Some Images

In the Arboretum...




Daniel's bottles....

By the Bay....

Visiting Mill Valley

Zoe Borkowski reading her obituary at a Mill Valley gathering -- soberly, then, with audience reaction, breaking into laughter...

Jim Forrest

We accept that all humans die – A dull, sluggish stream, usually ignored, runs through the property, feeding the roots of rugged plants. You watch and are saddened by the deaths of those ahead of you in the line of all who must die, your own death preventing you from knowing the order of those who will die after you. It is part of the general fabric of life, the dark threads, and you have no choice but to be resigned.

But sometimes the fabric is split by a stroke of lightning – the sudden death of a human being, and perhaps the term “human being” should be reserved only for one of its true exemplars like Jim Forrest who has just died. You could say the loss is felt more profoundly with Jim's death because the human race itself has lost one of its best: I could not help but think of Cleopatra’s speech with Anthony's death in Shakespeare’s play:

The crown o’ the earth doth melt….
The soldier’s pole [star] is fall’n; young boys and girls
Are level now with men; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.

Jim would be quietly amused by my elevating him in this manner. He was like a redwood tree, with a big and solid identity, in no need of inflation through flattering praise, so much a presence that his sudden absence is a great shock. While I might describe him and his death as that lightning flash that has split the very fabric of life, he is at the same time the lightning that fuses that split, and inspires us, and heals us: To know that one man could be so important to those around him proves that there can be great human beings in a world where so many of our kind made us despair of human decency. Jim was proud and incredibly aware of African-American tradition (especially -- with him and his family -- the tradition of the Black Cowboy). His house is full of reminders of the pain and triumph involved with African-American history; among his object, a ledger surviving from early slavery times, itemizing the sale of Africans on the auction block. He was a voracious reader. In his retirement, he traveled around the earth, confident that he was a person who would be accepted automatically anywhere he went. For, finally, there is the fact of his physical and spiritual presence, a tall man, even-tempered, ever soft-spoken, with an aura of loving gentleness, and to have known him was to feel comforted by his presence. Seeing him stand there in the mind’s eye, remembering the way he talked, must bring tears over his going away, but it will always be a great comfort to know that such a man may exist. There must be others like him on the earth. Until I meet another, thanks for your loving kindness, Jim. May his partner, Bernie Granda, be comforted.

What We Saw

It was difficult to show very much to old friend Peter Arvanitis, away from the Bay Area for many years, but, of course, he wanted to see the new deYoung, and here are some more photos from there:



































And, of course, we also strolled through the Arboretum:

Emily

Quite a few years (decades) ago, I was able to visit scenes of Emily Dickinson's life in Amherst, with two Bostonian friends. I arrived late for one of the rarely scheduled tours of the Dickinson home, the width and breadth of Emily's life (except that her imagination ranged the universe). Being late was a great aid so that I could photograph, undetected, the old black silhouette cutout of Emily and the painting of her and her sister and brother, and her bedroom, like a nun's cell (although I do not want to reinforce that stereotype of Emily as more dessicated than alive) where she retreated each day to write her verses. I don't know how often Emily would lower one of her little bound books of verses in a basket to someone below -- one of the stories people like to repeat to emphasize her isolation -- but in the home they have been true to that iconography -- Looking toward her window, the basket by the window, and looking up at her window...the large Dickinson home...

Those who venture beyond Emily's simpler (but noteworthy) verses may wonder if she was not transplanted from Mars -- so alone, yet so original, leading one around the most surprising corners in the mind, leading to the visions of a highly sensitive mind...I would not want my own work to stand next to hers, and so I introduce my verse to her before quoting three of her own.

For Emily Dickinson

Saved in a box or in a basket –
She knew – these were
Her better kisses.
For life? She would risk it.

Eternal notes – small and fair –
Were all her own faces.
Each offers each of us
Her kiss and their business –

Cool, spare, and curious –
Even as teaspoons or scalpels.
Pruner of roses, she parries
In air – touche!

Avec le mot juste
She severs their stems:
The fit words fall that
She then runs through.

-- James McColley Eilers, copyright 2007

Once I could no longer lag behind the professor from Amherst College who was leading the tour, he said wryly, "Well, you arrived late so you may not have heard that no photographs are allowed -- so I won't destroy your camera." Emily's garden was one aspect of her life, and I took these photogaphs, and recently came across the plant I had picked there and pressed and dried:

As you probably know, the dashes in her verses are Emily's notation on where to pause.
Emily's verse, once numbered 754, now numbered 764:

My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun --
In Corners --till a Day
The Owner passed -- identified --
And carried Me away --

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods --
And now We hunt the Doe --
And every time I speak for Him --
The Mountains straight reply --

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow --
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through --

And when at Night -- Our good Day done --
I guard My Master's Head --
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow -- to have shared --

To foe of His -- I'm deadly foe --
None stir the second time --
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye --
Or an emphatic Thumb --

Though I than He -- may longer live
He longer must -- than I --
For I have but the power to kill,
Without -- the power to die --

With my friends Charles and Robert, I visited her gravesite, and took away the faded flowers left by previous visitors, and put my own gift of lilies on top the gravestone, and read one of her verses aloud. I doubt if she very often attended the church her family attended, or only attended as a skeptic. In the religious girls' schol she attended, she was considered a little rebel, and in her verses, she plays around with the notion of God, as if ironic about a ficton. Did she indicate the epitaph, "Called Back"? If so, I suspect she left with the same sense of irony she had while alive.



