Harold Carr

Hi Grandpa. I just arrived. It was a rough time for me but my Mom was great and did a wonderful job of bringing me into the world. I weigh 7 pounds 1 ounce and am super healthy. I can't wait to meet you. Here are some pictures my Dad took when he first meet me a couple of hours ago. I hope you like them and he said to call tomorrow when you get some time.

Love,
Gwyneth Carr Zufelt

Hello Everyone. Yesterday was the big day. Bruce and I arrived at the hospital at 5 a.m. on Friday and spent the day in labor. Gwyneth made her way into the world at 4:55 pm. Not too bad of a day. She weighed in at 7 pounds 1 ounce and she is nearly 20 inches long at 19 3/4. Our new little family is doing well as we actually got some sleep during last night. We should be leaving the hospital first thing Sunday morning.

Talk to all of you soon.
Jasmine

crossing the Andes
in the new century
less than an ant
on the earth’s surface
& never seeing below
the clouds from 30,000 feet
many, maybe most, seem happy
with tv

On the bus from the airport to our hotel we see posters for an International Jazz Festival at Ateneo starting on Sunday. Unfortunately, the two artists I’d want to hear the most, Gonzalo Rubalcaba and Eddie G♭mez happen on the days after our scheduled return. But I planned to hear Jacques Morelenbaum Cello Zamba Trio on Monday and Terence Blanchard Quintet on Tuesday, but Tango took over.

Flavia’s nephew, Ulises, and his wife, Jorgelina, met us at our hotel (the Columbia Palace) to tell us the hotel lost our reservation. But Ulises and Jorgelina were able to get us a room at their hotel, the Hotel A&B International. The only room available the first night was a real hellhole that smelled of mildew and had a combined shower sink toliet room, a bed and a window to the hallway. The next day we were able to upgrade to a very nice room (number 108) for 185 pesos/night (about $65 US). The owner, Virginia, was very helpful. Ask for her if you stay there. The hotel is located at Montevideo 248 (a block away from Corrientes Avenue, 5 blocks from the obelisk.

We spent Thursday and Friday walking around the city seeing sites and being bitten by mosquitoes. There are 120 cases of dengue in Buenos Aires, ostensibly in people who were bitten by mosquitoes in Uruguay while traveling.

Ulises and Jorgelina introduced us to a great restaurant they discovered: Chiquilin. This place is great! We tried eating other places, but we always ended up back here for dinner. The food and service were just oo good to miss. It was here I discovered chimichurri under Ulises guidance—a sauce that ranks up there with Chileno pebre for me. Criolla is another typical sauce, but I got stuck on chimichurri. (By-the-way, in Argentina, “ll” is pronounced “ss”, so criolla is pronounced CREE-OH-SHA - instead of CREE-OH-YA). Our feasts generally totalled to 220 pesos, or about $70+ bucks - what a deal.

I maybe drink 2 glasses of wine a month at the most, but I drank 3 to 4 glasses of wine each night with dinner (which always started at 11pm) and felt completely fine the next day. Maybe it was the great Argentinian malbec. My favorite was Finca La Linda Malbec. But other malbecs, Nieto Senetinner, Trumpeter, Alamos (Catena Zapata), were also great. I think I have found another wine to drink (besides my standard Rosenblum Zinfandel).

Ulises is completing a Ph.D., in Computer Science at Aberdeen in Scotland, writing his thesis on search, specializing in librarianship and query construction. That got us to talking about hard to understand phrases. He pointed out the Scots phrase “fit fit fits fit fit”—meaning “which shoe fits which foot?” Try getting a computer to parse that with general rules! (For more of these see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_homophonous_phrases.)

On Saturday Puvan, a friend of Ulises and Jorgelina, from Malaysia, living in Aberdeen, met up with us. He, Ulises and I went to El Ateneo bookstore located in the previous “The Grand Spledid” theatre (as much as I love bookstore, it’s a shame this is still not functioning as a theater). An English language teacher with many of her adolescent students approached me in the bookstore to ask if I would speak in English with them, which I did for about 30 minutes. I happened to be sitting on the floor at the time they approached me (to more easily check out the bottom shelves in the poetry section). I stayed on the floor the whole time while they talked down to me. It was a large circle standing around me. Others started joining too, to see what the action was all about—they thought I was someone famous!

I purchased a Spanish language editions of C�sar Vallejo’s N♭mina de Huesos y Otros Poemas and Ra�l Gonz≪lez Tu‰♭n’s Demanda contra el olvido. I “read” these at night in the hotel, remembering reading Clayton Eshleman’s translation of Vallejo as Payroll of Bones.

Later we joined up with Jorgelina and Flavia and went on a bus tour around the city. I would not recommend it since you spend too much time in traffic (maybe on a Sunday - if it runs - but on Sunday you want to be elsewhere—see below).

On the tour the woman guide spoke in Spanish and English. She said “si” continuously like many people use “a” as a filler. When she did the English version of her guiding she said “yes”. It got to be pretty humorous. Less humorous was the many many time she pointed out the Hotel Hilton from all angles - who cares!

When the tour stopped at Plaza de Mayo our guide neglected to mention the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo (not unlike the guides at Neruda’s Isla Negra home—now a museum—neglected to mention any connection between his death on September 23, 1973 and the coup in Chile on September 11, 1973).

The best part of the tour was the stop at Caminito in the poor barrio of La Boca. The best artisans I saw while in Argentina were here (I bought a leather purse for my daughter Jasmine). This is the first place I saw dancers dancing tango in the street for tips (like musicians who play for tips).

Our guide was helpful in pointing out that the Rio de la Plata is the most polluted river in the world (it supplies Buenos Aires with its drinking water, which I did drink from the tap at the hotel).

On Satursday night we had great seats ($25 US) for Tanguera at the Teatro Nacional of Buenos Aires—a musical with no words, describes the history tango dancing from its beginning with European immigrants, through brothels to the modern stage. It featured Tango legend Maria Nieves. Very good show except for the canned music. After the show we went to Chiquilin for dinner starting at 11pm.

On Sunday we took a taxi back to Caminito to shop at the artisan booths in la feria and have lunch while watching the tango dancers on the street. At lunch, the first tango couple were fun to watch on the sidewalk while having lunch. They were followed by a cheesey tango singer, Gerardo Peyrano. Flavia purchased on of his CDs for her mom (but her mom, who has taste, did not like it). Worse, while doing the CD transaction he stood at our table, blocking my view of the next couple dancing tango, who, for us, turned out to have the most striking woman dancer we saw while in Argentina.

After Caminito we went to San Telmo where they close one of the street’s on Sunday. It is here that we finally heard live tango music (as well as other music and more street dancers). One of the tango bands, Orquesta T�pica Imperial, had a violinist who played left-handed—never saw that before.

The same “walking in the wind” statue people we saw in Valparaiso last year were on the street in San Telmo.

We then went back to our hotel to freshen up before walking to a theater on Corrientes to see the musical Dr≪cula, Jorgelina’s favorite (and in which she sang in 3 different productions in school). I didn’t understand the words, but, with the Spanish speakers help, I was able to get the story. The live orchestra was a pleasure to hear—reminded me of my days in the Pioneer Memorial Theater pit. After the show we tried to eat somewhere else but ended up back at Chiquilin for dinner starting at 11pm.

Monday was a shopping day. At an exchange rate of about 3 pesos to the dollar, you can’t pass it up. In the evening, Puvan and I were going to go see Jacques Morelenbaum at the jazz festival but broken ticket machines had us having dinner with everyone at Cafe Tortoni, the oldest coffee shop in Argentina. Once there we discovered they had two different live tango shows (with live music) going on simultaneously—one in the basement and one in a room to the side of the main floor.

We were able to get tickets for the basement show. It was a variety of comedy, tango, and music performance. The second half of the show after intermission started with two men playing bombos. Next they performed with boleadoras—kind of like tap dancing but with the added rhythm and skill of the sound and site of the bolas.

The live band consisted of acoustic bass, baby grand piano and bandone♭n. The bass uses the bow more than pizzacato in this music.

After the show, while people were leaving, I went up to the edge of the stage and, with Flavia’s help, talked to the bass player, to let him know I liked his playing and to ask for the names of good modern jazz clubs. He said he didn’t know but that the piano player was a jazz maestro, and brought him into the chat.

The piano player, Juan Johermida (juanjohermidapianohotmail.com) recommended Notorious. He also said that there used to be more jazz clubs but they have been closing.

He asked if I played and when I said yes he immediately invited me to play a tune with him. He suggested Victor Young’s “Beautiful Love,” which I don’t know, so I countered with Dizzy Gillespie’s “A Night In Tunesia.” He didn’t say another word. He just sat down at the piano and started vamping the intro (well and with good time) before the bassist even offered me his bass.

