This bud's for you.

This bud's for you., originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Urban Wink--With a wink of her eye, the city goes wild and the shutter snaps.

The final meager vestiges of unemployment will run out next week, and after two full years of applying for everything from paralegal jobs at international firms to washing dishes and pulling weeds, I'm still unemployed, now nearly 58 years old. I've been volunteering four days a week at the local food bank in an effort to stay connected to my community, help where I can, and keep from going crazy after the day's job search has been exhausted. The food bank squeezed enough funds from their budget to offer me twelve hours of paid admin work per week. Deeply appreciated, but not enough to cover even rent. I've lost hope in being hired by any employer, so in a last ditch effort to keep from homelessness, I'm striking out on my own.

Today, I started a web store, Urban Wink, on the online site Etsy.com. I'm digging into the photo archive I've created of urban street art (among other city things), ordered gallery mats and poly bags and have begun to sell matted photos. If I can sell ten or fifteen a week at $25 each, it will bring enough to supplement the food bank pay to help me survive. I've added a link on the right of this page for the Urban Wink Etsy store and another link to my street art set (vol. I); most of the photos I'll offer are there. They're great images that capture fleeting moments of Post Alley that will never be seen again.

Other panic-mode operations include a slew of postings offering myself as a virtual assistant, errand runner, proofreader/editor, dog walker..."anything for a buck". Desperate times, these.

Oh, and perhaps most importantly, I've found love. It's a tenuous, fragile love...one you must handle carefully--one touch of a feather, of a breath, and it could shatter into a million golden pieces.

Available!

Available!, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Zen Pip

Pip & Incense, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

In an uncharacteristically serene moment, Pip stops to smell the sandalwood.

WE THE PEOPLE - a Manifesto

WE THE PEOPLE - a Manifesto, originally uploaded by http://TheConcreteJungleBook.com.

This touches my soul. I've been photographing street artists' work over the past couple of years--stickers, scraps of poetry, works of art--and this describes perfectly the feeling I've come to have when I pass, by chance, a piece on some back-alley wall or pole.

B is for Beer, Our Lady of the Blue Moon

B is for Beer, Our Lady of the Blue Moon, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Tom Robbins has a posse, and it is us! We, his readers, are taking to the streets and watering holes, guerilla style, to spread the Word of his new book, "B is for Beer," to be release April 21, 2009 by Ecco.

I was his idea--Tom suggested to the marketing department of Ecco that they make promotional materials (stickers, cards and coasters) available to his readers to have fun with. Ecco said they've never done anything like this before. It is an absolutely brilliant strategy, and fitting, too. Tom Robbins early books were sniped at by the litereary establishment critics. His reader knew better, and passed the word (and the books) from hand to hand and his reputation among readers spread like wildfire. (I received my first TR book, "Another Roadside Attraction," from a stranger right here in the Blue Moon in the early 70s.) His books are currently published in 22 languages across the globe, and he is one of the world's most beloved authors.

This take-it-to-the-streets strategy of Tom's somehow feels like a gift and a nod to his readers. I'll post more photos of the blitz here from time to time.

For your own packet of cards, stickers and coasters, email ecco@harpercollins.com and include your mailing address.

'B is for Beer' Goodie Box

'B is for Beer' Goodie Box, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I'm getting ready to hit the streets. The coasters were printed with the original publication date, February 3rd; since then, the date has been moved to April 21. Should I cross it out and handwrite the new date (grafitti style), print labels (my printer prints with water-soluable ink...could be a problem), or just leave it alone? I have ten stickers in my wallet for impromptu stickering, and a small bag packed with bundles of coasters and cards. I'll try to take pictures as I go, and am looking forward to having fun with this heartfelt project.

What a befitting way to honor this beloved author and spread the word for a unique and daring book! TR has always, from the beginning, included readers in his life and success, and put more store in us than in the mainstream critics and media. In this small way, we can return the favor.

If you'd like to join the fun, email ecco@harpercollins.com with "B is for Beer" in the subject line, and include the mailing address you want the materials to be sent to. They don't use your address for anything else, or sell or trade your email address.

Stay tuned...

"B is for Beer" Spread the Word, Build the Buzz and Bottoms Up!

From the very begiinning, Tom Robbins's books have been promoted by readers' word of mouth and passed from hand to hand, even as mainstream literary pundits sniffed and snipped. Readers recognized treasure when they saw it. I recieved my own first dog-eared copy of his first book, Another Roadside Attraction from a bearded and bandana'd stranger in Seattle's Blue Moon Tavern over 35 years ago. My life has never been the same since that reading, and I know I'm not alone. His books are published, read and loved around the world. Tom will be 73 years old in July. This could be his last book-- though one never knows with Tom...he's never one to sit still. When author Kurt Vonnegut died, there was a run on his books and an outpouring of love; a member of his family said it was too bad he wasn't there to see it. May Tom Robbins live forever, but in the meantime, he should know and never doubt that he and his books are treasured and loved, and that we're grateful for what he's given us over the past decades of his life.

This is an opportunity for readers to put into action our gratitude for the delicious delight and profound crazy wisdom Tom Robbins has given us over the years. Tom will be 73 years old in July. This could be his last book-- though one never knows with Tom...he's never one to sit still. When beloved author Kurt Vonnegut died, there was a run on his books and an outpouring of love; a member of his family said it was too bad he wasn't there to see it. May Tom Robbins live forever, but in the meantime, he should never doubt that his books are treasured and loved. I will be plastering every nook and cranny of my city, blogging and spreading the word, in an effort to pay tribute to this most esteemed author. If you'd like to join in this grassroots joyride, contact Ecco publishing (who also published Charles Bukowski and Leonard Cohen—a rich tradition) at ecco@harpercollins.com for stickers, greeting cards and coasters to help spread the word, Tom Robbins style. ~MW

Fish Wars on Cars: Tom Robbins on the Religious Right

Fish Wars on Cars: Tom Robbins on the Religious Right

Laugh-Out-Loud Cats #658

Laugh-Out-Loud Cats #658, originally uploaded by Ape Lad.

A classic Adam Koford comic!

"Playing for Change"--A Tribute to Buskers

Grammy award winning filmmaker Mark Johnson brought over 100 street musicians (buskers) from around the world together for a collaboration documentary called "Playing for Change". It is a tribute long overdue, and the project wants to get more people involved. For information: http://www.playingforchange.com/

It is gratifying to see others appreciate the importance of the talent buskers share every day with all who pass by. It's even better to see the golden light of appreciation shined upon the street musicians who, though they may be passed unseen, provide the soundtracks to our daily lives.

Sadie Died

Sadie Died, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

It's been nearly three weeks since Sadie died, and I still can't bring myself to write about her or see her picture. I am lost without her. No mere dog, she permeated every facet of my life, went everywhere with me, was my constant companion, family and friend. She cracked me up every day and was the one to get me through life's truely hard times. We had each other's back.

Her photos can be seen here: http://flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157603329460230/

Rest In Peace, Sadie.

Alice Chasing Rabbit-Shoes

Street Shoes 12a, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I came unexptectedly upon the most extrordinairy sight yesterday. A long stretch of Old Ballard Ave. telephone poles with shoes with snippets of poetry written on them screwed to the poles. I was enchanted and followed the poles nearly to the Ballard Bridge nearly a mile away. Mesmerized, I took snapshots of the the shoes. It turns out that it is a public art/poetry installation by local poet A.K. "Mimi" Allin. Here's how she explained it in a blog entry on My Ballard.com:

"50 pairs of poetry shoes (with dahlias), nailed to telephone poles on the north side of Old Ballard Ave. 100 spoons installed on the east side. This was a 2nd incarnation for these shoes. They were originally installed in Tieton Town Square, for LitFuse 2008, as a public art project called “Spoon River.” The installation is based on the classic American book of poems, Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters. Fellow artist, Frank Junk, suggested showing them off at Art Walk, so together he, Sage and I pushed a shopping cart full of shoes up the Ave, drilling them into poles and talking to passersby as we went. Each shoe represents a deceased character from the fictional town of Spoon River. Character’s names appear on the back heels of the shoes. Read together, Masters’ 244 poems depict life in small town America at the turn of the century. Few people are familiar with the book nowadays, but it saw 70 printings after being published in 1915! I found a copy at Abraxus Books. I hope you enjoyed them. "

I did indeed enjoy them--the mystery, the playfulness, the joy and delight. The world needs more public poetry and art. Buskers and street artists (not taggers), poetry scrawled on back alley walls express a fundamental howl --laughter or tears-- of the human soul. It's success is not dollar driven (though tips and donations are gratefully accepted) nor does it depend on corporate marketing schemes. A gift to all who take the time to notice. I am profoundly grateful to the artists, poets, performers and musicians who take the time to share their gifts.

You can see the rest of the poetry shoe snapshots I took here: http://flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157609398131248/

Kitteh and Pip meet the Talking Heads

I have the proud honor of having the original drawing of this Adam Koford cartoon (#972) in my home. Check out Adam's blog at hobotopia.com and his Laugh-Out-Loud Cats flickr set at http://flickr.com/photos/apelad/sets/72157600296941365/ for the origins and further adventures of these two hobo cats, Kitteh and Pip.

