After Hours

That's the name of the zine I'm taking to the writer's conference this weekend. I'm putting it together right now. Well, I'm taking a break from putting it together right now. I'm using things I've already written so I'm just doing layout. I hate doing layout. Doesn't agree with me. I'm printing it on some paper I bought way back when I had my letterpress. Been cleaning up my office and it just has to go. It's extra nice. Too nice. The kind of nice that creeps me out. It puts too much emphasis on an insignificant detail. The letterpress days were not that great all around and this paper has followed me around ever since, reminding me of it. In those days, I'd go to the office, do battle with type fonts, composing sticks, brass and coppers (for spacing between words)and after an hour or so, decide I needed a drink. As often as not, I'd get blinding drunk and call it a day..or night. I finally sold the damn thing, three presses in all, two huge cases of fonts, tools. My marriage ended (a good thing) and then my life took another turn for the worse and then a long, slow turn for the better. I'm still in that turn and hope to be for the rest of my days.

There's an old letterpress at the Brewery Arts Center where the Ash Canyon poets meet on Friday nights. The center said it still works we could use the it, if we want to. Bill Cowee and I got pretty excited about the idea. He'd like to do broadsides and I have ink or grease paint or some kind of gunk in my veins so it sounded good to me too. BUT, when I looked at all the tiny, tiny fonts...the press was used by a newspaper...and all the paraphernalia, it all came back to me. Fussy and tedious as doing layout in Word is, the difference between printing with a letterpress and a computer is the difference between sticking needles in your eyes and stepping barefoot on thumbtacks.

Yes, I know. Why Word? It's a really bad program to publish with. Well, after all this time, I still haven't gotten around to making the switch to something like PageMaker...so Word it is. One more time.

Also, I made oatmeal raisen cookies for my son today and mailed them off to Fort Bliss. I hope they bring a little sweetness to his day.

Grrrrr......

Damn! It's late and I'm rummy. I was answering a comment made to my last post but ended up deleting it and my reply. ARG! I'm going to bed. Asia, I hope you re-post your delightful comment.

Ps. You are the latest recipient of the coveted Vlorbik Award. Imagine a standing ovation.

Bird Park Babies and Other Writers

A third generation of bird babies is currently enjoying my bird park. Compared to their parents and grandparents, they are a distinctly relaxed bunch. But back then times were hard. I put out only one seed tube and a pie plate full of water which I considered a bird bath. The birds felt otherwise. I surrounded it with (what I considered) beautiful rocks that I'd found in the desert. I waited and waited but no birds ever went near it. It took me half of that summer to accept the fact that they hated the damn thing. Okay! So I still have a few character defects to work out.

Last year was the beginning of the Golden Age. First off, I got rid of the rocks. That turned the evil configuration into a simple bowl of water. Crows started softening bread in it and even the earliest bird ran over for a drink after landing. And about a hundred sunflowers volunteered, growing to different heights depending of how much water each one got. Several produced their own seed but even the most spindly, dwarf provided a perch. For anyone under six inches tall, a lovely green maze replaced the moonscape. Birds swayed on the tiniest branches and called it good. And after Plonk arrived, I started put seed out in earnest.

Speaking of Plonk, he and his girl friend haven't been around for a couple of weeks. They hung out at Dwayne and Thera's while we were in Mexico but came over as soon as we got home. I'm guessing right now they're busy sitting on some eggs. I hope so. I've never seen a baby pigeon. Have you?

But getting back to the third generation bird park babies. They are the first ones with parents brought here by their parents. You get the picture. For them, the place is a paradise that's been around forever. Sometimes after they've eaten, they just hang out as though the world is a safe place. Really lovely. Well, that's the big news. Now I have to get back to work. I'm throwing together a quick poetry zine to sell at the Juniper Creek Writer's Conference which is happening next weekend in Carson City. Also, this afternoon a bunch of us are meeting at Ellen's to stuff the packets for the event. I'm grateful I've found some other writers here. Otherwise, Nevada would be a pretty lonely place.

Riverside Weddings and Stranger Angels

John, Anita and the boys. 

My son called tonight. He's leaving tomorrow, along with the rest of his National Guard unit, for a few months training in Texas, then they are off to Iraq. We just got back today from visiting them. All totaled, the drive was longer than if we'd gone from Guatemala straight through to Canada. We'd have done it if we'd had to drive from the fucking moon. It was great seeing them. We stayed a day and a half, which was about right. We took John and his wife Anita out to dinner, saw Touching the Void (excellent), went on a short hike and spent a lot of time watching their kittens play. They're a pair of homeless little brothers J&A rescued from the animal shelter. John's official deployment orders arrived while we were there and he read them aloud to the three of us. I'm glad we there to absorb a bit of that moment!

John has been in the Guard since 1998 and was supposed to be out this October. Of course, Bush is chasing down everyone he can to help bail him out of this bullshit invasion of Iraq. Anyway... John and Anita have been together since high school, class of 2000. They were co-captains of their high school cross-country teams, honor students, planted trees, helped coach and tutor kids. They are attractive, sweet, smart, healthy, kind and civic-minded. After John got back from six months overseas with the Guard, they moved to Montana. That was a year ago. They just got residence status and are enrolled at the university for fall quarter. They were also planning to get married soon, a nice, old fashioned wedding, but when John got his deployment notification they decided to have a quick civil ceremony and save the "real" wedding until after he gets home. They got married in Oregon, in our old home town, in the park, by the river. We were in Mexico.

