2: Rohnert Park Library

Rohnert Park-Cotati Regional Library 6250 Lynne Conde Way, Rohnert Park, California, 94928

Time of Visit: Friday afternoon/evening: 5 - 6 pm
Books Checked out:
"Endpoint," John Updike
"Plum Lucky," Janet Evanovich
"The Murder Room," P.D. James

ENVISION ENTRANCE PHOTO HERE

Ratings
Book Selection: 2 bookmarks
Seating: 4 bookmarks
Staff : 4 bookmarks
Ambiance/Architecture: 4 bookmarks
Overall: 14 bookamrks

Opened at this location in 2003 and very modern, (like, actually new, as my friend Michelle will be pleased to know) this library has pleasing cream-colored stucco exterior walls, lots of tinted glass, some small trees and a bright, clean approach. It is a part of a complex of civic buildings for Rohnert Park, that include the police and fire station. The three buildings share a large courtyard that includes a maze, a fountain (not running in this season of drought) and some very interesting sculptures. One is an Alphabet Wall, another a History of Written Language wall, both created by artist/designer Martha Crawford. The language wall has many concentric arches centered around a large Rabbit Hole, each ring representing an advancement in writing. Along the plaza leading to these walls are two lines of delightful Alice-in-Wonderland-like concrete stacks of extra large books, 3 or 4 “books” high that could function as seats, or bases in a game of tag, or whatever. The A-i-W theme is carried further with quotations from the classic embedded in the walkway of the maze nearby.

It’s a beautifully designed, intriguing space, but hotter than a pistol on this exceptionally muggy, superhot August afternoon (earthquake weather, says Alice). Walking across the plaza to the front doors, I think my brains, already scrambled from the week, are about to be cooked into some sort of bad omelette. In fact, I feel so roasted that I neglect to get a shot of the entrance, so I'll have to go by and grab it to post later.


The air-conditioning is welcome relief when I step into the lobby, the doors gliding shut behind me. To my right is a conference room with an ongoing photography show, with some excellent work and some not-so; to my left, an entire wall devoted to community announcements and bulletins and flyers of a civic nature. It’s nice to see adequate space devoted to the diverse activities of a community: farmers' markets, rights organizations, poetry slams, classes, etc.


The interior design matches the exceptional landscaping. Walking in is like entering a sky boat, with light-filled rooms that feel airy, spacious. A skylight runs the entire length of the main reading room, just above the truss-framework of the high ceiling. Soffits at the top of the walls and light fixtures running between the stacks leave no dark corners. Much of the exterior walls are windows; the light walls help to bounce light around.


There are many tables with comfortably wide, sturdy chairs and plenty of softer, easy-type chairs and study carrels, such as you'd see in a school library.


Don't you just want to sit down and set up your study-shop?

One wall of windows looks out on a garden, representing, the brochure said, the groves of learning from the days of Socrates.


This is a library easy to love, even though the collections seem thin and the fiction section even thinner. It's comfortable and inviting, even inspiring. On this Friday evening, the place is almost full with a wide range of people and activities: moms, kids, families, teens, adults, oldsters. Volunteers shelving ands assisting at the circ desk. Some math tutoring. A long bank of computers, all in use. Also wireless, though one poor fellow couldn’t get his wireless card to work and wanted to know if he could “borrow” one. That was a polite "no" from the Reference Librarian, who no doubt wanted nothing to do with the innards of this guy's laptop.

The Children’s library is particularly well-designed, with kid-sized furniture, kid-sized shelving, and lots of space for reading or quiet play with building sets (Duplos and the like). The Children's library is easily half the size of the main reading room and may account for a sizable chunk of the library's volumes.

Fiction is definably a low-count collection, though. I browse through the Mysteries section; the heavy hitters were all represented: PD James, Elizabeth George, etc. I pick up a Janet Evanovitch book, a “Between the Numbers" novel, because my friend ND conducted a craft study on her work and was suitably impressed. Also the latest Updike book, “Endpoint,” a collection of posthumously published poems because I haven't read much of his poetry (just what I find in the New Yorker, sad to say) and a PD James, for old times sake; not her newest but the next back, "The Murder Room."


The coolest part of the experience? Using the Ready, Check, Go! system similar to the self-checkouts in some grocery stores. When I get in line at 5:55 ("The library will be closing in five minutes"--accck!), one of the volunteers motions me forward, saying that one of the machines was free. Ok?! So I walk over and she guides me through it. Put the books on the black apron or landing pad or whatever you want to call it, either stacked up or spread out, it didn't matter she says. Then the card swipe. Wow! Then my PIN...oh, shit, I can't remember what I chose last week when I got my new card! and I know I didn't write it down; I'd just selected something random, not thinking I'd ever have to really use it (yeah, I'm a dummy). But I remember using two repeating numbers, thinking that's a dumb thing to do (detecting a pattern are we?)...so I punch in my two fav numbers, but noooooooo! Now there's a line forming behind me, lights are being clicked off; I make a wild stab at it, using a phone number as a wild guess, and yowzers! it works! There's some computing and dinging and screens changing and then it spits out a receipt that not only had the new books printed on it with due dates, but the previous three books too, with their due-dates. I'll never be late again, I joke to the volunteer, a bit ruefully. I kind of like being a Library Felon...at least I know my fines are going to a worthy cause.

But as we all know, no matter the system, Library Felons have a high rate of recidivism. So until next week, happy reading!

1. Petaluma Library

Petaluma Library, 100 Farigrounds Dr, Petaluma, California, 94952

Visiting Time: Saturday, 2 - 3:30 p.m.
Books checked out:
"the kind I'm likely to get," by Ken Foster
"the life all around me, by Ellen Foster," by Kaye Gibbons
"A Brain Wider Than the Sky; a Migraine Diary," by Andrew Levy

My first stop on the Grand Sonoma County Library Tour is the Petaluma Branch, my "local." This is where my car goes when I plug in take me to the library. Walking up the wide brick entryway brought back all the memories: afternoons with the younger kids, rummaging through kid's books and "mommie" books (mysteries for the most part, back then), dashing in to pick up books on hold, paying off my fines, hauling the pre-teens & teens over for last-minute research for their papers, doing my own last-minute research as I returned to college and then worked on a grad degree.

It's been an embarassingly long time since I've been here, but it doesn't seem to have changed much; it even smells the same, a combination of the cool, dampish brick outside plus the wood paneling and book dust inside. In fact, it's been so long, I need a new library card, so first thing I fill out the fast, easy form and collect my card, a nice bright turquoise, easy to see in the dark recesses of my wallet, plus an accompanying key-chain card. Very cool!

Ratings:
Books 3.5 bookmarks (need more fiction!)
Seating 3 book marks more than adequate, but not quite luxurious
Staff 4 bookmarks (attentive even though they were pretty busy!)
Ambiance & architecture 4 bookmarks

total 14.5

Yes, hometown sets the bar high.

This library was opened in 1976 as a replacement for the original Carnegie Library established in 1867, which still stands downtown as The Petaluma Historical Museum. The New Library, as it is still called sometimes, is situated right in front of the Fairgrounds, on an old Little League field. It's a handsome building, built low and wide, with brick walls and a copper-clad roof. Inside, the walls are wood paneled, with high, open ceilings, exposed beams, many large, double-paned windows and a welcome, working air conditioner. It has a spacious feeling, with room between stacks, and plenty of tables to work on, lots of fairly comfortable chairs. Currently, home-crafted quilts are on display, many on walls, others hanging from the rafters, thus creating some nice sound barriers, though without impeding traffic.

Saturday afternoon and the place is pretty packed, though not as packed as it will get once all the schools are in session and the papers become due. Still, there are quite a few adults reading, there's some reading groups of middle school aged kids, there's people waiting to use the double row of computers. As I search for a table, I see that most of them are either occupied or show evidence of occupation (books, bundles, duffle bags). Everyone is quiet and soft-spoken, using the best of library-manners.

The librarians and staff (two reference librarians, one children's, two or three on the circ desk and several volunteers shelving books) were quite busy but invariably polite and friendly. No one recognized me, though; all my buddies have retired!

The Petaluma Library has a collection count of 99,000 + items, close to the planned maximum of 100,000. They're particularly deep in non-fiction with stacks along the longest wall, as well as many more perpendicular rows. The ficition section, by contrast, seems less deep, but the County's excellent Inter-Library Loan system provides access to thousands of more titles. WIthin the fiction section, there's a fairly wide variety, from blockbusters to mysteries to the literary lions and lionesses to the less-well known authors.

