Bill Mercer – Clara Hsu

Farewell, Bill

lunation5 — After a reading at Santa Clara University, with Bill Mercer and David Wong. Bill’s paintings on the back.

Maybe he is Buddha. But for seven years Bill Mercer was in flesh and blood. It couldn’t have been a dream. We read poetry and accompanied each other with musical instruments for as long as we’ve known each other. Tonight I heard he left his apartment keys to another friend and took off in his van to Louisiana, where he came from.

Without a goodbye Bill disappears into the mist. Seven years ago he appeared at my shop, picked up one of the shakuhachis on display and filled the room with breathy and unharnessed sound. Bill became a regular customer at my world music concert series and we bumped into each other at Sacred Grounds’ poetry reading.

A constant friend and poetry partner, we read all over the Bay Area as Lunation. Bill cared for my cats while I was away. Up to two weeks ago he was helping me to take care of my aging father.

His brush paintings hang on my walls, somehow I know Bill won’t been back for a long time. Steve Mackin called him “Buddha of the Bayou”. There is something mystical about the number 7.

Being Something Else

It’s slowly happening: pink antennae bobbing on a woman’s head, Pocahontas in her skimpy frilly outfit, a man wearing a diamond studded crown. And there will be more today, I’m sure, slowly emerging in downtown among the shoppers—the devil, the clown, the fairy queen, the tea kettle, the pretzel! T’s the season to be something else.

Halloween being on a Monday, we have the whole weekend to play. Dressed up. Dressed down. Our imagination gets a good work out. One day of the year (and a few days before) we get to exercise it unrestrained. But what about the other times when we settle for the old humdrum?

Last year Bill Mercer and I read Love and Death at Sacred Grounds during Halloween with our faces painted. The inferior quality of the paint made our skin unbearably itchy. We ran to the bathroom cursing and washed our makeup off . I guess that is a good reason why we’ll just be ordinary this year.

North Beach, At Night

Bill Mercer’s Question Project opened its fourth installment at the Live Worms Gallery yesterday. Five poets—Stephanie Manning, Buford Buntin, Mark Johnson, Jack Hirschman, George Marchi—and artist Edward Millet, gave poetic responses to Bill’s black ink, brush stroke artworks. Chuck Bernstein played the berimbau. North Beach wine hostess Lonnie set up a table serving wine and juice, and the beat was on.

San Francisco’s poetic luminaries made their appearances. Bill’s project has pulled the community together by involving artists and poets to express themselves around a theme. The place began to thin out around nine o’clock. A man walked in with his own bottle of wine was asked to put it down. “A new face,” Lonnie said. She knew everyone. Another man came in, not so steady on his feet. Soon there were three of them. They were not there for the artworks. It took a while before Bill could politely usher the men out the door and lock it.

Just after Lonnie left, a small woman knocked. She wanted to use the toilet. OK. Bill said. When she came out she eyed the opened bottle that was left on the table.

“May I have a cup?” She asked to no one in particular, and began helping herself.

Bill came over. “No.” He said. His big body hovered over her.

Instead of leaving, the woman sat down on Bill’s chair and whined. “Why you bein’ mean ta me? Ah jus whon a cup with ice, that all.”

Bill did better than that. He filled the cup with ice and poured a full cup of wine. The woman followed him to the door. He handed her the cup when she walked out.

“They said over at the Trieste, if Live Worms doesn’t have wine at a show it’s not worth going.” Someone chuckled.

The alcohol level was becoming more and more saturated as the night wore on. When I walked into the street the bars were filled with people. Someone behind me was rushing. I could hear her high-heels stomping on the ground. I moved away. She stumbled and plastered herself on a restaurant window. Young, blond, well dressed, stoned.

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

The Flashlights of Innocence

I met Susan Birkeland for the first time at a reading in North Beach Library. She arrived with an oxygen tank and wearing a breathing mask. Her head was bald from chemotherapy. She came to hear her friends. Someone asked her to read. Susan took off the mask and made her way slowly to the front. Yet when she turned around she was radiant and stunned the audience with her passionate recital. Shortly after, Susan passed away. I bought her chapbook, the Bruised Angels’ Almanac. One of the poems in the book, The Flashlights of Innocence, was my favorite. I share it often at readings and enjoy hearing it read by others.

Fred Schywek, a German poet, discovered Susan’s poetry on the internet through surfing for American poets. Fred and his friend Annmarie Sauer are organizers for the 2nd European Festival of Poetry and Hafenklänge, Havenklanken, Sounds of Harbor, a multi-lingual project of internet publishing. Annmarie contacted Nicole Savage of SF Hearts. She and Fred flew over to San Francisco and we met at the Paradiso recording studio. Ana Elsner, Bill Mercer, Jerry Ferraz, Nicole Savage and I took turns reading Susan’s poems. The finished product will be played at the poetry festival in Antwerp, Belgium, in September. Susan Birkeland, even with her body gone, her poetry lives on.

The Shakuhachi Man

My poetry partner Bill Mercer and I have a duo called “Lunation”. Aside from being a poet, Bill plays the shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute. When I first heard him play I was still running Clarion Music Center. I was struck by his sound–free–was the only word I could use to describe it. You can’t plot his notes because there is no scale. You can’t define them because there is no meter. You can’t confine them because there is no rhythm. He plays by how his great body and mind feel. His music is like the cosmos, infinite and mysterious.

We practice regularly before a performance. The challenge for me is to harness his freedom so that my verse and his music may come together and not be entangled. After five years we are beginning to tap into each other’s psyche. He understands my needs if I can verbalize them. There are moments in our practices and performances that are exquisite and heavenly but they will never be repeated. Only a memory remains, but indescribable.