Kaboom

A tanker full of gasoline overturned on the MacArthur Maze in the Oakland/SF area and literally melted the freeway. It's an absolute miracle that the driver, James Mosqueda, was not killed. He walked away from the fire and found a cab driver to take him to the hospital. Since the accident happened in the wee hours, no other drivers were hurt or injured--though a person who saw gasoline tanker on fire did witness people driving through the flames! That is an EXTREMELY STUPID thing to do. It strikes me that the very last thing anyone ought to do is just drive on through a roaring gasoline fire.

The part of the freeway at which the explosion happened is a major connector of three freeways, so--to say the least--traffic is going to be nightmarish in that area. The Governator has ordered free transit rides today--I think he should have them for at least a couple of weeks, or reduce fares to a minimum. The transit districts would lose money, but at least people could get to work.

I am writing from Caffe Bene today, tired after a performance yesterday and a dental appointment this morning. But at least I don't have to try and wind my way around Berkeley to get home tonight. All this reminds me of how awful things were in Santa Cruz after the Loma Prieta quake-I remember someone telling me they had to drive through Castroville (home of the Giant Artichoke restaurant) to get home after the quake, for some reason.

I wish all my readers from the Oakland and San Francisco areas a smooth commute in the next weeks and months. At least it might be a way to catch up on all those podcasts and audiobooks you've been meaning to get to. Otherwise, it sucks and I hope the MacArthur Maze is repaired in a reasonable amount of time.

Lazy Saturday

Not much going on today--dance class in the morning (at which I was ecstatic to learn that my teacher for my Saturday class has decided to do a student recital in February.
Some of the women have never performed before, and, though I have been studying with this teacher for well over three years, she has not done a student performance until now. Time for ordering some amazing ATS costume pieces from places like Flying Skirts and Fat Chance Bellydance, yay!)...I actually have three costumes to sew before mid-June for other things and need to get moving on that.

I am about to get downstairs to work on the usual project, but, since I just learned to embed video from YouTube in my blog, I invite you to see a clip of the incomparable folkloric bellydance troupe, Hahbi Ru (I danced in a show with them not too long ago and took a workshop from the amazing John Compton, who is the gentleman dancing next to the musicians when the video starts). Hahbi Ru and my dance troupe share some similiarities and John Compton has graciously allowed my troupe to learn the finger cymbal dance Hahbi Ru is performing here. Have fun watching!

The Case of the Kidnapped Camellia

Mr. Strega and I came home this evening to find that a big camellia plant I have had happily growing in a large pot in the front yard was stolen! It's been in the same damned spot for seventeen freaking years, ever since I bought the house. Suddenly some jackass comes and steals it right off the property in the middle of the day.
Not a good idea to rip off from someone whose online name is "Ms. Strega!"

There's not much I can do, short of putting my camellia's picture on a milk carton. Mr. Strega walked down the street and talked to the neighbors, asking if they'd seen anyone at the house that day, but they hadn't been home. The theft was a source of much amusement to the sheriff I called. He told me to look around the neighborhood for it, but that it was likely ripped off by some unscrupulous landscaper (let's face it, it was a gorgeous camellia specimen, though not a rare one). The sheriff also got a laugh when I said that camellias probably weren't the type of plants he was looking out for up in these mountains.

Still, since a lot of people from Felton read this blog, do email me and let me know if you have seen someone with a five and a half foot tall, fully mature camellia plant, with snow-white blooms (like the ones in the picture), in a black plastic pot, which has suddenly appeared in their yard. I know it's not as spectacular as the case of the missing yellow submarine in Felton (if you don't live here, it's just too, too hard to explain), but you never know. What's most disturbing to me is that someone was hanging out on my property, just taking what they wanted (and of course, that's what the officer was concerned about, too).

Surfing the Web, I discovered there really is a certain amount of plant theft--a gardening board had postings from landscapers, homeowners, and nursery owners, describing all kinds of weird thefts. One nursery owner caught a landscaper and his client jumping the fence and ripping off plants late at night. Another guy had the world's ugliest juniper plant stolen out of his front yard. Mr. Strega told me there was a huge problem in Southern California at one time, of folks ripping off ornamental palms (the small ones) out of people's yards. His mother had one in her front yard and someone knocked on her door one day, offering her a fair chunk of change for it.

Anyway, I'm pissed about it--I've been lucky to not have a lot of thefts in my life, but this counts as the strangest, and the most pathetic in some ways. I mean, a camellia? It's almost Pythonesque ("dozens of rogue gardeners have been seen skulking around hedges, looking for camellias to steal. What is the world coming to?")

My only consolation is that the camellia was fronted by a large stand of poison oak which I had not yet got around to ripping out, so I hope the camellia thief discovers that the hard way!

World's Oldest College Graduate

Now, here's a news story I like. A 95-year-old Kansas woman, Nola Ochs, is getting her college degree this spring, making her the world's oldest college graduate (click on the link to see her story). She's really an inspiration and I wish her well. I hope I am doing lots of wonderful stuff when I am 95, too!

Another great news story is that Stephen Hawking has taken his zero-g flight and had a wonderful time. You can see it here:



Some good things to inspire a day...gives me a kick in the behind to get out and work on the book...(and gives me another nudge when I think I am too achy from fibromyalgia to move my body)...I'll be enjoying the gorgeous Santa Cruz day today, doing a coffeehouse crawl with laptop and notebooks.

Dancing Shrub

Oh, George, you look sillier than Michael Dukakis in a tank. Come on down to the Thursday night African Dance class at Louden Nelson in Santa Cruz and all us Dems and Green Partiers will show you how to rock!

Sage Advice from Kurt Vonnegut

I thought I'd put forth some writerly advice in honor of the late Kurt Vonnegut (this is courtesy of Gayle Brandeis' wonderful blog, which is listed in my links):

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.


I have been guilty of some of this in my own writing, thinking I have been doing something rather bad--now I see that I have been doing rather okay all along! Well, maybe not about the cockroaches....

I had "the magic" happen last night with writing--I sat down with the book, started by doing some line-edits (this always helps me get started, no matter how blocked I am), then began writing--and when I looked up at the clock, three hours had passed in an eyeblink!

As I work on this book, I gain more and more empathy for my parents and am starting to understand how fragile they really were. I no longer have the desire to blame my parents for the poor choices I have made in the past. The one thing I can do is take responsibility for my life today and know that I have the emotional and spiritual tools to make of my life what I want. It may not happen in the exact way I want or on my timetable, but that is the beauty and the surprise of being alive.

A picture of my grandmother, Mary Vardaro

Here is a photo of my grandmother, Mary Dorothea Vardaro, the other main character of The Strega's Story
. She is the woman in the blue pantsuit; the other lady is someone who worked at Plymouth Plantation, demonstrating how to dip candles. This was taken during a summer trip to Boston in 1969, the same summer as the Apollo moon landing (which I saw on TV in my Uncle Roland's house in Hingham). I remember how excited everyone was about the moon landing.

My grandmother apparently had a lot of fun on this trip to Massachusetts--she had been through cancer treatment, was--as far as I know--believed to be cancer-free and everyone thought she was going to be fine. I remember she loved being with all the relatives back East she had known since she was a young woman.

Part of the incredible process of writing this book has been that, as many of you know, I had no photographs of my grandmother and thought everything was lost. Now I have a veritable treasure trove.

My DSL is back online, and now my cell phone has basically rolled over and died! I remember when I had no cell phone, no DSL--heck, I still have my old Smith-Corona electronic typewriter.

Mr. Strega just said, "Do you want to go shop for phones?" and so I must venture forth. Thanks to all my readers for allowing me to share these precious images of my relatives, who meant and still mean the world to me.

Mamma Nonna, once upon a time

I am beginning to scan a bunch of family photos, and thought I would try to do a few magic tricks with the relatively simple tools I have on my Mac. I mentioned earlier that there was a picture in one family photo which showed a portrait of a young Mamma Nonna on the wall (for those of my newer readers, Mamma Nonna was my Italian great-grandmother). I scanned the photo, cropped out the portrait, and enlarged it, with the result here. It is very grainy--our other (non-Internet) computer with Photoshop is currently down (we are definitely not doing as well as usual in the cyber world), but here is the strega in her youth. It is hard to tell from this photo exactly how old she was--she could be anywhere in her twenties or even her thirties. I believe my mother still may have this portrait in her home (she lives in the old family house), as well as the one of my great-grandfather which was done at the same time.

I have a lot of indescribable emotions as I work with these photos. It has been like reconstructing a Rosetta stone from a million fragments. I just got my great-grandmother's death certificate from Massachusetts and found another piece of the puzzle: that her father's name was Arcangelo Barrasso. Finding these photos makes me remember that I will only tell a shadow of these people's stories--but at least they will not vanish forever, that these people's legacies are woven into my DNA, into my heart, that they contributed to who I am today, and that is important for me to remember as I work...which is what I am off to do right now, despite the late hour. Sometimes my ghosts can only come to me at this time, it seems.

Ms. Strega's New Fave

Ms. Strega has discovered a new favorite hangout (don't worry, downtown Peets--I won't abandon you, but I'll go to the new fave if you're crowded). Lulu Carpenter's, a local coffeehouse, has put out something of a tributary in the veritable Mississippi of coffee that flows through Santa Cruz--it has a new branch in the old Octagon building next to the Santa Cruz Museum of Art. It is fabu--vaulted ceiling, interesting shape (being that it's an octagon and all), lovely dark-wood tables and comfy seats, a soupcon of plugs for computers, great coffee, nice baristas...and also purports to have wireless, though it was not working properly when Mr. Strega and I were there. However, I am sure they will remedy this soon.

My DSL is still not working. Sonic.net actually had to install a piece of equipment somewhere to correct our problem (I do not understand all its whys and wherefores, though Mr. Strega does). It is definitely not fabu, but we are plodding along, warning everyone off the phone as if in a lightning storm to use the dial-up. I am currently writing this at Coffee Cat in Scotts Valley (yet another tributary of the mighty Lulu Carpenter's). Sonic.net, as usual, has promised our DSL "tomorrow." They have been promising "tomorrow" for some time.

I took some time to relax and do nothing today except watch a couple of movies--I caught the last part of "The Godfather" and all of "The Madness of King George."
Mr. Strega fixed salmon for our lunch (no, he usually doesn't make my lunch for me, but we were having Lazy Sunday). We ate it just in time for the scene with the Godfather in his tomato patch. Those are such politically incorrect tomatoes--not only did they belong to a Mafia don (ok, a fictional one), the Godfather spends his last afternoon on earth teaching his little grandson to spray them with DDT!

So, soon Mr. Strega and I must toddle on home to the Ponderosa and put out our recycling, it being Earth Day and all (but we do this every week). Here is one Earth Day tip I learned from my dance troupe leader yesterday--she said if everyone used one less paper napkin a day, it would save over a billion trees a year. It certainly gave me pause.

McClish bail to remain at 1.5 million dollars

Judge Heather Morse ruled today that Michael McClish, named as a suspect in the Asha Veil double homicide, will remain in our local jail, with bail set at 1.5 million dollars. His attorney had asked for a bail reduction, which was not granted.

Not much more to say today about this, except that I am glad this case is moving forward, however glacially.

MICHAEL McCLISH INVESTIGATED AS SUSPECT IN ASHA VEIL'S MURDER

There has finally been some forward motion in the Asha Veil murder case (click on the three dots beside the title of this entry to see the Sentinel article). To briefly recap for new readers of this blog, Asha Veil was a local woman, six months pregnant, a cashier at the Ben Lomond Market. She disappeared in September 2006 and was discovered dead on September 14th; her body had been dumped on Love Creek Road. She was still wearing her cashier's uniform.

Now, Michael McClish (a coworker at the market, already in jail on rape charges) is being investigated as a suspect in the killing. I want to remind readers that he has not been formally charged and, according to the Sentinel, there are other suspects in this case as well.

The reason I am being cautious about McClish is not to defend him in any way, but because I feel it's important for me to closely mirror the statements of the Sheriff's department. This has been a difficult waiting period for everyone and the temptation is to rush to justice, name a person, and set the ball rolling for a trial and conviction. It would be good if this could happen now, but the right suspect has to be implicated, and, though I have no love lost on Michael McClish (who used to bother my daughter Kat and offer her rides home "anytime"), I feel it is important to continue to see how this case begins to shape up. However, I hope that it is NOT another year from now.

The bottom line is that Asha and Anina's lives were important and someone who hated them and was crazy took their lives from them. Someone wanted Asha gone, and her daughter as well. That is still the bald and horrifying fact for me. And for what?
What was the killer's motive? Was Asha carrying his baby and he wanted to eliminate her and thus eliminate child support payments?

My community has never been the same since Asha died and I think it will take a long time to recover. There is often a pall of melancholy over people; some folks claim that Ben Lomond has moved on from this time, but I think it's certainly tinted the atmosphere, the way even a touch of gray in pink paint will dull the whole color just a little. For me, it's because Asha should have been alive right now, holding her baby, showing her off, buttoning Anina in a sweater because the April weather is still cold. And nothing, nothing in the world can bring them back.

All that can be done now is to keep this case moving forward, and keep it in the public eye--which is what, in my small way, I am doing.

Free

Talk about getting what you need sometimes--I was in Peets doing my usual Wednesday writing when a kind old gentleman came up to me with a clipboard and politely requested that I fill out a Peets survey. I gladly did so, suggesting strongly on it that the downtown Peets SOMEHOW gets more seating. They could build a loft or make better use of their space--nobody is hanging out using free wireless, as Peets has no wireless anyway, but it's a nice coffeeshop and it would be good to find a seat there sometimes. Anyway, the kind gentleman took my finished survey and gave me a card for a free coffee! This was wonderful because I had woken up with an allergy headache and sometimes caffeine helps, so I took my card and got a half-caffeinated decaf (does that make sense?)...so that was cool! And soon, just as Umbrella Man appeared in the window and gave me his customary smile and wave, my headache vanished

We still have no DSL and the younger set at the Ponderosa is growing restless.

"Why don't you just use the computers at school?" I ask Riff, who claims he is perishing without constant access to email and the Internet in general.

