clarahsu – Page 40

The HALJ

Cesar Love, editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, came to the TV studio yesterday as my poetic guest. Between taping sessions we talked about the Journal. Poems are still selected the same way as it was conceived in 1979, with X and O marks by each editor to separate the acceptable ones from the rejected ones. The journal survives on a bare thread. It is as organic as the sand dunes on the beach, with the unwavering mission of serving poetry to all people.

Recently, HALJ collaborated with the Main Street Theatre and produced Circo Poetico, a fundraising event that brought together poets, clowns, ballerinas, and contortionists. It was a show rich with surprises and fun. As an audience, I was invited by the little redhead Orphan Annie in a polka dot dress to waltz with the teddy bears.

There is an excellent essay on the the journal’s wild rides through the years by its founder, Indigo (Joanne) Hotchkiss. You can see HALJ is still here not because of luck, but one woman’s determination.

Two Tongues of Gaia

B&B — Clara & Bill at Bird and Beckett Books

As the last tone on the singing bowl fades away, we know we’re ready. Bill looks at me with a smile on his face and I smile back. Next Wednesday (July 27) will be the premier at the Sacred Grounds. Our new set of poetry, Two Tongues of Gaia, includes the usual instruments of Bill’s shakuhachi and my drum. But we have added some vocals and the Native American style flute.

Whether we rehearse at my house or Bill’s studio, the ritual always begin with a cup of tea. Conversation ensues on the state of the world, friends and community, with Bill warming up his shakuhachi in between. We like to run the set through, pausing in between to discuss the issues that come up—the rhythms on the drum, the tempo in the recitation, the balance between voice and instrument, etc. Sometimes things work out smoothly. Other times we struggle through, tolerating each other’s point of view, but ultimately a decision is made.

We sit back, feeling good about what we’ve done, and drink some more tea. The gestation part has been rewarding. We look forward to bringing the child into the world.

Photo by Richard Beban

A Mop for the Spill

It took only a cup of coffee latte to decommission a bus. An old lady spilled it. There was nothing to mop it. The driver called command central, a spill…a spill…and herded the rest of us off the bus like a flock of sheep.

Sometimes I wonder why a bus doesn’t come and when it does, is so crowded. Now I know things like the spill and other mishaps may be the cause. Putting aside the blame, which in this case was clearly the passenger’s, I wonder why buses aren’t equipped with a little housekeeping compartment. A towel would have taken care of the matter. A dustpan for debris? And insist the guilty ones clean up after themselves. Yes it may still throw the timing off, but offenders won’t get to walk away from their mess like spoiled children.

Invitation To Draw

How do I begin? Pick one color, then another, and another. My new friend Lori gave the instructions. Sitting next to me, another lady handed over a large tray of pastel. Paper, no? Here’s a textured one. Go ahead, use it.

The tapered tips of muted and vibrant colors reminded me of lipsticks. I picked out a crimson peach and drew a line. That’s it. Now you can dip the brush into this cup of water and smear the line so it’ll look like watercolor.

I drew a spiral. Then another, and another. It was what came to my mind. When I was tired of the spirals I made a checkerboard and filled the squares using the entire palette. I like colors. Long ago I had decided life was more than black, white and beige.

We drank tea and ate pie. Before they left the ladies held up their pieces for all to see. There were some amazing collages. By pasting images cut out from magazines, they dissected the artists’ original intentions and made them their own. I held mine up, the first since childhood. The ladies nodded with approval like proud parents.

Little Horse, Little Horse

A caravan of horses and a van riding from central Turkey to Iran. Sleeping in tents. Cooking in an open fire. Visiting artisans who make carpets. Watching them load the pieces into the van…I imagined as Mehmet Dasdeler described what he was planning to do. He could do it. A man of high energy and vision, he owned hotels and a carpet shop in Goreme, Turkey.

“Come with me.” Mehmet said, “We’re mapping the route right now. Maybe in two years we’ll go.”

“I’d love to.” I said. “But first I have to learn how to ride a horse.”

Mehmet put me on one of his horses. A beautiful brown with white spots. As soon as we left the stable, my little horse started to act up and wouldn’t go forward. “He’s testing you.” Mehmet said. “Kick him with your heels.” I kicked. “Harder.” He laughed.

Little horse went around in circles, snorting and swaying. I could barely hold onto him. He ran up a different hill instead of following Mehmet’s horse. He rushed downhill to get rid of his burden. My bottom swung out of his body. I would fall in a second and die.

“What happened?” Mehmet rode over and held the rein, steadying the horse.

“I’m sorry, Mehmet.” I said. Iran felt very far away. And if little horse and I were to be companions we might never ever see our family and friends again.

Mind Music

How do you get rid of the tune that is playing in your head? Mine goes on automatic rewind and it has been weeks now. This time, at least, is an impressive piece—Debussy’s Valse Romantique. It’s playing when I open my eyes in the morning. It’s playing when I write, coming in between pauses in its strong waltz rhythm. It accompanies me in the street, and the grand chords give dramatic background music to the shops and people I pass. The flowing notes disappear only when I’m asleep.

Sometimes the music is just a silly tune like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I have no control over what is playing and why it gets into my head and when it stops. I’m distracted this way, by the music in my head. It was a big problem when I was small. They called me absent-minded. Now, at least, there is no one to chide me.

When Small Gets Big

My father and I began our music business in a basement. For ten years we were doing quite well, having a comfortable income and relatively stress free. Then I had all kinds of dreams and ambitions and the basement became annoyingly small. In 1993 we expanded to include the ground floor of the building. Since then, it had been an uphill struggle all the way, until I sold the business in 2005.

What was not calculated in my mind was the human costs. In doubling the space, responsibilities blew up into monstrous proportion. Solving daily crisis thwarted my energy. Many well intentioned programs were wasted by the road side. My income was also compromised.

In retrospect I realized it was my greediness in achievement that had made life difficult for me. I was not content with my smallness. Like Icarus in the Greek mythology, and other immediate examples in the news: the downfall of dictators and News of the World,etc. And Netflix’s price hike—abandoning a perfectly fine business model and opening themselves to competition—I can almost smell the singed wings…

My Father’s Soy Cake

Bud Zimmerman escaped the Holocaust in Germany by taking a slow boat to Shanghai. He stayed there for many years, and as a teenager apprenticed in a bakery. After the war he settled in San Francisco and when he retired, took daily walk around Spreckels Lake at the Golden Gate Park.

There were always a few familiar faces at the lake. Bud noticed a new regular, my father, who walked around the lake leaning on a cane. They became friends and talked about their war experiences. When my father found out Bud was a baker, he asked for some tips.

Since his stroke, my father turned vegetarian. He started making soy milk but didn’t want to trash the residue. Bud suggested blending the residue into a flour mixture and bake a cake. So my father did, baking soy cakes and taking them to the park and sharing them with Bud. Bud would in turn critique each attempt, offer suggestions in adding and subtracting various ingredients.

Bud died a few years ago. My father now ride to Spreckels Lake in an electric scooter. He still makes soy cakes, experimenting with new ideas each time. Instead of using the residue, he now grinds the beans into a paste. Yesterday two young friends came by to assist him. We sat down to afternoon tea, tasting fresh baked soy cakes filled with raisins.

Synchronistic Serendipity

I missed the #44 bus last night, watching it passed as I stood across the street on Fulton and 8th. I could have waved. It might have stopped. But it was crowded and I decided to let it go. At the bus shelter it said 18 minutes before the next one. I took a walk in the ripping wind. Glad to be bundled up in my winter coat.

The bus looked empty when it arrived. After I boarded someone in the front said hello. It was Zach T sitting on an electric scooter. Hello, I said, I just met a friend of yours yesterday and you were on our mind. I sat down across from him. New bike, I observed. Yeah. He nodded. It’s fantastic.

Zach is probably in his early twenties. When we fist met at the Sacred Grounds he walked with a limp with the aid of a walking stick. But when he read his poetry was fiery and punctuated, fabulously hip-hop without a trace of debilitation. Sometimes he just came to listen. Huddled in a corner, left as quietly as he came.

He told me he missed two buses. I told him I missed one. That was all that it took to meet up. It was late at night. Few people got on the bus as we chatted. He invited me to draw and paint with him and his friends. I said yes I’d like that. He got off at Mission and Silver. I got off a little further down and trudged uphill.

Accordionism and The Folding Fan

Rummaging through Netflix the other night I came across Picasso and Braque Go to the Movies, a short documentary on how the birth of motion picture influenced the artists in their expressions. Picasso and Braque impressed the concept of movements on the flat surface. Like the folding and unfolding of the pleated bellow of the accordion and the Spanish fan, a woman’s turning face was not dissected but presented in a continuous, fluid manner. Cubism all of a sudden no longer sounded cold and abstract to me, but full of energy and passion. And art is passion. How did I think it could be otherwise?