It actually happened to me talking–at the opening of the Russian River Performing Arts Center and Conservatory, in Guerneville, CA artistic directors Seth Montford and Hayley Yount Severe–with a stranger about do you play music and I said yes I play the banjo and she or he asked do you play any other instrument and led astray by I don’t know exactly what as if it were a meaningful question I answered, yes I played the violin tra la la la. But it is a trick question because it begs the question and at face value is a conversation stopper.

next time I’ll try something else, like I don’t understand the question, I mean within the context of a conversation it is really a lame question since the answer is either yes or no end of story though just like when you say you are a writer and someone says oh have you been published you don’t just stop with yes or no you start explaining and justifying and squirming or cawing as if one is better than the other; these kind of questions are laden with values and the give and take of getting to know one another lopsides

I’m sorry I didn’t pursue it but... I was distracted by my excitement and at the time didn’t take offense, but that’s because I had the violin to offer and used it to lead me right back to the banjo, which is also bullshit. Anyway we are, in spite of all our best efforts so easily led back to a condition of effete snobbery and full of shittedness, without malice mind you but nonetheless not that I’m taking it on as a mission, well that’s not true either, but it’s the wordsmith in me that’s affronted not the musician, ha.

In her opening remarks she paid tribute to the teachers; to the sum of it. The synchronicity touched us, we had just at supper, before going, given a toast to our elders all of whom had contributed to our being at that moment right where we were. Of course we started with out parents. And yet it’s more complicated. I am born of teachers. Of teachers of teachers. And more than that I am a learner. I collect teachers. Greedily. Teaching me something–learning something from you–is the bloodline. Change is part of growth and growth a part of all life.

“...you never know what kind of a psychotic killer you might be throwing your sandwich at.”

“Magi 1 to Magi 2 Dispatch the Night Rider.”

“Make the bubble bigger make the bubble bigger make.”

“It’s too windy to rain.”

“Judi, it’s serious but don’t take it so seriously.”

“If you don’t buy it for yourself, I will buy it for you.”

“Write me everything you know.”

“White Pride.

“I don’t know where I’m going but I’m on my way.”

–the other woman-
“If you can do something about it, do it, otherwise shut up!”

“I’m going to kill you, you bitch.”

richard grant nancy davidson and dottie kilmer who also werenot afraid of me
miss schechter who showed me the inherent responsibility of being the center of a universe–not that I learned it then
mary l. who was afraid of me
tom r. who thought I was freight train

everyone who thought I thought I knew everything

arthur katz the first boy–before I knew what it was–that I fell in love with
kathy goldner who always thought she was the prettiest–and sexiest before we knew what that meant
my grandfather who never did anything–except think–for himself, carrying my books to school

10 hours a day of practice is what it takes to be great the great ones say and even more than that to be of the greatest but then it has become something altogether different, an ineffable quality of heart fearlessness in the face of ones urges and the music’s impulses never mind the instrument which is unto itself a force having heard my mother practice many many hours a day all her life it was still not clear to me what one practices 10 hours a day. Paul laughed–since he thinks I practice all day long–when I said that

I think the word is misleading, practice: the actual application of a plan or method, as opposed to the theories (of) relating to it. Anyway having now more to build on, there’s a fantastic synthesis going on, molecular I think as much as in fact the theories relating–and of relating–to it...and so now I guess it’s timely to again simply say yes when someone asks do you surf?! just as ultimately I decided to say yes when someone asks do you believe in god, though of course these are trick questions cause there ain’t no yes or no about it

I don’t give it much thought he had said about all that young pup attitude, all that localized this is my surfturf who the hell are you by which he meant he would could take care of it at come on make my day oh hell yes face value, otherwise known as privilege; the privilege of among other things belonging, of age, of class, of gender, of status, of not having to think about it, yes, the privilege of passing, of not being stopped by a red-flagged trait that doesn’t go unnoticed...eeny meeny miny moe catch–your shit–by the toe

I am starting to solve problems. Now that I know the notes, I can think of other things, make decisions about the relationship between notes, and phrases and paragraphs, and about the whole of it. In their own ways each of my disparate teachers are purists pulling and pushing me as is their responsibility as teachers to make sure I know the rules but just as I’m not bound by form in my writing I have a wont to cross-pollinate Bach and Bluegrass, supplanting a hammer-on for a trill, and exchanging a 16th note slide for a triplet. Dear god.

It’s not like I was never told the things I’m figuring out, but I hadn’t the requisite experience to understand the point of it, and before that–during the violin years–I hadn’t the give a good goddamn. Sometimes there’s a sense of waste like not having learned from my grandfather about the kabbala–never mind the rest–the point is there must be a preparedness.

You must know something to learn something.

A year later my entropic teacher is finally talking to me. We’ll branch out to ‘old-time’ finger picking. Anti-entropy believes it better to do one thing well. If he only knew.

going to a church dinner of sorts with ea because he is dear–and family–in spite of my wont to stay as far away from such establishments as possible being of the firm belief that most organized religions foster the opposite of their purported beliefs of love welcome and christian demeanor, in any case for such a dress-up occasion as this I’m going shopping for the ‘proper undergarments’ a whole new world since last I wore a slip never mind a bra, and that they also masquerade these days as outer garments–the better to be the best Mary Magdalene I can

the mothers who greeted us standing silent vigil against the viet nam war at the post office at christmas time; the men, prettiest women I’d ever seen, dressed in drag at the gay ball spokane, washington 1977; diane arbus; nate my father who killed himself freddie my father who couldn’t stand on his own two feet who together, their own predilections notwithstanding, taught me to love life and stand on my own two feet; the much maligned misunderstood madman Srul; paternoster, the I’m going to kill myself girls and–not so many–boys; my little tumorette old lady buick and my surfboard

don’t pick up hitchhikers it said on a road sign high in the sierra mountains between redding and arcata, on my rather circuitous way to meet the good jason romero who had just started on the banjo he is making for me, and just having said to myself what the hell do they care all of a sudden nearer their god to me if I do or don’t pick up hitchhikers I came around the corner and saw the sign for whichever particular youth detention center it is that’s nestled there and I had a good laugh about–among other things–assumptions

What I want to know is why they’re running me that way sitting there with a broken lightbulb in their hand saying nuthin' when I ask what's going on.

She says do I look like somebody who'd say hello joo Di how are you? Hey! watz happnin'/ we still cool right? then let's talk/ I talk and you talk/ back and forth like that.

Never had no party before/ see what I'm sayin' my mother came on up 'n my birthday, y’ know/ brought me some flowers they was dead I threw 'em in the garbage/ now dem's feelin's right?

We’d been sharing and comparing I guess. Each with our own sequestered longing. Cap, MayZee, SometimesGrace and me. Same in lots of ways and hatefully different in others. It was all like that. Extremes. Which was pretty much how most of them ended up at The Coop. None of the misbegotten street scraps who came and went through my crib ever had the luxury of knowing about the gray between black and white. The sign in front of my place said Freedom Road, after the first book I ever read, but not even the city hall crowd called it that.

It was hard for him, I could see that.


I didn’t talk to him that day at the cemetary. Already shunned. No one did. Already cast out, he was a shadow. Deader than his daughter. He uttered sounds the human ear could not hear. Walking with the dead.

It was too hard. He sat down. He started humming. He looked for the last time before they shut the coffin, at the body of his dead child beaten to death by her step mother his new wife.


He began to howl, as an outraged animal does, that has no other consideration.

Two women, more and more I wonder if we’re only one. I know your eyes are green. You say mine are brown. Your hair is light colored and short, you say mine is unruly. Your elders come from the north of Europe, my blood is gypsy tinged. You are Capricorn to your own Sagittarius, I am Virgo to my own Pisces.
We have names, separate names I think, names we were given at birth, but the story we have become has created names of its own. I am Hope to your Ruth, even more, you are hopeless to my ruthless.

uterus: choices sexual innocent ignorant freedom autonomy fertile womb woman decisions obligations
you thought you would be, at some point old enough to choose, to act, to enjoy, to be a woman to be free to choose to act to enjoy to be woman but there is no such thing as autonomy first a girl, their girl, and then a woman, somebody’s woman, obligated as if without choice, held hostage to a point of view, that to be woman is to use your uterus to their advantage, and the choice is theirs, make no mistake it is never just yours

By now he’d be a stinking slinking Mission District bum, drunk for sure and working up to dying. I’d catch him by surprise. He’d not expect to see me in this neighborhood, and try hard not to watch me but there’d be a glimmer run across his face.

He’d raise the brown paper bag in my direction, bow his head just slightly.

Then, it could go any way. But we wouldn’t talk that’s for sure. And he would run me out of town, and laugh at my back. And cough in time to my footsteps. And he'd still be handsome.

black girl boy-shorts, black thigh high lace stockings, black just right length slip, gold lamé shoes, slitted long dark green velvet dress, dark green sequined jacket with tails, wrist corsage, huge multi-colored faceted crystal earrings, perfect verygay blue rhinestone bracelet, no handbag; two martinis one better than the other; I was the perfect mary magdalene and of course the only woman at the table with two husbands, not to mention the only woman at the table with one husband, or that I was the only woman at the table

it was a tasteful evening, everyone was well behaved, even god

defaced and disfigured; it annoys me that these should take time and be at issue for me

so that look that I dread, that piteous look, is that look actually even about me

is it actually god I’d hate to be that way as opposed to geez I’m sorry that you’re that way

and of a blossoming sudden I’ve stopped waiting and as I said to Dvora, not because I am comforted by the promise of it’s being temporary but because I am comforted that if it is not, it doesn’t matter any more
because I have everything I need

Those that knew said that once it started, the river went down fast. And it did. Though we still had no electricity, running water or way to town and it was still raining and the land phones were iffy, but the cell phone worked. And now the emergency was over and a whole new thing was to begin. The obvious lessons had already been learned, you know about control and insignificance. And the rest of it, you just did one foot and one minute at a time. Even knowing, you couldn't even begin to imagine what it would look like

and I’m remembering all ofa sudden sitting here at the table like a normal person not even thinking about my legs that are acting like real legs that don’t even need thinking about drinking coffee and looking out the window and writing that all things even sitting like a normal person at the table not even thinking about my legs that are acting like real legs that don’t even need thinking about takes practice so I’m practicing the sitting here like ain’t a damn thing going on and ain’t nothing going on except me sitting here like a normal person

so I’m in the shower eyes closed washing my hair shampoo slipping down my forehead and I realize I’m doing three things I’m mastering three things most people take for granted three things hardwon and hard comeby three things I’ve had to relearn in the last three years 1st and the most difficult&amazing knowing where I am in space with my eyes closed 2nd closing my right eye tight enough to keep soap out of it 3rd having enough reach in my right arm to lather the shampoo on my head

I don’t know about you but I’m just lathered

Middle of the night I think of Mike Tuggle and kindness and generosity–and what it’s taken me to learn the real meaning of nice which I’m just about old enough now to understand–and the lusty welcome of the writing community of sonoma county instead of swirlng diva stinginess. and loving which I learn living my life with paul. and passion which hands down I learned from my mother. and truth telling and courage which I learned with my sisterhusbandconsort don kreuter the 2nd friend I lost to the aids epidemic...

dear god it’s never ending, like what about the cats?!

odd how all month I’ve been a week behind, no...the week has been a week ahoo–not me–either way, any given tomorrow seems as if it is next week’s

doing theatre (putting color) in my hair is not about gray any more than the brown–it is about change, and disrupting the proprietary nature of predictability and knowing,

as an aside I hope to hell we don’t stoop in this country to the are we ready for a woman president conversation...cause all I have to say is you,the Christian male Godstumping fear pimps have bankrupt this nation on all counts. amen

I see all of a sudden that one of the things that entropy my teacher of few words had–since now he’s starting to talk and can infact talk a blew blue streak–to teach me, is few words which I realized when I thought back to our early conversation–again highlighting my novitiate status–when he asked what kind of music I wanted to play the answer of course being old-time or classic or bluegrass etc and how since I clearly had no idea why he hadn’t suggested old-time since that’s his specialité...a season for all things, and now here we are

Ea tells the story how Hack told this story about how when they were at the museum as is his predilection he started spouting off standing in front of an impressionist painting and how affronted, eyes blazing hands on hips bracelets still ringing, Cat said I studied art history for years what the hell do you know about it, and how he said, oh, I’m just reading what it says on the card on wall near the painting! I howled. Told Paul who also had a good laugh. I said, how Hack and Cat. He said, how all of us.

So the proprietary nature of knowing has been disrupted and predictably those who count on it and find comfort in a known sense of how things have been don’t like it aren’t amused by can’t find the theatre in it some; chalk it up to the season; others to my finally tiring of the gray; some haven’t noticed; others not said; those at home with uproar and with a penchant for tinkering with possibility are game and are along for the fun

One runs the gauntlet of privilege–of visibility and invisibility–all over again. And I offer no answers. Or apology

well here I am back to asked at a concert at the russian river performing arts center–where for crying out loud I am not only running into people in this small town I never saw never mind met–are you, am I a musician. Stumped me both times, apologies notwithstanding. It’s true I play the banjo and might, no I do say I am a banjoist and it’s true I surf and I take photographs. I also cook but am not a cook so no, fact is I am not a musician, I am a writer.
And a red(burgundy)head.