Holding myself back, I checked out only three books: a short story collection, "the kind I'm likely to get," by Ken Foster; a novel "the life all around me, by Ellen Foster," by Kaye Gibbons (a sequel to her fabulous first book "Ellen Foster") and medical non-fiction "A Brain Wider Than the Sky; a Migraine Diary," by Andrew Levy. I didn't really challenge myself here, except maybe for the short story collection: I'd never heard of this author before. But I'm a big Kaye Gibbons fan and realized I hadn't read this latest novel of hers and I'm a sucker for any book about the brain, hoping no doubt to understand mine, which is admittedly a lost cause. But I keep trying. And I just realized how sneaky my brain is: the short stories are by Ken Foster and the Gibbons book is written from the POV of Ellen Foster. How about that. ( cue the Twilight Zone theme...doo do doo dooo .... aaannnddd cut!)

One of the quilts and a glimpse of the many stacks.

An inviting study or reading area.

These libraries are dark! I tried no-flash for a warmer look.

Manifesto: Sonoma County Library Tour

Inspired by Michelle Panik's project 36 Libraries 36 Days, I've taken up the challange to visit each branch of the Sonoma County Library System and post a review of it. Although mine will be titled 13 Libraries 13 weeks, since I pretty much only have Saturdays for visits.

I've adopted her Book Mark system (1-4) in evaluating each library on these qualities:
Book Selection--variety and depth, the essential element of a good library
Seating--comfort is important in being able to lounge, read, do research
Staff--they can make or break a library
Ambiance & Architecture- once again, comfort and style encourages browsing and lingering.

A perfect score would be 16.

I'll include photos and note the book I check out --or books; I can never just check out one and with a week between visits? I'll have time to read. I think.

And in the spirit of solidarity with Michelle, I'll also note if I get lost, though I do seem to have the Locator Gene. I'm pretty good with directions and I'm really good at reading maps (I love them in fact--maybe I'll add Maps & Atlases to my review). Plus my first job when I moved to Sonoma County was tooling around the county for a real estate magazine taking pictures of houses and property for sale, so I've been on almost every road in the Sonoma County, except the newest ones. Since there are quite a few of those, the possibility does exist for "taking the scenic route". In fact, now that I've just jinxed myself, the odds have gone way up. Drat and dagnabbit.

and so the Tour and Challenge begins.

The Grand Tour of the Sonoma County Libraries

First visit on Library Tour went well! Stay tuned for update!

To the Research Station (encore)

It is mid-afternoon an the nature preserve. A young buck with fuzzy lopsided antlers strolls delicately across the small sun-drenched meadow, steps over the old broken-bouldered boundary wall, sidles right up to the side of the cabin and stands directly in front of the window where I am working; he stares in for a few moments, then lowers himself down for a bit of a nap. There is a rather bald spot there, an ovoid of dirt that suddenly seems the right size for this buck, as if he dozes here frequently when no one's about. I am gazing straight at the back top of his head. His antlers, one approaching the normal two-prong shape, the other much smaller, perhaps deformed (or growing more slowly?), rest outside the window where a window box might be. If no screen was in the way, I could reach down and touch him, as I would a large dog (a thick waisted Great Dane, perhaps) curled up near my feet while I type. As it is, I sit dumbstruck. His antlers are thickly forested with hairs standing straight out, like a boy's growing-in buzz cut. Flies dodge and dart about, landing on his moist muzzle, circling his wet eyes. His ears, mapped with pulsating blood vessels, flicker this way and that, his nostrils flare to chatise the flies. Flies, some of them still wriggling, are caught amongst the bristly-looking hairs of his antlers. His side bellows quickly, then slows down; variegated brown and grey hair lies flat along his side and flank close against the cabin wall. I imagine that the hair would feel smooth, slick, a bit wiry like a pony's under my hand. Warm.


I breathe slowly, I move ever so slowly, I stare, I want him to stay near me for a long time, I want him to actually sleep here, close, as if I am his friend, I want so much for him to trust me. But my chair clanks as I shift my feet to ease a growing numbness and he starts up in a flash, rump and tail toward me, tense, about to bound off. He cranes his head back to look at me over his flanks, ears cranked forward like semaphores, staring right at me, eye-to-eye. Beautiful eyes, yes. Dark. Rich. Large. Alert. I want to hold his gaze forever; I want him to calm down and return to his spot, rest in my presence, relax; I want him to trust me again. He turns his head forward, stands motionless, barely breathing. Then in two bounds and a leap, he's over the patio, over the boundary wall and crashing off through the high, dry grass and brush, making no end of an infernal racket.

Why do I care so much whether this beast trusts me, stays close? What is this yearning to be comfortable with beasts? Is it the challenge of convincing a wild thing that we mean no harm? Is the idea that we can communicate between species? I don't really know, but I am surprised by the strength of my feeling, of my desire for this deer to remain close and comfortable near me. It's not only deer; on other days, I sit still to let a thrush or a towhee or a chipmunk go about its business, hoping it will come close or at least not rush off in alarm. I do not want them for a pet, lord knows I do enough care-taking as it is; I don't want to "keep" them; I just want to know them ... or rather, I want them to know me.

To Our Libraries!

A friend of mine, Michelle, who blogs on Stray Carrier Pigeon, has created a fabulous project, visiting 36 libraries in 36 days in the city of San Diego. She notes her journey to the the library, gets some basic info, rates it on four qualities (from 1 to 4 bookmarks), takes some neat photos, checks out a book, reads it (or most of it, anyway) that night, and posts her evaluation, experience and pix. The next day, when she goes to the new library, she returns the previous library's book and takes out another. It's very cool, go check it out:

36 Libraries 36 Days.

In fact it is so cool, I want to do the same in Sonoma County. Michelle gave her blessing on my take-off on her idea, so I'm on it like white on rice, like a tick on a coon dog, like a bad pattern on a cheap rug. (hmmm) We have only 13 branches of the Sonoma County library but I'd only be able to visit once a week. So mine is more like 13 Libraries in 13 Weeks. And I think one of the libraries is more like an expanded, glorified bookmobile, so I might have a bit of tracking to do. But what fun!

Now it's time to get serious about the camera.

Taken last fall, by the big buckeye tree.
It's almost time to take another one.

How a hike is like writing a story.

Hike or write, simply start out -- and immediately walk into a mess. Wrong path! Wrong plot! I think I'm going to skip through a sunny meadow of blonde grass, but in about two minutes my socks and pants are thick with burrs, grass-snags, sticky-flowers, spikes; every step is a delicate exercise in avoiding the sting of already-embedded stickers; the path becomes a gauntlet of sharp grass and pricker-plants. I think it's going to be a sweet story about a woman and her excessive writing habits, and suddenly there's unrequited love, an X-acto knife and complexities of time and space. I zag over to an oak copse nearby, sit on a rock, avoid the poison oak and spend ten minutes picking all that crap out of my socks and pants. Like those bad, bad dreams, I'm not really dressed for this event, having impulsively dashed out in wooly socks, Birkenstocks and linen pants; at least I had a hat and water and a piece of chocolate. And of course, I'm never really prepared for a story either, merely honoring the impulse to write, without having any particular place in mind or any specific secondary characters. But water and chocolate always come in handy.

With a few minutes of reflection, I see the path I should have started out on, a more civilized, orderly path under the canopy of oaks and bays: no grasses, wide, nicely lined with rocks. Hey ya! This is working. And so it is with a story; there's those necessary (coffee-slurping, nit-picking, snack-gnoshing, wall-staring) moments that, though annoying, allow me order the events or line up the recalcitrant characters in semi-workable relationships.

The stroll down the marked path under the tree-canopy is enjoyable; sometimes this middle part of story-writing is too. The scenes fall into place, the characters all come from the same era and speak in the same dialect, verb tenses agree. (I can so dooooo this; who says writing stories is all that hard?) Then the trees and the wide, easy path dump me at the farther edge of the meadow: a narrow, crooked path wends onward through tall grass. Hmmm. This looks just like the start of the hike: big trouble. But I'm all the way down the slope and probably more than halfway; might as well continue. (Sound familiar? Isn't this where the zombie jumps the doomed couple? Go back, we all scream, go back!)

Soon, I'm in waist-high, then shoulder-high grasses. Deep doo-doo, in other words. Sometimes I can’t quite tell where the path is going, in fact it looks like it's either about to quit or turn in the opposite direction. This is the dangerous stage, when the story might well end up languishing in a drawer for the rest of its natural born days. But I do have a sense of where I'm supposed to end up, and so I keep on, one foot in front of the other (a la Ron Carlson), trusting the path, both hike-wise and story-wise. Then, a few landmarks show up. Here is the second little bridge, a bit frail, narrow and rickety, but it gets me over a bubbling stream; why, yes, the main character did have a rocky relationship with her first husband, which supports the endless whittling of the pencils. Bingo! here is the ultimate motivation! And voila, here is the larger path taking me up the brushy bank! Soon enough I am sitting on the bench overlooking a fabulous valley. I can practically see a wispy “The End” in the hazy clouds and credits scrolling over the dappled land below me, then up the big blue sky.