The following verse that shows Emily's passion (She was probably very much in love with her sister-in-law Susan Dickinson for whom she wrote about 250 of her verses) was given a very powerful choral setting, as wild as its title, by composer John Adams:

Verse 249 (now numbered 269):

Wild Nights -- Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile -- the Winds --
To a Heart in port --
Done with the Compass --
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden --
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor -- Tonight --
In Thee!

Drawing all these materials out of an old box while trying to put my apartment in order for a visit from my old friend Peter Arvanitis, I decided to make a collage of some of it, and place it under glass...



Emily's Verse 544 (now 665:

The Martyr Poets -- did not tell --
But wrought their Pang in syllable --
That when their mortal name be numb --
Their mortal fate -- encourage Some --

The Martyr Painters -- never spoke --
Bequesting -- rather -- to their Work --
That when their conscious fingers cease --
Some seek in Art -- the Art of Peace --

The only photograph of Emily has often been blighted -- as when early editions of her poetry included only the simpler, less adventurous verses, and the image in her photograph was changed to a girl in a summer smock, with puffy sleeves, and long curls in her hair. The only photo is rather scratched up, and so I tried to help its appearance via Photoshop:

Martha Hubert's Art Can Be Seen At Last

Look at her websitre now, but wait a couple months to examine it again: Martha Hubert is just beginning to create the website that will display her wonderful works: http://www.marthahubert.com
Martha caught without warning on the Embarcadero:

Why the Blue Elephant?

When I started this blog, I asked "Why 'The Blue Elephant'?" Maybe I will begin to explain here:

EXCERPTS FROM THE ELEPHANT’S DIARY:

April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King was assassinated. The man named James Thomas Eilers become, for a time, an elephant. Later, he considered returning to the human state when he understood that he had become an elephant in reaction to King’s murder: “If this is what humans do, I no longer want to be a human.” Of course, elephant or human, either way you are an animal. Still, there is some kind of difference, as expressed by Chuck Jones, cartoon animator, creator of Bugs Bunny and Wiley Coyote, among others, “It’s a lot easier to humanize animals than it is to humanize humans.”

The first elephant verse – I am not sure whether I will add others that came out later, over the period when the elephant worked his way back to being a human – and I don't know if this will have meaning for anyone else -- was written in 1969:

GANESSA DANCING

I am a drunken dancing elephant
schlipp-schlopping around the page
in ship-slippery slippers.

What a funny giraffe you are,
writing your minimal poems,
placing your feet precisely there.

A miniature camera held to your eye,
you force that child to jump and jump again,
but the child of a beautiful moment
jumps like a wooden doll.
He begs you to let him go –
Jump!

Ooo! That went right through me!
Schlipp-schlopping around the page.

– James McColley Eilers, copyright 2007


This elephant was an aery totem, but then poet Louise Nayer, who knew the elephant keeper at the San Francisco Zoo arranged for me to visit Penny, a real elephant, in her compound:



Elephants find refuge at http://www.elephants.com/

Building from the Sky Down

As Jesus of Nazareth or St. Francis would say, "The money being spent on a new cathedral in Oakland would be better spent on the poor." Oddly, it is being built from the top down! Here is the first stage -- a fish-shaped structure in the sky, held up by scaffolding...But now it has acquired supports, looking, for the moment, like the legs on a giant bug...

A Son Listens to His Father

Fred Goldsmith, Photographer

If I ever learn how to show links on my blog, I will be adding this one, along with those I listed in an entry in 2006. Although Fred Goldsmith will probably have a blog of his own sometime, for now you can sample his great photographs at
http://www.photo.net/photos/fjaygoldsmith

In Golden Gate Park, March 2007

A flower with the non-Latin name of "Chinese House":


Lloyd Stensrud and I came across someone who was being filmed while doing tai chi...

More Quetzalcoatl

Some more impressions of the creation of Quetzalcoatl, the mythic feathered sea serpent of the Aztecs, in the renovated playground by 24th Street and York Street, San Francisco. The quetzacoatl was created by husband and wife designers, Mark Roller and Colette Crutchen. Ceramicist Aileen Barr created all the custom tiles. The landscape architect was Martha Ketterer.







Nearby, on 24th Street:

Along 24th Street..someone's obsessive window display -- I suppose if you click on the photo you can enlarge and look at individual photos:

The students had a hand in creating the mural at the Buena Vista School: