Wait, what is that word?
ABCDarian -say it out loud and the clues fall into place; it's a piece structured by having the first letter of a line follow the sequence of the alphabet, an acrostic in alpha order, if you will. So, the first word in each line of a poem or in the sentence of a story begins with letters in alphabetic order: A, B,C, D, etc. See the rich, trope-filled poem below by Cathy Park Hong.
We had fun with this in Jumpstart a few meetings ago. (Probably only two weeks, but feels like half-a-lifetime since then). It does take some fussing with, perfect for filling up some time. You can use short lines in a poem -- or use longer sentences in a prose piece, but either way, part of the fun of the writing and the reading of it is seeing how the alphabet dictates the path. Give a whirl! And feel free to post your result in the comments.
ABCDarian Western by Cathy Park Hong
Paris Review, Issue no. 191 (Winter 2009) -
Ate stew, shot a man,
Bandy body spraddled, so full of lead
Cabron can’t even walk uphill.
Derringer spit out of bullets
Empty as a gutted steer
Found a soiled dove
Got me some cash roll for a night.
Hacienda next dawn,
Indian scalps round my neck.
Jacal shack full of hunched men
Kicked that hut down,
Limped them with shots,
Morning to scalp them,
Noontime, sang.
Offal yarned in my satchel saddle
Prairie oyster in the other,
Quit the flats, into town
Raised on prunes and proverbs
Scorched a church,
Threw down a priest hiding
Under mesquite shrub and blatting woolies,
Vaquero packs me with iron,
Wastes me easy as if
X marked my vest plain as
Yucca country.
Zanjero digs a ditch.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
We Will Remember in November
Death Panels, Brought to You By Republicans This Time.
I write this piece not to be divisive or cruel but to counter the current narrative that this Republican Administration is handling this pandemic so expertly. They are not. By their own denial of science and fact, by their own desire to cut government to bare bones, they have created this mess. They have an the utter lack of regard for the health of the citizens of this country. The role of government is to protect citizens who pay taxes for social and health protections and who elect legislators to create laws and programs to implement these protections. Now we're seeing how the Republican plans are playing out, with the lack of supplies, lack of services, lack of knowledge, lack of care. Trumps's famous words are "I'm not responsible!" Oh, but I beg to differ. He's the head of the government. The buck stops with him.And his Repubican cronies are not helping him one little bit.
Remember back in the last decade, when Republicans accused ObamaCare of creating Death Panels, where doctors would be forced to decide who got treatment and therefore lived and who would receive no treatment and thus died? That, of course, never happened and never would have happened. ObamaCare gave older people a better crack at a healthier life.
But hey, look at what could so easily happen now. Due to the incompetence and ignorance of this Republican President and his Republican Administration (Toady Pence comes to mind), head doctors in hard-hit hospitals may well be to forced to make those who-lives, who-dies decisions after all.
This Trump White House severely cut funds to the CDC and dismissed the task force created specifically to respond to epidemics and pandemics, a task force set up by Obama in 2010 after the H1N1 Epidemic. As a result of these Republican cuts, we are currently unable to respond to this pandemic in a timely and effective manner. No wonder there was panic-buying; it's the only thing we were allowed to do. And we certainly do know how to do it, don't we?
Without adequate funding of our public health system from the CDC on down, without support for trained doctors and scientists, we can't protect our most vulnerable citizens - or any of our citizens. We didn't develop reliable tests quickly enough because we didn't have the personnel on deck to do it. We didn't test quick enough because the Rump Administration preferred to pretend the epidemic didn't exist. Don't get me started on the lack of supplies for doctors and nurses on the front lines, which to my mind is criminal.
Now the virus is out in the wild and what testing we can finally do might not be enough to slow its progress. If we can't flatten the curve of the growth of this virus with social distancing, too many people will get ill at once and our hospitals will be overwhelmed with sick and dying patients. Then doctors will be forced to make life and death decisions, as they are already forced to do in Italy. And by all accounts, we are about 10 days behind Italy.
So, Republicans, you gifted us those Death Panels after all. You created this mess by your short-sighted refusal to adequately fund public health services that benefit everyone in the country, regardless of class or status or political party or persuasion.
Now you own the Death Panels - and the mess.
And we will remember this in November.
I write this piece not to be divisive or cruel but to counter the current narrative that this Republican Administration is handling this pandemic so expertly. They are not. By their own denial of science and fact, by their own desire to cut government to bare bones, they have created this mess. They have an the utter lack of regard for the health of the citizens of this country. The role of government is to protect citizens who pay taxes for social and health protections and who elect legislators to create laws and programs to implement these protections. Now we're seeing how the Republican plans are playing out, with the lack of supplies, lack of services, lack of knowledge, lack of care. Trumps's famous words are "I'm not responsible!" Oh, but I beg to differ. He's the head of the government. The buck stops with him.And his Repubican cronies are not helping him one little bit.
Remember back in the last decade, when Republicans accused ObamaCare of creating Death Panels, where doctors would be forced to decide who got treatment and therefore lived and who would receive no treatment and thus died? That, of course, never happened and never would have happened. ObamaCare gave older people a better crack at a healthier life.
But hey, look at what could so easily happen now. Due to the incompetence and ignorance of this Republican President and his Republican Administration (Toady Pence comes to mind), head doctors in hard-hit hospitals may well be to forced to make those who-lives, who-dies decisions after all.
This Trump White House severely cut funds to the CDC and dismissed the task force created specifically to respond to epidemics and pandemics, a task force set up by Obama in 2010 after the H1N1 Epidemic. As a result of these Republican cuts, we are currently unable to respond to this pandemic in a timely and effective manner. No wonder there was panic-buying; it's the only thing we were allowed to do. And we certainly do know how to do it, don't we?
Without adequate funding of our public health system from the CDC on down, without support for trained doctors and scientists, we can't protect our most vulnerable citizens - or any of our citizens. We didn't develop reliable tests quickly enough because we didn't have the personnel on deck to do it. We didn't test quick enough because the Rump Administration preferred to pretend the epidemic didn't exist. Don't get me started on the lack of supplies for doctors and nurses on the front lines, which to my mind is criminal.
Now the virus is out in the wild and what testing we can finally do might not be enough to slow its progress. If we can't flatten the curve of the growth of this virus with social distancing, too many people will get ill at once and our hospitals will be overwhelmed with sick and dying patients. Then doctors will be forced to make life and death decisions, as they are already forced to do in Italy. And by all accounts, we are about 10 days behind Italy.
So, Republicans, you gifted us those Death Panels after all. You created this mess by your short-sighted refusal to adequately fund public health services that benefit everyone in the country, regardless of class or status or political party or persuasion.
Now you own the Death Panels - and the mess.
And we will remember this in November.
Thursday, March 12, 2020
Holding Breath
These past few days, it feels like we've been holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The center is directionless and will not hold; the confusion is mighty and amplifies our unease. Solid, moral leadership from the top about COVID-19 would have given us a base to work from, even if dire. Instead, we have this free-fall, this unidentified free-wheeling panic, with little way to determine what's true or exactly what to do.
We are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps we are watching it tip over in slow-motion and tumble downward.
Meanwhile, we're washing hands, wiping counters down, offering elbow bumps and vulcan salutes. The impulse to touch upon greeting is so innate, it feels rude not to offer a hand or a hug. But it's the best way to break the bridges the virus uses for its invasion from one host to the other.
Keeping my hands from my face is a monumental task and requires as much concentration as mindfulness meditation. But the upshot is that for the first time in decades, I have fingernails. Real tools! I can flick open tops of tubes; I can cut into the deep skin of oranges, inhaling the sweet spray.
We muster on, because, really, what else can we do? We hang tough, we keep super-clean, we maintain our distances, we watch the shoe falling in slow motion.
By the way, the oranges are delicious. And the Vitamin C is good for you.
We are waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps we are watching it tip over in slow-motion and tumble downward.
Meanwhile, we're washing hands, wiping counters down, offering elbow bumps and vulcan salutes. The impulse to touch upon greeting is so innate, it feels rude not to offer a hand or a hug. But it's the best way to break the bridges the virus uses for its invasion from one host to the other.
Keeping my hands from my face is a monumental task and requires as much concentration as mindfulness meditation. But the upshot is that for the first time in decades, I have fingernails. Real tools! I can flick open tops of tubes; I can cut into the deep skin of oranges, inhaling the sweet spray.