The return home on an alternate route, the paved road, was quick and easy. It wasn’t until sat down and poured myself a cup of coffee that I discovered the tick on my hat & the fatal flaw in the story: she was writing in pencil; she could have just erased; the zombie would never have known.

But maybe the reader won't think of that.

Peter Ho Davies

One of the best things about the Napa Conference was being introduced to Peter Ho Davies, both to his work and to his Sino-Celtic self. He was so personable, smart as all get out, and funny to boot. And what a writer!

About two weeks before the conference, I had begun his book "The Welsh Girl," figuring I’d give it an hour or so before bed each night. But I found myself captivated by the story, staying up til some pretty wee hours, not able to exit the story even though I knew (intellectually) that the morning would raise its ugly head sooner and then sooner. The way Davies intermeshed the three story lines had me snared. The characters were so uniquely themselves, the situation both historical and personal.

Here are two links, one to Davies’ own homepage, which has some interviews, plus some stories. One of the stories, "The Minotaur," (pronounced the British way: MY-notaur) he read at the Napa Valley Opera House (super tres elegante!) during the conference. This is a story that plays with the well known myth in a well-balanced combination of wry humor, inter-textuality, puns and poignant psychological truth. He paired that story at his reading with another, titled “Chance,” that I'll let you discover for yourself. Though I felt fortunate for the opportunity to hear it.

The second link is to another interview with Davies that I enjoyed with some questions about "The Welsh Girl."

and so, cheers, big ears!

Best Little Conference in the West

The euphoria from the conference is starting to ebb and I'm returning to being a town-girl with a needy cat and a flesh-&- blood family. Though I'm not all here yet; yesterday I wandered off-track walking to the market five blocks away, I shampooed my hair twice in one shower and skipped the conditioner (yeah, hairstyle a la rat's nest), I'm still a bit zingy and zany and lost in story-land. But the conversations in my head about poetry, public life, writing dates, next year's faculty, story collections, writing in the midst of living, urban legends, story arc, fried chicken lips, binaries, story shape, villanelles, cientos are starting to wind down, replaced by the give-and-take of civilian life: what sort of pasta for dinner, furlough days, picking up croissants for breakfast, the kibble-shortage, as pointed out by the cat.

But it was a most fabulous conference. In fact describing it is an exercise is saying "fantastic" eighteen different ways. Some of the highlights, though certainly not all, for me:

Toni Nelson's lecture which included a collage that acted like a map of her process in drafting stories. (She set the bar high from the get-go; Peter Ho Davies remarked that he now has "hand-out envy.")

The FAQ talk by Elizabeth Alexander about being Madame Ambassador for Poetry, her description of being at the Inaugural, of writing the Inaugural poem (one of four such poems in the US), of "writing in the midst," and sitting down later with your scrap-box, your rag-basket of ideas, words, inspirations. Those in the lecture can now claim an Obama Number of 2, right? (you know, like an Erdos number, or Six Degrees from Kevin Bacon).

The First Books Panel: Adrianne McDonnell, Skip Horuk, Robin Ekiss: great stories of books (a novel, short story collection, poetry, respectivley) making it into the world, including one (McDonnell) who had worked on her ms at the conference last summer.

All the readings were, ahem, fantastic: Carl Dennis and ZZ Packer on campus on Sunday; Jane Hirschfield and Robert Boswell at the Rubicon Winery on Monday. I could write whole blogs on each. The Tuesday night reading at the Napa Valley Opera House was particularly stunning both in setting (the refurbished auditorium is to die for) and content, from Camille Dungy's introduction of Elizabeth Alexander and her fantastic poems through the stories of Peter Ho Davies, which were a revelation to me. He brought down the house with his hilarious yet poignant Minotaur story (pronounced the British way "MY-no-taur") and then captured us with his story "Chance," searing, emotionally honest and true. Thursday night, David St John (with a spot-on intro by Mary Shea) and Toni Nelson at the Mondavi winery, another gem of setting and design, of art and words, where Toni read a work-in-progress, the first haunting chapter of a novel.

At my first Napa conference, Ron Carlson told us on the last day of our workshop to take a few minutes and set up a writing-date for ourselves within 24 hours of getting home, in order to keep the process going, to keep open all the dendrite-connections, synapse-firings stirred up during the conference. Which I did ... and so, excuse me, I have a hot date with a draft-map and a story. 

p.s. I know others have different highlights. I'd love to hear about them, so feel free to share in Comments!

Napa Conference a Go-Go

Our conference is in full swing. Day One was, as usual, organized chaos: welcoming newcomers, greeting returnees and old friends, handing out packets and name tags, steering people to the correct rooms at the right time. The weather was rather perfect, warmish-to-hot for us, yet a welcome relief to those coming from Texas (hotter than a pistol) or the East Coast (muggy as hell). After Orientation (first for the entire conference, then for each workshop), and then a pouring of notable Napa Valley wines to accompany a very delicious Mediterranean-inspired meal on the verandah, we gathered our chairs to sit on the lawn under the slowly deepening sky to listen as both Carl Dennis and ZZ Packer gave bang-up readings, the Mayacamas mountains a purpling backdrop behind them.

It doesn't get much better than that.

But ... there's more, like about four more days worth.

To be continued.

The Quiet Ruckus of Nature

I have the great good fortune to spend a few days at a nature preserve spelling a friend who needed a few days out of the woods. I'm only too happy to go into them. Not that this is so far out in the woods in the physical sense; town is really only a boulder-roll downhill, yet it seems another universe away. No traffic, few people (maybe once a day), plenty of critters: skittering lizards, birds galore, deer crashing around in the brush. The lack of civilization’s noise is disconcerting at first, but soon enough my ears give up scanning for screeching cars, cooped-up dogs, unhappy children, construction clamor, someone else’s tv or radio (always tuned quite loudly to the wrong station). Suddenly the racket of nature comes to the forefront: rustling leaves, rattling dry-grass, zooming bees, whining flies, chirping, trilling, whistling birds, the Woodpeckers Chorus drilling on the oaks across the stream bed. Sometimes a random dog barks from a ranch way across on another hill, and yes, airplanes do rumble and buzz across the sky, but these noises seemed dialed down as the rustling breeze seems dialed up.

I'm staying at what might be termed a Researcher's Residence. This is a far cry from the cozy country cabins one rents for vacation, yet no tents are involved. It’s much closer to camping with some decent amenities, such as a real bed, fridge, stove, bathroom, mudroom, washer and dryer. No need to go downhill into town for anything other than consumables and your choice of beverages. That said, one has to be prepared for what these amenities might be used for. The mudroom hosts nets and containers, boots, bib-waders, boxes of mysterious (to me) contraptions, all with the accompanying odor of muck and marshbottom. The freezer, handy for leftovers and coffeebeans, is also home to a variety of Tupperware containers and Ziploc bags labeled cryptically with numbers and dates. Some of the smallest containers hold desiccated bees and other critters I didn’t look at closely enough to identify.

There is, I notice, a distinction between Inside Bugs and Outside Bugs, with a sincere effort made to keep the Outside Bugs out and the Inside Bugs in. Tight screens and door seals work for the Outside Bugs; the Inside Bugs are trapped in more of those plastic tubs spread out on the kitchen counter, some large enough to serve as mini-ponds for the water bugs, others are those tiny little condiment containers we get with take-out.Most of the containers are labelled with black marker on blue carpenters tape: Whirligig beetle, Diving Beetle, Stonefly. Still other bugs have been identified and pinned into the display cases, with the tiny neat tags indentifiying species and location of capture. Every surface has reference books on insects, pollinators, flowers, local geography.

We humans get to occupy the DIZ (De-Insectified Zone) between the two, which surprisingly enough only has a few spiders in the corners, like any normal house. And here I sit amongst the bugs, inside or out, content to breathe the quiet ruckus of nature.

Can't help myself

...after dinner tonight (carnitas, Mi Pueblo, yes!), stopped in at Copperfield's, my favorite indie bookstore, where they were having a 2 for 1 on all sale books.Yowzers! Even though I'm reading my brains out, I didn't make it out of the store without these six books: Cheating at Canasta, William Trevor; The Florist's Daughter, Patricia Hample; Run, Ann Patchett; What Now? Ann Patchett; Peterson's Field Guide to Birds of North America (2002) and The Welsh Girl, Peter Ho Davies.

