero nurse
the sun paints my face
& I smile as how short is the distance or long
from one vision to the next
published in REMEMBERING OUR FUTURE
PenHouseInk vol 3, 2004
July 7, 2014 § 3 Comments
It was not an innocent conversation.
He is younger, I am a woman. I have lived in the neighborhood more than twenty years; the oldest of the newcomers. He is the newest, and wanting bad, to put his stink on his place, a second home in the country.
It is more or less than a neighborhood beef.
It was civil. Metered. He owns and manages his own business, clearly sees himself as a good communicator, but he doesn’t attend to the nuances. Nuance is my metier, was my profession, is my passion, pricks my curiosity feeds me lures me seduces me, is my drug of choice and I get it and savor it wherever and whenever I can.
Ironically my argument brooked no nuance whatever, needed none. What he had done was wrong. And I’ve come to learn in that instance once said, little else needs saying. Wrong is wrong. But, it still is a matter of opinion. A matter of culture. Of values. Of bearing. Of citizenship. Of how do you know. How do I know. Eeny meeny miny moe. Same neighborhood. Different world.
He said he had the right to have an open campfire on his property.
No question. I said. And lawful. Warming or cooking fires are.
But not the whole story. It is a hot dry July in the middle of one of the worst droughts on record, fire danger is EXTREME, water is scarce, and his property is under Redwood and low hanging Bay trees in the middle of a populated neighborhood. And the afternoon wind was still blowing. Sparks were flying. And one of the neighbors, scared, called the fire department. We all were worried.
In full regalia they came, and left. He is within his rights to have a cooking or a warming fire on his property.
But, had we asked them, if having a fire under these conditions was prudent, or a reasonable risk, they would have said no. He agreed. But thought it was his right to take this risk. We all take risks he said.
But, personal risks which implicate others are no longer personal. Behaviors which can inflict harm on others are inherently a public matter; the rights and good of the many instead of the rights and pleasures of one. The very building blocks of community. Of civility. Of respect.
I said his having a fire was wrong.
He said he had the right.
I said, given the conditions it was wrong, and disrespectful.
He wondered if there was anything he could do to allay my fears.
I said, wait for the rains.
He thought I was taking it too personally. He’d never had a fire get out of control. And he, wanting to be honest said it was likely he would continue to have campfires any time he wanted.
As I expected.
Not an innocent conversation. It is the changing of the guard. A young man unto himself, proud of the sovereignty he has a right to. Me, elder at the outpost, responsible now to the good of the many and the differences between right and wrong.
November 20, 2013 § 1 Comment
holiday cards, and crows which aren’t so much crows any more as stories about don, and death and how for better and worse somehow the dying are automatically sainted as if in life they weren’t pains in the ass and of course the dithering which precedes binding and books
and ones off, or one offs and more artist statements and
red yellow orange brown silence
and before I had a studio I had a bedroom and shower, a journal and just the right pen