A Diary Left Open

Leaves of Autumn - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-25T14:04:00.001-08:00

Leaves of Autumn, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

Wishing all my blogster peeps a wonderful Thanksgiving Holiday. Please don't forget to express your gratitude for all the good things in your life. As my friend, the writer Don Williams, says, "Giving thanks is the key to happiness." I have certainly found this to be true in my own life. Gobble-gobble!

Shark Crazy - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2009-11-24T12:05:00.000-08:00

You and I hand-in-hand near Hervey Bay Marina,

aluminum masts jangling in the sweet salt air

when this guy closes in - stocky, sun-toasted, grizzle-

chinned, gets chatting about sharks. A Great White

chows on Aussies like Vegemite on toast.

That grey shadow moves like a battering ram to

shake loose a limb, wolf it back, gnash it down

to chum. In sea water blood seems black.

"Oz" is one big spot of land circled by Great

Whites, hammerheads, lemons, tigers, blues,

and they linger at Hervey. Vic pulls up

his T-shirt to show the mark of a shark whose jaw

caught the waist, a circle of gashes like Morse code.

"That son-of-a-bitch got away with the taste of my blood in him.

But I've killed plenty since to make up for it."

Vic's going hunting at dusk, got room for two.

I imagine leaning off the bow of his trawler,

like the one Robert Shaw manned in Jaws.

I think of the 20-foot White in formaldehyde

at the shark museum.

Vic points at a fourteen-foot skiff.

Your eyes catch mine.

Erin Has Always Loved Balloons - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-23T18:01:00.001-08:00

Erin Has Always Loved Balloons, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

My niece, Erin, knows how to enjoy balloons

Erin and her Unicorn Balloon - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-23T18:00:00.001-08:00

Erin and her Unicorn Balloon, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

Some things do not change. And shouldn't.

A Letter About the Importance of Mammograms - by Amy Kitchens

2009-11-23T13:12:00.000-08:00

Good morning ladies,

I am sure you have heard the latest buzz in health care that you do not need a mammogram so soon/often. Well I am here to enlighten everyone. I was diagnosed at 40 years old and two months with breast cancer. I have NO family history (I am it) and I do not possess the gene(s) for the disease. I breast-fed all three of my kids for a minimum of 9 months (Mattie). My cancer was detected by a routing mammogram that my gyn guy said I should have since I was “40”. His wife had breast cancer at 41 and 45. She is still alive 20 years later to enjoy her family. One of the many doctors I met with told me that “by the time you detect it yourself it is often stage 2+”. It is staged 1-4. Stage 4 being time to make arrangements for your loved ones. Mine was stage 1 with no lymph node involvement. The higher the stage numbers the lower the odds of recovery and or reoccurrence. It is like VegasJ. That being said it is coming up on 5 years in February. I am, knock on wood, totally fine and fulfilling my “bucket list” in 4 weeks as I make my annual trek to Durango, Colorado. The very place I went after diagnoses and treatment with Cathy Patrick and our boys in the summer of 2005.

Amy is wearing green baseball cap and orange vest

That was an amazing trip on all levels as I challenged my greatest fear……water, and went in a raft down the Animas River after having a mastectomy and chemotherapy (still was bald) and I rowed the raft! What a sensational feeling that was. Getting the air knocked out of me by waves and water while trying not to pee my pants from sheer joy and terror. On that note…..whether you have to pay for it, lie for it (make up a family story) or demand it……GET A MAMOGRAM EVERY YEAR. It could save your life…..it saved mine and I am so glad I did it. Find a facility that now does digital mammography. Any questions are always welcomed. Enjoy your life!!

Take care my friend.

~ Namaste ~ Amy

Pterodactyls - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2009-11-21T12:14:00.000-08:00

We poets were once
dinosaurs in a lizard time.

Our poems are beast kids
enclosed in shell.

Pterodactyls, bust through,
take to the sky, primitive silhouettes.

Wings eclipse the moon's big belly,
as egg shards glitter in afterglow.

Red Hand Means Stop - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-20T15:43:00.001-08:00

Red Hand Means Stop, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

Sometimes you'll find art in the most unexpected places. This one I found at a construction site in City Heights, San Diego, California. I wonder what becomes of this art once the construction has been completed. Is it just destroyed? Or is there a museum housing construction-site murals?

Maria - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-20T15:40:00.001-08:00

Maria, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

A mural painted on a corrugated garage door, downtown San Diego. One of my favorite things to do is just stroll the streets of my city, find scenes like this, and snap away with my camera.

Stars & Stripes - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-19T09:38:00.001-08:00

Stars & Stripes, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

For a short time I lived aboard a sailboat, although not one as large as this. And it was moored in a marina for most of the time.

You, the Sea and Me - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2009-11-19T09:34:00.000-08:00

I have put out to sea
with you in a 45-foot sloop.
It's 21 days before we sight other
humans on a ship that passes at dusk.
Four hours on watch and four hours off,
you and I share the helm but not the berth.
When you sleep I count the floating containers
shrugged off and left to bob like geometric icebergs,
a Pacific conundrum.
Hit one and we're finished.
My eyes are filled with horizon
and the ghosts of those phantom
crates as you rock in the arms of your mother
ocean,
when a light
surfaces, advancing upon us.
Panicked, I rouse you, certain it is
some locomotive cruiser, bound to chop
our hull clean through, its light too bright to see us.

Dazed
you join me
at the helm, gaze
toward our fate silently
and surely underway. You
grin like a cult leader.
Not to worry,
it seems we have
set a bearing toward Jupiter.
You return
to the star-lit folds
of your berth as I alone
await the brazen approach
of the planet and all its moons.

Quotes About Mountain Biking - Collected by Bill Strickland

2009-11-18T11:41:00.000-08:00

Cavorting after Rockhopper South Mountain Bike Race, Big Bear Lakes, California, 1987

“As a kid I had a dream—I wanted to own my own bicycle. When I got the bike I must have been the happiest boy in Liverpool, maybe in the world. I lived for that bike. Most of the kids left their bikes in the backyard at night. Not me. I insisted on taking mine indoors and the first night I even kept it by my bed. Funny, although it was important to me then, I can’t remember what finally happened to it.”
-John Lennon

“Great things are done when men and mountains meet. This is not done by jostling in the street.”
-William Blake

“The spirit of mountain biking is cool. I hope racing never dominates it.”
-Susan DeMattei

“You’re moving through a wonderful natural environment and working on balance, timing, depth perception, judgment…It forms kind of a ballet.”
-Charlie Cunningham

“From the age of four, when I got my first bike, riding was the main focus for me. Almost every day I was on the thing, and I just loved riding. It becomes a part of your body, and all the movements just become one hundred percent natural. When you get to that point on a mountain bike, then you’re a good rider.”
-John Tomac

“The thing about picking a good line is that you’re already feeling great about just being on a bike, just rolling along, and then something starts to feel special, something you can’t put your fingers on, but your just realize that you’re not overbraking, not oversteering, that the tires are carving like skates, that you come out of corners with momentum, and that it almost feels like that trail is controlling the bike and you’re just along for the ride. I haven’t a clue how to achieve it, but I know that I live for that: the perfect line.”
-Steve Casimiro

“You know right away in mountain biking if you’re on or not.”
-Alison Sydor

“Riding in snow is like learning to ski. There’s a definite learning curve, and an appreciation of freaked-out recoveries that comes with time. Sooner or later, you’ll gain a whole new admiration for funky moves.’
-Tom Winter

“Snow riding is a little crazy and, thus, good for the spirit. Your tires produce a musical crunch and artistic tread patterns. Anyone who says that mountain bikes are always occupied with speed and precision doesn’t have a clue.”
-Tim Blumenthal

“Riding trails with your dog restores a bond lost in some evolutionary belch. You travel at the same speed, over the same terrain, neither of you slowing to compensate for the other. You’re equal playmates with mud in your teeth.”
-Allison Glock

“Mountain biking helps people become environmentalists. A mountain bike is a vehicle to appreciate the backcountry.”
- Ned Overend

“To be a cyclist is to be a student of pain. Sure the sport is fun with its seamless pacelines and secret singletrack, its post-ride pig-outs and soft muscles grown wonderfully hard. But at cycling’s core lies pain, hard and bitter as the pit inside a juicy peach. It doesn’t matter if you’re sprinting for an Olympic gold medal, a town sign, a trailhead, or the rest stop with the homemade brownies. If you never confront pain, you’re missing the essence of the sport.”
-Scott Martin

“We all possess a predilection for lostness, some of us more than others. But lostness, like all talents, must be nurtured, developed and practiced in order to enjoy its benefits. Many of my friends know where they have been, where they are and where they are headed. How sad.”
-Marla Streb

*Quotes provided by "The Quotable Cyclist" - Great moments of Bicycling Wisdom, Inspiration, and Humor - by Bill Strickland*

A Slideshow About Children - Photographs by Patty Mooney

2009-11-17T15:47:00.001-08:00

Here's a slideshow starring children doing the things that children do. I hope you enjoy it.

Urchin Femme - Art by Patty Mooney

2009-11-15T17:51:00.001-08:00

Urchin Femme, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

This is a piece I made by using the scanner along with Adobe Illustrator.

Tropical Rain - Artwork by Patty Mooney

2009-11-15T13:16:00.001-08:00

Tropical Rain, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

From time to time I have been known to create art. Here's one of my pieces which I call "Tropical Rain."

TV Land, San Diego - A Photograph by Patty Mooney

2009-11-14T18:19:00.001-08:00

TV Land, San Diego, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

A classic moment in time captured by my camera - how fortunate am I!

Dogs Are People, Too - A Photographic Slideshow by Patty Mooney

2009-11-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

I have been shooting photographs of cute dogs over many years, and I have put a slideshow together, for your amusement.

His Spirit of Choice - A Poem by Patty Mooney

2009-11-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

His spirit
of choice
is gin.
Adept
at letting
no one
in, "I
haven't
given it
any thought,"
he replies
to all queries,
retiring
to his den
where no
others enter
and the television
volume
achieves its
zenith.

As published in the Acorn Review

Homeless women veterans need your help

2009-11-11T17:48:00.000-08:00

Come and check out this wonderful story about homeless women veterans.
One of my photos was used in this story along with a couple of quotes.
- Patty

Homeless women veterans need your help

Steve Mason's "The Wall Within" - Story and Photos by Patty Mooney

2009-11-11T17:00:00.000-08:00

I originally posted this amazing poem in February of this year. This is the perfect time to re-post it for anyone who missed it the first time. This is the perfect day to honor the memory of our veterans who gave the ultimate sacrifice so that we can enjoy our freedoms today.
- Patty

Children at Vietnam Wall - Photograph by Patty Mooney

Today I was going through some old files and found the copy of a Congressional Record from January 30, 1985. It was the copy of a poem entitled "The Wall Within" which Vietnam Veteran poet laureate, Steve Mason had presented on Veterans Day 1984 on The Mall.

According to the Preamble by the Hon. Stewart B. McKinney of Connecticut, Veterans Day had taken on a new dimension. "The Vietnam Memorial was completed, dedicated and turned over to the United States and its people. Most of my colleagues were unable to prticipate in the Veterans Day ceremonies on The Mall, but I would like to share with them a part of the observance which I believe to be a positive sign in the healing process from the Vietnam war.

"The National Poet Laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, Steve Mason, read to the vast crowd that day an excerpt from his work "Johnny's Song." Having served his country in Vietnam, Steve Mason knew a lot of Johnnys. Having known a lot of Johnnys, Steve Mason continues to serve his country."

Steve Mason had signed the document and written something to me:
"For Lady Patricia,
who writes poetry
in a world led by men
who make no music and
have no dreams -
Thanks for being who you are."
-Steve Mason

I thought back to when I had met Steve at a writers' conference in Southern California in the late 80's. I remember feeling honored and touched when he had first given me the poem. I'd read it and put it in my file cabinet. Then 20 some years later, after having produced a documentary on homeless combat veterans ("The Invisible Ones") this document finds its way into a virtually whole different set of hands, mine, in that I now have a better understanding of what Steve went through as a veteran of the Vietnam War.

I googled "Steve Mason" to see what had become of him and found that he had died on May 23rd, 2005, from Agent Orange exposure.

---------------------------
By RUKMINI CALLIMACHI / Associated Press

Poet Steve Mason — a soldier who became the unofficial bard of the Vietnam War — has died at the age of 65.

Considered the poet laureate of the Vietnam Veterans of America, Mason's blank verse gave voice to a generation's wounds. It was his poem, "The Wall Within" which was read at the 1984 dedication of the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C.

Mason, a resident of Ashland, was a longtime proponent of Oregon's Death with Dignity Act. But his family said Mason, who died at his home of lung cancer last Wednesday, did not use the lethal dose of pills which had been granted to him.

"It gave him great comfort to know he had that option, but I think in the end he didn't need it," said his daughter, Jessica Mason, 24, in a telephone call from Ashland. "The hospice nurse said it was one of the most peaceful deaths she had ever seen."

Mason began to write poetry as a way to make sense of the war and connect with others who had shared the same experience, said his first wife Diane Weirch.

"It was a long time before the vet centers opened and before Vietnam vets stopped suffering alone," she said.

He began by writing love poems in the 1970s, co-writing "Moths and Violets" with a friend.
Eventually, he began opening up the wounds of war in blank verse, publishing the trilogy he is best known for: "Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran" in 1986, "Warrior for Peace" in 1988 and "The Human Being — A Warrior's Journey Toward Peace and Mutual Healing" in 1990.

His verse reverberated with feeling. "His poetry, though you could tell he was no dummy, was all emotion — and that's a language that reaches everyone," said Weirch.

In one of his best known poems, he compares the Vietnam Wall to the internal wall he has created in an attempt to keep his life from spiraling out of control:

"There is one other wall, of course. / One we never speak of. / One we never see, / One which separates memory from madness. / In a place no one offers flowers. / The wall within. / We permit no visitors. / Mine looks like any of a million / nameless, brick walls_ / it stands in the tear-down ghetto of my soul; / that part of me which reason avoids / for fear of dirtying its clothes."

His family said that in letter after letter, veterans who had never met Mason reached out to thank him, saying he had given them a voice. Some used Mason's verse to explain to wives and children how they feel about the war they could not themselves speak about.

Going through his possessions, his family discovered "legal pad after legal pad after legal pad" brimming with poems, said Weirch, a collection the family hopes to someday collate into a posthumous volume.

He is survived by three daughters and one son.
-----------------------

So I decided to post today's experience on my blog, as well as the poem, "The Wall Within" by Steve Mason. A poem that took me over 20 years to fully appreciate. A poem that needs to be shared.

Delivered at the commencement of the National Salute II in Washington, D.C. on November 10, 1984, as part of the official activities prior to the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial ("The Wall) as a national monument. It honors the personal list of love and loss that each American has marked in his/her heart. Poem entered into the Congressional, January 30, 1985. Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran. Steve Mason. (May 1986). Bantam Books.

"Dedicated
to all of us
who know the true cost
of war
and have paid the price."

The Wall Within

Most real men
hanging tough
in their early forties
would like the rest of us to think
they could really handle one more war
and two more women.
But I know better.
You have no more lies to tell.

I have no more dreams to believe.
I have seen it in your face
I am sure you have noticed it
in mine;
at the unutterable,
unalterable truth of our war.
The eye sees
what the mind believes.
And all that I know of war,
all that I have heard of peace,
has me looking over my shoulder
for that one bullet
which still has my name on it--circling
round and round the globe
waiting and circling
circling and waiting
until I break from cover
and it takes its best, last shot.

In the absence of Time,
the accuracy of guilt is assured.
It is a cosmic marksman.
Since Vietnam,
I have run a zigzag course
across the open fields of America
taking refuge in the inner cities.
From Mac Arthur Park
to Washington Square
from Centennial Park
to DuPont Circle,
on the grassy, urban knolls of America
I have seen an army of combat veterans
hidden among the trees.
Veterans of all our recent wars.
Each a part of the best of his generation.
Waiting in his teeth for peace.

They do not lurk there
on the backs of park benches
drooling into their socks
above the remote, turtled back
of chess player playing soldiers.
They do not perch upon the gutter's lip
of midnight fountains
and noontime wishing wells
like surrealistic gargoyles
guarding the coins and simple wishes
of young lovers.

No.

I have seen them in the quiet dignity
of their aloneness.
Singly, in the confidence
of their own perspective.
And always at the edges of the clearing.
Patrolling like perimeter guards,
or observing as primitive gods,
each in his own way looks out to the park
that he might "see" in to the truth.

Homeless Veteran, Rosecrans, San Diego - Photograph by Patty Mooney

Some, like me
enjoy the comfortable base
of a friendly tree that we might cock one eye
to the center of the park
toward the rearing bronze horsemen
of other wars
who would lead us backwards to glory.
Daily, they are fragged
by a platoon of disgruntled pigeons saying it best for all of us.

And with the other eye,
we read the poetry of America the Beautiful
as she combs her midday hair
and eats precise shrimp sandwiches
and salad Nicoise catered by Tupperware--
and never leaves a single crumb.
No wonder America is the only country in the world which doesn't smell like food.

...and I remember you and me
picnicking at the side
of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the rain
eating the Limas and Ham from the can
sitting easy in our youth and our strength
driving hard bargains with each other
for the C-ration goodies
we unwrapped like Christmas presents.
Somehow it really seemed to matter
what he got versus what you got.

It wasn't easy trading cheese and crackers
for chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies!
And the pound cake--Forget about it!
I knew a guy who would cut a hole in it
and pretend it was a doughnut.
For six months I watched that
and refused to ask him about it.
I did finally. And you guessed it.
He hated pound cake.
And remember the water biscuit
that came in its own tin?--
I think they had the moxie to call it a cookie--
it came with the marmalade
and was made by that outfit in Chicago
we promised to burn to the ground someday.
Damn, how did your buddy, the animal,
ever eat that crap?
Then, we'd happily wash down the whole mess
with freckly-faced strawberry Kool-Aid
straight from the canteen
some days there'd be goofy grape
(anything to keep from choking on the taste of purified water).
Bleck.

But somehow I sensed all the while
that I'd never be able to forgive myself
for enjoying your company so much
or being so good at the game we played.
We were the best--you and I.

In our parks there are whole other armies of veterans
mostly young and mostly old
but always ageless
who are not alone.
They share with their families
and their friends
these open-aired
above-ground time capsules
of our national culture.
They read aloud to themselves
and their children
from the plaques and statues
monuments and markers
those one-line truths
of our common experience
as if there could be a real significance
in words like Love and Hate tattooed
on the clenched, granite fists of America.

"Mac the American" Photo by Kenny Shackleford

Sometimes, when I am angry
it seems as if I could start my own country
with the same twenty Spill and Spell words
we shake out at the feet of our heroes
like some crone spreading her hands
over the runes prior to a mystic reading.
Words like:
peace and sacrifice, war and young
supreme and duty, service and honor
country, nation, men and men and men again,
sometimes God and don't forget women!
Army, Air Force, Navy, Marines and freedom.

Then, just as quickly, the anger passes
and reverence takes its place.
Those are good words, noble words, solemn
& sincere.
It is the language of Death
which frightens me;
it is unearthly to speak life concepts
over the dead.
Death is inarticulately final
refusing forever to negotiate.
That, and the awesome responsibility
we place eternally on our fallen
teenage sons,
seems unbearably heavy
against the lengthening prancing
shadows of Sunday's frisbees.

Apparently, there is no period
which can be placed after sacrifice.
All life is struggle.
An act of natural balance
and indomitable courage.
As it is with man
so it is with mankind.
If we permit Memorial Day
to come to us every day,
we ignore the concept of sacrifice
and dilute its purpose.

When we do that
we incur the responsibility to effect change.
If we are successful, the sacrifice has renewed meaning.
It seems there is no alternative to life.
But there may be to war...

The values of our society
seem to be distributed in our parks
and find only confusion and sadness.
Strange, I have observed no monuments
to survivors.
No obelisk to mark the conflict
of those who risked
and lived perhaps to fight again
or perhaps to speak of peace.
Nowhere, yet, a wall for the living.
There is no wonder
guilt is the sole survivor of war.
We do not celebrate life after combat
because our concept of glory
lives neither in victory nor in peace
but in Death.

There are plaques at the doorsteps of skyscrapers;
in New York on the 10th and the Avenue
of the Americas it reads:

IN MEMORY OF THOSE
FROM
GREENWICH VILLAGE
WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
IN THE KOREAN CONFLICT
1950-1053

In Nashville's Centennial Park
in a shaded wood
to one side of the Parthenon
built to scale and to the glory
which was Greece,
a small statue stands;
it is inscribed:

I GAVE MY BEST
TO MAKE A BETTER WORLD
1917-1918

I stood there one fall
ankle deep in leaves
and looked up at the night sky
through a hole in a ceiling of trees
wondering how much better the world
might look from up there.
From the moon
only one manmade object
can be viewed by the naked eye:
The Great Wall of China
(a tribute to man's functional paranoia).
It's a peculiar perspective
because we're a lot closer
and the only manmade object we see
is THE Wall in Washington, D.C.
(the veterans' solemn pledge to remember)

There is one other wall, of course.
One we never speak of.
One we never see,
One which separates memory from madness.
In a place no one offers flowers.
THE WALL WITHIN.
We permit no visitors.
Mine looks like any of a million
nameless, brick walls--
it stands in the tear-down ghetto of my soul;
that part of me which reason avoids
for fear of dirtying its clothes
and from atop which my sorrow and my rage
hurl bottles and invectives
at the rolled-up windows
of my passing youth.
Do you know the wall I mean?

I learned of mine that night in the rain
when I spoke at the memorial in Washington.
We all noticed how the wall ran like tears
and every man's name we found
on the polished, black granite face
seemed to have our eyes staring back at us,
crying.
It was haunting.
Later I would realize
I had caught my first glimpse
of the Wall Within.
And those tears were real.

You and I do not walk about the Wall Within
like Hamlet on the battlements.
No one with our savvy
would expose himself like that
especially to a frightened, angry man.
Suicide loiters in our subconscious
and bears a grudge; an assassin
on hashish.
We must be wary.
No. We sit there legless in our immobility
rolling precariously in our self-pity
like ugly Humpty Dumpties
with disdain even for the king's horses
as we lean over the ledge to write
upside down with chalk, bleached white
with our truth
the names of all the other casualties
of the Vietnam War
(our loved one)
the ones Pentagon didn't put in uniform
but died anyway.
Some because they stopped being who they always were
just as truly as if they'd found
another way to breathe.
Others, because they did die
honest-to-God casualties of the Vietnam War
because they lost the will to breathe at all.

My mother gave her first recital
at Carnegie Hall at age eleven.
Sometimes, when I was a boy
I'd watch her play the piano
and wonder if, God, after all, was not a woman.
One evening when I was in the bush
she turned on the 6:00 news
and died of a heart attack.
My mother's name is on the Wall Within.

You starting to get the idea?

Our lists may be different
but shoulder to shoulder
if we could find the right flat cloud
on a perfect, black night
we could project our images
upon a god-size drive-in theatre
wide enough to race Ben Hur across
for a thousand years...

Because the Wall Within
adds up the true cost of war...
We can recite 58,012 in our sleep
even the day after they update it,
but how many of those KIA had kids?
How many of them got nice step-dads?
Whose wall do they go on?

Sailor Kissing Nurse - Photograph by Patty Mooney

And what about you vets
who came home to your wife and kids
only to divorce her because
there wasn't anyone to be angry at?
How many dimes
have you heard long-distance fathers
dropped into the slot
to hear how another man
was raising your children?

Yeah, Yeah, I can hear you hollerin',
"Put it on the wall! Put it on the wall!"
Damn right, it's on the wall...
And you remember how that came down?
you told the three year old
his daddy loved him
and his mommy loved him
and nothing would ever change that.
But it did anyway.
But not because you didn't love him enough,
but because you loved him too much
to be a part-time daddy.
And you couldn't explain that to him
because you couldn't explain it to you.
What the hell? I mean who were you,
Spinoza? You came home a twenty-two-year-old
machine gunner for chrissake,
you did the best you could.

PUT IT ON THE WALL!!

And somewhere, in an art gallery, maybe
is a portrait of American Grieving Parenthood.
Handholding, Rockwellian caricatures
of wisdom and forbearance
and oh yes, pride
sitting on the front porch
of the township
waving their lemonades
at the Greyhound bus driver.
Baloney. The names go UP!

Because every time you can't find Mom,
you damn well better call Doc Smith
cause she's up on the second floor again
sitting on the floor in Johnny's closet
smelling his Varsity sweater
with the sleeves around her shoulders
sobbing something maybe only Johnny ever
understood.

But don't worry about dad,
who never fished again,
or watched a ballgame on TV again
and won't talk to anyone this year
between the ages of thirty and forty.
He's doing fine.
He just doesn't exercise
as much as he should,
but Doc Smith assures us there's no medical
reason why the folks should have separate bedrooms;
Dad just likes to read a lot these days.

If you and I were men of common conscious
we might agree on a collective dedication
to our Walls Within.
As for me
they could all read:
This wall is dedicated
to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
wives, husbands,
sons, daughters,
lovers, friends,
and most of all dreams
of the men and women
who risked it all in Vietnam
while you continued to lose them
during and after the war
with less a chance than they for a parade
and no chance at all for an explanation.

You lost them to bullets, internment,
drugs, suicide, alcohol, jail, PTSD
Divorce, but never never did you any of you
ever lose them to the truth
which is now being shared
across this great nation
in such an act of spontaneous
moral courage, it's like many
never have been seen on any battlefield
in the history of mankind....

Amen to that, brother.
***********************

From Johnny's Song: Poetry of a Vietnam Veteran by Steve Mason (May 1986).
A Bantam Book

"Four Johnnies", MCRD, San Diego - Photograph by Patty Mooney

After the Reading of the Names by Steve Mason

(Shared at the Peace Memorial,
Old Town, San Diego, Memorial Day, l984)

I just call him Johnny;
like in Johnny went off to war
and Johnny didn't come home.
And remember him,
like Johnny was a helluva ball
playerand Johnny's girl believed in dreams.
And I can find him,
like in Johnny's folks
moved away that year-some say, Minnesota;
but his name's still here
not two miles from his old high school
on a Peace Memorial
(which is a funny name for it).
Sometimes like today,
we read All the names
some call it "the reading of the names."
Me, I just call it Johnny's song.
And as much as I love the words,
I've come to really hate the music...

Contemporary Klezmer with Solo Clarinet - A Video by Patty Mooney

2009-11-10T14:44:00.001-08:00

I now have a "series" of cool contemporary Klezmer pieces, so this is the second one that I wanted to share with you. Klezmer seems perfect to enjoy during the onset of the holiday season. I also found some funny little archival clips that seemed to work well in three of the pieces because Klezmer celebrates laughter. This one features Clarinetist, Leo Chelyapov along with some comedy clips from the late 1800's and early 1900's. Unfortunately, these tunes are unnamed, as they are mostly improvisational so it is difficult to differentiate between them. Part of the beauty of music videos is that you can listen to them while you work.

Contemporary Klezmer Calls Forth Our History - A Video by Patty Mooney

2009-11-05T17:04:00.000-08:00

The Jewish Studies Program at San Diego State University recently hosted an evening of music with Hot Pstrami, Yale Strom's klezmer band that includes Yale, his wife, Elizabeth Schwartz and bass-player, Jeff Pekarek. Special guests were the Three Tremolos, leading clarinetists who performed traditional and improvisational contemporary music.

Leo Chelyapov won first place in the Shostakovich Competition in Moscow at the age of twelve. He has also appeared on several TV shows, including Beverly Hills 90210 and Late Night with David Letterman.

Gary Gould has lectured at universities and colleges for more than 10 years and has led a clinic, "Gary Gould and Friends: A Klezmer Experience," introducing local music pros to the art of klezmer for the Orange County Musicians Union Bash.

Robert Zelickman is a lecturer of music at University of California San Diego, where he has taught since 1983. He conducts the UCSD Wind Ensemble and lectures on the symphony and Jewish music. He is a member of Orchestra Nova San Diego and has performed with the San Diego Symphony and the San Diego Opera.

I had my palm-sized video camera with me and captured a few tunes; thus I decided to edit another little "Pocket Production." Consider this a quick sketch, in comparison to a full-on professional video production in which the lighting, sound quality, picture resolution, etc. would be far superior. Imagine it shot with two or three cameras, with zooms and close ups, tilts and pans. This is merely the documentary of a stellar evening, a memory that would otherwise have faded into oblivion. I also included some great photographs going back 100 years, some of them taken in Jerusalem and the Middle East where Klezmer music originated.

Enjoy!

Brad Pitt With a Beard - Yes or No?

2009-11-05T14:56:00.000-08:00

Since I have been laid off from surfing the ocean, I was surfing the Internet today and found this photo of Brad Pitt sporting a beard with beads in it. "Oh no!" I thought to myself, "What are you doing????" Well, it's a good thing that beards can be shaved off, and I hope he does. What do YOU think?

The Visitor - A Film Reflection by Patty Mooney

2009-11-05T13:50:00.000-08:00

"In a world of six billion people it only takes one to change your life." This is the slugline for this movie directed by Tom McCarthy, and it drew me in because I know it's true. Also, I love the kind of movies that fly under the radar, the way I love hole-in-the-wall restaurants with excellent cuisine.

Richard Jenkins, a consummate character actor since the 1970's, plays the lead role as Walter Vale, a recently widowed man haunted by the loss of his wife and with that deer-in-the-headlights demeanor of someone who hasn't the slightest idea what to do now. He's an economics professor at a Connecticut university who has been doing it for so long he sets his body on cruise control while his soul yearns for some greater adventure.

In the opening scene he is waiting for a seasoned piano teacher to magically transform him into the brilliant pianist his wife was. When it's plain that she cannot do this he tells her as she's leaving that he's decided against further lessons. She turns to ask him thoughtfully, "Mr. Vale, how many teachers have you had before me?"

"Four," he replies.

"Mr. Vale," she says, "Sometimes those of us who do not have natural musical talent may choose to give up trying. If and when you do, and this is not to hurt your feelings, I would like to buy your piano."

The looks they exchange at this point seem pivotal to the film, to who Walter is at his inner core, and the adventure upon which he is about to embark, albeit "kicking and screaming," just a little bit. The next day, when his department head tells him that Walter needs to deliver a paper at a conference in New York City, Walter balks, but there is no wiggling out of it.

It so happens that Walter and his wife had kept an apartment in NYC, and so when he arrives with his overnight suitcase, he is shocked to discover that a young Muslim couple have taken residence there. Before he realizes that the apartment is rightfully Vale's, Tarek (Haaz Sleiman) a young drummer from Syria, fiercely protects his Senegalese girlfriend, Zainab (Danai Gurira) who is taking a bath when Walter first encounters her. When it becomes evident to the couple that they have been the victims of a rental scam, they gracefully bow out, packing their belongings and thanking Walter profusely for his understanding.

In the wake of the couple's absence, Walter contemplates the thundering silence. When he spots a framed portrait of Zainab and Tarek on a table, he grabs it and hurries to find them down the block where they are trying to figure out where to go. Walter tells them that until they find someplace to stay they can stay at his apartment.

Richard Jenkins has had decades to hone his mastery of acting, and in this role he is not pitiable nor maudlin. He's more like a child learning his new options in life. During a lunch break at the economics conference one day he is drawn to a drum circle in Central Park where he can get lost in the rhythyms. In the evening he returns home to find Tarek playing his African drum. In deference to his "landlord," Tarek immediately stops, and begins to put the drum away.

"Don't stop," Walter tells him. "You can practice all you like."

Here again is a pivotal point in the film when the two men begin to bond, and Tarek takes Walter under his wing to teach him how to drum.

Complications arise one day when Tarek is arrested in the subway and taken away for deportation, and Walter realizes that both Tarek and Zainab are "illegals." Tarek's incarceration coincides with the arrival of his mother, Mouna (Hiam Abbass) from Michigan with whom Walter begins a gentle and bittersweet love affair.

This film has its lovely and surprising moments. I enjoyed a guffaw when I saw Walter's piano being carried out of his house and sold to the ecstatic piano teacher. But more than that, there is the lifting of the black veil from Walter's grieving spirit to reveal a joy in music and in unexpected friendships.

If you like thoughtful and provocative movies with excellent acting, and music, then I believe you'll enjoy this one very much. In 2008 Richard Jenkins was nominated for an Academy Award for his role in this film.

Sonny & Cher

2009-11-03T17:47:00.001-08:00

Sonny & Cher, originally uploaded by cleopatra69.

You have not heard much of a peep out of me for the last week and that is because a second retinal detachment occurred in my left eye just as the first one appeared to be completely healed. Grrrrr! I have since learned that this is not such an uncommon occurrence. It could actually happen again, and again..... I am hoping that it won't. It's not the most fun thing that a person could do. Still, it doesn't prevent you from having fun anyway. I didn't have to play pirate with an eye patch on Halloween Eve at my husband, Mark's costume-birthday party (amazingly enough, as the surgery took place earlier that day). Instead, I was Cher. I think Mark was a much more convincing Sonny, though.

Comic Jim Gaffigan Riffs on Bacon

2009-10-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

OMG, this is such a funny riff on Bacon!

Comedian Jim Gaffigan says what everyone else is thinking in his ode to the best food ever: bacon.