I started playing the great Tunesia bass line but immediately had to adjust - the strings were too high, the endpin too low, and the end of the fingerboard was covered in rosin so my fingers were sticking together. So I implied the bass line. But it sounded good on the bass player’s fat bass.

We made it through the head then he indicated for me to solo. I was only about 16 bars into a solo when the stage manager made us quit so they could start the next show. But it seems I have made a new musician friend. He’s leaving in a few days to play in Alaska. If I come to Argentina again, you can bet I’ll look him up.

After the show we walked back to Chiquilin for another late dinner. We’re regulars now. They treated us great the first time—but now it’s even better, with waiters that served us the night before coming to shake our hands and help, even though we are not in their section.

On Tuesday Jorgelina, Ulises and Puvan checked out. We accompanied them to the bus station to say goodbye as they head to Rosario (Ulises and Jorgelina’s home town) where they will be attending a wedding.

Then Flavia and I took a train to Tigre, a city on the delta of the Paran≪ river. Once in Tigre we went on a 2 hour rio tur. The leisurely boat cruise was a nice change of pace after hectic Buenos Aires. After the cruise Flavia explored the casino while I walked in the middle of town and had a bite to eat.

We took the train back to Argentina, rested for a hour, then went back to Cafe Tortoni for dinner and a last tango show (with live music).

On Wednesday we got up late, ate then checked out of the hotel. We still had several hours left. At first we split up, me heading to bookstores and Flavia to shoestores. I went to Kel, an English language bookstore. The store was packed—2 long lines, one with numbered tickets to pick up special orders, the other to pay.

I hoped to find contemporary Argentinian writers translated into English (hopefully with facing Spanish). Unfortunately all they had was Borges. I did end up by Latin American Stories edited by Carlos Fuentes and Julio Ortega—a collection of short stories from Spanish authors (and about 4 Argentinos). The little I read so far suggests the translations are hasty (misspelling, incorrect punctuation, awkward feeling). I also spent some time sitting in a plaza, writing a poem and watching the dog walkers.

on our walk the trees
stay separately

can he land our love
or dull our pain

the way so long
so low

Flavia and I hooked up for lunch at, you guessed it, Chiquilin. After lunch we went to a music instrument store where she played an incredibly inexpensive ($300 US) electric violin while I played an acoustic bass guitar. We ended up buying the violin.

And that was it. A 40 minute ride to the airport. 2.5 hours of airport hassle (and we needed every minute of it), a 2 hour flight to Santiago, a 2 hour drive to Re‰aca (via Quilpue to pick up my bass) and our apartment in Cochoa. Exhausted but happy.

The only thing I had hoped to do (besides the jazz clubs and festival) was go to listen and buy some CDs of artists recommended by Ulises. For the record, here are his recommendations (for next time):

On Feb 2, 2007 John Flanders (tenor and soprano sax), Geoff Miller (guitar) and myself (bass) recorded at Jo-Ann Wong's beautiful home. Sherm Clow did the engineering. Here are some tracks and pictures from the session. I'll add more in the future.

I am
a concept
like rain
in reality
it doesn’t exist
instead
a million water drops

thought like a clock
connecting ticks

what you see &
what you say

out the window
through thin
clouds 4 billion
years of rock
& blue reflecting
centuries
while we move
in the porous world

the sun moved
too before you
a desire
to become one
—the buffalo long gone

Sunday morning lying around reading while Flavia and Venus laugh in the front room and Chiara makes a great breakfast. We drive to Napa and tour Copia. Then we have a light dinner at a deli in downtown Napa before splitting up—me to Andrew’s in Oakland to play music—them back to Sonoma to have dinner with Venus’ family (Flavia’s ex).

I arrive in Oakland after an hour drive. Andrew and I hug and head upstairs to his studio where I get out my bass that is stored at his house. I was planning on selling it, but the minute I took it out of its case I changed my mind—the wood is too beautiful.

I warm up while Andrew sets up his recording gear and saxophones and flutes. A bit later Debra Craig (drums) and Terry Rolerie (guitar) arrive. We improvise then take a dark chocolate, blood orange and cake break. Then improvise again. Terry is a very quiet electric guitar player (and avid bike rider) and Debra is a sensitive drummer. Lucky for me—I played without an amp.

Driving home I found a station with some great solo piano—kind of an update minimilist Eric Satie. The show was Heart of Space playing Hans Otte’s The Book of Sounds. I just caught the tailend at 10:50pm. PT. At that time it was just single piano notes, one after another, no chords. But the choice of intervals and sequence were beautiful. I’ve gotta get that work.

We said goodbye to Venus and Chiara and drove to San Francisco. Flavia had an appointment at the Chilean Embassey to get her passport renewed. While she took care of her business I went to Rasputin Music and picked up some CDs. In particular, one I’ve been looking for: Thelonius’ Monk’s Greatest Hits. The exact versions of the tunes on this CD made me realize just how much Monk was a percussionist (in a different way from McCoy Tyner). I want to transcribe some of his approaches to his melodies and solos and arrange them for bass.

Then I went a block away to Cody’s (the San Francisco branch - unfortunately the Berkeley branch closed down recently) and picked up Craig Dworkin’s Strand (I figured I should learn a little about the author’s work who lives and works so close by).

Flavia and I then hooked up and drove to Berkeley and had lunch at La Note on Shattuck. After lunch we walked a few doors down to Pegasus Books where I picked up Bob Perelman’s iflife.

We drove to the airport (several hours early for a change) and enjoyed reading all our new books waiting for the plane and flying back to Salt Lake.

poetry at Sanders
& her tanned shoulders
one after another
authors all
older than sound

checkmate meaning crisscross

just testing jests
the poet
should her answer call
off streaming creeks lakes books
books books voice in page
say heart or brain or joke &
some sound mumble tone
says softly seeming visit
or living here all mingling
stumbling down trusts the poet

he she mostly he
sings their say hear
& why worry
about being behind
time or even
ahead oddly posted often if
blest hymn

On Friday we went to Michael Lucarelli's art opening "lyrical meditations, " followed by attending the John Flander's and Double Helix concert at Westminster (the inaugural performance for the series that we will play with Red Rock Rondo in May 2006). After the concert we went to Michael and Shayla's birthday party.

The next morning we spent the morning on the porch and in the garden, followed by a hike to Dog Lake from MillCreek Canyon with Phillip and Charlotte.

defined horizon 1

—for Phillip, Charlotte, Flavia & Suni

out in the mountains
looking down
on the destined horizon

I have been reading very carefully through all the Sunday newspapers to try and analyse the truth from all the scores of pages claiming to detail the so-called bomb plot. Unlike the great herd of so-called security experts doing the media analysis, I have the advantage of having had the very highest security clearances myself, having done a huge amount of professional intelligence analysis, and having been inside the spin machine.

None of the alleged terrorists had made a bomb. None had bought a plane ticket. Many did not even have passports, which given the efficiency of the UK Passport Agency would mean they couldn't be a plane bomber for quite some time.

On July 21, 2006 Kim Burgess interviewed us for an article on our home that appeared in the August 3, 2006 issue of "in Utah this week" magazine. The original online edition of the article (different from the print edition) can be found here.

(The following is a stripped down copy of the online version---which is different from the print edition---in case the original link disappears.)

We, Red Rock Rondo, did a test recording at Herc's today. Unfortunately, some band members had allergic reactions to Herc's dog, so, no matter how the recording turns out, looks like we won't be doing more here.

Milton Voigt died July 29, 2006 in Salt Lake City of causes incident to age. He was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1924 to Ester Bartelt and Arthur William Voigt. In World War II he was a navigator-bombardier in the U.S. Army Air Corps.

He attended The University of Wisconsin—Madison (Ph.B., 1948), The University of California—Berkeley (M.A., 1950) and The University of Minnesota (Ph.D., 1960). He taught at The University of Idaho and The University of Kentucky before coming to The University of Utah in 1960, where he taught English literature and History of Ideas for 32 years and served as Dean of the College of Letters and Sciences (until its division into separate colleges in 1970) and as Chairman of the Department of English (1971 to 1975). He was the author of one book Swift and The Twentieth Century (1964) and other studies of the eighteenth century satirist, Jonathan Swift.

He married Leta Jean Slack in 1947, with whom he had three sons, John Gregory (Northport, FL), James Lewis (Kalamazoo, MI) and Andrew Charles (Oakland, CA). He is survived by his sons and six grandchildren, Nicholas (Madison, WI), John and Zachery (St. Louis), Janna, Jesse and Evan (Kalamazoo) and by daughters-in-law Rebecca (Kalamazoo) and Lisette (Northport), by sister, Beatrice Manskee (Milwaukee) and special friend, Beth Burdett (Salt Lake City).

He was a lay reader at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, and served on the boards of several organizations including The Utah ACLU, The Salt Lake Chamber Music Society, and The Friends of the Children’s Center.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests donations to The Salt Lake Chamber Music Society, P.O. Box 58825, SLC, UT 84158-0825. A memorial will be held on Friday, August 4, 6pm - 8pm at Fort Douglas Post Chapel, 120 South Ft Douglas Blvd (around 2100 east). Friends and family will also gather at his home at 1376 East Princeton Avenue (1290 South), Salt Lake City after the memorial. Condolences may be sent to miltonvoigt@gmail.com

death & rain

—for Andrew Voigt

another dead dad
summer—light rain
sounds on the rooftops

can hear death
bubbling up
—too proud

no one
makes it
til August

drifting in
& out of
sleep

clouds
cooler
sounds of trains

not a dream
a real live
loss

gone
is a word that says
goodbye

waiting
for lightning’s
thunder

(can I
even give this
to my friend?)

each small moment
makes a
day

even
the ones that
leave

the rain’s
thinking
water

the sun’s thinking
morning the day
after death

“after death”
so many millenium
answers

let’s make it
simple
absence

not here
not there
not

not yesterday
any
more

back to rain
rivers
oceans

small things
like sitting
in the mist

in the midst
of
forgetting

no
more
anymore

writing
while
waiting

to hear
him
move

even some
blue as the sun
moves through morning

take
your
time

echoes
thought’s
body

Ten (Possible) Reasons for the Sadness of Thought

My brother-in-law, Guillermo Antonio Cervi‰o-Wood, recommended George Steiner’s Ten (Possible) Reasons for the Sadness of Thought. I found his essay of that title (originally published in Salmagundi) here and here.

I can’t say I like Steiner’s writing. It seems unnecessarily convoluted. Plus, all his points were made earlier by Bataille and Bataille’s writing is much better, even in English translation. He even uses some of Bataille’s phrases (e.g., “sadness unto death,” “laid bare”).

men
working in ditches
below the surface of the road women
working the

safety flags

the day before the

fourth of July

flags flying already
little orange ones marking
the new sprinkling system

the system seems or seemed
to work the system
of the fourth flags
still flying
the traffic lights

work too another
part of the
system or the fact

that we don’t kill
each other when we
meet unknown

       for/by Phillip Bimstein

tick
    by
    tick the
clock uses
time

while the story
of songs is
told

at one

place about
another

his words
about another's

      harmonica

turned into song
like you like to do it
take the wheat down
the way we did it
about as much out
as it is in

      baseball

the voice of one man
selling beer for forty
years

      guitar

an
active
participant
in the tick

spruce top maple
sides & back
steel
strings

      ghosts

her words his
words
two young girls
back & forth
kill on a busted swing
    (forever)
---that deserves a song

      moo

history into story
   ---an accident
the cows won't speak

      detention

but

kids

in jail

have plenty to
say

      quilts

now
spinning on track four
pretty quilts

on the
line
called the sheriff
red lights flashing down
at the junction all
I want is my
money

      mulberry

meanwhile, back in
town, after the first
hard frost, the leaves
in mounds on the
ground---gone
no place for trees
anymore

      frogs

slowed way down
like rocks
like melody
in water

      rancher rap

sample
splice
sing
loop
strum
strike

echo imitate bow

No sentences make the mountain. Only sweat. Or windy silence.
A bird---probably with a name---but for now, small---and blue.
Then voice leading past powerful secrets, towards an
ancient word that wants to be heard again without speaking.
All this---bee buzz---flies---bristlecone pine.

Today, no movement, nor waiting. Instead, open to rock,
to the fly rubbing its forearms together, to the cawing crow.
Birds---long, throaty descending whistle---chirps---a cackle---
while a butterfly flaps its wings without making a sound.

A kind of forgetting to get there---not to be practiced
on the trail. The beginning took place when the waning crescent
moon---just a sliver---proceeded the sun. Once risen, casting
long shadows over Confusion Range---west, towards Wheeler Peak
on the horizon.

Closer at hand, Notch south, Swasey north,
Pine & Howell between. A mutual respect for solitude
rather than "go there". To be here without leaving.
A kind of 2nd existence closer to the cliffs that seem
somehow opposed to life. Peeing on dirt---digging the dung hole.

Jets pass overhead. Their absence signifies unknown news.
Rocks exist side-by-side, touching, unconcerned with
each other. Even when gone they're here---snow, rain, sun---
as far as the eye can see.

At night, our galaxy rising like clouds over the east horizon.
The steam from the tea kettle---coyote's flaming tail.
Back to rock---time in three dimensions. Or the night
sky---all time at once. Galaxies like grains of sand in the
empty form of a very large number.

A coincidence between place & attention. Again, back
to the equality of rock---the absence of a center---roots splitting
even the hardest in two, or four, or more---still equal to itself & all.

Blooming yarrow whose stalks portend the beginning of an
endless past. What response to the tail-less lizard
or the endless sun but the dry lakebeds in the
desert below or snowtipped peaks at points on the
circle of the horizon---only blocked, to the south, by the
sheer cliff face of Notch Peak. Breathing confirms it
is there, just as, earlier, sweat & strong heartbeats say this
is no illusion surpassed by itself. The presence of this place
even when gone. No need for a word to be here.

Vast is a word. Empty another. An emptiness filled with
motionless motion. Starlings surf the ridge---crows soar
up & down the cliffs forgetting eternity. It started in
the east and moved through the blue---heating rock with its silent
motion. Cars moving slowly on the highway below, jets far
overhead, and near at hand, an ant carries off a speck of lunch
larger than itself.

Clouds & contrails break the blue. Jets
break the silence of the buzzing flies. Gaze glances off
bristlecone pine into words that have never met them.
In other words, the high cirrus dimming the strength of the sun
as it descends to the west---the west only in the abstract poverty
of words. Still it continues down toward Mt. Morain.

The difference between memory & mountain. The temperature
changes from moment-to-moment within an overall expected
trajectory. Shadows forming of the eastern slopes. Granite, Limestone.
Somewhere an ocean once here. The visible trace left is
the face of Notch Peak. A visible absence. The presence of
something long gone---or not so long ago---and, perhaps, again.
Each layer an indifferent difference forgetting the life
that gives it life now.

The attraction of expanse---a kind of gravity
of mountains or vertigo of cliffs---beckons a presence
it does not need nor know. The road here to where
the road comes before it existed. The way here is also
the way home---but not yet---another night approaches
with all the time in the world. Distances disappear.

The portion of space causing time to reappear---suspended
between then & now---occupying all distance present everywhere.
A beetle crossing the same ground as the earlier ant casting
a long shadow in the late afternoon sun. A moth on a rock
vibrating its horizontal wings---then gone in a moment of
inattention.

Four fragments further along a future far from here---a place
different but no less identical. And, like last night,
mosquitoes in the last hour of sun.

Slowly the desert disappears
in darkness---finally only lit by stars turning overhead.

blue haiku performed Phillip's new piece lockdown at the Genesis Youth Corrections Facility at the prison complex at the point-of-the-mountain.

Flavia and I performed with sonosopher Alex Caldiero at the David Ericson Fine Art Gallery for the opening of Frank McEntire's "Small Acts of Devotion."

Flavia and I just returned from Paonia, Colorado where I did a poetry performance at The Dreamtime Festival. Art Goodtimes, poet, county commissioner, founder of "Talking Gourds", invited me to participate. I was lucky and got assigned Saturday night at midnight, the height of the festival, right between the two main bands: Kan'Nal and Hamsa Lila.

Last weekend Julian, Flavia and I were in California to attend and celebrate Venus and Chiara's graduation from UC Berkeley. While hanging out in the house we rented on Warm Springs Road between Glen Ellen and Kenwood, Flavia brought me a copy of Jose Ortega y Gasset's The Origins of Philosophy from the home's bookshelves, knowing I'm drawn to books like that. In it, he writes that when we read the words of poets, or philosophers, we recognize our own thoughts---they have simply taken the time to write them down and perhaps organize them.

The day before the graduation ceremony, the day we arrived, Flavia and Venus went off to Trader Joe's to pick up food and drink for the party, while I walked up to the bookstores on Telegraph Avenue, only three blocks from Venus and Chiara's apartment. In Cody's I picked up three books on Cognitive Science, my latest obsession. On the way to the register they had a prominent but low-key display of the talk poet, David Antin's, just published i never knew what time it was. I've always admired his ability to just stand up and talk and be interesting, casual and honest.