You can see Adam's complete set of lolcats drawings here: http://flickr.com/photos/apelad/sets/72157600296941365/

The End of the Long Dark--and the H in Sunrays

Laugh-Out-Loud Cats #979, originally uploaded by Ape Lad.

As the election resuts came in last night, and Obama's victory was announced, Adam Koford (a/k/a Ape Lad) posted this comic announcing the end of his trademark H in Sunrays. The H in Sunrays have been hidden in every (or nearly so) daily comic he's posted at http://flickr.com/photos/apelad and on his blog, hobotopia.com. Ostensibly the >H< was a tribute to John Hodgman, but it was also more--much more--than that. The H in Sunrays is the universal symbol for Hobo Uprising. The symbol appeared throughout the land--in forests, along rail yards, shipping ports, trails, boulders, beaches and sidewalks all over the country. Adam's election night comic expresses hope for change and, with the end of >H<, there is no longer a necessity for a Hobo Uprising.

The long dark is over, World. And to answer the question asked by Michael Moore, lo, those many years ago--"Dude. Where's my Country?" We can now say with a resounding, jubilent shout--OH, HERE IT IS!!!

Crows

To begin, let me say that I love Crows. They charm and delight me. Their intelligence, humor and hi-jinx impress me. Their stark black beauty dazzles me, and their survival skills inspire me. They are the embodiment of Tom Robbins’s philosophy, “joy in spite of everything.” I had a foster son many years ago who brought home a baby Crow that had fallen from its nest and would surly have died. It lived with us, uncaged, in my second story apartment until it could fly. I fed it cat food from my little finger, which it impaled into its craw. As the little Crow grew, it would half-fly to my shoulder with loud baby Crow cries until I could get the food out and ready for him. The Crow had free range of the apartment. For those few months, it was an integral part of the household. He had favorite songs, favorite hiding places and favorite people. He was a constant source of entertainment—finding shiny things—earrings, money…anything that suited his fancy, and hiding it. He enjoyed arranging things in particular order. He was intelligent, loved games, and I swear he laughed when he put a particularly complex prank over on us. As he grew and learned to fly, his adolescent voice grew louder and his food begging more insistent, though by then he had his own constant supply. Wild Crows had spotted him through the window and had taken to lining rooftops of nearby buildings trees and calling loudly to him; calls which he ignored. One early morning, after a particularly late night with friends, he woke me with his hungry caws. Blurry eyed, I got up and he flew, wide-mouthed to my shoulder for food. I fed him than started preparing for a brunch gathering I had planned. Though he was fed, he wouldn’t leave me alone, wanting to ride on my shoulder, caw in my ear, and generally pester me. Annoyed, I opened the second story window and set him on the ledge then closed the window while I cooked. The outside Crows grew more frenzied and raised a thunderous cacophony that echoed through the neighborhood. My Crow flew away and never returned. People have told me that the wild Crows would have killed him, but I prefer to believe that he became a great leader of Crows. The magnificent Crow King whose legend lives in the hearts of all Crows. I mourn him still.

The past two days can best be summarized in two words: disturbed Crows. Yesterday, Sadie and I were driving to the Magnuson dog park, taking side streets to avoid the long stoplights that have appeared on nearly every corner of major Seattle streets. Just as I crested a hill, I came upon a black cloud of screaming Crows. They lined every wire, every rooftop and every tree. All were leaning in wide-beaked consternation toward a particular manicured front yard. The horrifying scene shocked me to the core—a small hawk had a Crow pinned to the ground and was in the process of killing it, oblivious of the ear shattering screams of the surrounding Crows. The hawk had the Crow in its talons, with its wings spread over it to hold the black struggling body down and was tearing at the Crow with its beak. The hawk wasn’t much bigger than a grown Crow. I wanted to stop and help, but a car was directly behind me and there was no place to pull over. The sight will forever haunt me.

The second disturbed Crow event happened early this morning. I woke up to the same agitated Crow screams as accompanied the hawk incident. I have bird feeders in front of my window next to the sidewalk. Over the summer, I’ve fed a pair of Crows, and if I see them in the window when there is no food, I toss them well-aimed pieces of bread. They drink and dunk the bread in the birdbath near the feeders and have come to trust me. The cries that awoke me this morning were not friendly food begging caws; they were definitely agitated and loud. A dozen or so others had joined the usual pair of Crows. All were leaning, wide beaked toward my window. With visions of yesterday’s violent scene, I steeled myself for more horror and went outside. Nothing seemed amiss. Mystified, I came back in and suddenly saw the source of their rage. I had put a realistic life-sized Crow replica in the front window for Halloween. Apparently, they thought one of their own had been captured. I immediately removed the provocation from the window and tossed some bread pieces out as penance. The Crows weren’t so easily assuaged; however, they refused the offering and continued their strident recriminations for about a half an hour more. There is an upside to the story: certainly, the upscale inhabitants of the new half-million dollar townhouses surrounding me—the ones who complain about the “Crow problem” --were awakened on this Saturday dawn by a scene reminiscent of Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” May they be visited by vivid dreams of the Crows’ Revenge and may I once again be graced by the company of glossy black Crows.

A Deluge of Rejection

It's been nearly six months since I was unexpectedly laid off of the job I thought I'd have until the end. It's the same old story--savings gone, no medical, etc., no family, and unemployment about to run out...don't know where next month's rent will come from. (Tension builds.) I've applied to countless jobs, had some interviews (amazing when according to interviewers, 2-300 apply for each position), but no job. Job hunting for people over 50 is not for sissies. Massive layoffs are happening at an alarming rate, and many (most?) positions I've applied for have been cut before I've had a chance to interview.

Here are a couple of examples that appeared today. Neither the rejection letter nor the headline are unusual in themselves, but that they arrived the same day, regarding the same positions strikes me as grimly ironic. The headline is from the 10/15/08 Seattle P-I; the email (names removed) arrived the same day regarding a position I had applied for over a month ago.

The Headline:

"King County Issues Layoff Notices to 237 Workers" --Seattle P-I, October 15, 2008

The Rejection:

Dear applicant:

Thank you for applying for the position of XXXXXXX with the Department of XXXXXXX Services - XXXXXXX Division. Currently, this recruitment is on hold pending internal layoff process review. Thank you for your interest in working for XXXXXXX. We encourage you to apply for other positions for which you may be qualified.

Sincerely,

XXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
Human Resources

'Heaven' Sign on "Nickelsville" abode in homeless tent city

'Heaven' Sign on Nickelsville abode, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

Nicklesville is a homeless tent city named after Seattle's heartless mayor, Greg Nickles in the spirit of the Hoovervilles that sprang up around the country in the Great Depression. I visited the camp last week after they had set up the 150 pink tents donated by the Girl Scouts on a huge empty and abandoned lot. The lot was owned by the City of Seattle. It was secluded, clean and quiet. The residents are impressively organized inside the camp, especially considering the instability of constant flux. They have a "kitchen", port-a-poties, a "city hall" (heh!),, an official "Nickelsville" mailbox, a Nickelsville sign (complete with American flag), and "office", security, rules and plenty of good humor.

Supporters, press and visitors were treated kindly and with respect. Security informed visitors of the rules and asked that photos not be taken of residents without permission. Residents were open, warm, strong and friendly. Sadie was with me on the visit and was so spoiled by all the love she got she didn't want to go home. I made some great friends during those visits, and plan to go back if more help is needed when they have to move--or take another stand.

(I still haven't found work--lots of apps, no offers-- and unemployment will run out in a few short weeks. It's good to have this time to help others, and one never knows when you might be the next resident of Nickelsville.)

Within a couple of days, city workers were ordered to walk through the camp and hammer green removal notices throughout, with a 72-hour deadline. Nickelsville stayed put. On Thursday, more city workers were ordered to swarm the camp with even bigger No Tresspassing signs, which they hammered throughout the camp. Supporters brought wood, hammers, nails, tarps and other supplies to begin build wooden structrures. As the deadline neared, obervers, supporters and press vans arrived. Friday's deadline passed. On Saturday morning, I received an action alert that the police had moved in and were sweeping the camp. Some residents were willing to be arrested' observers and supporters were needed immediately. By the time I arrived, police were just making the final arrests. Tents had been removed, some were lost, stakes broken, and some building materials were lost or destroyed. Estimated loss was over $2,000. Soon after I arrived, they got a call that arrestees were being released and they needed cars to pick them up from the jail. I joined the caravan of five or six cars and headed to the police station.

Meanwhile, Governor Gregoir sent a senior advisor to stop the eviction. As it happens, the parking lot next to the land the camp was on, also vacant and unused, is state, not city, property. So the governer sent word that the people could set up Nickelsville in the lot. for five days until other land could be located or other arrangements made. They remain in the lot as of this writing. The five-day deadline is tomorrow night. (There is a link for property owners who would like to allow Nickelsville to set up on their land on the website below.)

Ironically, mayor Nickels cited sanitary concerns as the reason they could not stay on the empty city property. (The property is in a largely industrial area, and the community signed letters of support to let them stay.) Apparently, he feels that sleeping in city doorways and alleys is safer and more sanitary.

More of my Nickelsville photos are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157607500277529/

For more on Nickelsville, check out nickelsvilleseattle.org . Their site has links to media coverage, the history of the camp, further information and how you can help.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues--The Stage Production

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues Bookcrossing release at Book-It stage production of the book, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I entered the theater with a cynical attitude, fully expecting to be disappointed--how could they dare to presume to capture the essence of a Tom Robbins book? Sacrilege! But from the first moment, the first chord of Jo Miller's guitar, the first words of her narration as "Dr. Robbins," I was smitten. Everything was perfect--they got it--the paradoxes, The Point. From the cast, to the costumes, the score and the dialogue, this production was as if they had entered the reader's (my) mind and made the impressions manifest.

I was suprised at the shocked murmerings of some audience members (primarily the coiffed, blue-haired old biddies and their creaking, rigid husbands) who had clearly never read the book and were unfamiliar with TR's work. They had lived for so long inside their dark, tight boxes that the vivid ideas presented before their very eyes was nearly more than they could bear. They tsk-tsked and puckered disapprovingly at not only the appropriate, sweet and delightfully brazen nudity, but at the ideas, paradoxes and challenges presented in stark glory--forcing them to come face to face their own prejudices, presumptions and prudery.

My unemployment benefits are quickly running out, they'll end in a few short weeks. My savings are gone. I've applied and interviewed for many jobs, but none have come through (it's hard to stand out when 2-300 people are applying for the same jobs!). Still, I'll say this, if you're going down in flames, there is no better way to go down than with the vision of wild, wild Cowgirls and the Chink before your eyes. In TR's own words, "So you think that you’re a failure, do you? Well, you probably are. What’s wrong with that? In the first place, if you’ve any sense at all you must have learned by now that we pay just as dearly for our triumphs as we do for our defeats. Go ahead and fail. But fail with wit, fail with grace, fail with style. A mediocre failure is as insufferable as mediocre success. Embrace failure! Seek it out. Learn to love it. That may be the only way any of us will ever be free." Amen. And it was in that spirit that I bid on two Cowgirls outfits in a silent auction to benefit Book-It theater--complete with bent-up cowgirl hats and dusty, hard-worn cowgirl boots.



I released a copy of the book in the theater lobby and had the great pleasure of seeing the finder find it, open the "free book" bookcrossing bag and tentatively tuck it into her own hand bag. After the play, I saw her stop, take it out of her bag, open it, read the BC label again (did she wonder if it was really ok to take it?), smile, and leave with the book. This morning, she had left a BC journal entry. I had hoped that someone who hadn't read the book before would find it and discover the delights of Tom Robbins's writing. She was that person! And even better--she, too, had visited the Blue Moon in the 70s ("a girl wearing peter-pan collers") TR was writing the book, and remembered his friends (including Darrell Bob Houston? Ray Collins?). She was excited to have found the book--said it reminded her of something TR would do--and can't wait to finally read it. It was perfect.

Tom Robbins and The Corpus Clock

Ticking off the minutes before Stephen Hawking unveils the Corpus Clock today in Cambridge, one is struck by the pundits' failure to connect this marvel with Tom Robbins's clockworks in his 1976 novel, “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues." Oh, sure, Stephen Hawking is a brilliant scientific mind, but of equal brilliance is beloved and esteemed author Tom Robbins. His literary and philosophical brilliance is of another kind entirely. Both masters shine dazzling light onto the masses. If this were a just world, the two would share the unveiling equally--TR on the left, SH on the right.

“

Take now the clockworks… The clockworks, being genuine and not much to look at, don’t generate the drama of an Earth-tilt or a flying saucer, nor do they seem to offer any immediate panacea for humanity’s fifty-seven varieties of heartburn. But suppose that you’re one of those persons who feels trapped, to some degree, trapped matrimonially, occupationally, educationally or geographically, or trapped in something larger than all those; trapped in a system, or what you might describe as an “increasingly deadening technocracy” or a “theater of paranoia and desperation” or something like that. Now, if you are one of those persons… wouldn’t the very knowledge that there are clockworks ticking away behind the wallpaper of civilization, unbeknownst to leaders, organizers and managers (the President included), wouldn’t that knowledge, suggesting as it does the possibility of unimaginable alternatives, wouldn’t that knowledge be a bubble bath for your heart?”

~Tom Robbins, “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues”