Sep 5 2008

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I've found a kindred spirit! Infrequent in my life, the moment is a profound one; full of . . ? I guess that my alone existence primes me for such ecstatic discoveries. A sister for the surest of sure; though she may already be dead by now. The interview on CBC of Margret Forster gives me great-hearted courage to maybe energize me in some, as yet undivilged way, in reaction. It is such a mindblow of waves of energy that erupt from within my being to hear a female speak of her life as if it was the exact replica of my own youngster's life, and growth of prederilictions for so many of the same or darn similar things, thoughts, preferences, and so on. What a sweetheart this lady writer's effect upon my starved soul. Yes, I admit it: starved could describe my fix. So plenty used to it that I hardly ever remember that I am, truly, starved in many areas that I suppose most folks would describe my way—my existence. Socially, maybe, but I was diagnosed with having “anti-social tendencies” at age thirteen by the shrink who my folks sent me to once a week for a short few months in my thirteenth year, and I musta took this appelation to heart somewhere in my unknowable (then) psyche because I have lived a whole lot of my life alone, and seem to rarely have ever gone bananas or otherwise off any 'deep' end.................

     It has been somewhere near six or eight years since I have become so effected by hearing or seeing others of whom some deeper part of the soul or spirit of my heart says to me are my peers, in a higher sense than the standard (seeming) mainstream concept. I don't think I've encountered more than maybe a dozen of them in my travels through the years The last one was the Shoshone elder, Corbin Harney, who spoke such absolute truth to my ears (and heart) from the radio on a Sunday afternoon in 2002. Before him, I guess it was Doctor Helen Caldicott, and Shiva Vandana, I think was her name; an Indian activist for enviromental sanity and womens' education—a close friend, by the way, of cousin Suzanne Hanchett.  Sue and I shared our grandmother's (and grandfather's) Two-story, full basement large late nineteenth-century style house on second street near downtown Saratoga (CA) during the (WW II) war, while all the men, except Sue's father, my uncle Ned, who had his teacher's certificate and stayed home to educate the next generation of American children while many if not most of their fathers, uncles, and brothers, plus the women who worked long hours in the armorment factories and shipyards, went off to the war effort. Gramma ran her house as must her mother and mother's mother done before her; with my mom and her sister, Barbara coming and going to help out; with her seven and ten year old daughters: Gerry and Joannie (Jonellen) bossing us younger kids around and getting us into trouble. Sue Hanchett wound up in that household mix of those WW II era early years of our first conceptions of the outside world coming into (partial, anyway) focus. Five emotionally on edge women . . . well, three adults, but Joannie and her older sis, Gerry (Germaine: Delia's middle named after) were the sternest of disciplinarian wannabees, just like their female elders, and I just know that all of their male-less overbearing meddling and disciplinary attempts had one big whole helluva alotta everything to do with how I turned out to reason and behave in such rebellious spirit. I must have got in five times the trouble of a boy with only one mother person; and with not a damn man of any substance hanging around to go run to for succor or further 'education.' Fucking war does that to a boy in the same way, almost by osmosis, that it does to the whole societal states of affairs and sanity levels, and security concerns, plus not knowing for years on end whether or not your loved one's gonna make it or not . . . God, what a buncha shit my female caregivers had to try to deal with, along with trying to raise us still 

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tiny tots and little snots! To think these early probable causitives through and understand the womens' mindset as they coddled or scoulded me, is to easily come to forgive them any true responsibility for how my psyche developed the way it did; and into the mind-body I have since evolved into. I was blessed in early puberty to get enough of my head straightened around to where I have never vegetated overly in any one place of my mind. This, even while living in one place for seventeen years and another for almost a quarter century now. I take that back: Parts of my mind do vegetate. I admit it; but this is of no consequence in my mind's eye as to the state of time and its progression along not always linear normal standard time, as normal folks calculate it. But the eventual result of this, these, and those so-called vegetations is always more new physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and etc., energy—energizationality. I like that I am capable of vegetating stuff that could bring me down, but get antsy and nervous if I can't seem to get it identified as easily as my rabid thinker seems to think that I ought to be able to . . .

