In the Beginning There Were Rugs & Bones

They say poetry is a lonely endeavor, but I beg to differ.

I'm thinking, I'm thinking

Years ago, I was sitting in my chair in Berkeley, California, late at night with a pen in hand.  The words, "rugs and bones" spilled out on the page in a crooked sprawl.  I liked those words, loved them, in fact.  Sometimes, words are ready like that, ready to be put to life.  Where they came from, I'm not really sure and didn't have a clue for years.  They just were there. When I finished, I saw the poem, "Rugs & Bones", had a wild, tribal beat, that it was fun and explosive energy. 

Rugs and Bones

Music, William Fuller and dRAW PiNKY

Lyrics, Viola Weinberg

© Viola Weinberg

When we were young and overblown

We built a house of rugs and bones

On the street of passion dreams

We made the walls of moans and steam

You played the ham, I rang your bones

On rafts of rugs and floors of stone

I'm the master, you're the slave

We have a child he makes us brave

We knew the moment he was alone

Deep in the wall of rugs and bones

And now we drive on roads of steel

To baseball games, hands on the wheel

Stolen bases, sliding home

With balls of rugs and bats of bone

Colors wept from hues to tones

The shade was made from rugs and bones

Soon we'll be old and full of air

With hair so white or head so bare

We'll weave the rugs from dreamy tales

Of men and girls and empty sails

Late at night, misunderstood

Bones white as light in tangled wood

I'll press my lips against your spine

We'll talk of love and speak of time

Think of all the lovely thrones

Where we stood fast with rugs and bones

The very next morning, I typed it up and sent it to William Fuller III, my long-time cohort and collaborator in music and performance.

William Fuller back in the day - courtesy of Ozzie Archives

Bill certainly knew what to do with it.  I have always imagined that, upon receiving such things from me, he puts on a pair of fighting gloves and boxes my flabby words into shape.  But this time, I also imagined it wouldn't be hard work.  The rhythms were strong, the images were vivid; it was ready to go for collaborative process.  Bill is a consummate creator.  I've always had faith in him, and in the other members of the ensemble with whom he works.  In this case, "rugs and bones" quickly became "Rugs & Bones", the poem, then "Rugs & Bones", the song -- for which I am eternally grateful.

http://www.facebook.com/l/5169aHbalq4Ktbc0mZ2I9OoG-CA;www.drawpinky.com/music/ig09_rugs.mp3

Fast forward a few months.  Imagine me, alone in a picturesque cottage a morning stroll away from Puget Sound on Whidbey Island in a writers colony.  That's where the tape was delivered to me.  I quickly left the calm of the residency, loaded it in my car stereo and set the volume on blast.  As I drove around the empty roads of the island on a sparkling day, I felt a real thrill.  Somehow, Bill had kept the beat, kept the sheer energy of it, and made it something greater.  Jane Kennedy Hastings and Bill vocalized (verbalized?) the piece with every shred of fun possible--the music was hip and wild as a March hare.  I thought about it as I drove.  The bones of my previous marriages and a couple of fatally flawed long relationships were embedded in Rugs & Bones, along with my words, the rugs that would always keep me steady and warm.

In collaboration, a fountain of unkillable energy erupted and flared, a beautiful thing.  Bill and Draw Pinky, their band of the time, made it something greater than it could have been in my lonely cottage.  People heard it and loved it when the band performed.  The first time I heard the band perform Rugs & Bones, I remember laughing delightedly, pleased that something written in such monastic quiet could possibly be so entertaining and happy.  I know I've thanked them all years ago for the joy of it, but I have to say it again, thank you. 

I was prompted to write about this by a friend who responded to Rugs & Bones, the blog.  She said she liked the pleasure I seem to receive from writing here, but didn't understand it.  While I don't quite buy that entirely, I think I know what she's saying.  What are Rugs & Bones, anyway?  I have called it personal archeology, a place to think and dig ideas, based on deeply embedded intimate concepts that may be born from the distant past of my own development.  Sometimes, it's out the the primordial soup, sometimes it's a response to something else that pinched my nerve.  Frankly, I hope it's never completely laid bare in the skeletal analysis of literature!  There's a bit to enjoy about a mystery.  I love my rugs and bones.

Love & Fear

Sculpture by Claudia Cohen

To love a thing is intellectual; to love someone may be emotional; to simply love is human.  But how to love without love's homely and protective element of fear?  For example, my father lived to be 97, a ripe old age in anyone's book.  The last two years, he was crippled by a bad fall that broke three vertebrae and forced him off his cane and onto a walker, then a wheelchair.  I loved him very much, we were very much connected "at the hip" as he often said.  Why then, did it take me so long to let go of him when he was feeling so poorly?

Even though I was in my late 50s, I felt fear at the thought of life without him.  He was a brilliant and homespun genius, a poor farm boy who had done well for himself, becoming one of the first electronic engineers, inventing things and creating awesome systems for our home--automated lightning rods that flipped up when triggered by a humidity index in the rather unlikely event of an electrical storm, for instance. 

He could fix anything, install any stereo device in any car, wire anything and dispense frequent advice laced with homey Irish idioms.  I shook off the domestic talents of my mother as soon as I was able--rejected her finishing school manners and fashionable home decorating and tailoring and baking lessons in favor of routing around in dusty bins of bolts and wires.  Dad worked in radio, I worked in radio.  He was an adventurer, a gifted storyteller, I tried to follow suit.

Somehow, it seemed that my world would begin to fade and evaporate without his existence.  Then, as he began to slip away, I rose to the occasion and helped him have a good passage. 

In time, I came to see that love is not perishable, and in fact, it's transferable.  I have tried to take the helm with my own family, now well into middle age with six little grands among them.  I feel a bit fake about it, as if they might know I'm still a little kid inside, a "daddy's girl" or a Tomboy whose life has been driven by the love given at such an early age.

Lately, all of Dad's sidekicks and amici here in Kenwood have died -- Angelino Pedroncelli, Al Rossi, Roberto Guffante, Roy Strong, Kenny the deaf mute, all gone.  At times, I think I hear them down Laurel Avenue where "The Colonel", Bob Guffante lived in a house he built under a big oak tree where the gentlemen would sit, drinking from an unmarked green glass bottle that Rossi generally brought to sweeten the talk.  I even thought I saw Roy riding his bicycle, which he hadn't done for years before he died, holding his wine glass in one hand, circling the village as he visited friends.  I miss them all.

Earlier today, I walked down to the Colonel's place, where his daughters and son were having an estate sale.  We talked and laughed and espoused just like our fathers. 

I bought a few things, mementos, really.  Some old prints of soldiers for my daughter, an extravagant shoe horn and a homemade trashcan made from an old olive oil can with a hinged wooden top.  They threw in a cup the Colonel made from an old cat food can with a handle soldered on.

At one point, Linda Guffante began to speak feverishly about the first amendment and how important it was to allow everyone a say in the world, even if you don't like what they have to say.  I agreed, adding, "Everyone has a story."  Then, we were silent.  I turned to Linda and said, "You know, you sound like your father."  And she turned to me and said, "You sound like your's."  We both smiled and felt the warmth of love, love eternal, free and vitally important.

Sculpture by Claudia Cohen

Lovers, union is here,

the meeting we have wanted,

the fire, the joy.

Let sadness and any fear of death

leave the room.

The sun’s glory comes back.

Wind shakes our bells.

We are counters in your hand

passing easily through.

Music begins,

Your silence,

deepen that.

Were you to put words with this

we would not survive the song.

~Maulana Rumi

Translation by Coleman Barks

If Venice Sinks . . .

Peggy Guggenheim, whose father went down with the Titanic, and who famously "discovered" and schtupped Jackson Pollack in the same afternoon, loved Venice. She was known for her voluptuous appetite for modern art, her palazzo on a canal, her little dogs who literally lived in the lap of luxury, and of course, her wild sunglasses.

In my dreams, I am Peggy Guggenheim, or a type of Peggy Guggenheim, who has the cash and the power to save great art. In the dream, my argumentative rescue dachshund is a frothy little accessory, a four-legged, feather-coated darling, rather than a stubborn little wiener. As long as I am dreaming, I can wear those full-skirted cotton dresses with cinched waists--and be piloted around town in my own gondola. And the sunglasses are mine, all mine.

Within the year, I will finally see Venice, hopefully before it sinks entirely into the water without a trace. I will be among the last of my friends to see this floating spectacle. I have waited a long time for this; missed many opportunities for this. That's what happens when you marry early; you have to wait for the things that others do in their "gap year".

In some ways, it will be better than seeing Venice as a young tootsie in a mini skirt with fishnet nylons and a petrified "Georgy Girl" look on my face. But in some ways--not so much. I am slower these days, still navigating, but still recuperating in many ways from my Achilles tendon fiasco of last year. I tire much more easily after helping three kids through college and a career that was both necessary and riddled with deadline anxiety. But, I know how to read a map and I'm not afraid of strangers. These things take time to develop.

As a "donna di una certa età" exploring Venice--and indeed Italy--for the first time, I'm hoping that it won't disappoint after a 40 year wait-in-line. Plus, I'm going with my own true love, and we will do what we do so well--travel, see, experience and, yes, kiss, talk and laugh. We don't know where else, exactly, we will be going, but the plan now is to land in Paris, visit our buddy Ed Cahill for a day or two, take the train to Lucerne and enjoy the ice cream white feather beds and pristine lakes and the little railway that ratchets up a mountain. Then, at long last, Italia.

So many things are on my list--a result of longing for Italy all these years. "If Venice sinks, wrote Peggy Guggenheim in her will, then the art will be moved." What a contingency plan! Fortunately, her collection still exists in her beautiful home. Luckily,I've kept detailed lists about must-dos and can't misses. I long to see Roman Italy and Grecian Italy, I want to feel the bustle of modern Rome and drink in the beauty of the north with its wheels of hay and clay terra. I want to sleep in Sorrento and eat with my hands in Firenze, recite Shakespeare in Verona and Venezia and roll down the Amalfi Coast in a sports car. I'll see entombed Pompei and Herculeneum and volcanic, sweaty Sicilia and the minty cool Alpino. Eventually, for I think it's not the only time we will go.

And the wine, oh yes, the wine. I imagine it will be thick and reddest red. I'll have it with every slobbering good meal and laugh a lot. Maybe I'll even learn to sing.

But, if Venice sinks before I get there, I will follow the art and the light wherever it goes. My friend, Victor, is Venetian. He's been to the family palazzo and lingered in St. Mark's Square more hours than he could count. I've never told him that I haven't been. It seemed unworldly to admit. Why do I admit this now? Because I want to prepare everyone for the wallapalooza I will certainly fling after finally leaving my fabled imagination for the real thing. I don't care if it smells bad and is full of tourists. I'm on my way.

Now, about that gondola . . .

It's sad to grow old, but nice to ripen. Brigitte Bardot

I am growing younger by the day. No, not mentally. I can still count my age (in sixes and sevens), and I heed my aches and pains. Nope. I am younger by the day in spirit. A kind of lightness has entered my heart, and that takes years off my on-earth age by the tens.

It's simple. I began to practice forgiveness. Start with your parents, they raised you. Over time, I started to see that the things I really like about myself are things that came from childhood, my direction and love of certain things are comforting because they are familiar. My Irish father's captivating telling of a story, my Azorean mother's wicked sense of humor. It all started to make sense. Yet these were not idyllic times; some of the time, my very person felt repressed and sometimes punished--just for who I was. So, take your pick, don't take it all.



Put down your temper more often, find your patience. Some of the meanest things ever said to me were said by those I loved, deeply. One husband told me I simply wasn't lovable. I thought about that for years; but then, he died young. Being mean suddenly seemed to be a good way to shorten one's life.

Not easy for a hot head, but I am doing it. Once you've forgiven your parents, forgive yourself for the foolish things you did when you were young enough to know everything. It will magically iron the wrinkles on your brow. Painlessly.

Then, let that patience radiate out like spokes from a hub. When someone is bitter and shows their mean streak like a skunk stripe, step back. Let them be furious, but don't allow them to spray you. They have reasons that you can't imagine. Don't let their anger and pettiness rule your life, dust it off.

Find yourself in quietude. Do what needs to be done, but not slavishly; it only builds resentment. Find small things that you love in life, a garden is good for that. A shelter dog, especially one that takes time to train, is very good for that. Take love that is freely offered; love the giver. But don't live for it; that only serves to make you desperate.

I'm still not that good at right living. I can see how easily anger, bitterness and habit get in the way. Sometimes, something fires deep within me and anger bubbles to the top in a trice. I'm always amazed by it. Step back from the wreck, I tell myself. Let it burn itself out. I can do this. As I approach my birthday, I realize it may be my life's greatest accomplishment, to free myself. Maybe someday, I'll get this down--but I'm not counting on being perfect, ever. Just human, just a bit of humility. Life is greater than I am.

Cowboys and Carnies

Cruising through the Santa Rosa Fair Grounds in a short cut to Costco, I came across the underside of the bright and sparkly lights of fair time. Broken down to packable pieces and carefully boxed, the attractions took on a new perspective. Drawn to the gritty beauty of it all, I had to sit in my car and write this.







Early Monday Morning
and the carnies are packing up
gaudy, neon-trimmed rides into
respectable wooden crates, numbered
in orderly sequence that fit nicely into
plywood gypsy wagons with words
like OCTOPUS and FUN and THRILLS
painted on the sides in drippy red flames
artistic little windows daubed on with curtains
a flower box there and more red, geraniums

The Dome of Doom is disassembled
and Spider Island is on its side
with its hummingbird tongue spokes
rising out of the dusty hard pan and weeds
Just last night, all the way to midnight
the greedy hucksters barked and wooed, lurid
The rides winked at rubes and their gals
"Step right up, sucker," and there they did
and quarters flew from every pocket
onto the glass ashtrays in hope of a bear

Moving slowly around the bend, the cowboys
are doing their laundry at the horse barns
old blue shirts and denim dungarees flap
on rope lines, faded, seldom seen in open air
more than one vaquero scrubs the horse blankets
and towels in a bucket to dry alongside the duds
one guy sits in a wheelchair as he pins up
the wet rags that curry a nag's sweaty hide
On the way back, cowboys sit in the sun with a beer
and read the Bible while the carnies pull their rides

Early Monday morning, and the carnies drive on to Cottonwood
Later, the horse trainers will follow in their cowboy Cadillacs
pulling Hilton horse trailers with air conditioning
as they sweat inside their trucks, their silver-toed boots
in a special box with a handle for showing, brushes
and hoof trimmers and ropes and bits, all packed
for the next big Okie parade into the next country fair
The strongmen long departed, run off with the
bearded woman, who's having a thing, a fling with a
sharpshooter who sleeps in a tiger's cage down yonder

Swimming in a Night Sea

My friend Wil and I are in love--with the same Agnes Martin painting in the current exhibit of paintings collected by the Fishers (who happen to own The Gap, which happens to own just about everything else.) Winding our way through a Friday afternoon with the ease of old friends who are both absorbed by the imagination was a rare treat.

The Agnes Martin painting, "Night Sea" was the cherry on the cake.

Quietly exhibited with other, more subtle Martins, the luminous blue painting hung on the wall like a brilliant blue eye. After a moment or two, it moved, oceanlike, slowly undulating, a blue hip rolling across the whiteness of the MOMA's pristine wall. Wil and I had been playing a game in every room: which piece would you take home, if you could? He laughed when he saw my eyes widen at "Night Sea", and said it was his "take home" painting. "Well," I said, "you're going to have to fight me for it."

This is what is so exciting about art--the emotional payload. Even if you don't understand all you see, it can be understood at a cellular level. I walked closer to "Night Sea" and saw Martin's excruciating labors, the brickle of separations between the orderly patches of blue--cut, perhaps by a tool? Who knows, hardly matters to me. Equally mysterious, the whole heart, whole gut reaction to great art, when thought is almost unimportant--according to Agnes Martin, thinking just gets in the way of the imagination--and of art. I have had this reaction to art before, and it's like walking into sunlight from a dark cave. Illumination, brilliance that is felt, not necessarily analyzed.

Agnes Martin died in 2003. What a shame, I thought, I had no chance to talk to her, but then, she did the talking in "Night Sea." She lived in Taos, New Mexico, so far from the ocean, yet she swam luxuriously in the night sea of her imagination. Martin once said that "I used to meditate, but my mind was too full. I just told myself, no more of this, empty your mind of thoughts while you work." Unencumbered by ideas, wholly motivated by the heart of her imagination, Agnes Martin moved into her ocean of energy. The result is worth the trip, many trips, to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.


This was Wil's fourth visit to the show, and I can tell, it won't be his last. Nor mine. I want to take my grand daughter, a young artist I've always called "Apple". My Apple is ripe for this pipeline wave of imagination. Its contagion will likely infect her creativity with an appetite for more--and more making of art. I can't wait.

Still Going Steady

We were a power couple, each ascending a staircase of accomplishments and recognition--life goals and dearly held desires seemed to be falling into our hands after years and years of hard work. But nothing compared to the "ordinary" love that came after the excitement of our 40s.

We've seen each other through death, loss, floods, and the educations (both scholastic and emotional) of all three of our kids. We've kissed the fuzzy young heads of our newborn grandchildren, helped each other get through great changes in our lives. We saw each other through an exodus from urban life to a retreat in the country. We said good bye to parents, pets, and friends who died too young. We've been together for 15 years now, married for 13. It never gets old.

What is it about this kind of love? This kind of love sneaks up on you, insinuates itself, doesn't swell like young love, but grows all the same. If anyone had ever told me that cancer would be more than a teacher, more than a burden, more than romantic--I don't think I could have believed it. But here we are, one year into his remission, and it just gets bigger by the day.

Life is full of disappointments and regrets, but this love doesn't have regrets. It just is--full of life, humor, patience, patience, and more patience. Still going steady, after all these years. Even on this, the subject of hair.

On the Subject of Hair

"There's many a man with more hair than wit."
Willliam Shakespeare

We called it a high forehead that set your blue eyes
Out like sapphires on a porcelain dish, but then
came the cancer and so much more was lost
Eyebrows, chest hair, other nooks never considered

Even your arms were smooth of their soft fur
Even your lap went naked as a peeled peach
In contemplative moments, I sat beside you
On the bed, counting each stubborn remainder

I thought if the cancer was in the hair, I was glad
To be done with it, I came to look at you as
A warm marble statue that slept in a nautilus curl
I tried to memorize the sitting navy of blue veins

Until they blew the big one and the pic line went in
You insisted on walking out of the hospital that day
Regal as a lion, your unfurnished chest thrown out
Leading with your handsome, hairless chin

How could I ever love you more?