The Golden Bus Pass / JETS Medals

My dad was a city councilman in my hometown, and he worked assiduously on public transport -- in this case, buses. For his service, he was awarded a "gold bus pass" (probably brass) good for free bus transit for life. As a child, then, when moneys weren't forthcoming for bus passes, I would ask for the gold pass. After shaking down the couch, always good for at least 75 cents, and really earnestly requesting money...


An early example of a rhyming recipe

Two boiled potatoes strained through a kitchen sieve, Softness and smoothness to the salad give; Of mordant mustard take a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites too soon! Yet deem it not, thou man of taste, a fault To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar procured from town; True taste requires it and your poet begs The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs. Let onion's atoms lurk within the bowl And, scarce suspected, animate the whole, And lastly in the flavoured compound toss A magic spoonful of anchovy sauce. Oh, great and glorious! Oh, herbaceous meat! 'Twould tempt the dying Anchorite to eat, Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl. -- Sydney Smith


New chapbook / eChapbook! Catherine Daly has published a new chapbook, available (online, http://limitcyclepress.blogspot.fi/) and in print from limit cycle press. This was written using the different ways a nintendo controller functions in different games -- the games were actually the free previews of games in a hotel room where I was very ill, about ten years ago. My original intent was then to take these behaviours, and use them to "play" various books and paintings. It could still happen... http://www.amazon.com/Controller-Seedbed-Catherine-Daly/dp/1500209821/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1403731373&sr=8-5 applying the poem from earlier on this blog: http://cadaly.blogspot.com/2009/07/from-new-poem-controller-seedbed-first.html



Upon moving to Florida, I met many people with varying opinions about guns and experiences with them. As most of my opinions, I am willing to revise, but when I'm moving not from opinion, but from experience, I work anecdotally. Unconcealed carry is scary and real, but "a real cowboy knows the guns and exits." And unconcealed carry fosters this. Cue: "Don't Bring your guns to town." Johnny Cash Quote: "Cowboys sit back to the wall." Wild Bill Hickok (not taking own advice) In many ways, this is just as living life as a woman, but I guess it is living life as a person. Concealed carry has the extra -- well, you didn't know I had this, did'ya? -- factor. But then one's knowledge is more limited. There are illegal guns. But legal guns are, well, also guns. I prefer to know my threats. An outrider thought I had the other day is that Clinton's take on abortion (safe, legal, rare) applies to guns, expect that anybody can buy a gun. Then I thought, but takes two to make a victim and target. Then, I thought, makes two to make a baby, and not getting distracted by the movie Gun Crazy nor by guns 'n butter ways of understanding economics, thanatos & eros, thought... a number of things [censored]. Just wanted to post this, and have a space to think more clearly... more about mental health and gund, fer shure! :) gah


I whisper to whales, dirt, and keyboards Did you doubt me, Mary. That’s okay. In the arches of the trees, in the leafed light, in every place for singing…


Black Bart, the Poet, of course lived in Decatur, Illinois. Bowles was convicted and sentenced to six years in San Quentin Prison, but his stay was shortened to four years for good behavior. When he was released in January 1888, his health had clearly deteriorated owing to his time in prison. He had visibly aged, his eyesight was failing, and he had gone deaf in one ear. Reporters swarmed around him when he was released, and asked if he was going to rob any more stagecoaches. "No, gentlemen," he replied, smiling, "I'm through with crime." Another reporter asked if he would write more poetry. Bowles laughed and said, "Now, didn't you hear me say that I am through with crime?" Copycat poem written by another criminal in 1888: So here I've stood while wind and rain Have set the trees a-sobbin, And risked my life for that box, That wasn't worth the robbin. Authenticated poems: I've labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches, But on my corns too long you've tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches. —Black Bart, 1877 Here I lay me down to sleep To wait the coming morrow, Perhaps success, perhaps defeat, And everlasting sorrow. Let come what will, I'll try it on, My condition can't be worse; And if there's money in that box 'Tis munny in my purse. --Black Bart, 1878