     All right: You want some practical stuff? Here's my (music to check out) list: 1)(Canadian?) Duane Andrews' record of “Rain In The . . ?” Fabulously-performed bright guitar playing!!!; 2) Tracy Chapman, from her CD:”From Where You Live”:the cut titled:”Could You Change?”; 3) A gr-r-reat aboriginal original guitar-playing northern Canadian—forceful intense original originator of more-better newer fresh blues guuitar style) blues guitar player and singer!: Clyde Roulette; 4) Jill Barber (canadian) CD: “For All Time”--album of year 2007; 5) Becky Schlagel (or Schlagle) has a very lovely singing voice that just absolutely melts my complete heart; 6)Skagat Valley (WA) band: Spoonshine's song: “Wild Fire”!!!; and last: most recent: The fattest fastest most complexicated dobro guitar track I have ever heard!!! (so far) is, of all things!, is a solo in an 'album' by a famous modern jazz saxophonist named Bill Evans, with a bunch of Bella Fleck's Flectones accompanying on an Irish Jig-like theme—CD:”Soulgrass” (or Soulbrass?); and the title of the cut is:”Celtic Junction.”

   My books-to-check-out list is even longer . . .

     You failed to realize that me not being connected to the internet how was it that I got spurling's printouts? Uncle Jim's next door neighbor—an recent now semi-retired escapee from southern California—prints out just about anything I ask him for about any subject and in barely five minutes or less and then runs them back over to Jim's where he and I are having our bi-weekly visit and such, and from where Bob has learned of my desire for information and ran home to do it . . . Friendily, maybe a little bored with his humdrum, glad for the distraction of Adam's angry stompings around Uncle Jim's room moaning and bitching about the dearth of an easy access to the heavy guage sets of flatwound  lap steel, dobro/resonator, or Hawaiian guitar strings! “88 miles, round trip, to the only guitar string store in my end of Coos County, and all they have are light guage flatwound sets.” Bob comes back with so many suppliers' lists of  and descriptions—usually incomplete—of about ten different varieties of two or three different manufactureres and their suppliers . . .

     Hey: Heads up: I am determined to try to drive all the way down there, and pretty soon, and to stay for a day or two and I want you to be thinking about how best to put my visit to your good advantage while I am so willing to be as accomadating as I may have the capacity for. If the truck holds up and holds out, you could use my freely-offerred services as lumper, packer, and driver—that's if you even 

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have very much stuff. I sense that you are living pretty light right now; you lucky dog.

     It's an uphill battle to find a partner who accepts the need, yea, and the duty to be working their ass just as hard as the old man at making food happen on the table and clothes washed and built or fixed up. Likes chasing chickens around and even sometimes killing them. Doesn't mind milking the cow, hopefully, in tandem with the older kids who can do it for her. You know: Most of the older women around here who I have had occasion to talk with all made mention of their fathers having just brought the rounds into near the house where the women—if the boys couldn't or wouldn't help out too—had to split the cooking wood for the kitchen range. So far, I have only met a few younger women who have picked up a splitting maul and actually gave those rounds the kind of hefty whack that may or may not on the first whack, yield a crack to be whacked upon again to get it to split some more. Neighbor , GerryWilson's wife is one who whacks with the force of the knowledge and determination that it takes to split rounds into stovesized chunks; the lucky dog. She's eighth generation Myrtle Pointian of the Hoffman family (of Hoffman Wayside) who still own over half of the Broadbent-to-Myrtle Point valley bottomland since their arrival hereabouts in 1854! Sue Wilson is about as rare as rare gets when it comes to being a darn real woman, now! Real, in that she still grows a lot of her own and family's food and feed, and sees it as one of her duties as a good and decent Christian woman of the soil and woods and meadows. Cans tons of food every year from a full sized, perfectly-maintained vegetable garden. I'm jealous as hell, but know way better than to other than admire her from a very respectful and humble distance and not get any fresh ideas. It just serves my hearts desire to see goodness in people—especial the female-- to see one who is and does good stuff with her seemingly boundless energy. I am aware of one other gal who is like minded and strong, but highly-intelligent too, and in a large solid body used to doing heavy labor, and had internet smarts to boot—over in Bridge with her hubby, drat.

     Good god! I'm just running off at the mouth with useless trivial commentary, now, aren't I? So: I better quit this rum dumb ho hum and go smoke some more and try to fall asleep before the sky lightens in the pre-dawn . . . . g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g