While paying for the books the cashier asked me, "don't you want him to sign your book"? Turns out that's what the display was about---he was giving a talk that night, in fact right then. I went upstairs to the talk space and saw about 14 people waiting, the small number surprised me. Unfortunately David Antin was not there yet and I couldn't stay---we were scheduled to drive into San Francisco to meet Chiara and her parents and sister for dinner.

This morning, reading his book, he says what he is doing is "entertaining ideas not people." In one comic section he talks about mouse traps being a logical machine embodying a single truth: desire leads to death. But a fastidious mouse may not press the lever, thus another truth: manners are a life and death matter. Or a clumsy mouse might jostle the base setting it off without even entering it: god looks out for fools.

The talk continues with his distinction between story and narrative. "A story is a logical form: a representation of a series of events that result in a significant transformation. A narrative is a representation of the confrontation of somebody who wants something with a threat and/or promise of a transformation that he or she struggles to bring about or prevent or both.

"Why struggle for/against transformation? The answer may lie close to the anxiety produced by the paradox that however much we are tempted by transformation we may lose ourselves in that transformation. Or maybe it lies closer to the terror of absolute erosion --- it's the loss of the self that we are struggling against. Noise --- the growing disorder that affects all ordered systems over time. The frictional forces that reduce all directed energies to forms of disorder given enough time

"Time does strange things to you. It's a bit like the ocean. Mostly is takes things away but it also casts things up on the beach. New things or old ones from different places, now looking very different. Every bit of disorder contributes to the formation of a new order, usually worse but sometimes better.

"You lose a lot and you may win a few. Maybe in the end you lose it all, but meanwhile some disorder may be good for you even if you don't know it."

Now, done reading for the moment, having come downstairs for breakfast, I help Tika to stand up so she can go outside. And that's the sad connection of this narrative---she has a hard time getting up on her own. Upon returning from California we noticed her limping when taking her and Suni for their favorite walk to city creek. We took Tika to the vet on Saturday (we had to reschedule our original Thursday/Friday appointments because we both had a strange late-Spring flu). We expected the vet to say she is having a problem with her leg related to her Tibea Plateau Leveling Osteotomy she had two years ago. But not so lucky.

He took x-rays. Tika has cancer in her leg that is so severe it is most likely in her internal organs also. It's advance too far to do anything. And, at her age, 13 1/2 years, it would be difficult, even if possible.

So we have her at home, loving her, celebrating our life with her, dreading the upcoming decline. The vet gives her one month to live.

Last weekend we attended the opening of the Adam Worden collage exhibit at the Salt Lake Art Center. Alex Caldiero performed poems he composed to the images. Alex and the collages got me to thinking about the Interplay series by Another Language. They are creating real-time collaborative collages spanning art forms, space and time. I've taken the liberty to mix images from Interplay and Worden to give some idea of how they are in the same vein. However, the Interplay images are only snapshots of a moving moment instead of a finished image like Worden's.

Worden worked alone, collecting bits-n-pieces and putting them together to form a finished work. Another Language works in real-time with musicians, actors, dancers, poets and technicians all over the world to form multiple audio-visual streams. A viewer can choose to look at a particular stream or even watch one of the live performances in their location.

With Worden we have a solitary viewer looking at a single image containing multiple perspectives and material created by a solitary artist. With Another Language we have an audience choosing their stream, each stream made up of the real-time creation of multiple people/places/forms. With Worden we have pieces of art we can contemplate. With Another Language we have images and recordings of the streams, but the piece is essentially "lost" once the performance is over.

Sandy Anderson opened the evening reading what we wrote for John Saltas of the Salt Lake City Weekly (and other papers).
Next, Hector Ahumada told a story he felt was apropos of Craig.
The Cowdaddies (Kennard Machol, Rex Flinner and me) played Cucooz and Navajo Trail.
Sandy read poems relating to her long relationship with Craig as poet and publisher.
Harold read a message and poem from Jose Knighton who now lives in Portland, Oregon.
The Cowdaddies did a couple more tunes: some unnamed Latin tune Kennard taught us the night before and Sally Gooden.
I read some of what I wrote after I returned from Chile and found out Craig had died. I lightened it up a bit with my "trick-ta-piss" that was one of Craig's favorites. I continued with a poem I wrote a year after Craig died hiking the first trail I ever hiked with Craig. Then I picked up my bass and did Lew Welch's Graffiti - a poem Craig would always make me do regardless of the setting. Then I read a fun poem by Craig, Moab Has Seen The Last Of Me. I finished by reading one of our favorite poems (by Lew Welch), that we call Ring of Bone.
Sandy read a message from Miriam Murphy and a message from Charles Potts.
Sherm Clow read a funny and ironic poem he wrote about finding out both he and Craig worked in the bowels of the Utah State capital.
The Cowdaddies ended the evening with Home On The Range.

A great number of Craig's river buddies were there, as well as most of his family. We all hung out and enjoyed each other's company. Here are some photos.

Update: The night of the tribute I dreamed of Craig. Very simple. He was sitting on a couch smiling at me, singing a song.

The movement from a view of life as essentially simple and orderly to a view of life as complex and ironic is what every individual passes through in becoming mature. ... Amid simplicity and order rationalism is born, but rationalism proves inadequate in any period of upheaval. Then equilibrium must be created out of opposites. Such inner peace as [we] gain must represent a tension among contradictions... A feeling for [dramatic] paradox allows seemingly dissimilar things to exists side by side, their very incongruity suggesting a kind of truth.

We ourselves are alive and seem to escape death like Odysseus under the ram, but our family, friends and we ourselves, die - thus the tragic sense of life.

The trick is to turn this tragic sense into a source of joy and wonder. Into the infinite now.

Flavia and I returned from San Francisco last night. I was there all last week at the Sun Engineering Conference. Flavia arrived on Friday.

On Saturday night Flavia and I, along with Venus and Chiara, went to concluding Other Minds concert. It started with Charles Amirkhanian interviewing the composers. The first piece performed was John Luther Adams' Selections from Strange and Sacred Noise. It started with four percussionists each playing a small tom-tom. Two of the percussionists were on the stage, the other two in the balcony. Unfortunately for us, we were also in the balcony above them. So we heard all the sound below us. I imagine it would have been great to be on the main floor and hear some sound from the stage and some from above your head.

The percussionists switched to gongs. That was my favorite part. It was a treat to hear such sustained whooshing sounds and overtones for an extended period. Next the percussionists all gathered together on stage to play four xylophones. This is were I feel asleep. But, for me, falling asleep is not necessarily a sign of a boring work. This time it was a sign of satisfaction of the preceding gong work. I took a break during the xylophones. Adams' piece ended with all percussionists playing very large bass drums. Once again, a joy to hear something not readily accessible.

The next piece was Evan Ziporyn's Melody Competition. This was a pentatonic "festival" pitting two teams of percussionists against each other - moving between stages of togetherness and separation.

The evening ended with Billy Bang's Selections from the Vietnam Trilogy. I haven't attended Other Minds for many years now so I was surprised to hear a more traditional mostly modal jazz band play. I wondered how the audience would react. My question was answered with loud applauses after solos.

It was interesting to see, in the same evening, the contrast in performers stage presence - from the formal, somewhat self-effacing manner of the more "classical" performances of Adams and Ziporyn, to the loose, walk-around-the-stage, get-down style of Billy Bang. Ultimately I prefer the Bang approach, although I did think his body motion was a bit insensitive during the solo piano piece.

This was the first Other Minds (or any "alternative" music concert) I've been to where I liked all the pieces.

Our blue haiku partner, Phillip Bimstein, was in San Francisco too, explicitly to attend the entire Other Minds festival. Thanks to him we went to the after-the-concert party at film maker Henry Rosenthal's converted warehouse house. His house is 5 floors of fantasy. Kind of a bizarre museum/playhouse around Stevenson and 6th street (a dangerous neighborhood).

We walked from the Yerba Buena center to the party, meeting and talking with Tom Steenland, of Starkland records and Stephanie Nugent, a dancer on the faculty of UC Santa Barbara who danced with Ririe-Woodbury in Salt Lake for several years in the early 90s.

At the Rosenthal house we were met at the entrance by young punks - literally - some nice young people with great hairstyles and clothes. They escorted to the freight elevator and up to the 5th floor. On the way up you get a peek of each floor as you pass it - a wild menagerie of shells, tools, skulls, bugs, flying toasters and more. The main party took place on the top floor - great food, drink, desert with original Warhol and Lichtenstein on