from JohnnyO There's a good reason that you couldn't decipher that part...because it's gibberish. In Nat's original version, there's a tip-off sentence that explains the whole thing. Here first is Diana's version, followed by Nat's. Each of them, by the way, uses a different gibberish line in the song, so each has been given the one specific to that performer. Having said that, I must, in all fairness, give equal time to those who have a dissenting opinion. Quoting from the liner notes to Mosaic's 18-CD set, "Some older musicians contend that, while the title made as much sense as "Shoo Fly Pie," in fact there really was an "Ausen" bakery that served something called "chefafa" on the side." Personally, I wonder more about what those "older musicians" had been drinking than what they had been eating...especially in light of Nat's final line. There was a wealth of material to choose from for Nat, this being one of his most-recorded songs, including a V-disc recording and at least 3 live versions that have been issued on CD alone, ALL of which include the final line that explains the whole thing. I went with the domestically-released studio version for the transcript. Anyway, it's a shame to realize that my dream girl has feet of clay... leaving out the joke without which the song makes no sense. But she compensates for it with a neat stride intro which sounds a lot like Fats Waller with a hangover...as opposed to Nat's own intro, which sounds more like Art Tatum on 'ludes...and I must say it's refreshing to know that this is the second lyric from Diana/Nat I've been asked to post here... Diana Krall Frim Fram Sauce All For You (A Dedication to The Nat King Cole Trio) I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Well, you know, A girl, she really got to eat, And a girl, she should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread, You heard what I said. Waiter, please, I want mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Shoo, doo-doo-doo-ya, doo, doo; Shuuba doo-ya doo, sheeya-did'n'doo. I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Now you know, Girls. we really got to eat, And you know we should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread, You heard what I said. Waiter, please, I want mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Ooh, with shifafa, uh, on the side. --- The Frim Fram Sauce Nat King Cole/The King Cole Trio I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. A fella really got to eat, An' a fella should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread. You heard what I said. Waiter, please serve mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. A fella really got to eat, An' a fella should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread. You heard what I said. Waiter, please serve mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. Now, if you don't have it, Just bring me a check for the water. ---
from Stills The Maltese Falcon Dingus, falcon, black- bird in Sam Spade’s hands, grasped by Humphrey Bogart. Spade portrait: shadow falcon on the wall, against it, that blonde devil burns information leading to Brigid and in front of Effie, projects shade, almost reflection, smokes with the fake dingus prop, photographer struggling to encapsulate the film, to capture evil or Peter Lorre, corrupt Sydney Greenstreet or Astor portraying a betraying angel, Mary, whose unshot still would end the movie now. The Thin Man Train car martinis (luggage in foreground says “train”) dressed in p.j.s and Asta, always, before the one with the kid made them too human, William Powell and Myrna Loy at the boxing match, slumming, drinking at a speakeasy, when that speakeasy really was 21, a clue decadence requires a cover, a detective, too, and money keeps ethnicity and your name from all the papers. The Big Sleep Photos promote film, but also stars, so this film is a love story between the actors, reposed in the studio: Bacall in her furs, reclining to kiss “behind the scenes” and “candid.” It’s also character. Caught behind a webwork of lies, Bacall wears a hat, black netting pulled over her puss. Two in league with each other, she posed next to the passed out girl lying on an ornate bed. They cringe under a shadow which appears to be bars on a jail cell (only slightly illicit, unwed). Double Indemnity Stanwyck, MacMurray bargain in the grocery store. She’s blonde, she’s brunette in some of Wilder’s chosen lighting. He’s limping, wounded, on crutches, in a cast on the train; he’s sent down for ever….


