Artists Week Journal

July 31

Ukiah to Carson City, halfway there

Artists Week begins tomorrow. "It's the first week in August in Tuscarora," I always say to anyone who asks, and I pronounce the dates as though it were a big deal, and it's not, except to me, but I'll get to that at some point.

Today is about hunting and gathering across the Sacramento Valley. I'd like to say that the tradition of eating well--and drinking well--has something to do with nourishing creativity. Nope. Joan and Heidi are extraordinary, creative cooks. Rosemary and I are better than average. All four of us love to eat well, drink well, and believe in the conviviality of the table.

Rosemary is in Provence right now. Heidi will be dividing her time between Redwood Valley and Ft. Bragg. This blog is for you guys and for Pam, who was there the first year and who I hope to persuade to come for a reunion soon.

Joan is already in Tuscarora. So is Sid. James will be there tomorrow evening. So will I. Joan's friend Sally is coming on the train Saturday night or Sunday night.

So far, so good on the hunting and gathering. Right now in the back of the suburu I have a mixed case of Parducci sauvignon blanc and petit syrah; six fresh loaves of bread from Schat's Bakery; jars of mufaletta and dried black olives; almonds and walnuts from Granzella's in Williams. Tomorrow I'll go to the Farmer's Market in Carson. I should be in Tuscarora by five.

I listened to NPR most of the day. On Fresh Air, they recognized the passing of dancer and choreographer Merce Cunningham--who died Sunday at ninety--by playing an interview Terry Gross had with him when Cunnigham was seventy and his life partner and collaborator, John Cage, was still living. Those were two influential lives of art--over fifty years. Cunnigham choreographed and produced a new work just last year. "Almost Ninety" was the title.

What stayed with me from the interview? Random things. They loved to hunt mushrooms. Cunningham spoke about the importance of observation, paying attention to your surroundings. John Cage said that he was more interested in individual sounds, whereas most musicians are attentive to the relationship between or among sounds. Both incorporated randomness, chance into their works. Each of their voices was measured, serious, almost ecclesiastical. Now they were real artists. At some point, some evening this week, we will watch the sun go down and have a lively discussion about what that means--:real artist.

I know that my annual proclamation, "Artists Week is..." honors the spirit, the creative impulse in all of us. I know that. It's seventeen years now. Pam, can you believe it?!

Can you smell the rain? Did you hear the thunder roll? A brief cloudburst just cleared the air, made big flat splats on the sidewalk in front of my son's house.

To be continued...

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: Fiesta de Navidad...

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: Abuelo

Tres Poemas de Nueva Mexico: El Resumidero

Three New Mexico Poems: Christmas Party at Bernalillo County Medical Center

Christmas Party: Bernalillo County Medical Center

Can't we all just get along? Rodney King

The loudspeaker announces the Christmas party in the conference room. We chipped in for cold cuts, brought goodies from home, stuffed eggs, ham and swiss on rye, cranberry relish, pink jello salad, fruitcake, and Mexican wedding cookies. Mary Harjo brought posole, which we eat in paper cups. Mrs. Petty whispers, "We shoulda made chicken soup for Dr. Kopperman." Sandy brought bunuelos, learned to make them in her Mexican cooking class. Consuela spits hers into the wastebasket, hisses to Teresa, "I've never tasted anything like that." Sandy gets huffy, says "They're Mexico City style."

The spiked punch is gone in fifteen minutes.

Abbey doesn't want them to know she's pregnant but we laugh when she pops a button on her blouse. Evie gives me three pair of bikini panties each with a drink recipe on it. Kyle, the security guard, plays Santa. Mary Dullea is selling hot Navajo jewelry for her brother-in-law in Arizona.

The custodians are having their own party upstairs. Lucille says, "They're playing Spanish music and I can't understand a word of it." She writes her recipe for sweet potato pie on a pink "While You Were Out" pad, tells me it's her new husband's favorite. He's from the Bahamas, hates Albuquerque.

They pass around a card to give to Poopsie, the head radiologist's secretary. It's a photo of a penis with glasses. Underneath it says "Seasons Greetings. Guess Who?" I don't think Poopsie will come to our party. The way she says, "executive secretary," emphasizing the "zec" I know she won't show. Evie thinks she's having a mad affair with Dr. B. That may be possible, but I think Poopsie simply hates us all,

especially this time of year.

When the door swings open

you can hear a baby cry.

What a world.

Three New Mexico Poems: Abuelo

Abuelo

Summer evenings, when I walk down Phoenix Avenue,

I see an old man sitting in a faded white lawn chair.

Dark work pants, dark shirt buttoned tight,

neck lean and bristly as a sunflower stem,

a grandfather moved to town,

bearing the heat and Albuquerque noise.

Grease-stained Stetson, profile simple as a sheep hook,

probably a pastor all his life, maybe in the Naciminetos

or in the mountains beyond Truchas.

I like to think he can hear the distant tinkle of the bellwether,

the bark of his dog, the murmuring bleats of his herd.

I know he is not my grandfather,

yet it is a blessing to see him

quiet as a country road at dusk,

common, hardy, at sunset, pure gold.

Three New Mexico Poems: The Resumidero

The Resumidero

"A drainage, a place where things come together."

That's what Mr. Castenada said.

Last spring I asked the ranger,

a Jicarilla from up near Lindreth.

He grinned, wide lipped, shook his head.

"I'm not good enough a Mexican," he said,

standing there, one foot on the barden bumper

of the Forest Service truck,

firm pot belly riding on a rodeo buckle,

clean shirt, greenish levis,

taking us in with the appraising squint

of a law and order man

up there

near the beaver dam

ten days before the start of fishing season.

The Nevada Poems: Color/Dolor

Color/Dolor

Sage in winter,

granite,

the world viewed

through gauze.

Color once removed,

the color of distances,

the Independence Range

after the gorgeous sunrise.

I am scratched silver,

corrugated tin.

Cold, vague colors

come to mind.

I remember

a magenta self,

burnt orange

and turquoise

Too rich now.

The Nevada Poems: Pickup Haiku

Pickup Haiku

     1

High country springtime

Muddy trucks on rutted roads

Daffodils in snow.

     2.

County road truck dust

One who loves you is in sight.

Buckaroo love note.

     3.

Ranch wives in pickups

Crew cab with groceries and kids

Saturday in town.

     4.

Men leaning on trucks

The cow dog seems to listen

The sun warms their backs.

     5.

Labor Day weekend

Pickups headed to Elko

The haying is done.

     6.

High country autumn

Deer lying in pickup beds

Covered in white cloth.

The Nevada Poems: Broke Down. Need Help

 Broke Down. Need Help

Stuck in Lovelock 

in front of  a Chevron,

made a cardboard sign,

"Broke down. Need help."

"Need money for tires,"

I try to explain.

 "Home is Montana

two days away."

I hear what they say.

They won't look my way.

"Druggie."

"Loser."

If the Lord is tryin' to teach me about humility

what I'm learnin' is about humanity.

The Nevada Poems: Tuscarora Prayer Flags

Tuscarora  Prayer Flags

Each spring I bring a string

of Tibetan prayer flags to Tuscarora

to hang in a tree

 by the side of the house.

At winter's end, they are faded and frayed,

which tells you something about

the power of the wind up here.

I wish my hopes could ride the wind skyward.

Although I know the custom makes no sense,

if I did believe, this would be my plea:

"Don't turn my deepest needs to tumbleweeds

blown nowhere but against a barbed wire fence."

The Nevada Poems: Independence Valley

Independence Valley

Watch the restless swallows come and go

on the power line to Tuscarora.

Some avian law explains the way 

they leave precise space between each other.

Instinct decrees the distance between hawks

hunkered on poles beside the Midas Road.

Nature tells peregrine falcons not to nest

less than two miles from other raptors.

But what of the ranchers who inhabit

the valley below?  From an eagle's view

soaring above the plain, distance makes sense.

That's all the high desert land can sustain.

Still, a question remains.  Does remoteness

breed a species disinclined to be near 

its kind?  No.  Any dusty road will show

the miles folks will go to help each other.

Yet, not everyone is born for this place.

Those who do survive, stay sober, stay sane,

have willed their peace with silence and space.

The Nevada Poems: Murderous Impulses

Murderous Impulses

I know a field where a horse killed in anger

lies frozen in the snow.

I haven't seen the neighbors' dogs 

feast on the carcass,

but I know they do.

So much goes unnoticed out here.

I like to think 

God watches everything.

Maybe so.

Maybe not.

The Nevada Poems: Lucretius Leaves Tuscarora

Lucretius Leaves Tuscarora

You leave this place quite sure you won't return

before another year has come and gone.

You know that in the interim you'll learn

of sudden deaths, and births, and lives gone wrong.

You're leaving those you've learned to love and some

you tolerate.  The call of ties beyond

these barren hills to life that's green and warm

conflicts with your strange need for ruined land.

You yearn to turn around the moment that

you leave.  A glance behind shows fading light.

Ahead, the curves disguise the course you've set.

You'll find no answers in the starless night.

To go or stay is but a state of mind.

The mounded earth the only home you'll find.

The Nevada Poems: Go Back

Go Back

If I don't know where I was,

how can I get back there?

There's a place I remember

as if I was holding a photo.

I see the rise of sage-covered hills,

a willow bank, chokecherry and wild rose

blowing sweetness into the morning breeze.

I know what you will say.

We don't learn who we are in a day.

Yet after all these years.

it is a particular day and place

stays with me, when I knew 

I could hold the herd in an easy way.

When I consider the places I have been

and how far I have strayed

I would give anything to go back

and see if I know that younger me

riding happy and free

beneath a cloudless western sky.

The Nevada Poems: Thank God for Hollyhocks

Thank God for Hollyhocks

"Thank God for hollyhocks," the ranch wife said

as she stood by the side of her truck.

"They go untended, not like everything else

around here."  She glanced at the house,

the barn, the cows in the fields beyond.

"Some say they're a poor excuse for a flower,

a large, coarse plant, like the plainest girl at the dance.  

But their colors are pure,

the sturdy stalks stand up to the wind,

the seeds easy to give to a friend.

What's best is they are familiar.

When I see hollyhocks," she sighed

"I know I'm home."

The Nevada Poems: Geographical Cure

Geographical Cure

Choose an afternoon when August sun

stuns basin and range into silence,

while crickets in the meadows

eat all your profits.

If you are going,

that is the time to leave.

Should you hesitate until sunset

you will recognize this common place

a cathedral, and the restless souls among us

are stayed for a moment

by the gorgeous light.

The Nevada Poems: Josie L. Sullivan Dies in Tuscarora at 72

Josie L. Sullivan Dies in Tuscarora at 72

Born in Elk River, Idaho

Received her education

in Orofino, Idaho

Married in Salmon, Idaho

Ranched there.

Moved To Clayton, Idaho

Lived at the Red Bird Mine

Moved to Buffalo Valley

Moved to Tuscarora

Died there yesterday.

She was an avid hunter 

and fisherman

And a month before her death

Landed a twenty-inch

Rainbow, rainbow, rainbow trout

at Wild Horse Reservoir.

Found poem, Elko Daily Free Press

December 1996

with apologies to Elizabeth Bishop