"There's no time!" he groans, and goes back to watching DaVinci-code-like shows on the History channel (my office at home is right off the big downstairs room where the TV lurks, and I am always hearing "Did Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ have a child?" in a deep announcer's voice). I do not know why my dear son is interested in things like this. He has been watching shows like this since summer. The younger set also watches shows on ghosts and UFOs, but usually likes to still have me in the room when doing so, despite the fact that they are all adults or nearly so.

Hopefully by Friday I will be able to answer more emails and such--I just spend an hour at Caffe Bene catching up.

The Virginia Tech gunman

The news has been full of the terrible shooting at Virginia Tech and I just wanted to express my condolences to the families and friends of the victims, and everyone who had to witness this horrific event. I have seen a lot of evil in my lifetime, and yet I am still horrified and disgustedly astonished when this sort of thing happens.

I have linked to a New York Times article about the gunman, Cho Seung-Hui. I feel it is extremely sad and tragically regrettable that this person gave warning signals and was not helped or stopped before the killings happened. I mean, a roommate who wouldn't talk at all? Who just stared off into space? Who wrote extensively about violence in his creative writing? Yet it's hard to pinpoint these kind of people ahead of time...the description I just gave could cover any number of troubled people in the world who don't go off the deep end like this. I've heard there was also trouble with this student prior to the event, that he recently set a fire and stalked a couple of women. Why was nothing ever done?

Heartbreakingly, it doesn't surprise me. I know of a person who has had numerous police reports filed against him (by different people) over the years for stalking and harassment, and yet law enforcement does nothing about him. Still, he does have a paper trail of complaints, so at least that's something--yet what if this person snaps one day, too? I nearly want to be cynical and say, "Nothing was done because nothing is ever done, and 90 percent of the time, we see all the warning signs in retrospect." Even though I don't want to believe this, it feels this way to me today.

Evil acts will always be with us, so today has prompted me to try and think about my response to these things. And yet, right now, I have no answers, only sadness for everyone involved in this horrible, unspeakable tragedy.

Love Apples

My friend Mary and I went to Love Apple Farm in Ben Lomond today (click on the link to see the farm's website), which is a tomato farm run by a woman named Cynthia. Her specialty is heirloom tomatoes, and she has varieties I've never heard of, including a tomato called "Berkeley Tie-Dye" (Mary got the last one, but has promised me tomato seeds if her crop is good) and one called "Heart of Compassion." I myself bought "Gardener's Delight," "Rose" (a pink tomato), "Purple Brandy," "Black Prince," and the curiously named "Hillbilly." The "Hillbilly" tomato has gotten a few inappropriate jokes around here, which I will NOT repeat.

I am still working with a dial-up connection, as my DSL will not be active until Monday (due to routing from one phone line to another--long story). I have thus not been able to answer a lot of emails and such, for which I apologize--if you have emailed me any time this week and I've been slow to reply, it's because of the crummy connection. I will be answering my mail this week, I promise!

My friend Mary is going to Europe for two weeks, so after we went to Love Apple Farm, I went over her house and helped her pack, though I protested that I am the worst person in the world for helping people pack (I packed all sorts of crap when Mr. Strega and I went to Maui, but ended up mostly wearing my one-piece bathing suit, a skirt over that, flip-flops, my sun hat, and a loose white collarless shirt as a coverup--of course, we'd gone as part of a longer trip, but I still learned my lesson about not carting so much crap around the world). Mary then went over my house to have Prada fix a button on one of her jackets, and Mr. Strega fixed salmon for dinner, so she had a proper-send off. Mary has become one of my closest friends, and I hope she forgives me one day for dragging her around to all my yoga and dance classes.

And that's the news from the Ponderosa. Get out and plant your gardens! :)

The Usual Send-Out

The last two days have brought two rejection slips, one from Blackbird and one from Poetry Center San Jose's caesura literary magazine. I thought my poem "November Elegy" that I wrote for Harvey Birenbaum would be perfect for their current call for submissions on mortality. I've made a decision to stop sending work over to anything affiliated with San Jose State, even though I graduated from there and do appreciate what my MFA program did for me. It's simply become a waste of time, energy, and paper to send my work to their publications, to be honest, and other literary magazines tend to pick my work up eventually. Beating on a closed door is unproductive for me, and I am all about trying to make my life more productive these days. It's like I've gone back to what I was doing before I went there--sending work out, writing every day, going to local literary events, and that suits me just fine for now. I loved that life then, I loved my MFA program also, and I love my life now, too--as the hippies say, "It's all good."

Anyway, I am sending the rejected poems over to Mid-American Review (who read year-round, by the way--it's getting to the time of year when I have to start looking at which literary magazines read in the summer). I do feel that I've been successful with getting two acceptances this year--behind every acceptance seems to be about ten rejection slips, but that really goes with the business of sending work out.

At any rate, it is a most beautiful day at the Ponderosa. I have a bowl of morning glory seeds soaking, to be planted in the morning, and two deer browsed for about an hour in the garden this morning. And so life goes.

Nothing Much, But Everything

I am having a day off (more or less; I have three hours of dance rehearsal tonight). I mused when at Peets today that the cherry tree out in front seems to be the last to bloom on Pacific Avenue; it is filled with blossoms, while the others are now coming into spring leaf.

It's a day that doesn't know if it's going to rain or shine; I carry an umbrella, but then the sun shines. I'm proud to say that I was up until two last night working on The Strega's Story and now am heading into the most difficult chapter of all, the death of my grandmother. In some ways, my grandmother Mary would be considered by some to be a "marginal" person, employed as the manager of a gift shop, living in a tiny apartment on Orion Avenue in the San Fernando Valley, a woman who died from what started as cervical cancer. Yet it's the writer's task to illumine what was extraordinary about such an ordinary life--I'm learning that I don't have to create extraordinary characters, that there are universes in people that can be tapped.

So, I am off to a long afternoon of errands, dashing around under my umbrella, and then to a long night of dance...and after that, more writing, I hope. Today is one of those days where it seems everything and nothing happens.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Chai

I am sitting directly across from the White Raven's bulletin board (I got the primo seat, in the window), and have espied a sign posted there: "Do you blog? Do you love Larry's Famous Chai! Blog it! Help us spread the word." Since the White Raven is in great measure responsible for making the writing of The Strega's Story less of a toil and more of a pleasure, I have decided to opine upon Larry's Famous Chai (Larry is the owner of The White Raven, along with his wife, whose name is Kathryn).

I'm often dubious of folks who say that their product is the best, the brightest, their novel the most brilliant ever written, etc. Larry's Famous Chai is, however, the absolute best chai I have ever tasted, and I drink a lot of chai. Often, the chai I get elsewhere is too sweet (a big problem), too weak (like slightly spiced dishwater), from a mix or concentrate (which often congeals at the bottom for a grainy surprise) or, in the case of the soy chai I always order, with the soymilk whipped and steamed nearly into tofu. Therefore I save my pennies for a cup of Larry's Famous Chai. They have cards that are stamped each time you order a chai or another coffee or tea drink, and when you get ten stamps, you get a free drink.

This chai goes with the ambiance of the White Raven in a way that's hard to describe unless you've been here. The chai spices often permeate the air in the Raven, and have always reminded me of all the good things about living a creative life. Summers ago, in the throes of falling in love with Mr. Strega, I drank chai here and wrote chapters of The Strega's Story, happy about finding love again after a bad breakup, happy about breaking out of just writing poetry--a summer infused with the fragrance of White Raven chai, sunlight, my garden blooming in wild colors, and new love just beginning.

The recipe for the chai involves an alchemical spice blend, along with orange spice tea (though you can have any tea you want--Mr. Strega has had the Earl Grey blend from time to time). Each cup is brewed individually, so it's nice and fresh, and a large cup lasts me through three handwritten pages. I don't think there is any sugar at all in the chai, but it's still full of delicate sweetness from the cinnamon. My soy chai arrives without a cap of tofu on top, which I greatly appreciate.

If you don't live near Felton, you can still enjoy a cup of Larry's Famous Chai by ordering it off the website (link provided). I have some at home and the blend lasts a really long time--the bag I just bought will easily last me into my second book.

Well, I've done my civic duty for the Raven..back to working on my book (finished a chapter today). Hey, Larry, can I have a cup gratis?

Live from Aptos

Today I'm liveblogging from the Aptos Coffee Roasting Company off State Park Drive. I think this place is an offshoot of the Pacific Roasting Company on the Pacific Garden Mall. This is a terrific place to write if the barista isn't cranking up annoying music. There's wireless that actually works, good lighting, a good selection of coffee drinks, and standard coffeehouse food, bagels and pastries, and some odd burrito things. The largest drawback to this place is that it closes at eight--but then, the place in which it's located isn't exactly the most swinging part of town.

It's been interesting to have devolved to a dial-up connection, since Mr. Strega works in high-tech (though when I met him, he did not have an Internet connection at home, preferring to keep it at work). I have to remember to unplug the dial-up and plug it back into the phone line, or everything goes to voice mail. Brings me right back to the "olden days," when I had to ask the kids to sign off the Internet so I could use the phone.

Easter was decent at the Ponderosa, though my elder daughter Prada was not with us, for she's overwhelmed with work at school. Still, the ham was wonderful and the torta pasqualina a work of art, if rustic art, if I do say so myself (actually, Mr. Strega made most of the torta pasqualina). We have so much ham left over that I could make ham sandwiches for most of the folks on our street and still have some left over. I always liked the entry in the Joy of Cooking which says, "Someone once defined eternity as two people and a ham."

So, we're nearly done with our tasks out here in gray, foggy Aptos. This was one of the first places in Santa Cruz I visited when I first moved here twenty-six years ago, and I fell in love with it. And I'm still here.

I will be plugging away at the book tonight, more and more--seeing my new set of family pictures has been both marvelous and sad for me. I had an astounding moment when, looking at one photo, I noticed a portrait on the wall behind the subjects, of a woman in a Victorian dress and hairstyle, and realized it was my strega great-grandmother when she was young--and looks formidable and fierce, like a roosting hawk. Her eyebrows are exactly like mine, the right one quirking up into a point at the center, higher than the left. When I am able to scan this picture, I'll post it (it's just a matter of getting to the store for the scanner). It's weird to see one's genetic inheritance in all these photos of long-lost relatives.

Easter on the Horizon

I have to say that one of the many things I admire about Mr. Strega is his ingenuity with computers and the Internet, for I am back online at home tonight, albeit with a dial-up connection for now. One thing I love about Mr. Strega is his willingness to help with keeping me online, for I have articles to write and submit this week, and research to do for my book, and I feel often that I have a true partner in him. He didn't want me to have to go out and sit in cafes all week while the DSL was being changed over.

I have to go help with egg-dyeing and basket-filling, but I wanted to share that I had a really incredible moment today. My cousin Johnny found more pictures of my family in the basement of his house in Boston, and sent them out. I got the package today, opened it in my car, front of the Felton post office, and out fell a photo of my grandmother, the one I had no photos of for decades. There were THREE photos of her in the package, from when I knew her best. I started crying--so indescribable, to see the face of a beloved person again, and then turned on my car to go. The radio was on, and immediately as I drove off, the song "These Dreams" by Heart began to play.

This new package is a treasure trove of photos, of Mamma Nonna the strega, her sister (probably Annunizata, who emigrated just before her), of my Aunt Anna, and many childhood pictures of my mother. I tried to photograph my pictures of my grandmother, but they didn't come out, so I posted one here of my Aunt Anna (the strega's daughter) and my mother, on her First Communion day. I apologize for the poor quality, a photo of a photo.

My heart is very full tonight, though a little sad, because so many of these people have passed away and any story I can ever tell about them is the palest thread of what was a glorious tapestry of story, emotion, and life. I realize always that it was a gift to be in the middle of such a colorful family, and everything I do is just a small reflection of life stories I will never know. But writing them is important--when we write family stories, we carry forward their lost voices, I think.

Well, it's time to go dye eggs and prep for Easter dinner tomorrow--we have decided on ham, an Italian artichoke tart, mashed potatoes, salad, some sort of veggie, and our traditional brownies from an incredibly decadent recipe; when baking, they permeate the house with an incredible perfume of hot, sweet chocolate.

So, off to the kitchen....good night....

liveblog from Cafe Bene

Our DSL is getting re-done at the Ponderosa, mostly because we have decided we do not need two phone lines anymore, and the DSL runs through the now-defuncto phone line. This process of changing over will probably take up to a week.

So, I will be liveblogging a lot, as well writing in advance (don't worry, faithful readers--I go to cafes nearly every day). There's not much happening here today at Cafe Bene in Santa Cruz--this is a charming little place with an actual old-fashioned copper espresso machine, a glass display case full of old dial phones for sale (they actually work), and many green-topped tables. In fact, for such a small cafe, they are writer-friendly and have a lot of places to sit and work.

I used to dislike Cafe Bene and didn't come here to work until all the places on the Pacific Garden Mall started to fill up and I was elbow-to-elbow with other writers, madly scribbling away like inmates of some strange literary prison camp. The only annoying thing about Bene right now is the constant, constant whine of the coffee grinder--but, heck, this is a tiny place, and the proprietor apparently grinds all of his coffee fresh for the Bene folks.

There are a few old cronies who hang out here every morning, right in front, watching the world go by. I dislike the fact that smokers hang out right in front, too, the smoke wafting right in the door. I guess it is my punishment for being a former smoker, inhaling all the secondhand crap.

I am just back from acupuncture, the irony of having acupuncture on Good Friday not being lost on me. I'm relaxed and so the constant whine of the grinder doesn't bother me (it's still going--jeez, what are they grinding up in there? It's like something out of Fargo). And the radio has begun to blast some weird, circusy music, appropriate for Santa Cruz.

Looking out towards the Town Clock, I see a bank of very gray clouds, remember that rain is forecast for Easter. I remind Mr. Strega that I need two more bags of potting soil, as I have veggies I need to get into the ground this week. I sure don't want tardy veggies.

So, my plans for tonight: get Easter candy (yes, my kids still get baskets, even though they are adults; they just get abbreviated baskets), get Easter dinner planned (I know for sure we're having an artichoke tart, one special thing I like to make, but we are divided between ham and lamb). And soon Mr. Strega and I will return to our Internet-less house and I'll probably get a heck of a lot more writing done!

And oohhh, yess...Bene often has the best tunes in town, 'cause they just started playing "Cinnamon Girl" and I start singing it for Mr. Strega, 'cause I am a dreamer of pictures, dontcha know, and sometimes we really do chase the moonlight...

Into the Light of Forgiveness, and Out Again

Forgiveness has been on my mind lately, ever since I posted yesterday. I was brought back to one of my most wonderful memories of grad school, when a bunch of us went out to dinner at Original Joe's with Al Young (now the poet laureate of California). I have to say that one of the best things about my MFA program is that I got to meet so many wonderful writers--Al Young, Billy Collins, Russell Banks, Michael Chabon, Molly Giles, Simon Winchester. I loved Al so much--he actually was one of the first who told me I needed to really write my family stories.

At any rate, during our dinner, Al told us of a friend with whom he had terrible conflict; they weren't speaking and things were very bad between them. Someone suggested that he just sit down each day and spend a few minutes sending forgiveness to them, in whatever way that took. And, lo and behold, one day the friend appeared on Al's doorstep.

"I don't even know why I'm here," he said. But, however it happened, it worked.

I find that when I forgive people who have harmed my life in some way, it doesn't mean we are going to hang out at Starbuck's together from then on. Sometimes it does, but not always. It simply means I am learning to stop poisoning myself with resentment. Constant living in anger is unproductive for me and I get nothing accomplished except a constant "mad-on." Forgiving someone doesn't always mean I will be in contact with them again, especially a person whose behavior indicates to me that they are a danger to my mental or physical well-being. It means I create a different space in my heart so that I can move on in my life. There are days and weeks I can't--I grumble, resist, don't want to be good or live in light, I roll backwards into shadow, but always move a step or two forward again.

The Light of Forgiveness

Dancing, Old Journals, Working Through

My trouple leader, having been inspired by the fabulous Leila Haddad of France, wants me to pair in an Algerian Ouled Nail (pronounced "nile") duet with her. This would involve yet another elaborate costume and headpiece, but I'm all for it. The Ouled Nail women danced to earn money for marriage; click on the link to find out more about them. I'm really excited about this--I am not used to dancing except in a large group.

I have been looking ahead, thinking of the next book I might put together after The Strega's Story (yes, I need to get it done, but, in typical Gemini fashion, am considering the next horizon. I am going through old journals for ideas; I have journals from 1977 though the present day, thirty years' worth. I am missing a few, but I have most--strangely, a section just preceding a horrific breakup with the man I was with after my marriage has vanished, even though I saw these pages in my house not too long ago. Maybe, out of anger and a need to purge that terrible time, I tossed them. This would be very unusual for me--I rarely toss old journals, but that time was so awful, secretive, and painful that perhaps I needed to exorcise it.

I don't know what stories or essays will come out of these old journals, but I hear myself speak in them, a language of despair I no longer know. My life is far from perfect, but it is far less unmanageable than it used to be, and things that baffled and frightened me no longer do so. I've come to accept that there is a basic amount of chaos in life, and that I can control my attitude and reactions to things. I don't do that part perfectly, either, but it's a lot better than it was. My old journals remind me of someone pleading to God from the bottom of a well for help.

Here is an entry from November 8, 1996 (after a really rotten breakup, with things that happened in it which I won't make public, but rest assured, they were pretty bad. I have to often exercise daily forgiveness for this person, whom I realize is one of the "still suffering" ones spoken of in recovery. Praying for his mental and emotional healing feels like the right thing to do on my part, but I do NOT excuse his behavior, which caused me and my family enormous pain--besides, this is just to show the contrast between that time of my life and now. It is not a condemnation of any one person):

"My life has changed so much in the last week, so many worlds shattered by horrible
revelations, (the man I was with) lying to me for three years. I wear numbness like a cloak right now. This is a beyond-words type of grief. I must rebuild my shattered trust, with myself and my family, so utterly broken, like a veneer of deceptively thin ice over unspeakably murky water. The only thing I have kept out of it all are the five tulip bulbs we bought together--they do not hold the poisonous essence, the liquor of malignity, they will be wrapped in the cloak of the earth and the cold needles of rain will bless them. I dreamed last night I was choosing daffodils, all types, from an old man, a flower vendor, very kind. So much has changed, losing the "false" one, the one who said he loved me, a surreal loss, as if the kind, gentle person I knew was simply a mask, a shut door behind which lurked the real one. I will not become like this. My tasks now are to grieve and heal, to move on."


