Invisible Rescue

This week has been odd, perhaps because of in incident that occurred Sunday night. I just can't stop thinking about it, in fact. 

 I visited Z Budapest Sunday, who has had successful surgery on her hips and a very long stay in the hospital. (I will add, though, that she had a fantastic view from her gurney -a panorama of the East Bay with the scary beautiful Mormon Temple anti-Disney castle right in the center.) We chatted, talked book ideas, and watched 60 Minutes wherein the Bernie Madoff whistleblower was laying out just now lame the SEC, even scarier than Mormon fortresses! Then Alice Waters caressed vegetation in an erotic way during prime time whilst an emaciated bucket of botox stood uncomfortably by. Z and I tried to guess Alice Waters sun sign; Z felt Aquarius or Pisces, and I opined her to be an earth motherly Cancerian who just wants everybody to eat their veggies. (I'll get back to you on this, I promise. ) A nurse wandered in and out, somewhat aimlessly, wanting to kick me out and really not enjoying our New Age natterings. She did manage to bad vibe me out of the hospital around 8:30 pm and I drove away, contemplating the eroticism of certain mushrooms, and made my way out of downtown Oakland toward Berkeley. 

As I drove slowly down San Pablo thinking about the bills I had to pay and deciding whether I could get by one more day without doing laundry, a little black car with a ravenhaired man and black dog came zooming across San Pablo, heading toward me and Shadowfax, my car. I braked but had nowhere to go, as plunging onto a pedestrian-filled sidewalk seemed an even worse idea. I braced for impact, figuring Shadowfax would be totalled and maybe me, too.  But somehow, in some way I just can't figure out, his car made an impossible 90 degree angle turn when it was inches away and missed me. I was gasping in shock as was everyone who saw it. The black car zipped away; I noticed the dog sitting in the front seat seemed unconcerned by it all. I contemplated chasing the car but I was really too scared to move or breathe or blink. In my mind's eye, it seemed like an unseen hand (albeit a large one) batted the car away.

I know that sounds crazy and that's okay. I finally got the nerve to drive the remaining dozen or so blocks to my house.  I was shaking and sheet-white. I practically crawled up the stairs. Shards of thoughts rattled around my brain -was it Robert? Do I have a guardian angel, even though I don't believe in them. I settled on a thought I could live with for the night, that "the universe" cut me slack because of the hospital visit. But,  I keep wondering what happened.

What do YOU think?

A Lower Haight Life Lesson

Your Differences Are Your Greatest Assets

When I first moved to foggy California, my best friend Kimberly and I had driven straight from West Virginia and crossed the country in only three days. We took turns driving our beat-up little car; I would sleep while Kim took a shift and vice versa. I remember being aggravated that I couldn’t get her to wake up and see the Great Arch of St Louis as we hurriedly drove by, the first rays of the morning sun glinting and sparkling all around us. The next night, I remember feeling immensely grateful she was a deep sleeper as we almost slid off the road at 3 am in an unseasonal Rocky Mountain blizzard. We didn’t have money for hotels so we two hicks hastened to what we knew was surely the land of milk and honey. Kim’s friend, Jeff Westbrook, lived in San Francisco and we were promised a basement floor with two pieces of foam for sleeping. In other words, paradise!

Our hosts, themselves Appalachian expats, had transformed themselves into glamorous urban creatures of enormous sophistication –long dyed-black hair, black jeans, vintage garb, piercings in odd places. It was very exciting and extremely intimidating, all at the same time. My first day, I was actually wearing a blue gingham patchwork dress, pretty chic for back home, which I now realized was not even good enough for a pillowcase in San Francisco. I was also shocked to discover the cost of living and what it would take to get by. I felt like an utter hayseed. Kimberly wasn’t feeling well and took to her foam. So, I was left to get to know Jeff, his cool girlfriend, and the punk rock band that lived at 808 Haight and practiced in the basement (Turns out the foam was excess sound proofing.) They were very nice but I could see the pity in their eyes as they extracted tales of growing up on a dirt road and my whole life story of about 90 seconds. They had lived in the largest city in West Virginia, so my farm girl accent was pretty pronounced, even to them. They were very kind and patient and took me out and around to parties and their regular hangouts. Upon being introduced around, people invariably commented on my accent and seemed terribly amused by it.

The $500.00 I had saved for the move was rapidly evaporating and I was realizing I needed to get a job as quickly as possible. I walked to the financial district to save the bus fare and applied for a temp job. As luck would have it, I got placed and started working the same day for Morgan Stanley, a fancy financial outfit. Relieved to have work, I threw myself into it and filed, answered phones, typed memos, and ran errands. I would have scrubbed the floor if anyone has asked. Interestingly, my newly arrived Appalachian Alien status seemed to be helpful at my new job. They didn’t even seem to notice my fashion failures and we quickly fell into comradely routines with quick lunches, not too much chat but just enough, and I felt like I belonged. As receptionist and all around office helper, I spent a lot of time on the phone and a funny thing happened- stockbrokers from New York and the like, seemed to LIKE my funny accent. Once I had that figured out, there was no stopping me, I was an out-and-proud hayseed! I confess to “working it” and finding my dirt-road origins to be an unfailing asset in business and in every other part of life. I now work in The Lower Haight, about a block from the famous foam-filled basement. I made a little movie with my fellow expats, “Lower Haight Holler” in which we celebrate being hicks in the city. I learned to not only appreciate but to treasure that what made me different was one of my greatest strengths.

An Unexpected Message

            Oftentimes, messages come with animals, either live or in spirit vision.  If this happens to you, you should study the meaning of this animal, as it may well become your personal totem or power animal.  Bear in mind, too, that your animal totem might be a real surprise.  You may be a 300-pund linebacker, and your totem might be a mouse.  Remember, the totem picks you; you don’t pick the totem.

            I was surprised when my animal totem first came to me.  For whatever reason, I thought I was not a nature girl.  I did a personal vision quest, and while a trip to an exotic place such as the Amazon jungle was not in my immediate plans, I felt I could definitely journey to the shore and make it a spiritual trek.  Between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, there is a wonderful national park by the Pacific Ocean called Big Basin.  Big Basin features a waterfall with a very large creek that flows down a mountain directly into the ocean.  For sheer physical beauty and drama, Big Basin is nearly unmatched.  The waterfall is a “word of mouth” phenomenon that only occurs after the rainy season.  If you go at any other time, the waterfall is dry and, for all intents and purposes, simply does not exist.  I decided that, for my purposes, I could experience a little of the magic my fried Terrance McKenna wrote about in his mind-blowing book, True Hallucinations.

            So I set off on the seven-mile journey up the mountain to find Berry Creek Falls. Because I was hit by a drunk driver some years back, hiking is hard for me, sometimes. But I was extremely motivated to discover this hidden watery jewel, and the beauty of the spring day was sheer joy to behold.  Through flowering spring trees, a singing brook, and a lush green landscape, I felt like I had rediscovered Eden all by myself.  After about five miles, my ankle, which had been smashed in the accident, was begging me for a respite.   I moved down the bank of the big creek and dipped my throbbing leg into the cool water.  It felt so good, and I was so hot and hungry, that it seemed absolutely essential that I plunge into the creek.  I think I lay in the water for at least two hours, and I felt an enormous sense of release there.  I wept, letting go of deep emotions and past pain as the water flowed around me.  Lichen, moss, leaves, and some small sticks caught in my waist length hair, but these added to my sense that I was getting closer to nature.  I was in my element and very glad of it.

            Eventually, I became aware of the world outside my mossy mermaid creek bed.  It was getting late, and lacking flashlight or fire, I could either wash out to sea or return to the world and my life.  Refreshed, a little more lucid, a lot hungrier, but with no distinct vision, it seemed that it was going to take another trip for me to get any real enlightenment.

            I started the journey of several miles down the incline, deep in thought.  After a few minutes I noticed that I was not the only one walking in the woods.  I stopped, and the other footsteps stopped, too. I started and the other footsteps started again.  The steps were very close.  It seemed that someone or something was walking just off to my left, practically beside me.  I started to get frightened; being followed was not in my vision quest plans!

            Carefully and quietly, I turned to look in the dimming light.  To my utter amazement, there was a young female deer walking beside me.  We looked at each other, and I am not sure who was more frightened.  We walked together and soon grew fairly comfortable with each other’s presence.  I touched her and she didn’t flinch or run away.  This was miraculous.  I marveled that she remained at my side.  I grew up in West Virginia, where deer simply don’t “hang out” with humans. I came to realize that this doe was my animal totem.  She picked me, and definitely let me know that she was there for me, escorting me down the mountain from my vision quest.  At the end of the grassy hill, before it became sand and beach, she turned, and with a long gaze, gave me her goodbye.  I was practically shaking with excitement and an indescribable bursting feeling inside.

            All those Native American teachings I had heard were completely real and true.  Never again did I doubt the veracity of vision and spirit from the elders. 

            The realm of the spirit is there.  It’s just waiting for you to walk in.

Absinthe Epiphanies -Brenda Knight's Adventures in Prague

Risks Worth Taking -Drinking Absinthe in Prague

A Tale of Two Pragues -A "Trip" to Middle Earth

I had the fortune of going to Prague for a literary festival a few years ago. As if that weren’t wonderful enough, I was accompanied by Laurence Ferlingetti and ruth weiss, two of the legendary poets who were also coming to Prague for the first time. We were enthralled with the city, and its undisturbed medieval beauty, despite some unfortunate Communist era architectural monstrosities in the suburbs. Also., we got to stay near the city gate on Templova Street in an apartment building that had been a Knights Templar stronghold a mere 800 years ago. Walking along the banks of the Charles River, it was like a dream. Get thee to Prague as soon as you can, it is a place of deep magic and will doubtless inspire you.

There seemed to be two Pragues, from what I could tell. One is the day-to-day Prague with citizens going about their business as they always have, intermixing with tourists and the many expats who (like I very nearly did) came to Prague to visit and simply never left. Then, there is the Prague by night, which has many discos and a glittery blend of Europeans and North American clubbers. Lit by candlelight and neon, this Prague takes on an otherworldly glow where pretty much anything is possible. For me, the most memorable public house of all is a bar whose name translates to “The Man With the Shot Out Eye,” a reference to Jan Hus. Our Beat contingent decided to visit on our last night in Prague and on this night the pivo (Czech for beer) and the absinthe was flowing. I was an “absinthe virgin” and everybody was guessing I would not be able to handle it. Perhaps it was the romance of this trip but I WAS able to handle the absinthe. I think.

That night, the bar was filled with mostly men, odds I was definitely appreciative of – Russians, Moravians, Slovenians, Slovakians, Czechs, Germans, Hungarians, Poles, Estonians. And, I’m sure it was NOT the absinthe, but they were the most interesting looking men, mostly with long hair and dark clothes, in short – pretty darn Goth. At one point, after my third glass of absinthe, all the colors in the room got just a little bit brighter and suffused with a sort of electric glow. I was talking to a particularly amiable young man with long blonde hair and he was explaining the wonders of the Eastern Bloc to me and I had a perceptual shift. It was right after that I had what I call my absinthe epiphany, in which I realized that J.R.R. Tolkien’s Riders of Rohan were the Slovakians, and that all of the peoples of his middle earth (minus the Hobbits) were right here in the bar with me. I was thunderstruck and so overcome with excitements at my sudden understanding of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, which I tried to explain it to all of my new friends. They heartily agreed; my new Slovakian friend insisted I was correct and he was a Rohirrin warrior and we swept out into the streets to take Prague by storm. The next day, a bit headachy and sad to be leaving my new second home, I realized that I had a minor absinthe-induced hallucination. When the first of the Lord of the Rings movies came out in 2002, I was pleased to see that the casting director apparently saw Middle Earth the way I do.

Risk Assessment: Even though I enjoy an excellent glass of wine more than most, I was scared to drink absinthe, associating it with madness and murder, the reasons it was outlawed. It took lots of cajoling by my Czech mates to get me to drink it. I am convinced they wanted to see a blonde American girl be repulsed by the harshness. I think they were just as surprised as I was to see that I not only enjoyed the "green fairy" drink but had a truly memorable experience. I'll never forget that night in the ancient city and taking the risk of daring to drink absinthe in the company of strangers as a favorite traveling memory!

A Best Mind of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah by Brenda Knight

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.Below is his obit and tribute from Tom RobbinsFred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007by Tom RobbinsNovember 6th, 2007 10:57 AMFred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie EisenbergRemembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy GiulianiVeteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrahIn the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrahLike anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.

One of the Best Minds of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.

Below is his obit and tribute from Tom Robbins



Fred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007
by Tom Robbins
November 6th, 2007 10:57 AM
Fred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie Eisenberg
Remembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy Giuliani

Veteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.
Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.
Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.
Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.
For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."
An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.
Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrah
In the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.
J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrah
Like anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.
Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.


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Get Lit!

Hey everybody -when you are not attending Nick 2.0's Flash Fiction course, you need to be at this embarrassment of writerly riches. LitQuake is a veritable literary orgy! My dear friend Nina Lesowitz has been stellar in helping organize this. Check it:

Mere days remain before the opening of Litquake, San Francisco’s Literary Festival, As always, we aim to please a wide variety of the populace—not an easy feat in San Francisco. This year's festival is exceptionally rich, starting with a stellar opening night that boasts a lineup of actors, the literati, and musicians honoring Tales of the City author Armistead Maupin. And, as always, the week will conclude when the masses take to Valencia Street for the Lit Crawl.Below are a few of the many and varied highlights. Listen to the literate Jane Smiley converse with the bifurcated Daniel Handler; toast a young generation of poets and spoken-word artists with Youth Speaks; and marvel at the convolutions (verbal and tattooed) when the San Francisco Chronicle's Mark Morford talks dharma with Tattooed Buddha Noah Levine.We can't wait to see you there!Wednesday, October 10, 7 pm Jane Smiley in Conversation with Daniel HandlerDelancey Street Foundation, 600 Embarcadero. $15Doors open at 6:30 pm, event begins at 7 pm.Tickets on sale through City Box Office
We can’t promise he’ll wear a fez or play the accordion, as he’s been known to do at his public appearances, but Daniel Handler (best known as the lyrically strange Lemony Snicket) will do his best to spice up the author Q&A format as he interviews Pulitzer Prize winner Jane Smiley (Ten Days in the Hills), no slouch in the wit department herself.
Tuesday, October 11, 6:30 pmYouth Speaks All StarsTheater Building, School of the Arts, 555 Portola Drive at O’Shaughnessy. FREE
Litquake is honored to partner with Youth Speaks to present an entire new generation of poets and spoken-word artists as part of this year’s festival. Featuring an all-star cast of young poets, and a few special guests, the lineup includes poets seen on HBO’s Def Poetry, National Poetry Slam Champions, newly published authors, and the current Youth Speaks Teen Poetry Slam Champions.Thursday, October 11, 7:30 pm Tattooed Buddha:An Evening with Dharma Punk Noah LevineRoxie Theater. 3117 16th Street. FREE
Punk rocker turned Buddhist teacher/bestselling author Noah Levine talks dharma with San Francisco Chronicle columnist Mark Morford. Audience Q&A follows. In addition, selected clips will be screened from Meditate and Destroy, a new documentary about Noah’s life and work. Book sales and author signing after the event. Presented in conjunction with HarperOne, publisher of Levine’s books Dharma Punx and Against the Stream.

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