Clogtown: Sofia Of Heredia, Richfield's Sister City!

I was walking to the Richfield Farmer's Market last weekend, and decided to cut through what we kids used to call Memorial Park (with the water slide that cut up half of Richfield), and is now called Heredia Park. It's the little park behind the Richfield Cop Shop/City Hall, and I had no idea when its name as changed - or why.

Then I saw a bronze statue of a little immigrant girl soccer player called Sofia. The only piece of public art in the park and it's of a child from another country making their way in Richfield. I was delighted, surprised, and honestly, a bit relieved - that Richfield holds such reverence for our immigrant neighbors, and chose to celebrate them in this lovely way.

The work is accompanied by a poem from Guillermo Hernandez , also the sculptor, from what I learned is Richfield's sister/peace city, Heredia, Costa Rica - since 1991! They even have a "Boulevard Richfield" in that town! I had no idea. But I'm super proud of my hometown, recognizing that we are a country of immigrants, and it is something to be celebrated. Excellent.

Pura Vida Sofia!

Clogtown - The Richfield Sidewalk Poetry Celebration

What a beautiful morning we shared together in Richfield this past Saturday. The Richfield Arts Commission and Crossroads Panorama put on a celebration to honor the poets and poems that won the Sidewalk Poetry contest this year - and I was one of them! I hadn't planned on being in town to be able to attend, but then my Mom went into the hospital, and I'm still here ... so we made it the goal to be Mom's first outing after having her leg amputated two weeks before.

The day was already emotional for sure, because of all Mom has been through, and just having her be able to be there with me was already making me cry. I mentioned to the poet, Emily Gold, seated on the new Bandshell stage beside me that I was not sure how I was going to do reading my poem looking at my Mom sitting there in the front row in her wheelchair. Then, she told me that she was struggling also, as her poem was about her eight year old daughter who had passed away only two months ago. Whoa. The strength she had to do that ... was humbling and inspiring. There was a performance by the young ladies from the Crossroads Panorama theater group, and then it was time for the poetry reading. Space on the sidewalk limits the lines and characters you could use, so mercifully, the poems were all short as we listened under the blazing hot sun. Gold read her beautiful tribute to her daughter, Lizzie, right before me, so after crying over her poem, I had to get up and cry about my own - but we did it, and I felt so happy to look out and see Mom there, smiling away.

All of the poems were wonderful, and all of them exemplified how we feel about our hometown of Richfield - it's special. The one by Bo Mitchell about HIS Mom (who died five years ago) fully wrecked me, and warmed my (already boiling hot) heart that a man would be so vulnerable in sharing about what his Mother meant to THEIR Richfield family.

It was incredibly moving. It was also SO hot out, however, that tears could easily be mistaken for sweat. I pointed out before reading my poem that I live in Venice, where poetry is historically very celebrated. There are poetry walls at the beach. The Free Venice Beachhead paper's motto is "This paper is a poem." But I never really felt poetry was any big deal here when I was growing up in Richfield, so I was happy to see so many people out at 9:00 a.m. on a hot Saturday morning in celebration of poems!

The wonderful new Mayor of Richfield, Maria Regan Gonzalez, was there - in fact, she rode her bike there. Awesome. We took a photo together with Mom, and you can tell how happy we all are in the celebration of both beautiful poems, and the triumph of the human spirit that allowed Mom to be there. The poems this time will be installed in the sidewalks along 66th street - I'm hoping mine goes in by the Richfield Pool (as is mentioned in my poem as a kind of bribe). My first one is on Portland in front of the Fire Station and City Hall, and I told the crowd gathered that I'm going for a hat trick next year (as the celebration was adjacent to the Ice Arena). It's pretty cool to have something I wrote actually be set in stone/concrete.

Thank you to Richfield, for this delightful honor, and to everyone who cares about poems!

*Group Poet photo by Thomas Eder

anyone lived in a pretty how town ... called venice

Things have been pretty hectic lately, and my morning walks have suffered. Well, TGIF, and my reward was a glorious, gorgeous morning stroll all over town. I hit the Venice Farmer's Market to get my citrus and salad fix for the week, and say hi to all the lovely locals there. I was thinking how I haven't gotten out that much and my stories have suffered as well ... and then on my way to the beach, I turned a corner on Venice Boulevard and got another reward.

e.e. cummings is one of my all-time favorite poets, and there painted on a little bungalow's fence was one of my all-time favorite e.e. cummings poems - anyone lived in a pretty how town. It could not be more charming, and could not have made my day more ...

... until I turned the corner again, and saw the triptych of lovely hand paintings that accompanied the poem.

A sand stroll was extra necessary after this, and the view from the Venice Pier this morning was breathtaking. I thought about the poem again.

It made me happy, and made me grateful that the artists and the poets of Venice are still what make it a pretty how town.

A beautiful start to a beautiful weekend for everyone who lives in our little town by the beach, and to all everywhere. Good vibes only this weekend, ok, Universe? Thanks.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

- e.e. cummings 

Matthew Heller - Grand Theft Autocorrect

Sometimes a lot of fun things happen in Venice at once, and sometimes that means you have to attend an art opening still completely covered in glitter from participating in the Mardi Gras Parade down the Boardwalk earlier in the day. Which is fine, because the art opening was also in Venice, and the people understand.

The show opening was Matthew Heller's Grand Theft Autocorrect at the great gallery space that doesn't seem to have a name on Main and San Juan. Heller is a friend's cousin and another friend's favorite artist, so I was there, glitter be damned.

I've always been very attracted to art with words in it (what is that called, anyway?), so Heller's new work did not disappoint. In fact, it was almost all words, made even better by having many of the pieces filled with lyrics from favorite songs like John Denver's "Annie's Song" or David Bowie's "Life On Mars" (done before he died, so not on the bandwagon).

Some of the works are made from what looks like masking tape spelling out words ...

Some pieces feel like you're snooping on someone's love letter writing, someone that's really, really good at inducing swoons through words ... Poems as visual art. Poems that kind of remind of Kerouac at times, high praise for me, indeed.

There were a lot of cool people at the opening, made cooler by the fact that no one blinked an eye at the  Glitterbomb talking to them, in fact, some wondered where they could get some for themselves. Right on.

Heller's work contains a whole lot of emotion in pretty minimalist pieces, which I think is the mark of a really good and effective contemporary artist. Simplicity that packs a wallop.

In chatting with Heller, I found that he couldn't be nicer or more open to talking about his work, another refreshing element in his artistic profile, especially with so many artists going up their own ass once anointed as chosen by the Art World. Not Heller. Warm, approachable, smart, and very clearly talented.

I think my favorite piece was this one that felt exactly just right to be shown in Venice:

Demand optimism! I love it.

Matthew Heller's Grand Theft Autocorrect is on view now through February 28 at 201 San Juan.

December Sunset

California has really been putting on a show lately with its nightly Sunset Spectacular. We've literally been meeting at the windows of my office at sunset time each evening to catch the free (and gorgeous) entertainment.

Sunsets (And sunrises. And full moons. And stars. And Winter. And Summer. And Spring. And Autumn ... you get it.) always make me wax poetic, or else think of poems by others that I love. Like this one, by Fred Babbin ...

December Sunset

The pink-blue sky

With the grey-blue buildings

And windows all in pink

With the jet streams flying

The pink becomes blue, 

Becomes grey, 

While our eye forms abstract designs

In the cold.

And the charcoal streets

With their white-blue lamps

To cancel out

The God-given darkness.

And finally, to the stillness of the night

We close our eyes

And dream of other worlds.

... And dream of other (better) worlds. Yes.

The Colorful House

For years there has been a great house on Rialto Avenue that could almost have been Frida and Diego's place. Every wall was painted a different color, every surface spoke of whimsy and fun. I walked by the other morning to find it halfway torn down, and looking so sad.


I never knew the people that lived there, I have no idea why they sold or chose to tear down this great house, but I hope they know it will be missed. I hope the new thing that goes there can rise to their level of unique character, their level of Venice, and not turn it into another terrible, no personality, white square box. Please.

It reminded me of a kids poem called "Me And My Colorful House", by Kimo Duo ...

The entrance to my house is colorful

To greet anyone who comes;

Still grows that willow tree.

Who will come after me, I do not know, 

He will feel sorrowful though -

For those here ... in the past.

To the previous owners ... Thank you for all the years of day brightening! I hope you bring your fun to your next home.

A Thanksgiving Prayer

This has been a hard year for a lot of people, in a lot of ways. It has also been an incredibly beautiful year for a lot of people, in a whole lot of ways. Every moment has the potential to be hard or beautiful, and much of that is how you view and act on it. I love so much that all Americans take at least the one day of Thanksgiving to do exactly that ... give enormous thanks, with all the gratitude we have in our hearts, even if that's just a little.

e.e. cummings wrote a Thanksgiving prayer long ago, and I'll share it with you now in its entirety. For this very best American holiday, that's the very best we can do - SHARE.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

‡

“next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn’s early my
country ’tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?”

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

‡

when god lets my body be
From each brave eye shall sprout a tree fruit that dangles therefrom
the purpled world will dance upon
Between my lips which did sing
a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes
will lay between their little breasts
My strong fingers beneath the snow
Into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass
their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be
With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea

‡

when god decided to invent
everything he took one
breath bigger than a circustent
and everything began

when man determined to destroy
himself he picked the was
of shall and finding only why
smashed it into because

‡

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

‡

love is the every only god

who spoke this earth so glad and big
even a thing all small and sad
man,may his mighty briefness dig

for love beginning means return
seas who could sing so deep and strong

one queerying wave will whitely yearn
from each last shore and home come young

so truly perfectly the skies
by merciful love whispered were,
completes its brightness with your eyes

any illimitable star

Happy Thanksgiving! God bless us EVERYONE.

*Photo (with no filter) was taken during one of my most grateful moments of the year. Just happy to be witnessing that splendor ... Ahhh.

November Summer

Emily Dickinson wrote, "November always seemed to me the Norway of the year." I love that, but it's not at all accurate if you live in Southern California. This past weekend saw temperatures in the mid-80's at the beach. In November.

The weekend was a lot of fun, with friend birthday parties, a Sturgill Simpson show, a Vikings game with friends ... but the very best part was having the gorgeous beach almost all to myself.

Yet another thing to be so grateful for as we head into Thanksgiving week. Wow.

Spring Fever!

We might not have the cherry blossoms in Venice, but we have these guys ...

You can feel the Spring in the step of everyone around. It's subtle here, and lacks the total relief of colder climes when the blossoms first appear ... but when the evenings get longer and the town bursts into color against skies so blue it makes your eyes hurt ... you feel it. Like in this gem, from e.e. cummings -

“sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love

(all the merry little birds are

flying in the floating in the

very spirits singing in

are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come

awandering awondering

but any two are perfectly

alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves

each herself by opening

but shining who by thousands mean

only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly

tiny winging darting floating

merry in the blossoming

always joyful selves are singing)

sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love” 

- e.e. cummings

Viva sweet love! Viva Spring! Wherever you are.

Where My Sidewalk Ends ...

I was walking down my street this morning, and it was so pretty out, I wanted to share it.

Then I started thinking about Shel Silverstein's Where The Sidewalk Ends*, because on this street, that's where I live.

That beautiful, classic book of poems is now 40 years old, yet the wonder and wisdom is simply timeless. And after all these years, the opening poem is still my favorite ...

INVITATION

If you are a dreamer, come in.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,

A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .

If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire,

For we have some flax golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!

Yes. We really do have some flax golden tales to spin around here. Please come in!

*Always available at Baby Burro!

A Custom Poet In Venice

I was walking down Abbot Kinney this past weekend when I came upon a woman sitting at a little table with an old school typewriter sitting on it and a sign advertising "Poems To Order". I introduced myself to Vanessa Rose, who was there to create custom poems for people that might not be so good at putting their feelings into words themselves.

With Valentine's Day fast approaching, business was picking up on that bright afternoon, with someone even asking Rose to craft a poem for him to propose with.

It reminded me a bit of the film, Central Station, where the lead character sat near the train station and wrote letters for people who didn't know how. There's something so sweet and old fashioned (especially written on a typewriter) about a poem written in the name of love - even if you have to get someone else to do it for you.

Whatever the occasion, I'm sure anyone would be thrilled to receive a "hand crafted, fresh to order, artisanal poem" written just for them.  On her business card, it reads You met a human named Vanessa Rose. You found her to be intelligent, gracious and charming. 

I surely did. You may look for her table set up weekends on Abbot Kinney, or contact Vanessa Rose for poems or events at:

Email: Rose.Vanessa@gmail.com
Twitter: @rosevanessa8
Facebook: /rose.vanessa