another, to rewrite at a later time


One of my favorite fairy tales

warning: I'm a religion/english cross There once was a tiny, tiny baby who was very much wanted. Her mom considered her to be like a flower. A nicely polished walnut shell served as her cradle. Her mattress was made of the blue petals of edible pansies, and a rose petal was pulled up to cover her. That was how she slept. She could sing, too. One night as she lay in her cradle, a toad hopped in through the window that was open to the night air. "Here's a perfect wife for my son!" the toad exclaimed. I don't why she said that; I don't why her son wasn't perfectly able to find a partner on his/her own. The poor little thing woke up early next morning, and when she saw where she was she began to cry bitterly. There was water all around the big green leaf and there was no way at all for her to reach the shore. She was a lotus flower, after all. The toad curtsied deep in the water before her, and said: "Meet my son. He is to be your husband, and you will share a delightful home." Her son was rather unconversational. She was understandably upset. The fish, who swam in the water, as fish tend to do, beneath had seen and understood the the toad. They looked at the young woman. They did the best they could, and Thumbelina was adrift. But something happened: she became a traveler. A lovely white butterfly kept fluttering around her, and she planted many gardens with plants that butterflies love. It was all very lovely as she floated along, and where the sun struck the water it looked like shining gold. Thumbelina undid her sash, tied one end of it to the butterfly, and made the other end fast to the leaf. It went much faster now, and Thumbelina went much faster too, for of course she was standing on it. T loves waterskis. ... maybug interlude... All summer long, poor Thumbelina lived all alone in the woods. She wove herself a hammock of grass, and hung it under a big burdock leaf to keep off the rain. She took honey from the flowers for food, and drank the dew which she found on the leaves every morning. In this way the summer and fall went by. Then came the winter, the long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung so sweetly for her flew away. The trees and the flowers withered. The big burdock leaf under which she had lived shriveled up until nothing was left of it but a dry, yellow stalk. She was terribly cold, for her clothes had worn threadbare and she herself was so slender and frail. Poor Thumbelina, she would freeze to death! Snow began to fall, and every time a snowflake struck her it was as if she had been hit by a whole shovelful, for we are quite tall while she measured only an inch. She wrapped a withered leaf about her, but there was no warmth in it. She shivered with cold. Near the edge of the woods where she now had arrived, was a large grain field, but the grain had been harvested long ago. Only the dry, bare stubble stuck out of the frozen ground. It was just as if she were lost in a vast forest, and oh how she shivered with cold! Then she came to the door of a field mouse, who had a little hole amidst the stubble. There this mouse lived, warm and cozy, with a whole store-room of grain, and a magnificent kitchen and pantry. Poor Thumbelina stood at the door, just like a beggar child, and pled for a little bit of barley, because she hadn't had anything to eat for two days past. "Why, you poor little thing," said the field mouse, who turned out to be a kind-hearted old creature. "You must come into my warm room and share my dinner." She took such a fancy to Thumbelina that she said, "If you care to, you may stay with me all winter, but you must keep my room tidy, and tell me stories, for I am very fond of them." Thumbelina did as the kind old field mouse asked and she had a very good time of it. "Soon we shall have a visitor," the field mouse said. "Once every week my neighbor comes to see me, and he is even better off than I am. His rooms are large, and he wears such a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only get him for a husband you would be well taken care of, but he can't see anything. You must tell him the very best stories you know." Thumbelina did not like this suggestion. She would not even consider the neighbor, because he was a mole. He paid them a visit in his black velvet coat. The field mouse talked about how wealthy and wise he was, and how his home was more than twenty times larger than hers. But for all of his knowledge he cared nothing at all for the sun and the flowers. He had nothing good to say for them, and had never laid eyes on them. Thumbelina told stories, and the mole fell in love with them, although he didn't say anything. He had just dug a long tunnel through the ground from his house to theirs, and the field mouse and Thumbelina were invited to use it whenever they pleased, though he warned them not to be alarmed by the dead bird which lay in this passage. It was a complete bird, with feather and beak. It must have died quite recently, when winter set in, and it was buried right in the middle of the tunnel. The mole was considerate, and took in his mouth a torch of decayed wood. In the darkness it glimmered like fire, a fire he could not see, or need. He went ahead of them to light the way through the long, dark passage. When they came to where the dead bird lay, the mole put his broad nose to the ceiling and made a large hole through which daylight could fall. In the middle of the floor lay a swallow, with his lovely wings folded at his sides and his head tucked under his feathers. The poor bird must certainly have died of cold. Thumbelina felt so sorry for him. She loved all the little birds who had sung and sweetly twittered to her all through the summer. "What good is all his chirp-chirping to a bird in the winter time, when he starves and freezes?" Thumbelina kept silent, but when the others turned their back on the bird she bent over, smoothed aside the feathers that hid the bird's head, and kissed his closed eyes. "Maybe it was he who sang so sweetly to me in the summertime," she thought to herself. "What pleasure he gave me, the dear, pretty bird." That night Thumbelina could not sleep a wink, so she got up and wove a fine large coverlet out of hay. She took it to the dead bird and spread it over him, so that he would lie warm in the cold earth. She tucked him in with some soft thistledown that she had found in the field mouse's room. "Good-by, you pretty little bird," she said. "Good-by, and thank you for your sweet songs last summer, when the trees were all green and the sun shone so warmly upon us." She laid her head on his breast, and it startled her to feel a soft thump, as if something were beating inside. This was the bird's heart. He was not dead- he was only numb with cold, and now that he had been warmed he came to life again. Thumbelina was so frightened that she trembled, for the bird was so big, so enormous compared to her own inch of height. But she mustered her courage, tucked the cotton wool down closer around the poor bird, brought the mint leaf that covered her own bed, and spread it over the bird's head. The following night she tiptoed out to him again. He was alive now, but so weak that he could barely open his eyes for a moment to look at Thumbelina, who stood beside him with the piece of touchwood that was her only lantern. "Thank you, pretty little child," the sick swallow said. "I have been wonderfully warmed. Soon I shall get strong once more, and be able to fly again in the warm sunshine." "Oh," she said, "It's cold outside, it's snowing, and freezing. You just stay in your warm bed and I'll nurse you." Then she brought him some water in the petal of a flower. The swallow drank, and told her how he had hurt one of his wings. The swallow stayed there all through the winter, and Thumbelina was kind to him and tended him with loving care. As soon as spring came and the sun warmed the earth, the swallow told Thumbelina it was time to say good-by. She reopened the hole that the mole had made in the ceiling, and the sun shone in splendor upon them. The swallow asked Thumbelina to go with him. She could sit on his back as they flew away through the green woods. But Thumbelina knew that it would make the field mouse feel badly if she left like that, so she said no. [zaniness ensues] Then came the wedding day. The mole had come to take Thumbelina home with him, where she would have to live deep underground and never go out in the warm sunshine again. She said good-by to the warm sun. "Chirp, chirp! Chirp, chirp!" She suddenly heard a twittering over her head. She looked up and there was the swallow, just passing by. He was so glad to see Thumbelina although. She could not hold back her tears. "Now that the cold winter is coming," the swallow told her, "I shall fly far, far away to the warm countries. Won't you come along with me? You can ride on my back. Just tie yourself on with your sash, and away we'll fly, to the warm countries where the sun shines so much fairer than here, to where it is always summer and there are always flowers. Please fly away with me, dear little Thumbelina, you who saved my life when I lay frozen in a dark hole in the earth." "Yes, I will go with you!" said Thumbelina. She sat on his back, put her feet on his outstretched wings, and fastened her sash to one of his strongest feathers. Then the swallow soared into the air over forests and over lakes, high up over the great mountains that are always capped with snow. When Thumbelina felt cold in the chill air, she crept under the bird's warm feathers, with only her little head stuck out to watch all the wonderful sights below. At length they came to the warm countries. There the sun shone far more brightly than it ever does here, and the sky seemed twice as high. Along the ditches and hedgerows grew marvelous green and blue grapes. Lemons and oranges hung in the woods. The air smelled sweetly of myrtle and thyme. By the wayside, the loveliest children ran hither and thither, playing with the brightly colored butterflies. But the swallow flew on still farther, and it became more and more beautiful. Under magnificent green trees, on the shore of a blue lake there stood an ancient palace of dazzling white marble. The lofty pillars were wreathed with vines, and at the top of them many swallows had made their nests. One nest belonged to the swallow who carried Thumbelina. "This is my home," the swallow told her. "If you will choose one of those glorious flowers in bloom down below, I shall place you in it, and you will have all that your heart desires." "That will be lovely," she cried, and clapped her tiny hands. A great white marble pillar had fallen to the ground, where it lay in three broken pieces. Between these pieces grew the loveliest large white flowers. The swallow flew down with Thumbelina and put her on one of the large petals. How surprised she was to find in the center of the flower a man, as shining and transparent as if he had been made of glass. On his head was the daintiest of little gold crowns, on his shoulders were the brightest shining wings, and he was not a bit bigger than Thumbelina. He was the spirit of the flower. In every flower there lived a person! "Oh, isn't he handsome?" Thumbelina said softly to the swallow. The king was somewhat afraid of the swallow, which seemed a very giant of a bird. But when he saw Thumbelina he rejoiced, for she was pretty. He took off his crown and gave it to her. He asked if he might know her name, and proposed to make her queen of all the flowers. "Yes." "You shall no longer be called Thumbelina," the flower spirit told her. " That name is too ugly for anyone as pretty as you are. We shall call you Maia." "Good-by, good-by," said the swallow. He flew away again from the warm countries, back to far-away Denmark, where he had a little nest over the window of the man who can tell you fairy tales. To him the bird sang, "Chirp, chirp! Chirp, chirp!" and that's how we heard the whole story.



In so far as my family has any money, our unvast nonfortune is built from pie -- my great-aunt's recipes. The other evening, I went to a locally-grown, fluffy bunny epicurium and selected a pie crust made from rice flour. Over the years, I have attempted same crust making with unusual flours (I have made pies I can consume, and if I am feeling motivated, will make one for my birthday next week), but failed. Pretty great at cookies, etc., tho. My first effort, egg pie, was very, very tasty. But quiche is easy. There was another pie crust remaining. I was challenged to make "a real pie," but... there was no sugar. I soaked some dried wild blueberries in rum, figuring: sugar. I made some sort of gelatenous goo from coffee (figuring, "rum and coffee? why bad?") and tapioca flour. I made it and put lots of soy-free (yeah -- but these aren't the good soy-free chocolate chips ;( that's why they were hanging out in the kitchen) chips in for a freezer pie. It remained in freezer a week. I just tried it. Um... chewy blueberries, not too sweet, mocha ice-cream-like... but I was laughing so hard...


Spare Room celebrates the work of Jackson Mac Low May 16-17 Portland, Oregon Friday, May 16 Marathon reading & book launch for the Complete Light Poems (forthcoming from Chax Press) at Division Leap Saturday, May 17 Readings and performances of Mac Low works and tributes by poets, musicians, dancers, and others at Performance Works NW