00:00:06.300 - 00:00:20.130

Morton Marcus: Good evening, everybody. Welcome to the Poetry Show. This is your host, Mort Marcus. We're playing Olatunji. And I would like to thank everyone out there who were so wonderful with their pledges last Tuesday. And I'd also like

00:00:20.130 - 00:00:37.230

to thank those sponsors who also donate commercial interest at times tonight. We are being brought to you in part by Stapleton's Natural Foods Grocery, emphasizing organic and commercial produce at 415 River Street in Santa Cruz. Thank you

00:00:37.230 - 00:00:57.300

Stapleton's. And tonight, a guest I've been looking forward to having here for a long time. And that is Lynn Luria-Sukenick who is the author of, "Houdini Houdini," "Water Astonishing," "Problems and Characteristics," and then again, an expanded

00:00:57.300 - 00:01:14.550

version of, "Houdini Houdini." She has won many grants and fellowships, she has won three National Endowment of the Arts Fellowships. She is a fellow at the MacDowell Colony, the Millay Colony, the Steinhardt Fellowship. She's just had more

00:01:14.550 - 00:01:29.370

prizes, more fellowships, the Poetry Society of America prize, California Quarterly first prize in fiction. I could go on and on, her poems and periodicals list in the dozens, and it is a great, great pleasure to have her here tonight, one of the

00:01:29.370 - 00:01:40.830

real avant-garde and original writers today, Lynn, welcome to the poetry show. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Morton, it's great to be here. Morton Marcus: And you're coming up loud and clear. And Lynn, you

00:01:40.830 - 00:01:55.170

of course taught at the University of California, and since then, you have left Santa Cruz. And there are a lot of people out there who know your work. You've been on the Poetry Show and it was being done by Gary and Steve, tell us what

00:01:55.170 - 00:02:08.760

you've been doing in the last several years. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yes. Where had she gone? They wondered. I went east, first of all to have another residency at the MacDowell Colony, which is an artist colony in New Hampshire,

00:02:09.780 - 00:02:27.300

where you have been to, and from there came back to the West to teach at UC San Diego, I was their visiting writer. Then went back east, lived in a loft in New York for seven months, went back to MacDowell, lived in Rockport, the Berkshires,

00:02:27.660 - 00:02:44.190

everywhere it seems, and then was visiting writer at Cornell for a year. And from there, from the snows of Ithaca, I went to the great beautiful heat of Tucson, and last year was visiting writer at the University of Arizona. It's good

00:02:44.190 - 00:02:55.440

to be back. Morton Marcus: Well, it's good to have you back, you enrich the community and I do not just say that, I really mean it. What you have told me you've been doing, I know that you had been writing

00:02:55.440 - 00:03:12.750

fiction, and we're going to hear some of your fiction later on because I think your style is so poetic. And it's such a fine use of the English language, or if I may, the American language that I consider poetry, but you are also writing prose poems now,

00:03:13.050 - 00:03:21.120

and to reintroduce you to this, which is your community, could you read us some of those prose poems and tell us some things about them? Sure,

00:03:21.180 - 00:03:36.300

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: I'd be glad to. I was thinking on the way over here why I feel much more comfortable writing prose poems these days than poetry. And I was thinking of something Russell Edson said about his own prose poems; he's one of the

00:03:36.300 - 00:03:57.150

best American practitioner for prose poetry. And he said that he writes it because it frees him from the expectations somehow inherent in the writing of a poem. And I have found that to be true that there's a certain lack of intentionality,

00:03:57.150 - 00:04:15.780

not a lack of ambition, but a lack of intentionality that I feel in them that I don't feel when I'm writing poems. I became so aware of the payoff of the poem, that it seemed to me that writing in this form, which is a kind of middle ground, allowed

00:04:15.780 - 00:04:32.430

me to have a lack of ambitions, the way dreams don't have ambition. And as you know, this is- prose poetry is a form that in a self-conscious way, that is aware of being prose poems, has existed since mid 19th century French practitioners like

00:04:32.460 - 00:04:50.280

Baudelaire have written some wonderful ones. The last time I was on this show, I had a sore throat and there must be something in the studio to make that happen because it's happening again. No, I'm fine. I just I want the listeners to

00:04:50.280 - 00:05:07.110

know that this is only partly my real voice. The first prose poem I will read is called "How to Play the Harmonica at the Shore," and the setting for it is Ocean City, New Jersey. So if any of you out there know the sidewalk to which I'm referring,

00:05:07.650 - 00:05:23.130

this may make you feel at home. HOW TO PLAY THE HARMONICA AT THE SHORE First you blow, you give your breath to the honeycomb and all the notes you don't need you mask with your tongue. Play it

00:05:23.130 - 00:05:42.930

like an ocean, a low down horizon in your mouth, a surfy hymn. Take it from the top, from Atlantic City south to where the inlet juts out till it whispers, "Hey now, ocean's blue enough." Take it to 8th and Wesley where the sidewalk says, "Stand here.

00:05:43.080 - 00:06:05.070

Let your shadow tell time." That harmonica sounds like sun on hot sidewalk, slim tap-dancing shadow on concrete. Blow till you cool it down, shiver the harp between your lips. A hum, a hum, do you know that someone loves you and wants your busy

00:06:05.070 - 00:06:27.160

mouth, wants the reedy silver taste the player has? Oh, hum. Here is how you let go of love without hurting anyone. You say, it was the music, and then you play some. Morton Marcus: There are even internal rhymes in those- [cross

00:06:27.160 - 00:06:32.950

talk] Lynn Luria-Sukenick: You've found them. Morton Marcus: Yes, very nice music. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, I think there is- prose poems

00:06:32.980 - 00:06:47.980

don't feel right to me unless there is some kind of magnet at the center holding it all together. I hope I haven't suggested that they're just, you know, cutting into pieces of yard goods and slack; they're not. This is a companion piece

00:06:47.980 - 00:07:01.360

called: HOW TO SING AT THE SHORE. There are two oceans, a front view of someone breathing evenly and a side view of someone's enormous crying. And both are a

00:07:01.360 - 00:07:22.930

woman. Her vowels are drowned angels, her consonants are wood gathered into bundles. Swim in her upper register where you make your way with your hands, a stroking that never stops. This is singing. What did you think singing was? She'll change your

00:07:22.930 - 00:07:40.840

blue suit to emeralds, she'll open your pursed lips. And if the emperor forbids all singing for a hundred years, her sweet waters and her bitter will raise you up and whisper, "Do what you want, do what you want, do what you want."

00:07:43.960 - 00:07:55.630

Morton Marcus: That's very beautiful imagery, which is continuously of water also, it's as though the ocean and the woman are one, they're interchangeable, and they're just moving in and out of each other.

00:07:55.990 - 00:08:08.740

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: And the water will continue in the prose I read later, the fiction I read later. I seem not to be able to get away from it. My astrologer says it has to do with Neptune and Mercury but that's another radio show.

00:08:10.330 - 00:08:23.140

Morton Marcus: Maybe not. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: The poetry astrology show. This is called, "To Sing," and it's a combination collage poem and found poem. When I was at MacDowell, I found in their

00:08:23.140 - 00:08:39.220

little library, a beautiful book published in the 20s, called, "How to Sing," by Luisa Tetrazzini, who was a great diva of the early part of the century, and is the woman after whom the chicken was named, she was that popular. Her prose was

00:08:39.220 - 00:08:56.560

so great that I found myself copying things out as I read and the only thing I could imagine to pay homage to her with was a poem. So this is a kind of sound mix from Luisa Tetrazzini's, "How to Sing."

00:08:58.210 - 00:09:17.110

Don't wait to be found. Every day of my life I climb difficult stories with the gift of song. It is not always harmony in the beginning, which eventually comes to nothing. The only remedy is returned to an organ aroused by nature. I have kept

00:09:17.110 - 00:09:37.090

mine. Wonderful indeed the long hours of sleep on a piano. How can one properly understand the supreme importance of "properly." The voice begins wandering, bringing together the lips, but of course breathing the personality. And lastly, the

00:09:37.090 - 00:09:57.580

vastly different Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, but how? On the other side of the piano some of the audience may be a long way off, others will be much nearer. A mad bull's eminence imperfectly prepared. You who have lasted may recall the

00:09:57.580 - 00:10:17.680

famous staggered by the wrecked sensible. Do not forget to make northern peoples indulge in gestures. To this end, you should live without a cigar. This, however, is all wrong when one is getting up the flexible angel of absolute beauty after a

00:10:17.680 - 00:10:29.500

long night of unbroken rest. And it's appropriate for your listeners to almost understand that. Morton Marcus: Well, now that your images returning there are

00:10:29.500 - 00:10:45.250

definitely images that are reminiscent of I think it was Alberti. Aere you aware of that? His angel poems? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: No. But it's funny that you mentioned angels because in the next poem they have a little piece of

00:10:45.400 - 00:10:58.300

something. Morton Marcus: Because the next one of the, one of the images I loved in the poem before this one also was an angel. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: There I guess I am quietly obsessed with

00:10:58.300 - 00:11:13.960

angels in a peripheral way. They seem always to be at the edges. There's a wonderful book called, "The Dictionary of Angels" I no longer remember who compiled it. But it's a big fat book about all the angels in alphabetical order. And the names alone, the

00:11:13.960 - 00:11:22.960

names of the angels alone, are enough to make you swoon. Morton Marcus: Do you remember any off them? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: No, I would just make them up if you want me to.

00:11:22.990 - 00:11:29.890

Morton Marcus: Okay, why don't you make some up? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: [unidentified] Morton Marcus: You just did that? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yeah but that's in keeping with the kinds

00:11:29.890 - 00:11:45.310

of names they have, actually. Okay, well keep looking for angels. There are angels in the story I'm going to read tonight, but they're in the piece I'm not reading because it will be a very long story. However, it's coming out in "New Letters" in

00:11:45.310 - 00:12:01.420

their fall issue so people can find it. This is the last of this group of prose poems, and it's tangentially connected. It's not a how-to poem and it's not a music poem, but the mood, I think, is similar. It's called:

00:12:01.420 - 00:12:20.800

MESSAGE Master of moods about to become mysterious and cold again. Every angel has a point of refusal, and every star is sharp with some angel's refusal. The sky netted with a "no, no, no" of

00:12:20.800 - 00:12:42.640

stars needling the dark. Even the lesser angels, pieces of Fra Angelico sky, sticking to their shoes, knew how to refuse. And these refusals teach us that love once it has died, is boundless, less cold, less mysterious by far than the

00:12:42.640 - 00:13:03.190

living air of you where the wind wants to become part of your face, and you let it as I wait for an opening in the sky, which may or may not consent to appear tonight. Morton Marcus: Very nice indeed. Well, I could get into

00:13:03.190 - 00:13:25.030

discussions on all those poems and delve into the imagery. But I will let that work on the listener out there and let those bits of angels and angel wings travel out into the stratosphere. I know that you are doing consultations. And I

00:13:25.030 - 00:13:37.480

wonder if you'd talk about that. Someone has told me that it's something like writing therapy and I don't really understand that, so I'd like to know what you're doing. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, I'd like to find a better name for

00:13:37.480 - 00:13:54.340

it than that, but I haven't, so what you heard is probably fairly accurate. I'm doing writing consultations on a one-to-one basis, which I did before I left Santa Cruz on my long journeys to the East, the Southwest. I've expanded that a

00:13:54.340 - 00:14:10.540

bit because it seemed to me that when I was doing them before, we were talking about the writing from only a formal and aesthetic point of view, which is what the people I was talking to wanted, it was appropriate. But I find more and more as I get involved

00:14:10.540 - 00:14:27.520

with all sorts of bodywork – I've had practice in Shinshindo and bioenergetics and now I'm involved in nutrition – that I wanted to bring to bear all of my awareness when I talked to people about their writing. So what began to happen was that

00:14:27.580 - 00:14:40.870

people who were writers became interested in finding out more about themselves in a general way through the writing. And then people who were not writers, but who have secret writing in the drawer, or who were willing to write something

00:14:40.930 - 00:15:02.980

of a brief length in order for me to look at it, would come and talk to me. So I'm not- there are many things that therapy is that this is not, or my notion of therapy is that this is not. I do want to help people lead deep and original lives. But I'm

00:15:02.980 - 00:15:19.210

counseling them through- by counseling them through their creativity, I'm paying attention to what they actively make, instead of what they feel they are lacking. I think most people go into therapy talking about hidden flaws and latent desires

00:15:19.210 - 00:15:44.200

and problems and so on. This, by bouncing off the writing itself, we're starting from abundance and the imagination. And so it has less of a pathological tint to it. And I do give a lot of writing exercises that are appropriate to what I see in the

00:15:44.200 - 00:16:06.160

writing that people bring to me and also in what is appropriate to the problems they want to solve. I think that there are things happening in the culture that are going so fast that one of the healing things we can do is to go more slowly. And by

00:16:06.160 - 00:16:22.120

working through something, especially through poetry, where you're paying attention to breath, where you're paying attention to the spaces as well as to what is there, you have a way of healing the speed in you from what is around you. And I

00:16:22.120 - 00:16:38.710

also think that the imagination is a way of finding out what we really care to know. As opposed to what we feel obliged to know. And in this information, society, this float of information all around us, we tend to consume perhaps more

00:16:38.710 - 00:16:48.520

than we want to know and lose track of what it is we care about. Morton Marcus: Now, are you taking on new people for consultation?

00:16:48.550 - 00:16:56.800

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yeah. Morton Marcus: Is there a telephone number for people get in touch with you, or should they leave the- call here and- Lynn Luria-Sukenick: There is a box number they could write to.

00:16:56.860 - 00:17:07.660

Morton Marcus: Okay, great. Why don't you give us that? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Sure. It's Box 8215, Santa Cruz 95061. Morton Marcus: Okay, and why don't you give it to us one more time.

00:17:07.930 - 00:17:27.340

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: I've always wanted to do this in New Jersey. The address is Box 8215, Santa Cruz 95061. Morton Marcus: Good. Well, I would like to sort of break the poetry and I made the statement already that I think your prose

00:17:27.370 - 00:17:45.430

is poetry, really. And I would like us to go to a story that you have arranged and that- What I'd like to do is read the first part of that story right now. And it'll be something like around eight minutes long, ten minutes long. Then we'll take a

00:17:45.430 - 00:17:56.980

break and we'll have some music. And then we will- I'll make one or two announcements, and then we will come back to the last half of the story. How's that sound? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: That sounds wonderful. It sounds like a

00:17:56.980 - 00:18:09.100

radio serial in the tradition of Tom Mix. Morton Marcus: If it was earlier in the morning, it would probably be a radio breakfast cereal. Okay, why don't you tell us about the story then?

00:18:09.000 - 00:18:24.600

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yeah, okay, I will. It's called, "After the Rains, Only the Shadow Knows." And I wanted to read it tonight even though it has to be broken up. And even though the whole thing can't be read, because the story was begun as a response to

00:18:24.600 - 00:18:42.180

an invitation to be on the Poetry Show five years ago, when Steven and Gary were interviewing. And because I am a very slow writer, I do feel that I'm writing my poetry in my fiction now. And so I revise as much as I would with a poem. The

00:18:42.180 - 00:18:59.490

story took a very long time, and I certainly didn't have it done by the radio show. It's wonderful to be back on the Poetry Show and to have this story finished at last and about to be published. What you should know I guess, to make sense of

00:18:59.490 - 00:19:17.160

what I'm going to read is that the protagonist, a woman, is sitting in a cafe and is later to go on the Poetry Show. She has a cold and she's worried about not having a sore throat. And she, in the cafe, she's opening her mail and she has

00:19:17.160 - 00:19:35.610

just received a letter from her mother saying that her father has, still has the water around his heart. He's been sick. Her father, the protagonist's father, is a twin, and so is her lover. And the only other thing I think you might want to know

00:19:35.610 - 00:19:52.590

is that somewhere in the part I don't read, her friend Hope, in a stoned state, reminds her of the radio show "The Answer Man" which some of your older listeners may remember or may have heard of. I'll just read the horoscope she reads in the

00:19:52.590 - 00:20:09.930

paper because I like it and it sets the tone for what happens later, and also gives you an idea of how much water is going to be in this story. The story is about radio and it's about death and it's also about the flood. So the description you'll

00:20:09.930 - 00:20:17.060

hear, I suppose, will bring back memories. Morton Marcus: Right, that flood is the flood that was here in Santa Cruz. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Right.

00:20:17.090 - 00:20:24.830

Morton Marcus: How many years ago was it? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, I guess it was '82, the very beginning of it, or '81, yeah. This is: HER HOROSCOPE.

00:20:25.800 - 00:20:40.650

This is a week in which you can water down impending losses by grounding yourself in the earthly gains of the past, the water stored in your eighth house can be released. If you take for yourself the unaccustomed privilege of seeing

00:20:40.650 - 00:20:59.730

in the dark, don't count on love to keep you dry. The day of the flood had given everyone the feeling that they had a story. That was the only good thing that had come from it. Everyone she thought needed a story and someone to tell it to. The best

00:20:59.730 - 00:21:15.300

people to tell these stories to were the ones who had imagined them beforehand. This was called love. It was essential to have a second story these days, however, since love didn't last and you might be trapped in a flood. Her lover had no story

00:21:15.300 - 00:21:28.740

about why he hadn't called during the flood, could not explain the giant no, inside his regard for her, and she didn't question him, although it stunned her that he hadn't called. Maybe because he was a twin, he thought that everything

00:21:28.740 - 00:21:43.770

happened twice, but there was always another chance. She pressed harder (on an acupressure point she's pressing on), and concentrated on the chi traveling from her sacrum down the back of each leg. There had been ten dead in her town after

00:21:43.770 - 00:21:59.310

the flood, a woman swept from a bridge into the turning brown river while her sweetheart reached for her too late. Another couple locked in a last embrace on their bed under 70 feet of mud. Dozens of houses on Love Creek had collapsed, nine

00:21:59.310 - 00:22:14.850

people had died there. Stay out of love, she thought. The toxins in Love Canal, the flash flood in Loveland, Colorado, that had killed one hundred people. When a flood came you were supposed to go two by two. But while the hills were sliding, and uprooted

00:22:14.850 - 00:22:30.120

redwoods were hurtling down the river in his direction, her lover was safe in town, hugging his slide guitar playing, "Two trains running down that line, one's my friend, the other's a friend of mine." She had never understood that song. She put

00:22:30.120 - 00:22:43.560

one finger on her upper lip, and the other hand on top of her head, the acupressure points for shock. The whole city had been in a state of shock since the flood, and many people with heart conditions had died, although they had not been

00:22:43.560 - 00:22:59.460

counted as casualties. She took her hands away from her face, a couple of people were looking at her. The felicities of Don Giovanni went to where ever music goes when it's over, and were replaced by a familiar toccata and fugue pumping

00:22:59.460 - 00:23:14.370

through the air, searching as a fugue is always searching. The sunlight crept away from her mother's letter and settled on a jelly glass filled with speckled Peruvian lilies. She did the acupressure point for colds discreetly, one hand holding the

00:23:14.370 - 00:23:28.980

side of her neck, the other pressing up under her collarbone. Then she took out a pocket mirror to check on the redness of her nose. At least on the radio, you didn't have to smile. Her good-looking lover was a mirror twin, left-handed

00:23:28.980 - 00:23:43.680

with a right-handed twin who parted his hair on the opposite side. She herself was left handed, she had heard that every left handed person had been a twin once in the very earliest stages of life, gastrula, blastula, the partner lost in

00:23:43.680 - 00:23:59.640

the fetus' insufficient commitment to cell division. If the poetry brothers asked her for her flood story, she would tell them that in a disaster, the safest place is your radio. The rain had begun at night like childbirth, had gone on and on

00:23:59.640 - 00:24:14.610

and by morning, her road was unpassable. Three new lakes lay between her and the highway. Her electric stove and heaters were dead. She climbed under all the blankets she had, huddled there rigid with cold and listen to KGO as it inundated her with

00:24:14.610 - 00:24:30.090

bulletin after bulletin. The Golden Gate Bridge was closed, the freeways were waterlogged, the hills of Marin were sliding. Then the hills in Ben Lomond were going, too, only a mile away, people fleeing the homes that had started to slip down

00:24:30.090 - 00:24:43.140

saturated hillsides, houses collapsing in a matter of seconds. Either the batteries were weak, or she had not been able to get them to touch properly, so she strained to hear through a fuzz of static that coated the announcer's

00:24:43.140 - 00:24:57.180

voice and obliterated much of what he was saying. Maybe her hills were sliding, too, though she could feel nothing but the cold and could see nothing but sheets of water attacking the window, the same rain that miles away was escaping with

00:24:57.180 - 00:25:09.950

everyone's belongings, beating everything limp. While she was straining to listen to the radio, she felt blind. She remembered how after the conjunctivitis she would get up in the middle of the night and turn the lights on to make

00:25:09.950 - 00:25:23.390

sure she hadn't lost her sight. This is when she's a child. But the sound of the radio was better than the hemorrhaging silence that filled the room when she turned it off, so she stayed in bed under a pile of blankets, listening to the radio

00:25:23.390 - 00:25:37.040

until nightfall, and then, starved, felt her way toward the kitchen, toward the rotting things in the refrigerator, flicking dead lights switches, watching the light from her candle run nervously up the walls and crawl out onto the

00:25:37.040 - 00:25:50.510

ceiling. He hadn't called, although only two days before he had spent the night there, had lit the candles over dinner, and then in the bedroom. When she pushed up a light switch and nothing happened, she had the feeling that her brakes were

00:25:50.510 - 00:26:04.640

going, her foot pressing the pedal all the way down, her legs turning to water. She had known he wouldn't stay beyond Sunday morning when she heard him singing in the shower, "Got the key to the highway, Lord, it's time for me to run." She had

00:26:04.640 - 00:26:18.080

left the dishes all day Sunday because she liked contemplating the remains of the dinner she'd taken so much trouble to prepare. The sheets smell of him, his sweat like the deep notes of an organ. But when the rains began, the remains were

00:26:18.080 - 00:26:33.170

not enough. She couldn't breathe waiting for him to call, couldn't get warm. All night, there was an eerie steady wind as the temperature sank to 20 degrees. She hadn't fallen asleep until dawn, and then she dreamed he had stayed the night.

00:26:33.620 - 00:26:48.050

In the dream, he got up early to fry some bacon. She could hear it sizzling while she lingered in bed. Then she realized that the sizzle of bacon was actually the crackling of fire creeping under her bedroom door, a door he had locked from the outside

00:26:48.140 - 00:27:03.860

as he left. When she woke she heard nothing but the ancient crepitation of rain. Water preceded fire she thought, and she felt a primeval loneliness and panic, the panic of a creature crouching in the dark with no fire to fend off

00:27:03.860 - 00:27:19.490

predators. On the third day the rains had stopped but the electricity was still not working. He hadn't called. Why hadn't he found her? He could unravel any riddle, get to any place by putting his finger on the map. Figure this out, she

00:27:19.490 - 00:27:36.170

said once. I said something to the bus driver when I was going to Sunnyvale expecting the answer three o'clock, and instead he said, "Yes." What did I say? He thought a minute. "You said, can you tell me when this bus gets to Sunnyvale?" Even her

00:27:36.170 - 00:27:50.750

father hadn't been able to answer that one. So long after the rains when they invited her to be on the radio, she asked him, "What was that old joke? No soap radio?" It was the first joke she'd ever heard and the first test. If you laughed, you

00:27:50.750 - 00:28:05.810

were a jerk. If you said you didn't get it, you were a jerk. She seemed to remember there was some sexual innuendo in it. A man and a woman, one of them in the bathtub. But no, he insisted it was about penguins on an ice floe. Then he got sidetracked

00:28:05.990 - 00:28:20.180

and didn't tell it to her. No soap, that was an expression long ago when her father wrote for radio, meaning "nothing doing." Morton Marcus: We've been talking tonight for the first

00:28:20.180 - 00:28:36.590

half of the show with Lynn Luria-Sukenick, who has read the first half of a short story, which will be continued after we take a musical break and make a few announcements, so stay tuned. And right now we will take a short musical break.

00:29:53.550 - 00:30:11.940

We are listening to Stephane Grappelli, the wonderful violinist, jazz violinist, who of course played back up in the 30s with the great Django Reinhardt and who has with the freshness and vigor of a youthful old age now thrilled

00:30:11.940 - 00:30:22.730

audiences, I guess for the last ten years he's been doing this, hasn't he? Just really wonderful stuff. How long has Grappelli been doing this on his own in America? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Grappelli, a long time, a long time I

00:30:22.730 - 00:30:43.190

think. Django Reinhardt died so long ago, he's still going strong at 75. And I was thinking as it played that the two records I brought tonight are both by men of great wisdom, I think of Olatunji as a spiritual teacher. And Grappelli just

00:30:43.190 - 00:31:00.830

emanates a kind of light, which teaches you- Olatunji, it should be mentioned in case people don't know this, comes to Santa Cruz twice a year at least and gives workshops, and anyone can go. You don't have to be an advanced drummer or an advanced

00:31:00.950 - 00:31:10.700

dancer. Morton Marcus: Ah, well, yeah, I do know that and I do know that there are those things. Let me- Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Consider that a commercial.

00:31:10.850 - 00:31:23.000

Morton Marcus: No, I don't know. I just want to get this out of the way so we can get back to the story. We actually have one announcement. Now I know there is another Muse reading next Tuesday, but I have nothing in my box about Muse readings.

00:31:23.240 - 00:31:28.130

Where are they happening? Are they happening in the same place? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: I'm pretty sure they're all happening at the Veterans Hall.

00:31:28.160 - 00:31:35.680

Morton Marcus: And start around 7:30? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: And starting at 7:30. Morton Marcus: Okay, I don't have the names because I said I have no announcements, but there will be another reading next

00:31:35.680 - 00:31:53.050

Tuesday night at 7:30 at the Veterans Hall for In Celebration of the Muse, the longest-going, steadiest, and maybe most exciting poetry series in the ounty. But next Thursday nigh at the University of Cali ornia at Santa Cruz in the Port

00:31:53.050 - 00:32:07.990

r College dining room at 8pm, free, the great poet Gwen olyn Brooks, winner of the Puli zer Prize prize for poetry in 1 50 and the Poet Laureate of the tate of Illinois, will be the irst guest reader in the new orter College series at UCSC

00:32:07.990 - 00:32:23.350

Santa Cruz. In case you don' know Gwendolyn Brooks, she is 7 years old, and is the firs black writer ever to win the ulitzer Prize for poetry. She's he author of over nineteen ooks, including Selected Poems nd, "In the Mecca" a book-length

00:32:23.350 - 00:32:36.640

poem nominated for a National Book Award. She is a consultant in poetry to the Library of Congress. She served on President Carter's Commission on the National Agenda for the 1980s. She was elected to the National Institute of Arts and

00:32:36.640 - 00:32:54.160

Letters in 1976, and has been awarded more than fifty honorary doctorates from various colleges and universities. So this is a really rare opportunity to hear a very, very important American poet, Gwendolyn Brooks, this Thursday 8pm at the Porter

00:32:54.160 - 00:33:13.330

College dining hall, and that is free as I said. After that, there will be a reception to which everyone is invited at the Provosts House at Porter College. So that's Gwendolyn Brooks on Thursday. And now we're going to take Mr.

00:33:13.360 - 00:33:33.820

Grappelli, is that how you say it? It's my old fight thing, I'd like to Grappelli. I also Philadelphia grapple, no that's scrapple. Anyway, we were in the middle of this story by Lynn, and a few people who just tuned in, maybe you can just pick up

00:33:34.000 - 00:33:39.490

what's been happening. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: In the story? Morton Marcus: Yeah. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, this is a story as I was saying

00:33:39.490 - 00:33:57.790

before about, it's called, "After the Rains, Only the Shadow Knows," it's about many things. It's about the flood of '81 or '82, here in Santa Cruz, it's about death. And it's also about jokes, most of which don't appear here, the protagonist's

00:33:57.790 - 00:34:18.220

father writes comedy for radio for Jack Benny and Fred Allen. And that's part of her interest in radio and her feeling of connection with radio. During the break, Morton was telling me that he had yet another version of a no soap radio joke, which

00:34:18.220 - 00:34:26.890

involved a seal in a bathtub. So, you don't have call-ons here do you? Because- Morton Marcus: Don't have call-ons? No, unfortunately. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Because we could have people calling in

00:34:26.890 - 00:34:40.660

with their other "no soap," telling us how old they were when they first heard that. Morton Marcus: Right, if you do want to send in any "no soap" radio jokes, just send it in to my name, KUSP wherever we are-

00:34:41.440 - 00:34:51.250

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: And a new story will grow out of it. Morton Marcus: -and a new story will grow out of it. I mean, I thought I was the only one who knew those those "no soap radios." I bored so many people with it, I got hit so many times

00:34:51.250 - 00:34:59.830

for fooling people with it. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: We're going to revive it. Morton Marcus: Good. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Okay, at this point in the story, we've

00:34:59.830 - 00:35:13.440

made a jump, she's- she is at the radio station which you will see, any of you who have been down here, closely resembles KUSP. Inside the frame house vases of freesia stood on polished

00:35:13.440 - 00:35:29.190

tables, and a dozen records, red and purple, hung in the window, the afternoon light turning them into luminous jujubes. The receptionist who was talking to a surfer with bony knees said, "Please make yourself seated." She picked up a magazine,

00:35:29.190 - 00:35:42.180

creased open to an article on sound effects. She read fast so that she could finish the article before the show started. Doctors and dentists always called you in just when you got to the best part. She had been called away to her

00:35:42.180 - 00:35:57.030

tonsillectomy, just as "Let's Pretend," had begun. They had wheeled her out to ether and sharp instruments right after, "You Can Eat It Every Day." There were complications and a high fever and when her father played the piano for her to cool

00:35:57.030 - 00:36:14.460

her, she'd said, "Is it water?" not recognizing the sound. "No, it's piano. You play the piano, remember?" But her memory had gone temporarily to the land of a lost. "I can't swallow water," she cried, her throat aching. Sore throats had been a good

00:36:14.460 - 00:36:27.420

excuse to stay home from school and listen to the radio. Sometimes she invented them, let's pretend. She knew she was safe, the school bus on its way to school when she heard Don McNeil leading the live audience around The Breakfast Club

00:36:27.420 - 00:36:41.460

studio. She would get out of bed in March, too, to make sure she hadn't been struck down with polio as punishment for pretending to have a sore throat. When she was in bed, the Z on the Zenith radio looked like the word for sleep in comic

00:36:41.460 - 00:36:55.920

books. When she was moving around, it looked like a zag of lightning. After The Breakfast Club, she would listen to one program after another, switching the dial, the Romance of Helen Trent, Our Gal Sunday, Ma Perkins, while staring at her

00:36:55.920 - 00:37:10.620

quilt, flower squares alternating with red squares, Lunch in Bed, Lorenzo Jones, Stella Dallas, When A Girl Marries, then all the programs she listened to on normal school days, Jack Armstrong, Captain Midnight, Ovaltine Mugs,

00:37:10.800 - 00:37:25.860

Superman: Is It A Bird, Is It A Plane, and at ten after, Tom Mix, Code Ring and Decoder, the solid front door with a brass knocker would open and her father would try to hang up his coat as she attacked his legs with hugs. Or on the rare sore

00:37:25.860 - 00:37:42.460

throat days, she would call out to him from the bedroom, her throat suddenly better, "Can I stay up and listen to whatever was on that night?" And then the Poetry Brothers, the show is run by two men who

00:37:42.460 - 00:37:57.790

bear no resemblance whatsoever to Steve and Gary five years ago. They arrive and she asks them whether they survived the flood all right, their houses were on land above Boulder Creek, a town away from hers. "Well," John said, his voice

00:37:57.790 - 00:38:12.610

sounding clogged. He seemed to have a cold too. "There had been more illnesses since the flood. We were okay but it was bad all around us. We saw a house slide down hill and slam right into two other houses. It was sliding and flashing with lights. And a

00:38:12.610 - 00:38:25.660

few seconds later, you wouldn't have known there was a house there. And the next day there was a house facedown in the creek and the cows, she'd heard about the cows, four of them caught in the white rapids of the churning creek, flailing

00:38:25.660 - 00:38:40.780

helpless, their owner racing along the banks shooting a quicker death, drifting meat. The mud was like lava," Dan said, "a neighbor of ours was pushed by a sea of mud a whole block, and then trees crashed behind him, and there was mud up

00:38:40.780 - 00:38:53.350

to his neck in front of him." He looked at the clock and indicated that she should get behind one of the microphones. "What happened?" She whispered, but he was fiddling with the dials. "Testing," he said, adjusting the small boom with a

00:38:53.350 - 00:39:09.610

phone microphone close to her mouth. "Say hi mom." "Hi, mom," she breathed, "Hi-" her voice cracked."Boy, you do have a cold. Well, it'll be okay." He brought her a glass of water. "I'll ask most of the questions, John has a sore throat." "Me

00:39:09.610 - 00:39:26.320

too," she said. John passed her a eucalyptus honey lozenge, a red light went on so she didn't unwrap it. Dan leaned into the microphone, "Folks, wherever you are today on this perfect April day, the radios of the past are crackling like burnt paper. This

00:39:26.350 - 00:39:42.490

is the Poetry Show." What was she going to say? She had thought more about radio than about poetry. Radio was an idea whose time had come into her mind. She pressed the point for nervousness, the inner arm an inch above her wrist. "How do

00:39:42.490 - 00:39:56.170

you feel about rhyme?" Dan said after introducing her. "Well, rhyme is a consecutive same-sound experience. With the coming of radio it became possible for people to have a simultaneous same-sound experience. More people were

00:39:56.170 - 00:40:10.630

listening to the same sound than at any other time in history. Rhyme left poetry just about the time radio came in." Her hand flew to her wrist, her father would have raised his eyebrows at that one. "Too fancy for me," he would have said, most

00:40:10.630 - 00:40:24.910

analogies are false. As a twin, he was fussy about analogies. "Yes," Dan said, "and there's also the fact that with recordings, everything's become repeatable, more same-soundness. People are getting bugged by the repeatable, though, whether they

00:40:24.910 - 00:40:38.830

know it or not. That's why people have started to long for the unrepeatable, I mean extinction, the bomb, Judgment Day. Everything but the final catastrophe is artificially repeatable," John said hoarsely. "I've got a friend who taped the

00:40:38.830 - 00:40:54.220

whole storm, houses falling, dogs, howling, trees coming down sounding like mortar shells. Even if it doesn't happen again, he can make it happen again." She shuddered, remembering the hissing rain, the rain drumming on the windows, rattling like

00:40:54.220 - 00:41:10.150

bullets on the roof, gurgling through the downspout drains, dark rain pelting, and then the jarring silence after the storm. A silence that had roamed into new places, elevators not running, time standing still on dead electric clocks. Then after

00:41:10.150 - 00:41:24.640

a while, you could hear the deep rasp of chainsaws beginning to slice and clear the log jams of fallen timber, while the stellar jays called and flitted in the sunlight through spaces where redwoods had been. And on the fourth day after the flood, her

00:41:24.640 - 00:41:36.820

electric wall heaters had begun to glow, their fans spinning slowly at first and then quickly humming with life. And almost that exact moment he had called, all the energy flowing into her at once.

00:41:38.670 - 00:41:54.360

John looked at his watch and then he asks her a question. He says, I read this somewhere. A contemporary French philosopher says, "Language has a double echo from the place whence it came, and from the place of death. Is this something you

00:41:54.360 - 00:42:08.070

sense when you write poetry?" Her hand moved again to the point on her wrist, she couldn't concentrate on the winds that came. Through the open window she could feel a change in the wind, and then the sound of the ocean carried by the wind, a

00:42:08.070 - 00:42:24.630

wash of voices, the voices of the dead. That's where all the voices lay, she thought, used up and perfect, eons of dead beings, sailors lost at sea, bones of whales whitening in the salt ground by the tides into fine sand in the water that

00:42:24.630 - 00:42:39.960

washed past and future together, language that had never been a spew me(?) paradigm. When you held a conch shell up to your ear and heard the oceans were you knew it was the voices of the dead broadcasting. Hadn't death come out of the radio and

00:42:39.960 - 00:42:54.750

Cocteau's Orphée, which he had seen, an unlikely movie for them to attend together with her father. The birds sing with their fingers, she shivered. He hadn't liked it much. She would call him and make him well and now she would talk to them about

00:42:54.750 - 00:43:12.570

the ocean and rhythm, the ocean and death, rhythm and death. "To poetry," she said, but it was a whisper. She tried again, a small husky honk. She tried again, nothing. She opened her mouth and pointed to her throat. Dan looked at her with concern,

00:43:12.750 - 00:43:28.380

John passed her a lozenge. She held up the one she already had. The wrapper had grown sticky in her hand. "We'll take a short break, listeners," Dan said and reached smoothly behind him for a record, Jimi Hendrix, "House Burning Down." Music of the dead

00:43:28.380 - 00:43:41.850

she thought, the women rock stars died of loneliness, the male rock stars died of excitement. Janis had been hoarse, a ruined throat. "I can't talk," she whispered. She remembered the acupressure points for laryngitis, they

00:43:41.850 - 00:43:55.980

required two hands went over the breast. She couldn't do it here. She had tried to teach her father the acupressure points for an ailing heart but he didn't believe in any alleviation except humor. Dan sat down next to her and put his

00:43:55.980 - 00:44:09.330

arm around her. "Don't worry, we can just play music, no problem." "I feel stupid," she tried to whisper, a question about death had stunned and paralyzed her vocal cords. She thought of hope, listening to the program and wondering what

00:44:09.330 - 00:44:22.890

was going on. The Answer Man, she took a piece of paper with a station logo on it and wrote under the cusp. You probably don't remember The Answer Man. "Heard of him," Dan said as he pulled out a Talking Heads album, "was he like the Quiz

00:44:22.890 - 00:44:38.370

Kids?" He was asked questions, she printed, like how high would a grasshopper jump if it were as big as a man? "You want to answer questions?" Dan said, "we don't have a call-in line." Ask them, she wrote. The Talking Heads were thinking about

00:44:38.370 - 00:44:55.200

letting the days go by, about water holding them down, about water flowing underground, water dissolving and water removing. "Oh, okay and you want them just to ponder or to send in answers?" "Pond," she wrote. "Okay, but first I have to do an

00:44:55.200 - 00:45:10.140

announcement. He turned down the record. Are you uneasy when it rains? Do you know children who were feeling insecure and adults were afraid to let go of control and express their feelings? Call Project Hope, counseling ordinary people in emergencies

00:45:10.320 - 00:45:27.120

for the number of a flood recovery group in your area. That's Cope, 555-5672. She held up her questions. "What was your face before your parents were born?" He repeated it to the listening audience. "Generations of Zen [unidentified] have

00:45:27.120 - 00:45:40.200

chewed their way into that one, folks." John came over to fill her waterglass and looked down at the cusped paper. With horror, she watched the water run over the rim of a glass and onto the table. "It's overflowing," she whispered

00:45:40.200 - 00:45:55.050

hoarsely, barely making a sound. "I'll get some tissues," he said. Too much water has become terrifying to me, she thought, any water spilling beyond its boundaries. John came back, "I'm sorry," he said mopping up the small puddle in the middle of a

00:45:55.050 - 00:46:10.140

table. "Like your own minds, the cup is over full. You must empty it before you can nose in, just kidding." She looked at the second hand racing around the wall clock and saw that they had two minutes left. She printed carefully, "Would you rather be

00:46:10.140 - 00:46:25.590

sick for one day or healthy for a whole year?" That was one of her father's favorites. Think about it. They walked her to her car and invited her to come back another time. Love to, she printed on the pad she had taken with her, I'll consult horoscope

00:46:25.680 - 00:46:35.920

to see when. That's not the end of the story, but that's where I'll stop for us. Morton Marcus: Okay, it is really- we were talking about

00:46:36.160 - 00:46:53.080

surreal experiences during the break. And it is very surreal to sit here and listen to you talk about being on the Poetry Show on KUSP in a story you've been writing for five years, and of course, many of the things that she is describing are right

00:46:53.080 - 00:47:11.230

here, but it will let the people out there know what is going on in the psyche of the writer who is being interviewed. And how- actually, you know, current history is really- and emotional life and you know, personal and public life are totally

00:47:11.230 - 00:47:23.350

inundating all your synapses. How's that? Synapses? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Fine. Morton Marcus: That's really fascinating. I wonder if the people out there feel the same way, but just sitting here, it's

00:47:23.650 - 00:47:34.960

like I'm listening to two things going on at once. I mean, I'm sitting here with these earphones on, watching you talking into a microphone, you know, checking my levels and everything like that when you're talking about being in a studio

00:47:34.960 - 00:47:44.640

talking into a microphone, you know, and I realized I haven't brought you a glass of water as John whoever he was. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, I don't really need one tonight. Tonight's a luckier night than the one in the story.

00:47:45.120 - 00:47:54.660

Morton Marcus: And we need rain. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: And we need rain. Well, maybe this will prevent laryngitis and bring on rain, this story. Morton Marcus: Very fast, now where is that story appearing?

00:47:54.000 - 00:48:04.860

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: New Letters, which comes out of the University of Missouri. Morton Marcus: One of the finest literary periodicals in the country and it will be out this fall.

00:48:05.190 - 00:48:16.380

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: It should be out in another month. Morton Marcus: So if people are interested out there, find New Letters either up in the UC library, I know they handle it there, or go to San Francisco to a place like Small Press

00:48:16.380 - 00:48:26.970

Traffic. I'm sure they handle it and a lot of other bookstores will just write to the University of Missouri for a copy, they'd love to send you one for two or three dollars. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, it's been very satisfying to read the

00:48:26.970 - 00:48:40.650

parts here. It is a tickle to be reading into this microphone. And now I realized that there has to be yet another story which encloses the fact of reading this story across the studio while you're sitting across-

00:48:40.740 - 00:48:58.350

Morton Marcus: My favorite thing, the picture- the boy whose picture is on the box, who is holding a box with a boy's picture on it, which is endless. [cross talk] I love that stuff. We have time for more poems, and I wonder if you could read us

00:48:58.650 - 00:49:13.520

some more of the prose poems. Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Sure, and this is again a group. They seem to occur in groups and the prose poems seem to occur in annual migration. It's really strange. Every spring for the last three

00:49:13.520 - 00:49:27.920

or four years, although I haven't been writing any poetry or prose poetry for the rest of the year. I've been writing fiction. Something happens with the change of the season, the lightening of the air, and I usually sit down for about a

00:49:27.920 - 00:49:50.180

week and write many, many, many poems, many more than I allow to survive. And perhaps for that reason, there seem to be more clusters than there were in my poems, say, a decade ago. These are four elegies, they're for my father who died in 1983. And

00:49:50.180 - 00:50:07.550

in a way, it's strange to read them after that story because the story is both about my father and not about my father. My true father was a printer and a painter, he did not write comedy for the radio and did not have water around his heart and

00:50:07.580 - 00:50:18.020

so on. Of course, I want the fiction to be believed but as a preface to these poems I'm telling you the truth. The first is called: TWO DREAMS

00:50:19.460 - 00:50:37.910

You walked toward the dark- I'll start over. You walked toward the dark sand where no sun could follow, damp there under the pier, color made for the dead, no color. Can he have died, we wondered, here where everything was the hue,

00:50:38.120 - 00:50:56.870

everyone living knows. Now you are leaving and the mountains turning blue is green going away from you, white in your singleness, strange violet, then you return, you lie down asking for water. The fragrance you say that death intensifies making

00:50:56.870 - 00:51:19.160

you thirsty. You unraveling over my shoulders like a shawl. In every dream, you are a flower or something I wear or rely on. This is UNTITLED Scattering ash will not summon his breath, not even the breath

00:51:19.190 - 00:51:38.510

that might blow the ashes back at you, a mistake smudging your arms and dress, a breath blowing you into his shadows, his gusts and railings. He frightened you and you were blind to it because he was frightened too but you want him here in any form. You'd

00:51:38.510 - 00:52:02.320

be glad to spend the rest of your life half anxious. If only you could spoon him, papery piece by piece, into the living. And this too is UNTITLED As the snow melts, I see you set black print into white paper, a

00:52:02.320 - 00:52:21.640

printer for two thirds of your life. The asphalt moving in on the white world says, "Do you know how to read?" When you took me to lunch in the city, you taught me to read. Then you went back to work and breathed the formaldehyde in the ink. By the

00:52:21.640 - 00:52:40.600

end you couldn't have huffed a warmth into a frosted window or put your breath back afterward. Now, the snow recedes and in the black I see a clear blur. Read. I'm supposed to look for something that's nowhere, it's like looking for the dead under

00:52:40.600 - 00:52:57.430

their bones. And this last is called THREE MONTHS. Come and gone in no time, come and gone the five senses and the seasons. In the heat, you couldn't breathe or see straight

00:52:57.430 - 00:53:17.950

or oh, lungs, oh finally, heart. We cradled ashes into earth and the cicadas began to sing when we smoothed the dirt, some ceremony, your only ceremony. I felt a whir of linked minuses as if geese were passing over, but it was nothing. You are not an

00:53:17.950 - 00:53:37.840

animal going back to its woodland home to sleep. You were an unhoused spirit in an unguarded wood. Who can sit with the dead after they're dead day in and day out and burn candles that eat up more of that last luxury oxygen? I thought the

00:53:37.840 - 00:53:54.790

cicadas wheeze, because they sing without having to take a breath, would let you live as the dignified dead live with no break in the music. But in November's quiet, you are un-gathered again. Nothing calling you there, except elms

00:53:54.940 - 00:54:12.460

raking the sky as if air, more air, gasping and creaking, air, Mr. Earth, Mr. Ash, Mr. Inches of Bone. Morton Marcus: Very moving, very beautiful. I take it you were very close to your father.

00:54:13.060 - 00:54:19.270

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yeah, I was. Morton Marcus: When you say he was a painter, was he a house-painter or did he-? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: No, he was a painter of landscapes and

00:54:19.270 - 00:54:33.370

portraits. And I will write something about him. I'm finishing a book of short stories, so it's not to be included in that but I will write something about the paintings themselves and something about him and also

00:54:33.370 - 00:54:48.080

include a memoir that he wrote. Morton Marcus: Yeah, with all of the references to oxygen in there, it seems like he had emphysema or something like that. Very moving, very beautiful too. Would you like to

00:54:48.080 - 00:55:04.370

take us out with a short poem or-? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Well, I have a short, mysterious poem, quite mysterious. It's so mysterious, I may not be able to find it. I was writing poems about fish for a while and

00:55:06.350 - 00:55:23.600

finally, after having gone through the catfish and the halibut and the salmon and so on, I imagined a kind of universal fish, an "any fish," you know, like "any man" and so this is called, "Any Fish," and it's quite abstract, but it

00:55:23.600 - 00:55:36.590

seems like the right thing to read. Listeners are on their way to bed and dream. ANY FISH Time treats us differently- and they're talking to humans.

00:55:36.620 - 00:55:41.360

They're addressing human. Morton Marcus: Oh, they're talking to us? Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Yeah, the fish, the fish speak throughout. Morton Marcus: Okay.

00:55:41.690 - 00:55:58.410

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: Let the fish speak. Time treats us differently. You're bolted down to summer and winter in your lammy world. Here, dark waters, least light looks for time's blessing whereas you sunk into portions,

00:55:58.590 - 00:56:18.630

keep time in a glare of separateness. True, we are one by one, we fish, for on the oceans one day off it let us happen, us too, portion by portion. But how we've been since it was, is too wet for time to follow, and the ocean,

00:56:18.780 - 00:56:32.420

not knowing it's late, waits up later and later for tick, for tock to enter and number it's dark world. Morton Marcus: Thank you very much, Lynn, thank you very much for being here.

00:56:32.420 - 00:56:43.020

Lynn Luria-Sukenick: It's been a pleasure. Morton Marcus: We have been speaking with Lynn Luria-Sukenick tonight, the poet and short story writer. And next week, I would like to alert you to the fact that Octopush

00:56:43.020 - 00:56:58.680

continues and we will be asking for your support on the Poetry Show. And we hope that you will give it with some pledges which will keep this radio station, which is almost completely manned by people who are volunteers and are interested in

00:56:59.130 - 00:57:13.440

talking to you out there in the community and letting you have poetry. And as will be coming up soon, some wonderful music with Tim Folger in "Things Ain't What They Used To Be." I would like to thank Stapleton's Natural Foods Grocery, emphasizing

00:57:13.440 - 00:57:30.360

organic and commercial produce at 415 River Street in Santa Cruz, for the donations that made this program happen in part. Thank you very much. This is Mort Marcus saying, I'll see you during Octopush next week, and we go out with Olatunji.