Lu Watters Pronouncements “courtesy of Donna Goodwin"

Pronouncements by Lu Watters
(courtesy of Donna Goodwin)

Put her in a wax museum. They wouldn’t have to do anything -- just hang her up. (National politician ‘s wife.)
Mother Nature is saying:“You don’t know everything yet, boys！”（A puzzling geological mystery)
Cats bore me in ten minutes. I’ll take the wild birds anytime.
He’s not the king pin in the noodle department --a long way from the top rung. (Well-known popular scientist)
I’ve seen a lot of phonies who label themselves too soon.
I’m not fond of hind-sight prophets.
About as modern as a fart out of a four-hundred-year-old pig. (Famous jazz ensemble)
At four o’clock in the morning I was still only in partial gear.
He had to think quite a bit before he figured out whether to put the left foot before the right. (National politician)
They smack their lips as if they’ve come up with something new--things that used to be on cereal boxes in 1902. (Popular TV doctor)
After all, if they hadn’t worked their way up the ladder, we’d still be running around on all fours under logs. (On evolution)
He’s going to sharpen up the hymns with modern harmonies. You don’t do that. He slips in these things. Hymns per se, they have it. Two-bit harmonies to modernize them and you lose everything. He’s tin-eared. (Radio organist)
I asked Wang where Ng was. He shook his head and pointed to the ground. That’s all I remember of that horrible dream.
He got the Businessman’s Dandruff. (Balding Blue Jay)
If he can’t play good--if he’s a rusher--you brush him off the way you’d brush a gnat off a sandwich. Use him as bait for the giant octopus--drop him six hundred feet of the coast of Chile on a dark night. (Bad drummers)
The meal Ma cooked for Pa when he came home drunk.
When you’re dealing on the poor side of the deck you don’t make terms.
It’s hard to find an old-fashioned purely wicked murderer anymore.
As long as you don’t blow your nose too hard, you’ll be alright.
A trip to the Big City? It’s better to keep the disease! (A visit to a doctor)
A congregation of bigots.
He looks as crooked as a screwworm.
The ocean is on the march to Highway One and it doesn’t get discouraged easily.
You shouldn’t make appointments when you’re floating in No Noodle Island.
When it comes down to it, life is really nothing but memories--better make them good ones!

Notes:
All the above lines are by Lu Watters, collected by Donna Goodwin who has been Lu Watters’ companion during his last years living in Cotati, Sonoma, California.

Morning Coffee in Santa Rosa

Morning Coffee in Santa Rosa


Morning coffee in Santa Rosa
Belongs to the homeless saga,
From all the street corners,
Under the bridges
From the creeks,
Over the grass,
Beneath the sky,
Men, being spilled out,
Heavy with their over night odors,
Women, their freshness after a rushed toilet.

Chilly air finds them
In for the first pot of coffee.
Toasts of bagel, croissants, scorns,
Shared scantly with
The homeowners of the city folks,
Who stay in or sleep in
Cozy bed, breathed of warm bodies of bedmates;
Husbands or wives; girl friend or boy friend;
Gigolos or prostitutes.

The natural morning comradeship
Warms up strangers in sharing cigarettes,
Small bargains of favors,
Bus passes,
Drugs,
Food stamps,
Two dollar morning breakfast,
Double cheeseburgers,
Gossips, threats;
Fights to face off over “my man”, or “my girl”,
“Can you spare a quarter?
No, thanks for asking, though.”

Transit Mall collects newly discharged men and women from the city,
Children and seniors alike;
Some one might jumps at some one else,
Fists on the throat,
As a result of too much coffee from the shelter,
The Living Room, St. Vincent de Paul’s kitchen.
Stir up ancient jealousy, anger, negativity,
“Hit, pissed off, stay away!”
“Shit, God, Lord, Probation officer.”

Morning air is more cheerful,
After a drizzle,
A shower,
A down pour,
A let-up.
When the shops become noisier,
With familiar stories,
Repeated wisdom,
Recycled sorrows,
Breakable dreams.

Sooner than later,
The groups of earliest visitors break off.
In a warmer sunlit spot,
Bodies lie down
In hint less embrace,
With dog tucked in by the leg,
A guitar un-tuned,
A drum unbeaten,
A bike without lock chains.
A sleeping bag is rolled up.

Early risers,
Bike riders,
Joggers,
Delivery guys,
Bagel girls,
Tourists on diet, with weight control sheet,
Business personnel in suits, cups in hands.

City is more diverse,
With well rested folks,
Brighter looks on the faces,
Spectacled eyes on stock pages,
On George Bush,
On Ben La Din
On asparagus and mushroom dishes.


Following the sun when morning is chilly,
Following the shade when morning is hot.
Three benches be visited,
From the west side
of the fountain in the morning,
To the East side
when the grass is heated to dry and dews lost.
Their lustiness under footsteps.


Cigarette butts litter around,
Dogs make no effort to belong,
A banjo is playing by the fountain,
A pair of ducks rubbing necks with each other.
Shops are hanging out “Open” sign,
Coffee smells perfumed morning bodies,
An old man takes a seat by the window,
Reading the first page and keeps an eye
On the lonely lady in her purple dress.

Morning coffee in Santa Rosa,
Fresh and repeated aroma,
The same cup
And the same chair,
The same look
And the same longing,
For a warmer greeting and
A distant side-glance,
Hello, my dear….
See you soon and take care.

One Line Story

ONE LINE STORY
By Louise Zhang


Mr. Poetito has only one story to tell in his lifetime, and it is a one liner. He has told that story again and again to the story telling group at the Day Activity Center for the mentally challenged. It is always the same theme, and it runs always the same way: his grands died on the same day. He tells this story to everyone who happens to lend him an ear. It is a very big yet very short story. Most of the time, people listen with attentive initiation and after the first line; which is also the last or the closing line, their attention become less attentive, and then the attention trails away in prolonged sympathy, silent and heavy. Listeners are looking back at him, and with their mouths open.
Then, Mr. Poetito blows his nose real hard, real long, and real loud, with tissue paper rolled into little cramped balls. The impact is great, it implies a preparation for an abundance of running nose and running tears. He is not doing such Horn Blowing to suspend the story. It almost feels like he is suspending your life, and your emotion is suddenly left hanging on the Full Stop of the story. It is as broad as a Bible line and as dry as a fully fossilized fish skeleton.
“ My grand ma died and so did her husband, on the same day,” so he retold the story one day, and it went with no modification, and it fell over on listeners’ ears like “fan noise”. A fan makes sounds, and it is there, and it seems not there, because everybody hears it, yet, nobody is listening.
“My grands died on the same day” he repeated the story, it is the same story. Then, there, until one day, comes Ms Lulu, known fondly as the Crazy China Doll, when she came to join the storytelling. She won’t let Mr. Poetito finish his one liner story at the end of the first line, and after the opening line, which was also the closing line, kept providing Mr. Poetito with wide-eyed curiosity and interest. His face was uplifted to the ceiling and there was a twinkle of ecstasy in his eyes. With constant blinking of the eye she ,the crazy China Doll opened her lips of medium thickness and asked in a more investigative than inquiring manner,
“On the same day?”
“yes”.
“You mean they were killed in a car accident?”
“No.”
“They were not in the car?”
“No.”
“They were not?”
“No, they were not.”
“Where were they then, in an airplane?”
“No. not in the airplane, they were at home.“
“At home?”
“Yes, at home.”
“In bed?”
“No, only one is in bed.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, only one.”
“Which one?”
“The male”
“The male?”
“Yes, the male”
“You mean, the grand pa, the male?”
“Yes, the grand pa, the male.”
“Your grand pa?”
“Yes, of course My grand pa, who else do you think?”
“ Oh, your real, I mean, blood-related?"
“Yes, blood-related.”
“On whose side, your mom’s or your dad’s”
“On my mom’s of course.”
“So, then where was your grandma then?”
“She was there.”
“Where?”
“In the room.”
“In bed?”
“No, not in bed.”
“Then, in where?”
“In a chair.”
“In a chair?”
“Yes, in a chair.”
“In a chair?”
“Yes, in a Chair.”
“A rocking chair?”
“No, no, hell no.”
“not a rocking chair?”
“No, not, no, “
“A recliner?”
“NO, not a recliner, you silly.”
“Then, what chair, for God’s sake.”
“A wooden chair.”
“ A wooden one?”
“Yes,”
“Cushioned?”
“No. “
“Not cushioned?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“That must be hard.”
“Yes, it is hard.”
“Well, think of it, to die in an uncushioned wooden chair.”
“Yes, in an uncushioned wooden chair.”
“What a sad idea.”
“No, it is not an idea.”
“No? it’s not an idea?”
“No, of course not, hell not, it is not an idea, it is a fact.”
“A fact? Sure, it is a fact. It must be a fact. “
“ Of course it is a fact, a fact, a fact.”
Mr. Poetito raised his voice and both of his hands. He started rubbing them against each other as vigorously as the primitives when they tried to start fire .
Crazy China Doll suddenly straightened herself up as if the fire ignited by rubbing 。She sprang up and acted as if the fire flames had licked her eye lashes, eye brows, and her hair with its tongue. She was one of those Chinese that has curly rather than straight hair, with little kinks . She was not through with Mr. Poetito yet.
“So,” she continued her inquiry,
“So what?”
“Go on, then, so, go on with your story, then so?”
“So, yes, so, she died in a wooden chair.”
“I got that part, but, so when your grandpa died in bed, your grandma died in a wooden chair, supposedly at the same moment?”
“Well, almost as at the same moment, or may be just one moment and then another moment.”
“One died on an earlier moment, one died on a later moment?”
“Yes, well I think, at almost the same moment. You know, life lingers when the last breath is drawing out . You don’t have a stop watch there in your hands to keep the record. It happens when you are not fully prepared to look at the clock until all is over, and it is usually after a few minutes when you remember to look at the clock. And then death is presumably claimed at about such and such a time, between such and such an hour you know?”
“Yes, I understand, it is not very easy to determine when exactly death happened. It is always claimed as presumably at such and such time, and always peacefully “
“Yes, presumably claimed and peacefully.”
“Who claimed? Doctor or your Mom and Dad”
“ I think it was my Mom and Dad, the doctor won’t be there for a long while, the traffic was bad, and they don’t want to disturb the dead by having all the commotion in the house. They understood how much my grands wished to die together, on the same day. Quietly and privately, as inevitably peaceful.”
“So your mom and your pap were there?’
“No, they were not there.”
“Where were they then?”
“In the other room.”
“In the same house?”
“Of course in the same house.”
“How many rooms in the house?”
“Three, three bedrooms.”
“Were you there too,?
“Yes, or no, I was in one of the bed rooms, but I was not in the room in which my grands died.”
“How would you know?”
“I did not know, I was told”
“Who told you? Your mom or your dad”
“My mom I guess,”
“You guess, how do you guess.”
“I don’t know, I was too young.”
“How young were you?”
“Two months old.”
“Two months old, and you could remember? My grandpa died when I was two years old, and I saw a picture of him holding me on his lap. But I don’t remember anything about him. Lucky you that you could remember.”
“But I don’t, I don’t remember. I was told, and I only remember what I was told, but it feel as if I saw the whole thing with my own eyes.”
“How, your eyes were open then?”
“I thought so, but I couldn’t see clearly. I had tears in my eyes. And I was wrapped in a blanket, and I had a milk bottle in the way.”
“And you were only two months old?”
“Yes, two months old and my grands died on the same day.”
“So you see two deaths on one day?”
“Yes, two deaths on one day.”
“So you are traumatized, aren’t you?”
“No, Hell no. I was too young to be traumatized by it. But I feel the memory of it sometimes makes me very upset.”
“So, they died together, on the same day! How extraordinary….,but not in an accident, not by suicide, how amazing…”
“Yes, on the same day, together. Life just stopped for both of them. ”
“Do they love each other?”
“Yes, they do, that’s why they died that way.”
“Just one moment, this one died, and then, next moment, the other one died too?”
“Yes, one breathed a moment longer than the other.”
“Yes, grandpa first, and then grandma second.”
“What a great story!” Lulu commented with a heavy sigh, “Not born on the same day, were they? but died on the same day?”
“Yes, not born on the same day but died on the same day”
“Yes, a great story. They loved each other to death.”
“Yes, they can’t live without each other.” Mr. Poetito reflected.
“No, they can’t. They know death ends lives but death does not end loves, and death just seals the loves between them and they were wrapped up in their love.” Mr. Poetito said.
“So death failed to do them apart.”
“Yes, death failed to do them apart. They outsmarted death. And they were together in death. “
“What a way to die,.. It is not always negotiable for the mortals to die in a way as you wished. Do you want to die like that? ” the crazy China Doll asks.
“I don’t have anyone to die with on the same day.”
“Me, neither.”
“ I will die alone.”
“By your self?”
“Yeah, no one to share that death I guess.”
“No, but thanks for sharing your great story with me.”
“You are more than welcome.”
“You are welcome, you have a good day,”
“You too, “
“Do you always blow your nose so hard? You might hurt the vessels of your nose.”
“No, I won’t, I am relieving the nose.”
“True?”
“Truly,”
“ True?“
“Yes, try yourself.”
“ No thanks, I think I will skip it. Bye bye, Mr. Poetito, thanks again for your great story.”
“You are welcome and you have a good day.
“You too, thanks.
“Thanks, bye.”
“Bye, thanks.”
“Oh, by the way, one more footnote,”
“oh, yeah?”
“My grandpa is not my real grandpa!”
“Not?”
“No,!”
“No?, then who was he?”
“My real grand uncle!”
“How astonishing! Grandpa became grand uncle…”
“No, he did not become, he was, and has been and is”
“How?”
“My real grandpa died in a accident building the Hoover Dam. His crew all fell to their death when the elevator gave out. My grandma was a widow with four kids and my grandpa, or my grand uncle, the brother of my late grandpa married her and kept the clan growing by contributing to the birth of more children.”
“Oh, I see, that tells the whole story.”
“Yes, the whole story, they died on the same day.”
“Heroes are baptized in heroism, and resurrected in tragedies.”
“Yes, Amen!”
“Yes, bye-bye, Mr. Poetito.”
“Bye-bye, Lulu, you have a good day!”
“Thanks, you too. Bye, bye.”
“Bye”.

ON THIS DAY IN JAZZ AGE MUSIC!: OCTOBER 2ND

ON THIS DAY IN JAZZ AGE MUSIC!: OCTOBER 2ND

lu

Lu Watters (1911 – 1989)
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Lucius "Lu" Watters (December 19, 1911 in Santa Cruz, California – November 5, 1989 in Santa Rosa, California) was a trumpeter and bandleader of the Yerba Buena Jazz Band in the "West Coast revival" of Dixieland music. This is relational to trad jazz as the musicians tended to be white and had little or no actual connections to New Orleans.
He played trumpet by the age of 11 and had his first work on a cruise ship. He then worked for Bob Crosby before deciding to form a Dixieland-style band. He founded the Yerba Buena Jazz Band in 1939 and it would be a leading force in the Dixieland revival for the next 11 years, with a small off-period caused by the war. In 1950 he broke up the band and in 1957 he retired from full-time playing.
In his life after music, he studied geology and lectured on the subject at Sonoma State University. His main area of interest was coastal earthquake conditions. He also became a chef.
In 1963 he made a bit of a return by playing with Turk Murphy at anti-nuclear rallies. He opposed building a nuclear plant on the San Andreas Fault. This related to his interest in geology and study of earthquakes. After this he returned to his life as a geologist and chef.


CD 1: Lu Watters

01 Figety Feet

02 Figety Feet – Alternate

03 Milenberg Joys

04 High Society

05 High Society - Alternate

06 Hot House Rag

07 Come Back

08 Daddy Do

09 Daddy Do – Alternate

10 Tiger Rag

11 London Cafe Blues

12 London Cafe Blues - Alternate

13 Terrible Blues

14 Muskrat Ramble

15 Muskrat Ramble - Alternate

16 Temptation Rag

17 Sunset Cafe Stomp

18 Sunset Cafe Stomp - Alternate

19 Riverside Blues

20 Cake Walking Babies From Home

Freethought of the Day

Freethought of the Day
July 2, 2009

There are 2 entries for this date: Barbara G. Walker and George Sand.

Barbara G. Walker

On this date in 1930, Barbara G. Walker was born in Philadelphia. In early childhood, she had her first disappointment with religion, when a minister told Barbara her deceased pet dog wouldn't go to heaven. She threw an uncharacteristic tantrum, telling him: "I don't want anything to do with your rotten old God and nasty old heaven." First reading the King James bible as a young teenager, she decided: "It sounded cruel. A God who would not forgive the world until his son had been tortured to death--that did not strike me as the kind of father I would want to relate to." She majored in journalism at the university of Pennsylvania, married research chemist Gordon Walker, and moved to Washington, D.C., where she worked at the Washington Star. Relocating to Morristown, New Jersey, she taught the Martha Graham dance technique. She is a knitting expert, writing ten volumes, including the classics, Treasury of Knitting Patterns and A Second Treasury of Knitting Patterns. In the mid-seventies she became part of the "new feminist wave," writing the monumental feminist/freethought sourcebook, The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (1983). Her many other books, published by Harper & Row, include The Skeptical Feminist. An atheist, she has also specialized in debunking irresponsible, New Age assertions about crystals.

In the mid-seventies she became part of the "new feminist wave," writing the monumental feminist/freethought sourcebook, The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (1983), which is often banned, according to the American Library Association’s Banned Books (1998), because the book “is of no benefit to anyone.”

Her many other books include The Skeptical Feminist, in which she wrote,

* . . . the very fears and guilts imposed by religious training are responsible for some of history's most brutal wars, crusades, pogroms, and persecutions, including five centuries of almost unimaginable terrorism under Europe's Inquisition and the unthinkably sadistic legal murder of nearly nine million women. History doesn't say much very good about God.

In that book, she found “the archetypical Goddess image” to be of psychological importance to women and calls fortune-telling “just a parlor trick.”

Walker was named 1993 Humanist Heroine by the American Humanist Association. An atheist, she has also specialized in debunking irresponsible, New Age assertions about crystals.

“Our culture,” she has written, “has been deeply penetrated by the notion that ‘man’ . . . not woman . . . is created in the image of god. This notion persists, despite the likelihood that the creation goes in the other direction: that god is a human projection of the image of man.”

Barbara G. Walker

Barbara G. Walker
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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Barbara G. Walker (born July 2, 1930, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) is a U.S. author and feminist. She writes about religion, cultural anthropology, spirituality, and mythology from the viewpoint of Pre-Indo-European neolithic matriarchies. She often uses the imagery of the Mother Goddess to discuss these Neolithic Matriarchies. Her most important book is The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets (1983). She also is an influential knitting expert and the author of several classic encyclopedic knitting references.

Barbara G. Walker describes herself as an atheist. In the book, The Skeptical Feminist: Discovering the Virgin, Mother, and Crone, she writes about her belief that there is no deity. However, she believes that people, and woman in particular, can use the image of the Goddess in their day-to-day lives. Her book Woman's Rituals: A Sourcebook is an attempt to show how she puts her "meditation techniques" into practice, and is meant as a guide for other women to do the same thing.

In the 1960s and 1970s, she authored several volumes of knitting references which have become landmarks for their comprehensiveness and clarity.[citation needed] Her knitting treasury series documents over a thousand different knitting stitches. Other books considered mosaic knitting, for producing multicolored designs while knitting only one color per row, and constructing knitted garments from the top-down rather than the usual bottom-up method used in western knitting tradition. Her legacy continues with the reprinting of most of her knitting books, starting in the mid-1990s, as well as the publication of new contributions to the knitting literature.

Barbara G. Walker studied journalism at the University of Pennsylvania and began working for the Washington Star in Washington, D.C. While serving on a local hotline in the mid 1970s, helping battered women and pregnant teens, she became interested in feminism. The American Humanist Association named her "Humanist Heroine" in 1993, and in 1995 she received the "Women Making Herstory" award from the New Jersey NOW.