We muster on, because, really, what else can we do? We hang tough, we keep super-clean, we maintain our distances, we watch the shoe falling in slow motion.
By the way, the oranges are delicious. And the Vitamin C is good for you.
Monday, March 9, 2020
Five Words: Persnickety Britches
This is a fun way to slip out from under the editor's watchful eye. Use a method to select random words: if you are writing solo, you could find six words on page 6 of the sixth book in your stack, for instance. In our groups, everyone contributes a favorite or compelling word. The challenge in each case is to use all of the welected words in a piece of any kind - a poem, a mini-story, something stirred up from memory. Here's something I wrote that arose out of the five words from last Tuesday's Jumpstart in Petaluma class.
The words : britches, persnickty, authentic, tantalizing, meditative.
The britches were tantalizing, no doubt about that, but waaaaaay off limits. Wearing them too early would imply that I was too big for them. As the littlest tyke in a long slew of siblings, I already knew that would not be a good thing.
But I yearned for them: hand-me-downs from my next oldest brother, they now hung in the closet we had once shared, left behind as he had been hurried into the waiting truck, tailpipe steaming in the pearly dawn, his clothes gathered in a rush by my oldest sister and heaped into the battered tan and brown tweed suitcase. She was not at all persnickety about what was chosen, how they were rolled, folded, squeezed. I watched, hunched on my lower bunk, quilt bunched around me. The suitcase had the authenticity of distance and the authority of loss - it gathered him up and took him away to his father's house for transgressions I couldn't yet fathom. Even now, decades later, sitting in meditation and recollection, I only feel the hole, the gap of space that he had once inhabited and which I then proceeded to fill, transgressions and all.
The words : britches, persnickty, authentic, tantalizing, meditative.
The britches were tantalizing, no doubt about that, but waaaaaay off limits. Wearing them too early would imply that I was too big for them. As the littlest tyke in a long slew of siblings, I already knew that would not be a good thing.
But I yearned for them: hand-me-downs from my next oldest brother, they now hung in the closet we had once shared, left behind as he had been hurried into the waiting truck, tailpipe steaming in the pearly dawn, his clothes gathered in a rush by my oldest sister and heaped into the battered tan and brown tweed suitcase. She was not at all persnickety about what was chosen, how they were rolled, folded, squeezed. I watched, hunched on my lower bunk, quilt bunched around me. The suitcase had the authenticity of distance and the authority of loss - it gathered him up and took him away to his father's house for transgressions I couldn't yet fathom. Even now, decades later, sitting in meditation and recollection, I only feel the hole, the gap of space that he had once inhabited and which I then proceeded to fill, transgressions and all.
Jumpstart Writing Workshops ~ March
In Jumpstart Writing, we write to several prompts to get the juices flowing and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get straight down to putting words on the page. All you need is a pen or pencil and some paper. The best part? It's fun. See this post on my blog to learn more about this process -- and check out some of the other posts for examples of what we do.
You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot for tons of prompts, discussions of the free-writing process and links to writing resources.
Here are the logistical details -- feel free to share this email with friends who might be interested in jump-starting their writing, too.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ Susan Bono leads the way in March - March 2, 9, 16, 24.
Tuesday morning, 10 - noon ~ with Lakin Khan ~ March 3, 10, 17, 25, 31
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
Wednesdays, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. March 11, 18, 25 with Lakin Khan
onward and upward, writing all the while,
Lakin Willard Khan.
Saturday, February 29, 2020
JumpStart March - let's leap, let's go!
On Weds, March 4th, I will be out of town at the AWP Conference in San Antonio, TX, so no Jumpstart Workshop in San Rafael that day. Alhough I will meet the Petaluma group that Tuesday morning, March 3rd - and then I'll go vote! All the calendar and location deets are below -- or check Copperfield's Calendar of Events here.
In Jumpstart Writing, we write to several prompts, get the juices flowing, and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on the page. All you need is a pen or pencil and some paper. The best part? It's fun. See this post on my blog to learn more about this process -- and check out some of the other posts for examples of what we do.
You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot for tons of prompts, discussions of the free-writing process and links to writing resources.
Here are the logistical details -- feel free to share this email with friends who might be interested in jump-starting their writing, too.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ Susan Bono leads the way in March - March 2, 9, 16, 24.
Tuesday morning, 10 - noon ~ with Lakin Khan ~ March 3, 10, 17, 25, 31
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
Wednesdays, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. No meeting March 4th. We'll continue with March 11, 18, 25 with Lakin Khan
onward and upward, writing all the while,
Lakin Willard Khan.
Monday, February 24, 2020
Jump Starting Writing - February!
A quick note about March: I will be out of town at AWP in San Antonio, TX beginning Weds, March 4th ... so no Jumpstart Workshop in San Rafael that day. (Though I will meet the Petaluma group that Tuesday morning, March 3rd -- but more about that next week!)
So I'll see folks in San Rafael on Weds, Feb 26th and Marlene Cullen will facilitate Monday evening and Tuesday morning in Petaluma. See all the calendar and location deets below -- or check Copperfield's Calendar of Events here. And thanks to Marlene Cullen for her shout out on her blog The Write Spot -- and hello! to the folks visiting from there.
In Jumpstart Writing, we write to several prompts, get the juices flowing, and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on paper. The best part? It's fun!
 |
| Green --peace? |
Curious about just what Jumpstart Writing entails? See my this post on my blog to learn more about this process -- and maybe see this response to a prompt in class on using repetitions.
You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot for more freewriting prompts.
Here are the details -- feel free to share this email with friends who might be interested.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Useful links:
You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot for more freewriting prompts.
Here are the details -- feel free to share this email with friends who might be interested.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ Marlene Cullen leads the way ~ Feb 24
Tuesday evening, 10 - noon ~ with Marlene Cullen ~ Feb 25
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
Wednesdays, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Feb 26 with Lakin Khan
Here's a link to Copperfields Events Calendar
onward and upward, writing all the while,
Lakin Willard Khan.
The Write Spot https://www.thewritespot.us/jumpstart.phpRhymes With Bacon https://lakinkhan.blogspot.com/
Monday, February 17, 2020
It so happens...
We were practicing repetitions last fall, playing around with anaphora, the repetition of the same words at the start of lines, sentences or paragraphs and with epiphora, repetition at the end of lines, sentences or paragraphs. I love how Andrienne Su uses anaphora in her poem, the repeating lines building up and resonating with each other, both disappearing and standing out.
Adrienne Su "An Hour Later, You Are Hungry Again"
from The New Yorker, Nov 18, 2019, which uses "For the" as the repeated words at the start of each line. Do check it out!
And from one of our prompts to use a repeating phrase with each sentence, here's my attempt at using anaphora in a small story, "It So Happens".
It so happens that worms spend their life making compost out of garbage.
It so happens that my father is a fisherman.
It so happens that bait is often wriggly red wet worms.
It so happens that I need to to dispose of a body -- never mind whose.
It so happens that there is a pit nearby.
It so happens that my father is out of town.
It so happens that he came home today,
It so happens that he is upset to learn so many worms have disappeared.
It so happens that the worms miss my father.
It so happens that they also come home, a long wriggly train of wet, well-fed, red worms.
It so happens that well-fed, sassy worms make my dad question things.
It so happens that it made him question me.
It so happens that I am not a good lier.
It so happens I spilled the beans and my sister's hamster's little body was exhumed - or at least most of what was left of it.
It so happens that it takes a long time for worms to dispose of bodies, even very little bodies.
Adrienne Su "An Hour Later, You Are Hungry Again"
from The New Yorker, Nov 18, 2019, which uses "For the" as the repeated words at the start of each line. Do check it out!
And from one of our prompts to use a repeating phrase with each sentence, here's my attempt at using anaphora in a small story, "It So Happens".
It so happens that worms spend their life making compost out of garbage.
It so happens that my father is a fisherman.
It so happens that bait is often wriggly red wet worms.
It so happens that I need to to dispose of a body -- never mind whose.
It so happens that there is a pit nearby.
It so happens that my father is out of town.
It so happens that he came home today,
It so happens that he is upset to learn so many worms have disappeared.
It so happens that the worms miss my father.
It so happens that they also come home, a long wriggly train of wet, well-fed, red worms.
It so happens that well-fed, sassy worms make my dad question things.
It so happens that it made him question me.
It so happens that I am not a good lier.
It so happens I spilled the beans and my sister's hamster's little body was exhumed - or at least most of what was left of it.
It so happens that it takes a long time for worms to dispose of bodies, even very little bodies.
Monday, February 10, 2020
In Jumpstart Writing, we write to several prompts to get the juices flowing and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on paper. The best part? It's fun!
Curious about just what Jumpstart Writing entails? See my this post on my blog to learn more about this process You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot.
Here are the logistical details -- feel free to share.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ Marlene Cullen leads the way ~ Feb 3, 10, 17, 24
Tuesday evening, 10 - noon ~ with Marlene Cullen ~ Feb 4, 11, 18, 25
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
Wednesdays, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Feb 5, 12, 19, 26 .with Lakin Khan
onward and upward, writing all the while,
Lakin Willard Khan.
A hike in five senses.
In Jumpstart Writing, we've been talking about using our five senses (sight, sound, smell, taste, touch) in our writing to make scenes and stories more vivid. Here's a little exercise I did, trying to use all five senses. Maybe next time, I'll try for six senses?
A surprisingly mild day today, a throw-forward into spring. After the strong and turbulent winds yesterday, which, according to the Chronicle, blew out windows in skyscrapers in SF and hit 90 mph somewhere in Marin, the day arrived quiet and meek and full of sun. We are slowly getting acclimated to San Rafael and Marin County, after our move down from Petaluma last August. Mostly we do this mby getting out on hikes around and about, sometimes in new territory, sometime in familiar territory.
Today, we revisited the Pt Reyes Visitors Center on Bear Valley Road out in West Marin, hiking around the Morgan Horse farm, down around the creek and out to Kule Loklo, the representational reconstruction of a Miwok Village. Maybe 3 miles altogether, under blue skies and a few chilly breezes.
We walked up to the Morgan Horse farm behind the Visitors Center, reading the exhibit placards and then along the fences, trying to entice the four horses to come over and say hi for neck scratches, but they were far too busy cropping the short, green grass. Well, one did suspecting we might have grass, I think. The neck was dusty, solid; the fur soft, but also wiry, resistant.
We moved on, air redolent with eucalyptus, which made me feel like I was recovering from a cold. The trail dipped down along the cool creek; we could hear its burbling and babbling way before we got to the wooden bridge, where the trail crossed over and went on up the hill to Sky Camp. That's a hike we'll take next time. For now, we want to get to know the lay of the land and develop our legs, grow our stamina. Plus, we didn't bring any sustenance aside from the tart tangerines we devoured down there at the bridge. We were deep down the canyon, cool and a bit dim, but the bubbly brook reflected bright blue sky. In the underbrush of the medicinally-fragrant bay trees, a wren-like bird rattled and bounced around. Larger than a Bewick's; not quite as skittish. Maybe a spotted towhee? Hmm, maybe not.
As we came back up the trail, the call of a red tail hawk echoed across the valley beyond the meadow; acorn woodpeckers cackled through the trees near the creek, a spotted towhee, (definitely). jumped through the limbs of a downed bay tree; tall scraggly firs were punched with long descending rows of very round holes, the work of acorn woodpeckers, creating their storage graineries for acorns.
We wandered along behind a row of tall thick shaggy eucalyptus trees, taking the marked turn to investigate the meadow with the Kule Loklo village. The structures were perfectly designed, part of the round house dug into the ground, drawing up the cool damp from the ground that will very soon be quite necessary. Some of the round house was roofed and walled with redwood bark; an open courtyard was walled by ring of rows of large rocks, creating a deep well with a wide floor, where 20 or 30 people could mill about, conducting discussions and activities, protected from the sun, but with a most fabulous view of the Bolinas Ridge across Olema Valley. It felt like it would be a good place to stay in the hot days. I plan to come back, for sure, for a pleasant walk amid the trees and views. I might bring a book or a sketchpad, a picnic and water. I might plan to stay a while.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today, we revisited the Pt Reyes Visitors Center on Bear Valley Road out in West Marin, hiking around the Morgan Horse farm, down around the creek and out to Kule Loklo, the representational reconstruction of a Miwok Village. Maybe 3 miles altogether, under blue skies and a few chilly breezes.
We walked up to the Morgan Horse farm behind the Visitors Center, reading the exhibit placards and then along the fences, trying to entice the four horses to come over and say hi for neck scratches, but they were far too busy cropping the short, green grass. Well, one did suspecting we might have grass, I think. The neck was dusty, solid; the fur soft, but also wiry, resistant.
We moved on, air redolent with eucalyptus, which made me feel like I was recovering from a cold. The trail dipped down along the cool creek; we could hear its burbling and babbling way before we got to the wooden bridge, where the trail crossed over and went on up the hill to Sky Camp. That's a hike we'll take next time. For now, we want to get to know the lay of the land and develop our legs, grow our stamina. Plus, we didn't bring any sustenance aside from the tart tangerines we devoured down there at the bridge. We were deep down the canyon, cool and a bit dim, but the bubbly brook reflected bright blue sky. In the underbrush of the medicinally-fragrant bay trees, a wren-like bird rattled and bounced around. Larger than a Bewick's; not quite as skittish. Maybe a spotted towhee? Hmm, maybe not.
As we came back up the trail, the call of a red tail hawk echoed across the valley beyond the meadow; acorn woodpeckers cackled through the trees near the creek, a spotted towhee, (definitely). jumped through the limbs of a downed bay tree; tall scraggly firs were punched with long descending rows of very round holes, the work of acorn woodpeckers, creating their storage graineries for acorns.
We wandered along behind a row of tall thick shaggy eucalyptus trees, taking the marked turn to investigate the meadow with the Kule Loklo village. The structures were perfectly designed, part of the round house dug into the ground, drawing up the cool damp from the ground that will very soon be quite necessary. Some of the round house was roofed and walled with redwood bark; an open courtyard was walled by ring of rows of large rocks, creating a deep well with a wide floor, where 20 or 30 people could mill about, conducting discussions and activities, protected from the sun, but with a most fabulous view of the Bolinas Ridge across Olema Valley. It felt like it would be a good place to stay in the hot days. I plan to come back, for sure, for a pleasant walk amid the trees and views. I might bring a book or a sketchpad, a picnic and water. I might plan to stay a while.
Monday, February 3, 2020
Jumpstart San Rafael in February
I'll be managing the Jumpstart San Rafael group on Wednesdays and Marlene Cullen will be back to facilitate on Monday evenings and Tuesday mornings for February in Petaluma. See all the calendar and location deets below.
In Jumpstart Writing, we write to several prompts to get the juices flowing and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on paper. The best part? It's fun!
Curious about just what Jumpstart Writing entails? See my this post on my blog to learn more about this process You can also investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot.
Here are the logistical details -- feel free to share.
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Here's a link to Copperfields Events Calendar
Other useful links:
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ Marlene Cullen leads the way ~ Feb 3, 10, 17, 24
Tuesday evening, 10 - noon ~ with Marlene Cullen ~ Feb 4, 11, 18, 25
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
Wednesdays, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Feb 5, 12, 19, 26 .with Lakin Khan
onward and upward, writing all the while,
Lakin Willard Khan.
The Write Spot https://www.thewritespot.us/jumpstart.phpRhymes With Bacon https://lakinkhan.blogspot.com/
Sunday, January 26, 2020
Jumpstart Writing - come on down!
Hey, come by Copperfield's for some fun writing! Jumpstart Writing workshops will be held in Petaluma and San Rafael to get your writing hopping. See below for days and times. We'll write to several prompts, get the juices flowing, and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on paper. No only that, it's fun!The past few weeks, we've focused on the sense of sight, spending some time with ekphrastic writing (see previous post). We also wrote to the prompt Running Away. Kathy Guthomrsen, a writer in Petaluma, posted her response "Running Away." on her blog KathG.Space, where you can also find some of her many stories that include animals as main characters. Enjoy!
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
~Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ with Susan Bono ~ Jan 6 13, 20, 27
~Tuesday morning, 10 am - noon ~ with Lakin Khan ~ Jan 7, 14, 21, 28
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
~ Wednesdays, Jan 8,15, 22, 29 ~ 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. with Lakin Khan
See: Copperfields Events Calendar
Curious about Jumpstart Writing?
See my previous post to learn more about the process -- or investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot where she writes about this inspiring writing process, built around Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones.
Onward, forward, writing-ward!
Jumpstart Workshop - ekphrastic !
In our recent Jumpstart workshops, we've been doing some ekphrastic writing, which is descriptive writing about or a response to visual art. We've been having fun looking at paintings and photos, imaging stories and practicing our visual descriptions.
Here's my response to a postcard of Claude Monet's painting "Wheat Stacks at Dawn."
Another example is Anne Sexton's poem "Starry Night" one of many ekphrastic responses to the painting of the same name by Vincent Van Gogh. And I'm sure we all remember Don McLean 's song, "Starry Starry Night" --- another example of an artist in one medium responding to an artist from another.
Hope you find a chance to write ekphrastically, too, locating an image that sparks your imagination or elicits a response. Or take a chance with random postcards or images in a magazine or museum brochure. Or even better, treat yourself to a trip to an art museum and spend some time writing there. What could be better?
Here's my response to a postcard of Claude Monet's painting "Wheat Stacks at Dawn."
Frost is the frosting on these giant cupcakes of hay waiting in the pale pearly peachlight of dawn for the Giant of Alsace to stomp down the hill for his morning meal. At least so far, he's been happy with hay. What might happen if he decides to go all keto on us and demand ostrich-eggs over easy and a side of humans to start his day? ~ Lakin
Another example is Anne Sexton's poem "Starry Night" one of many ekphrastic responses to the painting of the same name by Vincent Van Gogh. And I'm sure we all remember Don McLean 's song, "Starry Starry Night" --- another example of an artist in one medium responding to an artist from another.
Hope you find a chance to write ekphrastically, too, locating an image that sparks your imagination or elicits a response. Or take a chance with random postcards or images in a magazine or museum brochure. Or even better, treat yourself to a trip to an art museum and spend some time writing there. What could be better?
Monday, January 13, 2020
Jumpstart Writing - a place to write with friends!
Jumpstart Writing continues -
So come by Copperfield's in Petaluma on Monday evening or Tuesday morning and in San Rafael on Wednesday late afternoon to get your writing pump primed for the new year. We'll write to several prompts, get the juices flowing, and words going. This free-writing process jumps right over that cranky editor in your brain and lets you get right down to putting words on paper. It's fun!Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
~Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ with Susan Bono ~ Jan 6 13, 20, 27
~Tuesday morning, 10 am - noon ~ with Lakin Khan ~ Jan 7, 14, 21, 28
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
~ Wednesdays, Jan 8,15, 22, 294:30 - 6:30 p.m. with Lakin Khan
See: Copperfields Events Calendar
Curious about Jumpstart Writing?
See my previous post to learn more about the process -- or investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot where she writes about this inspiring writing process, built around Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones.
Onward, forward, writing-ward!
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
New Year, New Flavors.
Today, in Jumpstart Writing at the Copperfield's in Petaluma, I asked folks to write about something "new." This, with a nod to Shel Silverstein, is my attempt.
New? Yep! Brand new flavors today.
Porcupine Crunch, Avocado Slime.
Ice cream flavors bound to dismay.
Sea Slug Salty, Rusty Jail Time.
Gonna have a new start, new flavors for you.
Ten Year Old Bubblegum; Pine Tar Chew.
Turquoise Gravel, Elephant Poo.
That's the way this year becomes new.
and so on.....
Cheers!
Lakin
p.s. yeah, might have to address the off-kilter rhyme scheme during revision...
New? Yep! Brand new flavors today.
Porcupine Crunch, Avocado Slime.
Ice cream flavors bound to dismay.
Sea Slug Salty, Rusty Jail Time.
Gonna have a new start, new flavors for you.
Ten Year Old Bubblegum; Pine Tar Chew.
Turquoise Gravel, Elephant Poo.
That's the way this year becomes new.
and so on.....
Cheers!
Lakin
p.s. yeah, might have to address the off-kilter rhyme scheme during revision...
Monday, January 6, 2020
Jumping Up for Jumpstart in 2020
Jumpstart Petaluma - Copperfield's, 140 Kentucky Street, Petaluma
~Monday evening, 6:30 - 8:30 pm ~ with Susan Bono ~ Jan 6, 13, 20, 27
~Tuesday morning, 10 am - noon ~ with Lakin Khan ~ Jan 7, 14, 21, 28
Jumpstart San Rafael - Copperfield's, 850 Fourth St, San Rafael
~ Wednesdays, Jan 8,15, 22, 294:30 - 6:30 p.m. with Lakin Khan
See: Copperfields Events Calendar
Curious about Jumpstart Writing?
See my previous post to learn more about the process -- or investigate Marlene Cullen's blog, The Write Spot where she writes about this inspiring writing process, built around Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones.
Onward, forward, writing-ward!
Saturday, January 4, 2020
New Year's Day, with Birds
Today, January 1st, 2020, we took the long walk way out on the
marsh. It was a mixed-reaction kind of day - weak sun to start, almost
warm, then cloudy-covers snuck in over Mt Tamalpais and congealed the
sky. A damp wind cut across the limp waters, and nudged into the ends
of our sleeves, pushed in between zippers. It lifted the brimmed hat off
my head, kilting it into the sedgy muddy grasses. Several times. The
air was briny and brittle. It felt like a New Years Day - cold, yet
fecund, with the sense of frozen possibilities ahead, just waiting to
thaw out.
We recognized a pair of Northern Harriers, old friends from previous walks, who swoop low across the watery grasses, quartering the wide, levy-bounded fields. At the far corner of our walk, where the trail loops around and we head back toward the start, a swath of white dots: almost twenty snowy egrets congregating, poking and pecking and high-stepping through what can only be considered half water, half mud. Although we do see a lot of egrets around here, we tend to see them one by one, as solitary stalkers and so this grouping seems unusual and striking. And yet - we are past the darkest, longest night. It has to be that time: birds starting to pair up in preparation for nesting season. This looked like was one of those group-dates youngsters are fond off, where they can peer at each other, evaluate all the options, without the burden of a one-to-one date.
Along the way, we saw three willets walking through the weeds along the bank, their drab stripey-sides out, not their stunning black and white undergarments. The last time we were out here, we had seen a flock of these pale-gray undistinguished-looking water birds that startle, dazzle, confuse with a dramatic but hidden black-and-white wing tip pattern, revealed in flight or when they they lift their wings. I so wanted to see that transformation, but refrained from tossing a stick in the water just to see them fly up.
Finches and phoebes chipped and cheeped and whistled, sparrows darted in and out of blackberry thickets and coyote mint. The wind kept darting about too. Our talk was of the sky and the brackish water and the way Mt Tam stood revealed and covered as clouds stumbled over her sloping flanks. We mulled over what this upcoming year might be like; the way forward feels both both clear-cut and occluded at the same time. The future seems veiled and yet right in front of our eyes; what looks drab and unassuming at first, could hide dramatic black-and-white consequences in flight.
The path back to the car runs along the tide-determined creek. A Western grebe, all royalty and sleek diving, caught our attention - we were transfixed by the small red eye, the inherent regal grace. Further on, a pair of hooded mergansers mesmerized us -- a golden feathery mohawk crowned the drabber bronze-hued duck, while her mate stunned us with geometric black and white zig-zag patterns at the each end of a chestnut-brown body, all reflected in the water in a kind of op-art extravaganza. We shared our binoculars with two moms and kids, all of us amazed. I mean, really, Lady Gaga would be proud of the feathery costume-drama.
There is great anxiety in not knowing exactly how the next year will play out, what the next five years will be like. In that way, these years feel much like the end of the 60s, when the turmoil over the Viet Nam War, the fight-marches for Civil Rights, the riots each summer the sense of unrest and uneasiness. Things felt like they hung in the balance and yet no one could predict how it was going to play out. We couldn't anticipate anything then and we can't really now. We have to keeping moving on, fighting the good fight, flying up in the face of injustice when things are wrong.
Meanwhile, we move forward on our own small stages. We buy houses, we go to school, we retire, we continue working; we create fabulous food, we share with friends and family, we raise kids, we engage in the discussions that illuminate and empathize. Because no matter what is happening on the big stage, these busy, spinning little stages with their music and food and funny-bird dances carry us into the future, whatever it might look like.
Western Grebe
Willets
We recognized a pair of Northern Harriers, old friends from previous walks, who swoop low across the watery grasses, quartering the wide, levy-bounded fields. At the far corner of our walk, where the trail loops around and we head back toward the start, a swath of white dots: almost twenty snowy egrets congregating, poking and pecking and high-stepping through what can only be considered half water, half mud. Although we do see a lot of egrets around here, we tend to see them one by one, as solitary stalkers and so this grouping seems unusual and striking. And yet - we are past the darkest, longest night. It has to be that time: birds starting to pair up in preparation for nesting season. This looked like was one of those group-dates youngsters are fond off, where they can peer at each other, evaluate all the options, without the burden of a one-to-one date.
Along the way, we saw three willets walking through the weeds along the bank, their drab stripey-sides out, not their stunning black and white undergarments. The last time we were out here, we had seen a flock of these pale-gray undistinguished-looking water birds that startle, dazzle, confuse with a dramatic but hidden black-and-white wing tip pattern, revealed in flight or when they they lift their wings. I so wanted to see that transformation, but refrained from tossing a stick in the water just to see them fly up.
Finches and phoebes chipped and cheeped and whistled, sparrows darted in and out of blackberry thickets and coyote mint. The wind kept darting about too. Our talk was of the sky and the brackish water and the way Mt Tam stood revealed and covered as clouds stumbled over her sloping flanks. We mulled over what this upcoming year might be like; the way forward feels both both clear-cut and occluded at the same time. The future seems veiled and yet right in front of our eyes; what looks drab and unassuming at first, could hide dramatic black-and-white consequences in flight.
The path back to the car runs along the tide-determined creek. A Western grebe, all royalty and sleek diving, caught our attention - we were transfixed by the small red eye, the inherent regal grace. Further on, a pair of hooded mergansers mesmerized us -- a golden feathery mohawk crowned the drabber bronze-hued duck, while her mate stunned us with geometric black and white zig-zag patterns at the each end of a chestnut-brown body, all reflected in the water in a kind of op-art extravaganza. We shared our binoculars with two moms and kids, all of us amazed. I mean, really, Lady Gaga would be proud of the feathery costume-drama.
There is great anxiety in not knowing exactly how the next year will play out, what the next five years will be like. In that way, these years feel much like the end of the 60s, when the turmoil over the Viet Nam War, the fight-marches for Civil Rights, the riots each summer the sense of unrest and uneasiness. Things felt like they hung in the balance and yet no one could predict how it was going to play out. We couldn't anticipate anything then and we can't really now. We have to keeping moving on, fighting the good fight, flying up in the face of injustice when things are wrong.
Meanwhile, we move forward on our own small stages. We buy houses, we go to school, we retire, we continue working; we create fabulous food, we share with friends and family, we raise kids, we engage in the discussions that illuminate and empathize. Because no matter what is happening on the big stage, these busy, spinning little stages with their music and food and funny-bird dances carry us into the future, whatever it might look like.
Western Grebe
Willets
Thursday, December 19, 2019
What is Jumpstart Writing?
Jumpstart Writing is a workshop designed to get your fingers moving and pen writing past that Old Doubting Critic and Planner lodged in your fore-brain, simply getting in the way. We just jump straight into writing, finding our way into new material, new stories, new poems. It is similar to freewriting, in that we write without stopping, following impulse and the random generator of an unleashed mind, no crossing out, no editing. We use creative prompts, culled from a wide variety of sources, to get us going and keep writing onward.
Prompts can be the first line of a poem, a random object, or the evocative smells of spices. We take exercises from Improv, writing books; we create scenarios with random connections or words. Here are three suggestions that I have used this past month. Try one of them and see what you come up with. Just like free-writing, set a timer for 10 minutes, 20 minutes --- and GO! Write fiction, write poetry, follow memories - or combine them for a multi-genre piece.
Here's to finding some time to sit down and write --feel free to use these prompts to get your fingers moving, your words flowing.
Write on,
Lakin
Prompts can be the first line of a poem, a random object, or the evocative smells of spices. We take exercises from Improv, writing books; we create scenarios with random connections or words. Here are three suggestions that I have used this past month. Try one of them and see what you come up with. Just like free-writing, set a timer for 10 minutes, 20 minutes --- and GO! Write fiction, write poetry, follow memories - or combine them for a multi-genre piece.
- The dog tipped over a wastebasket - what spills out? Set the scene: what kind of dog, whose is it? How did it get into the trash? what kind of trash? Describe the spilled contents; what is revealed by what someone throws out?
- What is your (or your character's) favorite holiday song - and why? Describe the sounds, the emotions, the memories.
- Find a weird random object in the Junk Drawer and describe how it feels to the touch. Include it in a story - or write about the memory it evokes? Could it become a metaphor in a poem?
Here's to finding some time to sit down and write --feel free to use these prompts to get your fingers moving, your words flowing.
Write on,
Lakin
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Last Jumpstart Writing Workshop for 2019 - this Weds, Dec 18th!
Join us for the Jumpstart Writing Workshop in San Rafael...
... this Wednesday, Dec 18, from 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Workshops are held in the lovely Marin Kombucha Café, right there in front of Copperfield's Books, 850 4th Street, San Rafael. We will have several sessions of free writes, jumping off from a variety of prompts to generate new words, new work, new plots, new insights. Fresh suggestions surprises us, gets the ideas hopping and words flowing!Open to all levels of experience, backgrounds and practice, this is a fun place to explore memoir, fiction, poetry. Cost per drop-in workshop is $15. Workshop is facilitated by Lakin Willard Khan, local writer and educator, with many years of experience running writing groups and workshops. We believe in the power of putting pen to paper; bring a notebook -- and several pens or pencils!
This workshop is part of the JumpStart Writing Workshops hosted by Marlene Cullen and Susan Bono and Lakin Khan at Copperfield's in Petaluma. Visit Marlene's blog The Write Spot to learn more about this philosophy of spontaneous and free writing.
Not to worry if you miss December's workshops - we'll start up again in 2020 on January 8th!
Email Lakin at lakhan@sonic.net with questions
The Write Spot
https://www.thewritespot.us/jumpstart.php
https://www.thewritespot.us/jumpstart.php
https://www.copperfieldsbooks.com/san-rafael
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Jumpstart in San Rafael - two more Wednesdays in December!
Join us for the Jumpstart Writing Workshop in San Rafael.
... this Wednesday, Dec 11 and next, Dec 18, from 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Workshops are held in the lovely Marin Kombucha Caf̩, right there in front of Copperfield's Books, 850 4th Street, San Rafael, on Wednesday evenings. We will write freely, jumping off from a variety of prompts to generate new words, new work, new plots, new insights. Fresh suggestions surprises us, gets the ideas hopping and words flowing!Open to all levels of experience and practice, this is a safe and fun place to explore memoir, fiction, poetry. Cost per drop-in workshop is $15 Рno charge for your first exploratory visit. Workshop is facilitated by Lakin Khan, local writer and educator.
This workshop is part of the JumpStart Writing Workshops hosted by Marlene Cullen and Susan Bono and Lakin Khan at Copperfield's in Petaluma. Visit Marlene's blog The Write Spot to learn more about this philosophy of spontaneous and free writing.
Not to worry if you miss December's workshops - we'll start up again in 2020 on January 8th!
Email Lakin at lakhan@sonic.net with questions
The Write Spot https://www.thewritespot.us/jumpstart.php
https://www.copperfieldsbooks.com/san-rafael
Monday, December 9, 2019
More Thoughts.....
Much
of our trouble, it seems to me, goes to the silo-ization of our news
and
information, the echo effect of social media algorithms, the narrowing
of our intake. Few of us get balanced news of any kind anymore without
effort – it's too easy to hear only what we want
to hear, to get news presented in a way that supports our opinions, our
view point. It is happening so fast that it is in fact twisting our
politics, our
psyche, our ethos. I see the source of this silo-effect going back to
the decision to allow partisan and
biased news on media several decades ago – and the subsequent lack of
balanced viewpoints being
part of our conversations and experience.
Now we have social media that pretends to be a source of news -- but it is more an echo chamber of ill-formed opinions. Really, social media acts as a magnifier; it's a gossip-monger. We just see yelling and chest-thumping and my-way-or-the-highway... but no listening to reason, no attempt to understand other points of view or trying to reach a consensus or compromise, little investigation, unless you do it yourself. Until those skills in our news sources come back into favor, until we treat social media to the same high standards as true journalism, we are going to stay in this quagmire, this deep doo-doo of innuendo, of manipulation of the facts by the least scrupulous.
Or do I have this wrong?
Now we have social media that pretends to be a source of news -- but it is more an echo chamber of ill-formed opinions. Really, social media acts as a magnifier; it's a gossip-monger. We just see yelling and chest-thumping and my-way-or-the-highway... but no listening to reason, no attempt to understand other points of view or trying to reach a consensus or compromise, little investigation, unless you do it yourself. Until those skills in our news sources come back into favor, until we treat social media to the same high standards as true journalism, we are going to stay in this quagmire, this deep doo-doo of innuendo, of manipulation of the facts by the least scrupulous.
Or do I have this wrong?
Sunday, December 8, 2019
Articles of Impeachment - finally!
Articles of Impeachment
are being drawn up as I write - actions I could only fantasize about in the
aftermath of the 2016 election. This is far from a done deal, but as they say
in sports, don't let the predictions get in the way of playing the game. Even
though there are polls and statistics and odds, what actually happens is
anyone's guess. We have to put the pieces in play and see what happens. Of course, the Republicans are going to try to twist things as much as they can; they'll sure put up a face-saving fight -- but then there's the reality of the facts on
the floor of the Senate.
And yes, it's sad to see Kamala Harris drop out -- but I do admire her willingness to face the music, address the facts and not strain her supporters' money or time. I hate that a woman dropped out and especially a woman of color - but I know she'll stay on the national stage; she has a role to play. Personally, I can't wait to see her cross-examine (read:grill) the Cheeto-Headed Small Hands False President. Flames, I tell you, flames. I hope she renders his false facts right out of him.
And of course, the more this False President points to the Ukraine as the source of our election interference, the more deeply embedded he seems to be in Putin's pocket. And he doesn’t even seem to care how blatantly obvious it is to everyone else.
And yes, it's sad to see Kamala Harris drop out -- but I do admire her willingness to face the music, address the facts and not strain her supporters' money or time. I hate that a woman dropped out and especially a woman of color - but I know she'll stay on the national stage; she has a role to play. Personally, I can't wait to see her cross-examine (read:grill) the Cheeto-Headed Small Hands False President. Flames, I tell you, flames. I hope she renders his false facts right out of him.
And of course, the more this False President points to the Ukraine as the source of our election interference, the more deeply embedded he seems to be in Putin's pocket. And he doesn’t even seem to care how blatantly obvious it is to everyone else.
Thursday, November 21, 2019
JumpStart San Rafael has ... started!
Say, if you're in San Rafael, CA on Wednesday evenings and in the mood
to write, come by Copperfield's Books, 850 4th St., and join the San Rafael Jumpstart
Writing Workshop I'm facilitating. It runs from 4:30 - 6:30 pm and you'll find us in the lovely
Kombucha Cafe right in front.
In a generative
experience of writing, we'll respond to several prompts over the course of the two hours. Prompts can be objects, lines from a play, images; the responses can be memoir, fiction, poems. Prompts have the advantage of stimulating fresh writing, new ideas, surprising results; the writing is freestyling, flowing and all your own. This workshop is appropriate for any level of experience, for writers and non-writers, for artists and biologists; everyone will walk away with surprises and batches of words. Come join us for fresh inputs that get the words flowing and ideas jumping: Jumpstart San Rafael, Weds, 4:30 - 6:30 p.m., Copperfield's Books, 850 4th St,
San Rafael, CA. The cost is $15 -- but your first visit is free.
We will be meeting Nov 27 and Dec 4, 11 and 18th, take a small break over the holidays and start up again on Jan 8th, 2020.
#CopperfieldsBooks
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White Bird
A few days ago, while we were in the side yard getting ready for a walk, we heard a flapping over in our neighbor's redwood tree; looking up we spotted a hawk bouncing on the slender branches not too far overheard, tearing at the inert body of a bird, small white feathers floating up and then twirling down. We noted the slate-blue wings, the fierce beak and eyes, the rust-and-white needle-thin stripes down the front of a good-sized Cooper's hawk, known for snatching birds in flight. We had heard nothing of the attack; perhaps the prey was dead before it could protest; perhaps it happened much further afield before the hawk found the redwood, certainly the tallest tree around.
We watched as the hawk plucked large white feathers out of the bird's breast, and then began pecking and gulping down the mid-line, a wide red wound opening up, the head aready gone. A faintly acrid smell, with the coppery tinge of blood. There was the ripping and tearing; bits fell out and down, clunking on the ground below. Even while bouncing in the limbs, trying to balance its big wings and the floppy prey, the hawk was efficient, dispatching half the bird it looked like, before it was startled by a dog being called by its owner out in the street, and flapping off, half a white bird dangling in its talons.
During most of this, we stood still, fascinated by this live-action nature movie, the gulping and tearing; the hawk not paying not one whit of attention to us in this most intimate act of consummation. This was the late afternoon, in long ramp towards dusk, when a trio of mockingbirds came to sit on the power wires close to the house, to sing and trill and in general carrying on, skittering along the fence, jumping about the smaller trees. While the hawk devoured its light-feathered prey, I noticed one of the mockingbirds sitting still and quiet, pale and grey, on the nearby power wire, pulled in, trying to look small. It was soon gone. Perhaps the hawk was eating one of the clan that has claimed this patch of trees and gardens its own.
It was difficult to tell what the prey bird was: white for sure, and possibly a mourning dove for it looked sizeable. But who knows - a dead mockingbird, all flopped out, might look pretty big. I have sorrow for the mockingbird family, but not, it seems for the mourning dove flock, that also flies around this neighborhood. The mourning doves, while gentle and cooing, excited no interest in me. They seem dispensable. The mockingbirds seemed of such good cheer and brought lively interest around the yard, darting about, singing their impossible songs. They were a bright spot, demanding my gaze.
But the successful attack of the hawk might have changed their dynamic. Since that afternoon, the few mockingbirds who show up are subdued, sending out some low rattles and muted squawks, then melting away; they are not busting out in song, not indulging in trills or exuberance, not scooting about with their tails raised, all frisky. As much as I know hawks have to eat, I miss these perky, melodious little birds. Maybe whether the prey was dove or mockingbird, doesn't matter to the mockingbird - it is smart enough to know, if not now, then sometime soon.
We watched as the hawk plucked large white feathers out of the bird's breast, and then began pecking and gulping down the mid-line, a wide red wound opening up, the head aready gone. A faintly acrid smell, with the coppery tinge of blood. There was the ripping and tearing; bits fell out and down, clunking on the ground below. Even while bouncing in the limbs, trying to balance its big wings and the floppy prey, the hawk was efficient, dispatching half the bird it looked like, before it was startled by a dog being called by its owner out in the street, and flapping off, half a white bird dangling in its talons.
During most of this, we stood still, fascinated by this live-action nature movie, the gulping and tearing; the hawk not paying not one whit of attention to us in this most intimate act of consummation. This was the late afternoon, in long ramp towards dusk, when a trio of mockingbirds came to sit on the power wires close to the house, to sing and trill and in general carrying on, skittering along the fence, jumping about the smaller trees. While the hawk devoured its light-feathered prey, I noticed one of the mockingbirds sitting still and quiet, pale and grey, on the nearby power wire, pulled in, trying to look small. It was soon gone. Perhaps the hawk was eating one of the clan that has claimed this patch of trees and gardens its own.
It was difficult to tell what the prey bird was: white for sure, and possibly a mourning dove for it looked sizeable. But who knows - a dead mockingbird, all flopped out, might look pretty big. I have sorrow for the mockingbird family, but not, it seems for the mourning dove flock, that also flies around this neighborhood. The mourning doves, while gentle and cooing, excited no interest in me. They seem dispensable. The mockingbirds seemed of such good cheer and brought lively interest around the yard, darting about, singing their impossible songs. They were a bright spot, demanding my gaze.
But the successful attack of the hawk might have changed their dynamic. Since that afternoon, the few mockingbirds who show up are subdued, sending out some low rattles and muted squawks, then melting away; they are not busting out in song, not indulging in trills or exuberance, not scooting about with their tails raised, all frisky. As much as I know hawks have to eat, I miss these perky, melodious little birds. Maybe whether the prey was dove or mockingbird, doesn't matter to the mockingbird - it is smart enough to know, if not now, then sometime soon.
Monday, October 7, 2019
Let the (Impeachment) Games Begin
Written on Sept 26, 2019
So Drumpf admits to making a deal with a foreign power to influence the 2020 election.
This is how out of touch he is - he either doesn't understand how wrong that is (because he can't be bothered with the distinction between business relationships and government-based relationships between nations) or he doesn't care. Perhaps because he thinks he's the Golden Boy who can't be touched; that he won't be caught and won't be punished. This is the narcissistic hubris of an ego-centric sociopath. He might have flown high, but he has learned zilch on the way. There is the smell of a Greek tragedy in the air, a downfall of his own making. Much like Nixon.
I imagine Ms Pelosi finally sighing, throwing up her hands and saying, Jiminy Cricket -- it's so obvious, there's not much I can do now. Drumpf's action are structured as a dare. And so now, finally, we have impeachment actions.
This not to say that we can predict how far it will go or what will happen next. But Drumpf is so obviously uncontrollable by anyone, that it is now anyone's guess what he will do or say as the pressure mounts and the investigations begin. I'm sure many Republicans just want to throw their own hands up and say - you got yourself into this mess, get yourself out of it. Because it's not like he listens to anyone anyway. So there you have it. Impeachment is now on the table and investigations have begun.
And as far as his protests - who really listens to what Tiny-Hand Drumpf has to say anymore? He lies and hyper-exaggerates every little thing, so who can believe anything he says? I don't. Will there be a civil war? I doubt it. Maybe there'll be one in his mind as he wanders around his private mental-institution jail cell. He can call this whole thing a hoax or a hoarcrux, but I no longer care - because it won't be that funny or made-up when he's in the witness box. I hope Kamala Harris gets to grill him and grill him good. On national TV - because then we just might see what a coward he really is.
It also shows you how insecure he is about winning the election on his own merits - that he has to cheat to win, just as he did in 2016. Just like students who don't do their work or don't understand the subject matter resort to cheating because they can't accept either their own limits or the consequences of their inactions. Because this whole thing smells as rotten as roadkill skunk on a hot day - it shows us that Drumpf is familiar with this routine; that this is not the first time he has (traitorously) reached out to a foreign country to influence our elections. And that he's capable of doing it again.
This makes passing Election Security legislation imperative. Better remind my MOC about that right now.
So Drumpf admits to making a deal with a foreign power to influence the 2020 election.
This is how out of touch he is - he either doesn't understand how wrong that is (because he can't be bothered with the distinction between business relationships and government-based relationships between nations) or he doesn't care. Perhaps because he thinks he's the Golden Boy who can't be touched; that he won't be caught and won't be punished. This is the narcissistic hubris of an ego-centric sociopath. He might have flown high, but he has learned zilch on the way. There is the smell of a Greek tragedy in the air, a downfall of his own making. Much like Nixon.
I imagine Ms Pelosi finally sighing, throwing up her hands and saying, Jiminy Cricket -- it's so obvious, there's not much I can do now. Drumpf's action are structured as a dare. And so now, finally, we have impeachment actions.
This not to say that we can predict how far it will go or what will happen next. But Drumpf is so obviously uncontrollable by anyone, that it is now anyone's guess what he will do or say as the pressure mounts and the investigations begin. I'm sure many Republicans just want to throw their own hands up and say - you got yourself into this mess, get yourself out of it. Because it's not like he listens to anyone anyway. So there you have it. Impeachment is now on the table and investigations have begun.
And as far as his protests - who really listens to what Tiny-Hand Drumpf has to say anymore? He lies and hyper-exaggerates every little thing, so who can believe anything he says? I don't. Will there be a civil war? I doubt it. Maybe there'll be one in his mind as he wanders around his private mental-institution jail cell. He can call this whole thing a hoax or a hoarcrux, but I no longer care - because it won't be that funny or made-up when he's in the witness box. I hope Kamala Harris gets to grill him and grill him good. On national TV - because then we just might see what a coward he really is.
It also shows you how insecure he is about winning the election on his own merits - that he has to cheat to win, just as he did in 2016. Just like students who don't do their work or don't understand the subject matter resort to cheating because they can't accept either their own limits or the consequences of their inactions. Because this whole thing smells as rotten as roadkill skunk on a hot day - it shows us that Drumpf is familiar with this routine; that this is not the first time he has (traitorously) reached out to a foreign country to influence our elections. And that he's capable of doing it again.
This makes passing Election Security legislation imperative. Better remind my MOC about that right now.
Friday, January 4, 2019
The Women's March: 1/19/ 2019
I trust you all know about the Women’s March on January 19th. 2019. I hope many of you can find your way to
one somewhere – there's one in most of the major cities all over this country. Locally, in the North Bay, you'll find one in Santa Rosa, Petaluma, San Francisco and Oakland, beginning at 10 or 11 a.m. They each have their flavor, but all carry
significance; it’s important to show up and be counted, to stand up for the reality of women’s lives. It’s important to show our
determination to right the wrongs of this administration, to defy their racism and blunt their attacks on immigrants. We have
been fighting for equality for a very long time, generations in fact, and this current
Liar-In-Chief, with his misogyny and racism, is a slap in the face. His Republican cronies aren't much better.
The more people on the streets, the more we show how deeply and seriously we protest this illegitimate presidency; that we will not forget, that we will be there for each and every election, that we will vote and we will run for office. Remember, the first Women’s March in 2017 had far more attendees than the inauguration for the false president. And on Nov, 6th, 2018, we tasted the first results of that march.
The more people on the streets, the more we show how deeply and seriously we protest this illegitimate presidency; that we will not forget, that we will be there for each and every election, that we will vote and we will run for office. Remember, the first Women’s March in 2017 had far more attendees than the inauguration for the false president. And on Nov, 6th, 2018, we tasted the first results of that march.
I know that not everyone can make a march,
can walk in a march, can handle the crowds, can spare time that particular day.
But this makes it all the more imperative for those of us who can to march and
show up and represent for those who can’t. Here's the link for more info and to find the closest march to you.....https://www.womensmarch.com/2019/
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| Women's March 2018: San Francisco |
Monday, October 29, 2018
What We Must Survive - and Fight
This week we've had to confront the violence and racism that
the current administration of this country has allowed to flourish and I'm left queasy, anxious, furious and heartbroken. And more determined than ever to make a change.
This past week has reached a new epitome of horror: two Americans were randomly shot in the street because the shooter, driven by racial hatred, couldn’t get into a church to slay even more; eleven Americans were shot in their place of worship; over a dozen political opponents of the president were threatened with mail-bombs. And yes, I am looking at the Republican leadership. They refuse to condemn the racist, anti-Semitic, violence-encouraging words and actions of their president, who unapologetically speaks the lingo and code-words of the white supremacists. The Republicans won't condemn and therefore, they condone; they must own them.
Jeff Sessions, Paul Ryan, Lyndsey Graham, Jeff Flake, a hundred others -- all could step up and take a stand against Mr Trump's tacit support of this radical, anarchist behavior. I understand that their leader won't pay attention to them, but the Republican leaders must stand up and speak to the American people; they must re-assure us that this violence and hatred is not the America they seek -- or is it? Republican leaders bear the responsibility to restore a tone of civility in public life; they must re-affirm that in a democracy we can have differences of opinion, of religion, of skin tone, of heritage and not fear for our lives.
If they can't do that. for whatever reason, we must vote them out.
We must vote; we must vote like our lives depend on it. Because it does.
This past week has reached a new epitome of horror: two Americans were randomly shot in the street because the shooter, driven by racial hatred, couldn’t get into a church to slay even more; eleven Americans were shot in their place of worship; over a dozen political opponents of the president were threatened with mail-bombs. And yes, I am looking at the Republican leadership. They refuse to condemn the racist, anti-Semitic, violence-encouraging words and actions of their president, who unapologetically speaks the lingo and code-words of the white supremacists. The Republicans won't condemn and therefore, they condone; they must own them.
Jeff Sessions, Paul Ryan, Lyndsey Graham, Jeff Flake, a hundred others -- all could step up and take a stand against Mr Trump's tacit support of this radical, anarchist behavior. I understand that their leader won't pay attention to them, but the Republican leaders must stand up and speak to the American people; they must re-assure us that this violence and hatred is not the America they seek -- or is it? Republican leaders bear the responsibility to restore a tone of civility in public life; they must re-affirm that in a democracy we can have differences of opinion, of religion, of skin tone, of heritage and not fear for our lives.
If they can't do that. for whatever reason, we must vote them out.
We must vote; we must vote like our lives depend on it. Because it does.
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Knitting to Survive
The BlueWave Cowl Project continues - it keeps my fingers busy between bouts of postcard-writing and chills my mind. Yes, they are technically hats -- but the top one in the first photo began as a cowl. Though between the gauge and the yarn (Chickadee from Quince) it wasn't working out. So I tightened it up a bit and made a hat. And then I liked it enough that I decided to improve on the model ... so now I have two very similar hats. Hmmm. And yes, I've started another one. What, you ask, will I do with three very similar Blue Wave Cowl-Hats? I do have a plan, dear readers, I do. More to be revealed.....
Saturday, September 29, 2018
What We Do, Ocean Version
It feels like we are living in a culture
spiraling through retrograde. We fight and we fume against the injustices that are piling up; it's exhausting. Sometimes we need to take a break from
the endless cycles of outrage and fury. Because we have to be in this for the long haul. So - out to the coast to let ocean waves drown my fulminating thoughts. This fall day is a mix of distinct patches of cold and hot, like cold milk poured into a tall glass of hot coffee, before the stirring. A sweep of hot sun, then a whisk of brisk, cold air; golden light on the hillsides and dark, damp shadows under the trees.
In Northern California, fall is not a gaudy season that clobbers the eyeballs; one has to learn to recognize it, to feel it in the softening air. There's a brittle dampness to the morning fog, a certain depth of blue in clear skis, then a dense ceiling of moisture-laden clouds. There's a splash of yellow along a short row of birches, a carpet of gold under a ginko tree. Perhaps a maple flaunts orange and red here and there, but for the most part, it’s a subdued season, the fields cropped down to dusty greyish dirt, oak leaves browned and compacted into slippery layers, a faint dust raising underfoot. The hillsides are dun-colored and scrubby, exhausted after the golden riot of summer’s end. And fires have left their black scars in pitches and patches, in ditches and dells, along roadsides, across vales, over slopes.
Just past noon, I pull into the parking lot at North Beach in Pt Reyes
National Seashore. This is the closest and wildest of the beaches along Sir Francis
Drake Boulevard – not the more famous North Beach district in SF. The smell of ocean rushes my opened window, fishy but fresh. Yellowish scum smudges the break lines of the
waves, crab guts, perhaps -- or who knows? The sand is about 60-grit, a dermabrasion
on the soles of my bare feet as I walk. I welcome the dermabrasion of my mind, too, as the waves pound and the wind skates along the shore. Snarls
and coils of kelp, speckled with tiny black flies. Grey skies and grey ocean,
but still a commanding brightness.
Walking on the loose sand buckles my knees; walking along the wet sand chills my feet. Waves boom and thrash. Fast waves catch my lazy feet, soak the hems of my pants. I sit on a windchuffed log, and shove my feet deep into the grainy sand for warmth. Behind me, the ochre dunes are runneled by water and wind, capped by ice plants, splotchy with a brickish red. Pelicans trace the leylines along the shore, first up, then down, gliding imperturbably - somehow prehistorically smug. Groups of plovers flash up the shore, swirl and swivel around as one and continue on, black sides, white sides, flicking, flickering.
Walking on the loose sand buckles my knees; walking along the wet sand chills my feet. Waves boom and thrash. Fast waves catch my lazy feet, soak the hems of my pants. I sit on a windchuffed log, and shove my feet deep into the grainy sand for warmth. Behind me, the ochre dunes are runneled by water and wind, capped by ice plants, splotchy with a brickish red. Pelicans trace the leylines along the shore, first up, then down, gliding imperturbably - somehow prehistorically smug. Groups of plovers flash up the shore, swirl and swivel around as one and continue on, black sides, white sides, flicking, flickering.
Here, in the boom and thrash of wave, a kind of silence sits, a caesura between these days.
So needed.
Because tomorrow, we'll be right back at it.
Sunday, September 2, 2018
This Is What We Do
This is what we do in the Age of
TRE45ON, in the era of # MeToo, in the time of climate change denial, of
immigration-betrayal. We no longer laugh when our spouse makes an insensitive joke. We refuse to engage with in-laws who defend the traitor. We rage under our breath, remembering what has been done to our country already; we rant and rave and fight the urge to throw dishes around, seeing the patterns of betrayal and deceit begin to form in the indictments and guilty pleas from known, close associates. There is a fury just under the surface, built upon the sense of betrayal, of having been cheated.
So I
feed the wild birds, because they don’t care who betrayed whom, what political system is in power, what laws have been broken. They just need their
seeds. I walk under trees, beside rivers, along the ocean, knowing that they have survived, hoping they will continue to survive us. I’ve phone-banked,
text-banked, written letters to the editor. I've been writing GOTV postcards to fellow Dems, encouraging us to make our voices heard, to exercise our right to vote. And tall along, to steady my breath and calm my
soul, to keep the rage from damaging my heart, I’ve been knitting, knitting, in a rather compulsive manner, a series I call the Blue Wave Cowls.
(Well , yes, sometimes they become hats, if the gauge is a bit off. ) Some of the first cowls went to my sister, including a large, broken-rib cowl in a design from Purl SoHo that I knit in Madelaine Tosh
Undergrowth worsted weight. A long, cushy tunnel of warmth and blue-yarn comfort. And Blue Wave inspiration.
My most recent cowl is also this broken
rib, aka mistake rib, pattern, though I think of it as "elegant rib" for its ultimate
appearance. It's a pattern of k2, p2, offset by one stitch on the second row, repeated until the cowl is the right size or you run out of patience, whichever come first. It's the simplicity that is striking.
For this cowl, I’m using Drift from Shibui Knits, a merino-cashmere blend that is just luscious to the touch. I had a rough start – I began with size 7 circular needles per the pattern but decided early on that it looked too tight and constricted – I wanted a looser look, something that would drape, not hug, the neck. So I slipped it off the needles, and recast onto some circular 8’s, (which was suggested by the yarn tag, I read later - heh, heh).
But I had the devil of a time getting the right number of stitches this time around, first casting on too many which I knew would end badly, being too big, too full, and then, for some reason, casting on too few. I tried to fudge and add a few stitches at the end, but I could never get the count quite right. I must have ripped out my restart three or four times. I lost count. Finally, I got the right number of stitches cast on and had knit a stabilizing row just to be sure, but now, somehow, I mis-remembered the pattern and began simply alternating one knit and one purl stitches, offsetting by one stitch on the second row. After about 5 rows, I’m thinking this does not look right --- and how, by the way, is this any different than seed stitch? I checked the pattern and slapped my forehead: Jeeze Louise - it wasn’t any different because it was seed stitch. So I had to once again rip out the rows, though this time, after all the frustrations of casting on, I took the time to get it back to the stabilizing row, and using a size 3 circ needles, pick up all the stitches – and start all over – correctly. So now I am forging onward, full speed ahead, with size 8 circular needles, 144 stiches in the round, with the correct k2, p2 pattern, offset by one stitch on the second row . It’s looking pretty solid, even if not yet elegant, and on a good day I can get a half- inch or so done, stitch by stitch. Just like postcard by postcard, vote by vote, we will bring this crooked administration down.
For this cowl, I’m using Drift from Shibui Knits, a merino-cashmere blend that is just luscious to the touch. I had a rough start – I began with size 7 circular needles per the pattern but decided early on that it looked too tight and constricted – I wanted a looser look, something that would drape, not hug, the neck. So I slipped it off the needles, and recast onto some circular 8’s, (which was suggested by the yarn tag, I read later - heh, heh).
But I had the devil of a time getting the right number of stitches this time around, first casting on too many which I knew would end badly, being too big, too full, and then, for some reason, casting on too few. I tried to fudge and add a few stitches at the end, but I could never get the count quite right. I must have ripped out my restart three or four times. I lost count. Finally, I got the right number of stitches cast on and had knit a stabilizing row just to be sure, but now, somehow, I mis-remembered the pattern and began simply alternating one knit and one purl stitches, offsetting by one stitch on the second row. After about 5 rows, I’m thinking this does not look right --- and how, by the way, is this any different than seed stitch? I checked the pattern and slapped my forehead: Jeeze Louise - it wasn’t any different because it was seed stitch. So I had to once again rip out the rows, though this time, after all the frustrations of casting on, I took the time to get it back to the stabilizing row, and using a size 3 circ needles, pick up all the stitches – and start all over – correctly. So now I am forging onward, full speed ahead, with size 8 circular needles, 144 stiches in the round, with the correct k2, p2 pattern, offset by one stitch on the second row . It’s looking pretty solid, even if not yet elegant, and on a good day I can get a half- inch or so done, stitch by stitch. Just like postcard by postcard, vote by vote, we will bring this crooked administration down.
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