Current journals have entries like this (from March 31st 2007 morning pages):

"I toss on a jagged sea of dreams, open my eyes to bald moonlight, the stalk of the agave like a silver spear piercing black shadows. Later, I wake to light, dress in my favorite dance pants, Melodia Phoneix, pure ink black with a rose-and-purple lotus at each ankle. Then hard work in the crowded Saturday morning class, today my teacher wears fingerless gloves, a color between melon and sunset, embroidered with small white flowers. Her hands are so sure, delicate, but strongly expressive, like sun-bronzed birds that rise easily into the arc and scoop of floreos. I relax and follow, no longer a clumsy heron in a flock of egrets. Can I just forgive myself, sail beyond the wild ocean of regret? Focus on today, this day, only the next 24 hours--the past is done, the future a song that has not yet been written."

Glory, Glory Hallelujah

Absurd conversation at the dinner table:

Someone--I don't know who--brings up John Brown, the Civil War figure.
I begin singing "John Brown's body lies a-moulderin' in the grave," and Riff says, "Hey, mom, stop singing mean songs. I'm learning about the Civil War in school right now and it's really horrible." Mr. Strega agreed. He said it was a song made up by the Confederates to celebrate Brown's execution.

"What?" I said. "If that's so mean, how come some of the lyrics are "Glory, glory hallelujah, his soul is marching on? Why, back in my day, when you went to see
the Mr. Lincoln robot guy at Disneyland, they played 'Glory, glory hallelujah' in the background at the end of the show."


NOBODY believed me until I bade them listen to the song (described, ahem, as a 'Union marching song') on the Internet. At which point, I suddenly realized that "John Brown's Body" is sung to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," something I had never connected. Well, it's never late to learn something new.

"You guys think you're soooo smart, but I was right," I said. At which point, Riff began to regale us with various schoolyard versions of "Battle Hymn of the Republic," (involving rotten tangerines and coconuts) and Mr. Strega, not wishing to be upstaged, found a version of the Gilligan's Island theme online by a band called Little Roger and the Goosebumps, sung to the tune of "Stairway to Heaven," and played it for us. Click on the link if you really, really must....

I think we need to watch more television.

McClish trial delayed until June 11th

I apologize to the readers who come here (some from as far away as Europe) to try and find information about the Asha Veil case and the Michael McClish rape trial. I have
not been keeping up with reading the Valley Press in the last week, and information appeared there in the 3/28 edition. Please click on the link (you have to have Adobe Acrobat or a .pdf reader to see the paper) and go to page 7 (the links to the pages are in the sidebar) to read them. McClish's trial has gone through what is described as a "routine delay." I will continue to post updates as I find them. Often, it seems like I'm trying to find needles in a haystack!

Asha Veil, the community's thoughts, and the McClish trial

As I've said in the past, I know and very much appreciate the fact that many members of my community have come to this blog, looking for information about the Asha Veil murder case and the Michael McClish sexual assault trial. McClish's trial was supposed to start today, but I have heard nothing about it at all in the media.

I did find a message board today that is full of speculation about Asha Veil, Michael McClish, and Asha's murder, and, though I decided to post it as a link here, I want to caution the readers of this blog that no one has been charged in the murder, and that a suspect could, in theory, still be at large. I wanted to show that people in my community are frustrated about this case, they are angry, they have no answers as to what is happening, and when a community is kept in the dark, as we have been, people end up speculating and tossing around different theories and ideas as to what happened.

I added the link in about the middle of the message thread, but all the pages can be accessed (it should be obvious on the message board).

As I have promised, I will post whatever information I get about this case. It saddens me that the public seems faced with a brick wall in terms of answers and new information. I am as frustrated as everyone else, it seems.

I feel as if one of my "jobs" as a blogger is to help keep this case visible, and so I will. I also want to thank everyone for your patience with me--I'm not a crimeblogger; I simply want to do what I can to keep this unsolved case in the public eye.

April Foolishness

Despite the title of this post, I have not had an April Fool joke today, and don't intend to have one (Mr. Strega promised to be good, despite the fact that he went to a university renowned for its amazing practical jokes). My kids did April fool jokes to the tune of "There's a big spider crawling on your arm." Riff did come upstairs today to tell us that one of the cats left a mouse head in his room, and we thought he was kidding for a minute--but unfortunately, it was true.

I am starting to cook on the book, and found that a half-hour of just noodling through and revising bits and pieces is enough to get me back into the manuscript. My cousin Johnny emailed me the other day, with news of another cache of family pictures and memoribilia he will send me. Also, he told me that the date of my great-grandmother's death is on Ancestry.com--and, if this is the right person, she died on January 9, 1970. My grandmother Mary died on January 4, 1970. This would then mean that my mom lost both her mother and grandmother within days of each other--I can't even imagine how terrible that must have been for her in her already-fragile mental state.

Speaking of my great-grandmother, I am about to buy a scanner to get all the family photos onto CDs and such. Today's post shows one of her that I actually snapped with my laptop camera, so it's not good quality, but it shows something of her rather formidable gaze and also shows some of the family kitchen in the East Boston house, probably very much as it looked when my mother and grandmother lived there.

Happy April Fool's Day to everyone--and Palm Sunday, too.