Okay, so I've read Run, but I don't own it. Want to keep my Patchett up to date and current. One can always use a good Field Guide. And Peter Ho Davies is teaching at the Napa Valley Conference! I've been reading a library copy of The Welsh Girl and I can tell already it's a keeper. So now I have it. And maybe I'll ask Peter Ho Davies to sign it.

Antonya Nelson

Only ten days away, that Napa Conference. Whooeee! I'm so ready!

We have a great group of faculty again, both fiction (Robert Boswell, Peter Ho Davies, Antonya Nelson, ZZ Packer) and poetry (Elizabeth Alexander,Carl Dennis, Jane Hirschfield, David St John) and I've been treating myself to reading their work.

Toni Nelson..well, I've been a fan since stumbling across her stories in the New Yorker way long ago. Her stories have a taint of nightmare about them, those oh-so-real nightmares: a dead cat in the swimming pool just before the family moves out, or a woman sharing an apartment for one month with a stranger, a woman undergoing radical elective cosmetic surgery and who appears for a good part of the story swathed in bandages. (Both of these stories appeared in the New Yorker and are in her latest collection, "Nothing Right," from Bloomsbury). Yet her work is firmly rooted in perceived experience, in our realities. Nelson has an astute understanding of the our emotional drives; she has a way of putting her characters in a heightened state of internal conflict, catching them at the pivot points, when their emotional stews are all stirred up. She understands that little bit of outlaw in all of us and lets it out; her people are always in a twist, whether they know it or not.

She also writes some bang-up sentences.

So, using a method running around Facebook; I've opened "Nothing Right" to page 56. Here is a passage beginning with the third sentence on the page:

"Abby investigated, the ample evident of plenty behind every door she tentatively tapped upon and then opened: the closet full of Christmas gifts that Santa would bring to the little children, the linen cupboard, currently depleted as sheets and towels had been distributed throughout the house, and in each of the five children's bedrooms the same-yet-different clutter, the way all of them had sprung open their luggage and left their intimate aricles everywhere--jewelry, pajamas, makeup, pharmaceuticals. The last, largest bedroom belonged to the patriarch; it alone was orderly, chilly as a tomb. On the mantel a clock ticked, and the air smelled of soot from the fireplace, of camphor and dust and the cool steam of a humidifier. A bathrobe hung from each of the footboard posts, two ghosts, and a large wooden cross was propped menacingly in a corner. In the top drawer of the dresser Abby found a stack of mint-fresh twenty-dollar bills--stocking stuffers, she wagered, slipping one in her packet. She'd taken less obvious things from the other rooms, pills and an earring and a pair of pantyhose, but from the genreation that occupied this room she wanted nothing but cash."
---from the story OBO by Antonya Nelson in "Nothing Right."

If you're in the neighborhood the last week of July, you'll have a chance to hear Toni Nelson read at the Robert Mondavi Winery, Thursday, July 29th. See Calendar of Readings and Lectures for more info on all events open to the public during the Napa Valley Writers Conference.

The Cat's Meow

While we all know it is pretty difficult to train cats (they have to be in the mood, they'll do it in their own time, on their own terms, they can't be observed doing it, they have to be about to do it anyway), scientists have recently confirmed (see article here) what all cat owners have always known: they train us.

And boy howdy, it sure doesn't take long for us to learn that we are their scullery maids, doormen, butlers and cooks. Though, on occasion, they will dispatch a rodent or two in honor of our services.

Where it's at:

We steer our life through so many dichotomies, asked to choose between Dem or Rep, vegetarian or omnivore, plastic or paper, Beta or VHS, BlueRay or DVD. Our choices describe us: Democrat, vegetarian, BlueRay, maybe one who’s jumped the fences and brings a bag to the grocery store. Perhaps no other choice, though, defines the techie-generations than Mac or PC.

Usually, I let my pocketbook dictate my choice of computers: PC, PC, PC. But now, my decade-old machine, so lovingly assembled by my son, then in high school, and for the most part a stalwart beast, has gone beyond limping along; it is stumbling all over itself begging for the misery-ending bullet. I’m sure its innards are thick and crusty with parasitic viruses and leeching worms; it can barely boot up half the time and once going, it usually takes the first opportunity to freeze and quit. Without a doubt, it’s time for a new computer.

This time I’m going Mac.

So of course the curious bystander wants to know why. Aesthetically, of course, any Mac is heads and shoulders above the rest, no doubt about that. But my tipping point boiled down to engineering: I’m sick of all these viruses (pun absolutely intended; don’t you too get sick when your machine has been attacked?), tired of repairs, burned up on updating and installing the latest point-whatever of another version of Windows, which then rearranges all the lines of communication within my poor beast.

Like a million other end-users, I just want a machine that works, works well and never stops working. I want the Maytag, not the Sylvania. I’m not interested in re-coding, inserting new cards, coaxing it tho function using a screwdriver and voodoo rituals and holding interventions to make it speak politely to the printer. Printer, say you’re sorry for going offline; CPU, say you’re sorry for setting the parameters too wide. The fact that Macs just plain work, don’t take sick-days and look gorgeous while doing it put them miles above PC’s and most of my old boyfriends. Even my son, PC-maniac that he once was, encourages me towards a Mac machine, any Mac machine. Yes, they cost more. But it’s a well-deserved investment in my sanity and patience. Not to mention that, with all this talk of furloughs and layoffs on campus, I may not be buying another computer for a very very long time; this one has got to last.

So here I am: liberal, Dem, bring-my-own-bag, omnivore, Mac-ecstatic: Mac-tastic!

IOU's...oh joy.

Sooooo, IOU's. Next week. Don't you think the California legislators should be the first to receive them?

And Arnie: what's this crap about vetoing a budget bill because it doesn't meet your specs?... because, oh horrors, in order to keep the parks open and health services for children, there are some raised fees in it? If a budget bill passes, you should honor the work the Legislature has done and sign the damn thing; we have another round coming soon enough and it doesn't look any better than this one.

And maybe you should accept the very first IOU, you know, like the Head of State you are, setting an example, taking the lead. Show that as a Captain of the Ship, you'll do the honorable thing, that women and children should be taken care of first, and you'll get by. It's not like you have to pay for health care or don't already have enough money for any Hummer you might fancy. Maybe you need a deep swim in the Sea of Reality that you (and some recalcitrant Republicans) can't seem to imagine.

Sing like Handwriting

The Summer Solstice, Father's Day, rich blue sky with warm winds. We gathered: students from every decade, well back into the 60's, admirers from nearby and abroad, friends from every context and almost every continent, musicians of every stripe and creed, family, families, fellow teachers, all of us honored, blessed, downright lucky to have studied with or known such a magnificent musician, such a compassionate teacher.

We spoke of the power of his music, the way one note could break your heart, the way one note, pulled two steps this way, one step that and every shruti (micro-tone) in between, could be melody, the way he could make the hair rise on the back of your neck, the top of your head expand, spin, take off. We spoke of Khansahib's generosity with his music, his willingness to teach anyone, to water our world with the likes of Rag Chandranandan, Desh Malhar, Bhimpalashri. In the heat of a Marin afternoon, thuds and dribbles of red earth, pebbles, roses echoed from the butterscoth-blonde hills as we each marked our last tangible connection with this giant of a musician, this short Bengali with the knowing smirk, the generous smile and the all-encompassing desire for us to learn to "sing like handwriting--not typewriters", our Baba, our Swara Samrat, Emperor of Melody.

The Ali Akbar College of Music that he founded in San Rafael, California, is in the midst of preserving and archiving thousands of hours of his music and teachings. In lieu of flowers, or if you just want to help, the family asks for donations to continue the cause.

Preservation Project

And if you are unfamiliar with his music, this is a pretty decent YouTube video:
Khansahib: Shree

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, 1922-2009

We lost a genius last week, an unparalleled musician with an extraordinary gift of melody and a passion for teaching. He gave to the world music so devastatingly pure and direct that it could ruin you for anything else, while at the same time opening your ears, allowing you to understand all music, to comprehend that music the world over is ... music. As long as it's in tune and in tal (time/rhythm), that is.

Khansahib to most, Baba to his family and close students, he was a generous teacher, dedicated to sharing his music with the world, with you, with whoever happened to be sitting crossleged in front of him, with eager ears and a receptive mind. He gave all he had and then some; more than this, no one can do. The world is a much better place for him being in it; music the world over is richer.

But, darn it, Baba, we miss you.


Marin IJ
NYTimes
SF Chronicle
Ali Akbar College of Music

Letter to Arnie Published

After some thought the other day, I took a section of my Dear Arnie letter (see below), slapped it around a little, trimmed and tightened, took out the obvious slurs and sent it to various newspapers. Lo and behold, SF Chronicle ran it today: Shut Parks? Danger!

A nice little surprise with the breakfast coffee.

p.s thanks, Lucia for your encouragement!

Dear Arnie

With all due respect, you've had your share of ridiculous schemes, social gaffes (remember the Nurses?) and ill-conceived programs. But closing the State Parks? Not only is it impossible to enforce (closed road? no problem. We'll just four-wheel over or hike in from down the road) but it's truly dangerous. Of all your hare-brained ideas, this is the worst I've ever heard.

First of all: the State Parks are a tremendous resource for the stressed-out populace whose non-existent incomes can no longer provide other forms of relaxation and entertainment. This is a time when we need the parks the most, where folks can exercise or be in nature to relieve their economic worries. It is not only healthier to be at the beach, but even with parking fees, it's cheaper than movies, or walking around a mall stressing out about what you can't buy. And camping is a much less expensive alternative to Disneyland or other travel vacations.

Secondly: have you tried to book a camping vacation? Most of the parks are already full, meaning income, Arnie, income. Parks bring in money. Maybe not as much as you'd like, but it's money coming straight to the State. Why turn off the spigot? What the bleeep are you thinking?

Thirdly: With no rangers or staff around, who do you think will be the first to populate empty campsites and avail themselves of bathroom facilities? Will a closed fire-gate keep the riff-raff out of beaches or wilderness? I think not, Arnie. Without supervision, parklands and campgrounds will become squattervilles and party-down HQ's. Who's going to patrol the parks? The Rangers you just fired? Certainly not the over-stretched police and fire forces. Can't you see the scenario? Alcohol, drugs, impulsive, thoughtless behavior, and worst of all, un-monitored camp fires. You thought last fire-season was bad; wait until irresponsible riff-raff have unfettered access to our treasured woodlands. And fighting fires, of course, cost money. Now where's the savings?

This idea might look good on paper, Arnie, but it will only cost us, not only in the long run, but as early as next month. Myself (and others I'm sure) would rather see increased fees and better tax schemes, as painful as it might be, than lose our parks and woodlands. It makes more sense for legislators to take the same 15% pay cut, lose their perks and pay more for their healthcare like the rest of us than close parks, an act that punishes everyone in California.

Legislators need to accept the fact that when prices go up and income goes down, sometimes the adults in the family have to get another job. It's time for the legislators to grow up and admit that California needs more income in order to maintain the basic functions as a government.

Heathens in the House

A sharp ping: the doorbell. Who could that be, 1 pm on a dull Saturday afternoon? We haven't been getting many Solicitors for Jesus since we posted that "We're Finnish Pagan Unitarian Buddhists" sign years ago. Friends and family tend to walk in the back door with maybe a rap on the door frame and a quick "Yoo Hoo!" --if we're lucky.

I opened the front door, swathed in XX-Large grey and red bathrobe, blue-striped pj legs just showing above my bare feet. (It was that kind of dull Saturday.) And instantly and infinitely glad I was swathed; three men, all in gold-edged kurta-paijama, with snug round brimless topis on their heads, stood at staggered heights down the narrow steps. Muslims from the mosque a few blocks up and over. Yes, there is one in our fair town, in a church building purchased from a Pentecostal private school that went bust about five years ago.

"Is the Khan here?" the nearest and oldest said through the screen, as all of them averted their eyes, turning half around in their confusion to avoid looking straight at me.
"No, no, he's not." The nearest, in white, turned back towards me a bit and raised his eyebrows. He'd had some practice dealing with the likes of us.
"No?"
"I was married to a Sanauddin Khan once, but no longer."

Now they all sort of glanced back toward me without actually looking at me, truly askance; though the youngest, maybe in late 20's, in a lovely blue outfit, then snapped his head back around, having already retreated to the sidewalk.

"He's in Pakistan. But thanks for coming by. Have a nice day!"
"Oh," the oldest fella said, nodding a bit. The two still on the steps glanced at each other, then waved their hands and walked down.

"Salaam Alaykum," I said, hoping to break the ice.
"Alaykum Salaam," I think they muttered as they left.

I closed the door, quick-like. Obviously, this was not what they came for. I'm sure they were hoping to rope another Khan into their mosque. But Sonny (as he preferred to be called) wouldn't have been a good prospect anyway; he hadn't been that good of a Muslim when he lived here. He moved to America for a reason.

At least I wasn't in frayed jean cutoffs (above the knee!) and a ratty tee-shirt (a cleaning-on-a-hot-day sort of Saturday) when I opened the door, like the last time this trio of Muslim men came by, scouting for the Khan in the little house on B Street. In micro-seconds, they had completely turned around, scuttled down the steps in their soft-soled shoes and stood with their backs to me, talking very briefly from the safety of the sidewalk. All of us were furiously blushing.

Yes, once again, there be heathens in this house.

Pushing Pedals, Digging Clams

So ...what do you call those mid-calf pants, the ones that are neither proper knee-and-above shorts nor proper to-the-ankle pants? They seem to show up every decade or so, sometimes closer to the knee than the ankle, sometimes closer to the ankle than the knee, fitted or baggy, with pockets, without. No matter what, they are for people with good ankles and a well-turned calf (i.e. not me). I've heard them called toreador pants, calypso pants, pedal-pushers, capris, clamdiggers and, most recently, cropped pants. But for all those names, aren't they describing the same style of pants? Or are there differences? and if so, what are they?

Perhaps those with a better sense of fashion or fashion history can set me straight. Not that it would convince me to wear them; I just want to know. I wouldn't want to insult a pair of pedal-pushers by calling them clamdiggers. Lord knows I have enough trouble with putting together get-ups and outfits; I don't want to incur the wrath of the Fashion Gods or Gremlins with misplaced references. A Clothing Curse I can do without.

And if I should ever dig for clams (not very likely, just saying) I'd simply roll up my jeans.

8 Things About Books on Tape

1. Can fully appreciate the cadence and rhythm of beautifully written prose.
2. On the other hand, the horrible clunkiness of language is revealed as well. Some authors really can't be listened to.
3. Let's say you miss an important detail the author so craftily slipped by you. Trying to "re-read" a passage is a far different proposition: rewind, nope, rewind, nope, rewind, wait, this is before that important bit, FF...no, not yet...FF, too far! rewind, FF, rewind, where the heck is it, end up listening to the whole second chapter in reverse order of the scenes...oh, drat, just hand me the book. Over there, under the chair...
4. You can get dressed, feed the cat, wash dishes all while listening to a fabulous story! As long as there's no one to tease you when you scrub a pot for five minutes at the good part. And better check the mirror before you leave the house. Just in case.
5. Be forewarned, people will think you are demented if you start sobbing for no discernible (to them) reason. The pantomime explanation of "earbuds,listening, big woman shot by crass ex-lover, fell in canal, ....oh never mind!" only seals the deal, in their opinion.
6. Can't answer the phone. That's what voicemail is for.
7. All the aural pleasure of talk-radio without annoying callers or knuckleheaded hosts.
8. More mentally engaging and creative than tv or video. You can dress the characters anyway you want (until the author tells you otherwise), even vary it from scene to scene...who cares? You can have your own interpretation of wine-dark sea or bowlegged or flinty-voiced; maybe the Snopes's have an uncanny resemblance to your ex-spouse's cousins by marriage.

Worst Stoopid Cold Ever

Well, I'm finally down from 1 to .5 TBPD*; I think I'll make it. Don't know exactly what this disease is. Never snorted nor squealed, so it wasn't that Swine-ish Flu; didn't crave super-thin pancakes or meatballs in cream sauce so it wasn't the Swedish Flu either. But hands down, it was the Wickedest Damn Cold on the Planet. It sucked 4 days out my life like an anteater on an anthill. According to the Germ Theory of Disease, no one actually cursed me -- they just coughed in my general direction. This is the sort of thing people should keep to themselves, hiding it at home with the blinds drawn.

An absolutely wicked, awful, horrible, no-good, very bad head-cold and lung thingey. Been down for 5 days, shuffling from one resting spot to the other like a blind elderly cat, intermittently lapping up a bowl of soup, slurping a cup of Gypsy Cold Cure tea, batting at toast. Not enough energy to read much or even watch stoopid daytime tv. A good day was getting out to the hammock for the first mid-morning lay-about in the sun. Books-on-tape (and a humidifier, thanks, Cory!) saved me, getting me through the hacking afternoons and restless, sweat-drenched nights.

And I was blessed by having on hand a CD of Toni Morrison's "A Mercy," read by her. What a treat to listen to Morrison's remarkably beautiful and cadenced voice; I was lost in that fictive world so beloved by authors and readers alike. The poetry of her prose sprang out, was song; the story unfolded as if sitting around a fire late into the evening, each character's voice taking over the dirt stage in turn, speaking their truth. I was enthralled, entranced. I flung up my arm to stop hasty actions by Florens; I reached out a hand to wipe Rebekkah's brow as she lay abed with pox (then I snatched it back; wouldn't do to get pox, too); I tried to pound Sorrow's back when she was hauled out of the river.

Or maybe I was just plain delirious. Whatever, I'm back to work tomorrow, for as long as I last. I promise not to cough in your general direction.

*Tissue Boxes Per Day

Sotomayor ~ yes!

Funny that talk-radio right-wingers are all up in arms about the New Haven fireman's case Judge Sotomayor ruled on years ago. They are beginning to seem a bit desperate if this is what they resort to, dredging up one case and stomping all over it. Or a few remarks here and there. For one thing, I like to look at the overall picture, to consider her whole record, not simply one case. Certainly Judge Sotomayor's life experience is an invaluable viewpoint to bring into the Courts.

.. and the charge of her being racist? Give me a freaking break! Wasn't so long ago some of those folks were damnably proud of being racists their own selves; seen in that context, it could be a (perverse) complement. Puhhhhleeezze!

An Egretful Morning

Yes, some things are irresistible, like egrets and puns. When they occur simultaneously, well, pack me in cotton and send me to China, I'm a happy camper. (zoooom! I'm back now, whew.) Meanwhile, an essay was published in SSU's Newsbytes last month (April 10th, tbe) and I neglected to post the link. So here it is, An Egretful Morning.

Love to hear what you think....

A two-timing, Twleve-stepping, twentysomething temptress....

The other Saturday I went to a book signing party for a friend, Z Egloff, whose book "Verge," was just published this year by Bywater Books. This was a party with balloons, streamers, a signing table, a reading, a nun (ersatz but still!), a cake, a fire ceremony (which I regret that I missed) and a blue bike. Z was totally stoked; friends from all her many walks of life were there to cheer, clap, stomp and yell. At any moment dancing could break out, and for all I know, later on it did.

A bunch of us loitered by the wish-writing table and reminisced about reading the first chapters of "Verge" in it's maiden workshop up at Wellspring, when it was but a workshopping virgin. From the get-go, this was a dynamite story. We loved its pacing and verve and characters and smart-alecky voice. The bookjacket blurb pretty much captures it: "Can a two-timing, Twelve-stepping, twenty-something temptress find happiness with a nun?" Of course to discover the answer...you'll need to read the book. Don't forget, there's a bike involved.

How To ... what?

I don't know if anyone else caught this event, The White House Correspondent's Association Dinner (by Dinner we mean Roast) last Friday night, but this was the quip by President Obama that caught my attention:

"Dick Cheney was supposed to be here but he is very busy working on his memoirs, tentatively titled, 'How to Shoot Friends and Interrogate People'."...and there's much more posted here along the same lines, some pretty darn hilarious lines. Plus some rather pointy barbs, amid the great giggles and guffaws.

Just had to share.

Quick and Quirky

The buzz bzzzt buzzz was annoying and close, disturbing the few minutes of peace I'd snagged to read in the back room that had once been a porch. Come to think of it, I'd been hearing it all afternoon. Stepping through the laundry room to the tiny back-stairs landing (what's left of the outside portion of the porch), I stood transfixed by the flit and flutter of some tiny upstart perky-tailed birds all around the back yard. Definitely them making all the noise.

There had to be a flock...or maybe just four or five, or wait, really just two moving around so fast they seemed like a multitude. Up on the eaves of the nearby garage, over in the roses, down on the end of the kid's slide below me, bouncing through the branches of the plum tree, moving too fast for my poor old eyes to track. And such a brash little thing, suddenly hopping along the railing not even two feet from me, flicking its standing-straight-up-at-attention tail, chut-chut-chut, it goes, posing for a micro-second, only long enough for me to glimpse a long thin white streak just above its pert eyes, like a uni-brow borrowed from Steve Martin. Then, down it flits, to weave in and out the lattice work along the steps in quick hops, reminding me of a game from my suddenly ancient childhood (and the song that went with it): Go In and Out the Window. Cheeky rascals; endearing.

It didn't take so long with Sibley's to identify the sassy little things. Bewick's wrens, facing extirpation in parts of the East Coast, but still abundant here in the West. And it's only taken me another day to realize they are nesting right under the porch.

Deborah Digges, 1950 - 2009:

"Darwin's Finches"

1
My mother always called it a nest,
the multi-colored mass harvested

from her six daughters' brushes,
and handed it to one of us

after she had shaped it, as we sat in front
of the fire drying our hair.

She said some birds steal anything, a strand
of spider's web, or horse's mane,

the residue of sheep's wool in the grasses
near a fold

where every summer of her girlhood
hundreds nested.

Since then I've seen it for myself, their genius—
how they transform the useless.

I've seen plastics stripped and whittled
into a brilliant straw,

and newspapers—the dates, the years—
supporting the underweavings.


2
As tonight in our bed by the window
you brush my hair to help me sleep, and clean

the brush as my mother did, offering
the nest to the updraft.

I'd like to think it will be lifted as far
as the river, and catch in some white sycamore,

or drift, too light to sink, into the shaded inlets,
the bank-moss, where small fish, frogs, and insects

lay their eggs.
Would this constitute an afterlife?

The story goes that sailors, moored for weeks
off islands they called paradise,

stood in the early sunlight
cutting their hair. And the rare

birds there, nameless, almost extinct,
came down around them

and cleaned the decks
and disappeared into the trees above the sea.

Deborah Digges
1950-2009

I didn't know Deborah Digges,had never met her, but I treasured her poetry, so enriched by her keen eye, her deeply reflective mind. I slurped up her memoir, "Stardust Lounge," too. She told it straight about raising her son through adolescence, about what it was really like with a difficult, challenging person, about paying attention to the teen, not the advice books. I didn't know her but whenever I read her forthright work, I feel like I'm with her; feeling the tug of hairbrush, setting the hair-nest free, waiting for a thirteen year old's call.

Here's a link through the Valparaiso Poetry Review of Deborah Digges reading her work just last month in Pasadena for an event co-sponsored by Red Hen Press and Claremont Graduate University.

over a month!?!?!?!?

since my last post?....jeepers, I was busier than I thought. Busy, busy, busy Limes as we used to say in grad school, being so busy we couldn't pronounce simple words like "lives," correctly. Busy: reading submissions for the Napa Conference, polishing up an essay for Newsbytes, attending a conference, signing up for physical therapy for my shoulders and wrists, putting together lesson plans for the Spring class (for all of one student), Tai Chi-ing, finishing my taxes, watching a tooth fall out of my head. Not all the way out; next week I'll go to an oral surgeon and they'll get the rest of the root out. Seems like I clench my teeth a wee bit too much; my incisors are snapping like match sticks.

But! this weekend, I'm off to a self-planned, solo-writing retreat at my favorite hide-in-the-woods place, Wellspring Renewal Center. aahhh! the best place to get un-busy.

Napa Valley Writer's Conference - 2009

The Napa Valley Writers Conference
is up and running, holey-moley, lickety-split. Once again, a fabulous faculty:

Fiction: Robert Boswell, Antonya Nelson, Peter Ho Davies and ZZ Packer.
Poetry: Elizabeth Alexander, Carl Dennis, Jane Hirshfeld, and David St John.

The application process is structured a bit differently this year, with rolling admissions, beginning March 1st. One advantage: the earlier you apply, the more likely you'll get your first choice. Plus quicker response from us. Another difference: those who have been accepted previously to the conference at least two times won't have to submit a qualifying manuscript; obviously we already know your work! Those applicants (fiction, that is) can then get cracking on their workshop manuscripts.

Environmental History Digital Collection

Snooping around the Jean and Charles Shultz Library (aka the Snoopy Library) website at SSU, I discovered the Environmental History Digital Archive. They've digitized rather an eclectic mix of historical material on Sonoma County: old maps, photos, plans, articles, letters, records pertaining to various contentious issues on the environment. Some unique items.

There's the whole history of the "Hole in the Head," the gaping foundation for a nuclear power plant that was to be built on Bodega Headlands. The plant was not only planned for one of the most beautiful whale-watching bluffs on our gorgeous ocean coast, but was also mere yards from the San Andreas fault. Like that made sense. But it was the 1960's, when suits felt they could do what they wanted and hippies and radical-nut protesters had other ideas and values. The plant was never built, but the shaft dug for the nuclear reactor is still there, a physical and metaphorical hole in the head.

This digital archive also contains two of my Nature's Way pieces, one on owls and ravens (#37), another on Western pond turtles (#51). They had asked permission a few months ago, but I'd neglected to look for them earlier. It's nice to be included.


SSU Historical Archive

Listening to Lucia

My friend Lucia was interviewed on BlogTalkRadio the other day, the 2/18 Moe Green Poetry Show, "Onword"

Lucia Galloway Interviewed by Rafael Alvarado You have to put up with an ad at the beginning, no way around it, but the rest is fun.

It's a kick to hear her read her work (villanelles, pantoums, sonnets, etc) and to remember those MFA Days in Marina del Rey. She read poems from her chapbook "Playing Outside," from Finishing Line Press, and new work from "Venus and Other Losses" coming out soon from Plain View Press. The conversation is freewheeling, casual and informative in the wonderful way of poets.

Frost and Sweet Pea

Been some pretty whack-a-doodle weather this winter: a few heat-wave days, some weeks of icy windshields and frosty lawns, some mornings foggy and soupy, some afternoons almost too bright and sunny. Yet little-to-none of the usual winter rain. Pretty confusing for the plant kingdom; bloom, not bloom, bloom, freeze your tiny little stamens off. I think we're all glad that ol' Punxsutawney Phil, that prognosticating groundhog, hit the snooze button and headed back to catch more zzzzz’s. Maybe this way, winter will regroup, revise and correct itself.


And maybe it is. Today the sky has been many mutable shades of gray. Over the past week, we've had spates of small, cold, drizzly storms; tonight a real rainstorm is predicted to hit. No one is complaining. If we're lucky, we might gain a few inches. Not much and not enough, but after three very dry winters, we're facing the very real possibility of a mandatory 50% water rationing. Perhaps each inch we receive will be one-percentage point less that we'll be asked to save? Well, I rather doubt it works in that tit-for-tat manner. But I will say that it makes for interesting times.

Double Trouble Birthdays

Happy Birthdays to Charlie Darwin and Abe Lincoln. Hard to know who had more influence on our current life - Lincoln for his vision, inherent humanity and dedication to equality for all or Darwin for his decoding of the process of evolution. Can you imagine a world in which neither of them were around? It seems like science fiction just thinking about it. Surely their discoveries and advancements would be accomplished by someone else but perhaps not in such a timely or fortuitous manner. Definitely an alternate universe.

Now, who's going to write that story?

Nests in Winter

....lordy, lordy almost two weeks have scooted by. Interesting weeks, though. Some of it was putting my keyboard to the grindstone and cranking out a Nature's Way essay titled Nests in Winter that was just published last Monday on NewsBytes. In the process of setting the link here, I discovered that half the links in the NW Archive were broken, so I fixed that. Apologies to any who tried to navigate those corrupted channels.

...and oh, yes! finally, I can watch a press conference again.

Seven Days, Six Sentences

Can you believe it has been only a week? Obama has done more righteous stuff in seven days than another, whom I can no longer mention by name, did in seven years. Finally, I can read the paper again and not be either outraged or nauseous; I can listen to an entire news broadcast without clicking it off when that noxious, self-serving, smirking voice came on. I am cheering Obama on with every step he takes, every program he initiates. The road ahead won't be smooth, but at least it will be heading in the right direction. The times might be rough, but it's easier to work together with a leader we respect.

Science is Coming, People.

On Tuesday at noon the
sun suddenly came out I
swear I said to my
daughter something was happening but
what and the stars don't
care about us who we
elect or when we listen to
the radio and hear it
say President Obama is going
to shut down the prison
the stars don't care they
are forever exploding hydrogen atoms
slowly depleting dying like us
to them if they thought
at all they'd think everything
we do is in prison
the president said we could
write poems again saying "president"
that people would have to
think about not just understand
like he said "science is
coming, people" to which my
son said "did he say
science?" I said "I know
it's hard to believe but
the new president said science"

Poem by Matt Rohrer
Day #2:

Courtesy of Paul Lisicky and Mark Doty, I discovered this fabulous project 100 Days Poems , a poem a day for Obama's First 100 Days. Matt Rohrer's poem (above) I found particularly apt, living and working with scientists as I do, but others are equally as stunning. And if you want to see Elizabeth Alexander's magnificent poem "Praise Song" as she wrote it, not as it was mangled/transcribed by the press, Mark Doty posted it on his blog here

Reports of Absence/Abcess/ Absinthe

When you work for any large institution, you gotta fill out forms. Lots of forms, and more of them every semester. Some forms, like Attendance and Absence Reports, can be filled out each time with pretty much the exact same wording. Easy to tell how code numbers and check boxes caught on.

This month, I endured some dental experiences that the designation "Dental Appointments" didn't quite describe. So on the Absence Report (that's a metaphor I have to follow some day), I wrote: Bent and broken canines. Bleeding gums, sutures, surgery, pain, soft foods.

I could have included: long afternoon lolling on the bed in a Vicodin stupor, listening to Books on Tape and drooling pinkishly on my pillow. But I didn't. Sometimes I can tell when I'm going too far.

Now, if the report comes back to me with red slashes and REDO stamped all over it, I know at least they do read the damn things. Which has to be even worse than filling them out. Next month, I'll include a plot. About absence. With absinthe. Excuse my lisp.

yaaahhhhooooo!

okay, so yes, I sniffled and teared up. Actually, I cried ... and I stomped my feet and cheered and hollered amen! That was my Praise Song for the Day.

Elizabeth Alexander was, of course, far more articulate. The last lines of her poem, Praise Song for the Day, were particularly so and particularly true.


"In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light."

Elizabeth Alexander, Jan 20, 2009

Daylight arrived, ready or not.

The rank and file of market umbrellas, somber green below,
a damp patina above, hunker around the patio in the fog-still morning.

Some are folded up on themselves, comatose, giant bats waiting
for nightfall; others are half-opened and slanted sideways,
coming in for a landing, caught in mid-flight.

On Mutts ... and Zebras

My family (of origin) moved a lot, like every two years or so. In each new town, I’d be asked where I came from, meaning what parentage we claimed. I used to think it was a way of asking what breed we were. My parents are from New England, I’d end up saying, we’re Yankees, because trying to describe my mother’s immigrant Finnish heritage and my father’s upright/uptight New England Unitarian genealogy going back generations was too difficult. To my father's parents, we must have been mutts: old blood & immigrant upstart. My son is a mutt and a half, born of myself (one mutt) and his Pakistani father (Pushto heritage, raised in Karachi, more of a displacement); my daughter, a sort of polyglot mutt: her father having German and English in various mixes on both sides, combining with my Yankee style Welsh-Finnish stew. Even my Finnish grandmother could have described my mom and her sisters as mutts, because their father, while Finnish, came from Swedish stock. Tsk, tsk, was the connotation.

I’d bet my bottom dollar that your family is part mutt, too.

and by the way: less than 12 hours! just can't wait!

An Inauguration for The People

For the first time ever, I not only know people who are going to this Presidential Inauguration but some who have been invited to it (Mark Doty, Paul Lisicky, among others) and someone who's going to speak, the poet Elizabeth Alexander. (no, don't know her well, but well enough--she was at the Napa Valley Writers Conference in 2007 and will be again this summer. Excellent choice, Obama!) Highly unusual on all accounts for moi. Generally speaking, my people go to Washington, DC either for protesting or touristing, although a couple of them have gone there for work, and one of them went to testify before a Congressional Committee of sort; I don't remember which one or about what, it was along time ago, and we've since forgiven him.

This is different. I even considered going myself except for the money, time, huge crowds, below-freezing temps. I am a temperature wimp these days. But people from my town, my work, my vocation, my community, from every strata that I deal with, are going. My people are going. And my people are welcome. I would not say that was true of many other Inaugurations; Bill Clinton's excepted, perhaps. Certainly not a G.W.Bush Inauguration. Not to say that many of my people would have wanted to go, but really, the little people, the worker-bees, the fabric of America? We didn't count for much in that regime, his protests to the contrary.

This outpouring of support, emotion, even gratitude, is the result of Obama's own sense of grace, his intelligent compassion, his attention to what matters to the vast majority of Americans, rather than the elite minority who attempt to wheel and deal their hold on power. The millions flooding into Washington this weekend are not just representatives of his constituency; they are his constituency: everyone, the full gamut, the entire enchilada. We worked for him; we believed in him. We couldn't offer him influence or even much money, but we volunteered what time and effort we could. We talked to strangers, to our friends and family, we blogged; we drove to other states, made phone calls, contributed $25 or $30 when we could. And he remembers that.

It just makes my little heart go pitta-patt.

Books 2008

well, nothing like no explanation, eh? I wanted to shorten my posted book list but didn't want to lose the titles....so I plopped them onto a post, and then was called away. This isn't conclusive, just what I managed to note. It would be difficult to pick a favorite of these, but Junot Diaz's novel might be it. I still recall the vibrancy of both tale and language. I see I didn't include any of the Toni Nelson books I know I read, nor the Ann Patchett books, either. Such an inadequate list. Oh well.


Home Remedies; Angela Pnueman
Rope Bridge; Nan Cohen
Bearing the Body; Ehud Havazalet
Mendocino Stories; Ann Packer
Dive from Clausen's Pier; Ann Packer
Poetics of Space; Gaston Bachelard
Mind of the Raven; Bernd Heneich
Self Storage; Gayle Brandeis
Eat, Pray, Love; Elizabeth Gilbert
Ron Carlson Writes a Story; Ron Carlson
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao; Junot Diaz
The Road; Cormac McCarthy

Balmy/ Barmy in January

It's weirdly warm today; a Santa Ana without winds in mid-winter. 81 degrees; the very definition of balmy. In January. In Sonoma County. Granted it rarely snows much here, but still, we don't walk around in shorts and flip-flops all year. Or most of us don't, anyway.

I heard mutterings of "earthquake weather," but some people say that about any odd thing. It's spooky though. I considered swimming in the campus's outdoor pool at noon; people were swimming at noon, normal people not just the ballsy (or knuckleheaded) Polar Bear Club folks who brave the SF Bay on New Year's Day. It's especially un-nerving after the past several weeks of quite severe cold (for us Bay Areans), when we had to cover up the citrus and scrape ice (not just frost) off the windshields. Warm up the cars and wear mittens,too! jimminy cricket, what the hell is going on? Everyone is confused, pixie-headed, twitterpated. The usual words won't suffice. "So warm," describes the temperature, but doesn't convey how bizarre it is to be 80 degrees in the middle of our winter. Like we were in Australia, like the climates were switching sides. Soon whirlpools and drains will twirl out widdershins and we'll be throwing Barbies at the shrimp, who'll scuttle off in absolute disgust that we can't even get that right.

Blog Hopping

My latest muse-avoidance technique is blog-hopping. You know, skipping from one blog to another on those seductive little links, each one a small step over the edge into the unknown, a present begging to be unwrapped. I've become fascinated by a blog's blogroll, that side-ladder of possibilities, each rung a leap into a separate distinct entire universe, all coexisting, many of them linked to each other in necklaces of connection. String Theory in action.

So I've been bagging a few writerly blogs of my own. (Well-written ones, of course). Rather than merely run the list, I'll try to introduce some of them as I go along, kinda like the notes scientists use to describe their captured quarry.

One of the best spots to start, kind of a 6-degrees-from-anyone spot, is Paul Lisicky's blog. First of all, he posts about his own travels and writing life, puts up poems, photos, fabulous quotes from what he's reading (he reads a lot), etc. The usual what-have-you of blogs, perhaps, but done well. He's also the author of two books, "Lawn Boy" and "Famous Builders" and teaches and reads, like, all over. I first met him when he taught at Antioch LA a few years ago (5?) and then again at Napa Valley Writers Conference last summer. I've always enjoyed his poetic prose and hands-on workshops. Anyway, you can get his full Monty (figuratively speaking) from his blog and also visit his eclectic blogroll, rife with fascinating blogs, which are, in turn, linked to other fascinating blogs, linked to...etc. It's a serially opening flower, a lotus blossom, a quagmire. The web-thing. And as great a way to meet other writers as I know.

And from there, I went to Avoiding the Muse, written by C.Dale Young, a poet, teacher, editor and doctor in San Francisco (I think this means you can do it all), a treasure-trove of riches, which led me to Luna which isn't a blog so much as a Journal of Poetry and Translation, with widely spaced postings, but! it hosts a tidy collection of links to other journals. For those who are submitting, it's a compact resource of journals. As opposed to those monstrous, every-journal-known-to-humankind sorts of lists that are just too overwhelming to comprehend or wade through. And so you don't.

I lost track of how I got to bookeywookey, but does it matter what steps I take? I put the shortcut up. Perhaps from Mark Doty's excellent blog. And there I will leave you, friends, in the hands of a poet. Where else would one want to be?

Peace on Earth?

The gift wrap is all gone, the photos have been shared, the kids have gone back to their respective homes, taking cookies with them, thank the Goddess of Sweet Snacks, and the place has returned to its winter somnolence.

Sort of.

Our neighbor, who would probably like to remain nameless, decided that he needed to re-orient his above-ground pool. In order to do that, he needed to police the margins of the new spot it now, already, occupies. In order to do that, he needed to climb the two trees on our shared property line and trim all the large and small branches that stretched over his side, so leaves and doot-skreet wouldn't fall in his pool. In order to do that, he had to use a chain saw. Right above my head, while I was trying to work on a recalcitrant essay about the joys of nature. Joys which evaporated as branches swished past my little window and thunked to the concrete on my neighbor's property, right next to my little garden-shed studio. Which is I how I discovered his nefarious plan. I say nefarious because now my studio, which was once more or less quiet, somewhat secluded and tucked discreetly under the spreading branches of the two locust tree, their trunks acting as protective barrier between his yard and ours, now stands brightly revealed. Exposed. Not secret.

I don't like it.

Writing, for some reason, is a very private act for me. I don't like being observed while writing; for a long time I wouldn't even tell anyone I was writing, just "working on something." Even now I'll say: "I'm going out to the studio for a while," or "I've got a project going on." I can edit or write at a coffeehouse or in libraries, but that is privacy gained from anonymity. I prefer, when possible, to wait for everyone to go to bed before I start writing, as if it needs to be done surreptitiously. Un-noticed. Why this is, eludes me. It's a comfort thing, I guess, a way of ensuring no distractions or interruptions, or a way for the imagination to be paramount, run rampant, with no fear of witnesses.

The trees, after a day and half of his efforts, were quite lopsided, unbalanced and potentially unsafe, ready to topple in a windstorm, with the heavy side of the tree right over MY STUDIO. So Heroic Spouse has spent the past two days sawing opposing limbs off our side and making cord-wood out of it. (No one wants me handling a chain saw.) Then there was all the clean-up: twigs, leaves, sawdust, branchlets. etc. It was not the activity we'd scheduled for our weekend.

Today, after stacking, raking, sweeping and stuffing our Garden Waste can to overflowing, after finally putting the saws and clippers away, this neighbor suggested taking the trees out completely, because as he points out, now they are pretty much butt-ugly. No, duh. In which case there will be nothing between my studio and HIS POOL. Just a chain link fence, some headphones and my seething attitude.

I'm googling thick, fast-growing, climbing vines. Honeysuckle. Jasmine. Trumpet flower. I hear they are good bee habitat. Now there's some nature I can enjoy.

Cookie Glut

This has been an especially heavy Christmas for cookies; it's a Cookie Glut, really. There's a tradition to pass out collections of homemade (or not) cookies to those you're happy/obligated to give to but not willing to spend much braintime figuring out something more personal. Like your landlord or your co-workers down the hall or distant relatives. Distant in the sense of not close as in, can barely stand being in the same state together. And face it, most adults we know seriously lack for nothing. Except cash, home equity and maybe a job or two in 2009, none of which I can grant. But I digress.

This year we received no less than five containers (large Tupperwares) of homemade cookies, all of them delicious and all of them welcome, but it's a bit much. I mean, I can't turn them down, I love them (esp. those Russian Teacakes, honey, you know those are gone) but the two of us can only eat so much, even if we needed to rack up another ten pounds in the next two weeks. But with no teens in the house now (they are both young adults and in home-spaces of their own), we don't have those extra appetites (or the extra friends with appetites) lurking around, ready and eager to perform cookie-sweeps at the drop of a hat. Lordy, lordy what I really need are five teen boys who can wolf down a very large platter of cookies over the course of a short afternoon. And then ask what's for dinner. You laugh. I have it on tape.

Usually, I'd send the extra goodies off with the Spouse to share at work but it seems they all are suffering from Cookie Gluts of their own. And when hardwood floor installers have trouble sucking up a bag or two of cookies, you know they are getting plenty on the side. In fact, one platter of cookies came from one of those fellas (or more accurately, his wife). I guess it's bad taste (ha, ha) to send them back to the source. Drats and dagnabit. Looks like the squirrels will get lucky this year.