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”

The back of the bus in progress on Wednesday, with Henry's dog and logo, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I came upon this beautiful, rusty old 1968 Ford school bus in the Golden Gardens parking lot, two dogs peering out the window, two guys with buckets of paint painting it, and a lady sitting in a lawn chair. I was dazzled! I stopped to talk to them. They said the smoke stack goes to the wood stove inside. The bearded man turned out to be muralist Ryan Henry Ward, or just “Henry”, who’s faithful black, paint-spattered dog was never far away.

The couple (and their two dogs, Jellybean and Sis) bought the bus on CraigsList for $800 and were fixing it up, before moving in and taking it on the road. I went back the next day, delighted to see them still there; the painting was progressing nicely. The second day, Tuesday, Henry was painting alone On Wednesday, I left the young home/bus owners sitting on an old blue bus bench seat on the grass laughing with delight, “that’s our HOME, man! That’s our new home! This is where we live!”

I’ll follow the progression each day until the bus is gone. To see more photos of the school bus metamorphosis, see my flickr.com set “1968 School Bus” http://flickr.com/photos/marywit/sets/72157607333979228/

For more on Henry's murals, see this NW Source article here: www.nwsource.com/entertainment/visual-arts/visual-art/loc...

Scott Free, the best damn busker around

Scott Free, the best damn busker around, originally uploaded by MaryWit.

I asked him his name at the Buskers' Festival at the Pike Place Market. He shook my hand and said, "the name's Scott Free."