Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Traveler

I knew somehow you'd finally see me.

I've been singing from this open location for thirty-five years knowing that my song was not quite the right combination of notes, not quite the proper cadence to catch your ear.

But I've studied closely.
I've listened each season when you and your musically inclined flock pass through our forest echoing from treetop to highest bough.
Our children would fall asleep late summer evenings counting your spiraled melody and tale. Or, I'd be out very early, in the garden's cold mountain dawn. First one song, then another would peak above the river's spill, telling me of Joy.

When we actually met, I was close enough to hold our presence within, as though breath shared between us. And you didn't fly off, anxiously busy to be away, more as though you would have enjoyed staying longer and said, with a glance, that perhaps we'd find each other again.

Maybe some wet rainy day in the fall when being close would provide needed warmth.

I'll keep singing until then. And watching; listening.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

If not Santa Fe...

Barstow...
"when we'll turn
the calendar to the wall
for a few brief days?" Ted McMahon

We'll stay up late listening to the trains,
and when the robins sing
we'll wonder about the midnight sun, My Love.

Then, I'll drive to The Grand Canyon and we'll walk
back into the history of the Earth.

Monday, June 15, 2009

A Change In The Weather

The land's been dry since the melting of all that snow. They say it's been the hottest May and early June in a great many years but I've been gone away watching the old one grow much older so I really can't relate. Now that I'm back, I'm frankly thrilled to find summer means business.

This afternoon I was indoors, hidden from the mosquitoes. They were so thick out there that to stand in one place for a few moments can attract hundreds, ("Let go of the hose and walk away! Ade! Let go of the hose and walk...away!")

I found myself watching the green treetops, fingering the overcast gray. They were tickling the underside of cloud cover. Tiny breezes. Not enough to waft away the buzzing clouds haunting the screens, but enough to make all visuals beyond the windows purely hypnotic.

I splayed my insides open a little further (been locked down such a long time, you know, staying still for the frail and elderly), and when I did, the breeze seemed to gather a little.

"Hell, widen up baby". The breeze snuck right on in through the parted window, across my belly, up into the opening parts of me, over my bare shoulders and down my back.

I thrust my chin upward and listened to the river clawing away at the banks. The score performed is a roiling symphony that when combined with robin song and that pervasive buzz at the screen, well, the sounds can just slide down into your veins. I let 'em have their way.

You know, I could tell without even peeking, that the breezes were picking up steam to perform a tiny miracle; a sudden dampness made every hair tingle.
The silver-dollar flat splats on the red steel roof were the tapping of as many raindrops as there were mosquitoes. The stinging nettled winged ones were backing off a little, shrinking and swirling into their myriad damp enclosures.

As the cold wet gift from heaven let spill its blessing through out the parched forest and across the river flat. A sharp, surprising, inhale reached out from below my navel.

And then the smell.

Oh the smell... a sweetness indescribable.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay 6/6 & 7 '09

San Francisco's many and varied neighborhoods are where my younger siblings and I spent sporadic early seasons emerging in the big city when we visited our Poppa, Dick Revenaugh.

I recently arrived there on a Saturday morning via Amtrak at the famed Ferry Building, on lower Market St.

The day started by crossing paths with acquaintance, Aniko from Gather.com. Walking and talking, we quickly touched on cyber relationships, the wild ride of parenthood, and the challenges of marriage amidst transnational citizenship, (Ade as student on that one, just trying to fathom logistics alone).
We parted feeling like friends and I hope we get a chance to see each other again.

I headed back up Market street, destination: The Herbst Theater. Garrison Keillor was giving a reading from his delicious pink volume of 77 Sonnets. The evening was a benefit for the 826 Valencia Scholarship Program.

Hoofing with bags heavy enough for a small burro (who was off grazing elsewhere), I arrived at the famed City Center early enough to change into evening attire and mosey up to Max's Opera Cafe for Silver Dollar potato latkes and the piano bar.
Perfection!
So was the man in the red shoes!
High in the balcony and removed from mid-center by a few seats, I was tucked-in nicely enough to slip out of my black linen heels and drift into an advanced state of delight with the voice and imagery I've come to desire on a daily basis (now, not to gush but...!).

The tall man with the feathery eyebrows, perched casually. Placed in the middle of a faded Persian carpet, the stool, a microphone, and the poet opened an intimate space for everyone there. With Rich Dworsky as his piano accompaniment, they had the place lit. Silvery heads and imaginations glistened all around, as did "the youngers" present. Those holding romantic, poetic rompage in high regard were satisfied by the end. Keillor had again offered us beauty; the chance to love and to laugh.

Afterwords, I kept company with the full moon in all the old neighborhoods, walking and exploring memories throughout the rest of the night. I found nearly every location where we'd visited with R.L.Revenaugh as he nurtured the pulses of cultural change from his salon-type living arrangements.

I also found the building where I'd rented my first shared apartment. It was there I recognized I wasn't ready for the city as naive eighteen year old. I was yearning instead for the wilderness that I'd find a year later in Alaska.

Dawn was welcomed with a few good cups of coffee on Lombard St. at Mel's, the original drive-in burger joint. I took the time for a diner style breakfast and enjoyed the warmth, a place to read and people watch, before starting the day.

The elegant Marina district curves down to shoreline. There I found The Fort Mason Center. This old military post is now home to summertime art programs and year round cultural events. The waterfront location provided a gorgeous nest in the sunshine to watch the goings on, write and snooze.

I was joined mid-day by another Gather friend, Granny Janny and her pal Becky. We spent a lovely time getting to know each other at The Greens Restaurant. We then went walking through the six or seven blocks of the Union St. merchant's festival.


My Roman Holiday was a definite kicker. I'm looking forward to another installment on the return to Mazoo and Bako.

But for now...the sweetness of HOME!

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Tonight, For The Robin Hour

A return to the nest via a circuitous route.

I doze and walk the streets of San Francisco looking for a spirit that I recall from years gone by; the long tall lass who found her young womanhood months before she died.

After dozens of city blocks, around 3:30 AM she finally spoke to me from the corner of Sacramento and Pierce. I sat across the street with her for a while, shadowed and cold amongst elaborate concrete landscaping. We were listening to the full moon and early summer wind. The startling Victorian across from us still demanded homage, as much, I'm sure, as it did before our mid 70's earthquake.

I was bundled and bleary, alley cat alone. She was dead and ethereally appealing. We spoke of her sensuality and how with her quickened smile and rapier tongue and wit, she would probably have owned a fair portion of this town by now, had she lived.

She laughed at my sentimentality and how I'd had the old lady verve to deck myself out that night. Penniless and alone, in linen and black heels I'd draped my ideals towards a lover who'd only ever know me by poetic extension. All that heat and tension instead produced an obnoxiously loud car full of sotted young men, being pulled to that moment as if by some unseen force.

I quietly bid her adieu and scurried away from our perch, slipping in and out of the shadows. As I tottered away from that hallowed corner, I hoped their hollering over stolen, captive moments with cameras, tits, cocks and asses would allow me to melt back into the obscure gray, gratefully unnoticed.

The Night Wind kept asking for movement. We spun and whirled through dawn. I held tight to the vision of a white sheeted heaven, laughing, liquid warm lovers, poetically entwined.