I'm really bleary-eyed at the moment but I just want to tell you one quick story. It helps. I'm still rattled with fear over all this. John told me he and Anita went out to dinner tonight and at the table next to them two couples where having a heated discussion about Fahrenheit 9/11 (which I saw and liked very much). After the huffy Republicans left John leaned over, smiled and said, "Hey, you should straighten your friend out ." A brief conversation followed during which John mentioned he was beginning his deployment in the morning. Later, when he went to pay the bill, he found out that the guy he'd been talking with had already paid it. You may say a small act of kindness but it blessed the evening for them. Like a good omen it lifted their spirits and cheered their hearts. And mine. Thank you.

George Bush: armchair psychopath

George Bush, armchair psychopath, waiting bringing his packet of lies to the United Nations in an effort to persuade them to back his invasion of Iraq.

Tropic of Cancer and Calf

Mexico to Montana

We're back in Nevada but only temporarily. We're leaving for Montana next week to see my son off. His National Guard unit has been deployed to Iraq. Damn this government! Because of these neo-conservative republicans (read: Corporate/Nazi Scum) we are already in the tar pit up to our tits and these bastards keep sending more people and more money...to clean up the mess they made. This election, Bush and his cronies have GOT to go!!!

This is my son's second tour of duty over seas as it is for many of the others. In all, forty-five hundred people are going from the Oregon/Idaho/Montana area, an event which is being conveniently ignored by the media whores. If you supported the war in the beginning, okay. The Washington War Lords got one over on you. They are experts in provoking and manipulating fear and confusion. And they are very scientific about they way they present their ideas and so-called facts. One thing I find amusing about them is their compulsive use of "patriotic" backdrops for media appearances but then what do I know? And hell, it doesn't hurt their cause that they are cold-blooded liars. But as the old saying goes, "The first time, shame on you. The second time, shame on me." The Bush Machine hijacked the first election. Don't let it happen again. Even if you're not a democrat, vote democrat this time. We can sort the rest out later.

Fuzzy Day and Romance - Oaxaca City

Today was Fuzzy Day at Gigante. A fuzzy purple muff surrounded the monitor in the bag check stand and a matching fuzzy, purple sleeve covered the long neck of the microphone used to broadcast shopping specials. In spite of the heat, all the cashiers were wearing fuzzy, red vests. I probably missed other fuzzy delights but we weren’t in the supermarket very long. The only reason we were there at all was that we went to the open-air market with Lolita. She goes every Tuesday and Friday. We also went with her last Friday. You have to get there early because things are picked over pretty fast. Lolita always throws in the Gigante for good measure and we just follow along. It’s a good system. In a mere hour and a half and a few pesos, she gets days worth of fruit and vegetables plus takes advantage of the store specials and is back home before it gets too hot. And again, the bus ride was delightful. Last week a blind, off-key musician passionately serenaded the bus for a block then took up a collection and disembarked. I think most people paid just happy to be rid of him. This week’s entertainment was a fat, middle-aged woman in high heals and white stretch pants that revealed the dimples in her meaty backside. Her blouse was the best part of the ensemble. It was a brilliant pink little number made of a flimsy, cheesecloth type material. It had a gathered scooped neck so its thin, soft folds lay obediently in the ravine between her very round, large breasts, frothed gaily around the rest of her but was sensibly anchored on the bottom by pink satin ribbon. It defined creamy romance.

I realize I risk being accused of racial stereotyping here but I'm going to say it anyway. As far as I can tell Mexicans love (among other things) martyrs, revolutions, holidays, parades, fireworks, clowns, glitz, glamour, food, drink and noise. But most of all, it seems they love romance. Or at least the teenagers do. That’s no surprise of course, but this is a Catholic country with old world values. Courtship is supposed to be governed by strict rules. The result is whenever they get away from scrutiny they nuzzle; to and from school, church and work, on every street, in every park, on bridges, benches, propped against trees, cars and walls, down alleys, at bus stops, on busses and highway dividers, in stores, restaurants and parking lots they are layered and twisted together, melted in their combined heat. I left out a lot of locations but you’d safe imagining them just about anywhere, entwined like creepers, cooing like doves, picking through each other eyebrows like monkeys. Sometimes I feel like chuckling lewdly and muttering, “Hey, get a room, for Christ’s sake and ours” but I don´t know Spanish well enough to sound cool and besides, I’m trying to act more mature these days. However, if you think mine is a heartless overreaction, come and see for yourself.

According to The Church, marriage is the only proper place for expression of such passion and consequently, wedding shops abound in Mexico. Some streets have several in a row. Mannequins wearing formal white, lace and bejeweled gowns, surrounded by their inert little bridesmaids, crowd the store windows, a testimony to The State of Holy Matrimony. Everyone knows that even The Virgin herself reveres The Bride. If a girl can’t be a saint or a nun, the next best thing is being a wife. In this light, the pink blouse is both promise and proof that, one way or another, you can have it all.

Roller Skate Skinny

I just stumbled on a great blog, Roller Skate Skinny. It´s fresh, honest, intelligent, real and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. Do yourself a favor and check it out, oh and leave a comment. Everybody likes a nod of encouragement now and then and this girl certainly deserves one.

Sunday night

Still in Oaxaca. I´m in the process of getting some dental work done that I can´t afford in the states. Ever since we crossed the border, I´ve been working on a new poem called the Book of Images. It´s not done and will undoubtedly change ten thousand times more but tomorrow night I´m going to read a couple of excerpts from it at a write´s group that meets here once a month. I hear things differently when other people are listening.