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.