Thank you for your late night words (I love the full moon element, your words have that haunting "suchness" to them from the "whether one bowls of water or a hundred reflect, the moon still shines"...)

I've committed myself to precinct walking on Saturday for my attorney Pat's brother Terence "Kayo" Hallinan, the S.F. D.A. (he's actually a very progressive guy, their dad was Vincent the waterfront/labor activist, their mom Vivian a prominent "limousine liberal," I suppose--a wealthy and dedicated socialist/socialite. I have to be in The City around 10:30 to start, but I can be back in Berkeley late afternoon, say 4:30 or so.

Yes I suppose teaching these days can be a wee bit of a challenge. I tutored at Cal about a decade ago, in a special program starting up then for student/athletes; I was hired for the "creative writers" and upper-division Economics/English majors, through a buddy with whom I played hoop (almost religiously, I might add, the same group of players at "center court" for over twenty years--myself until recently considered one of the "newcomers"...). I expected lunkheads but was pleasantly surprised (most of my students turned out to be female--tennis, swimming--and hard-working). Twas there that I met Ms. Sherri Halgren, a fellow tutor who's gone on to become head of the Creative Writng Program at St. Mary's College (where Brenda Hillman, her good friend, teaches) and a regular book reviewer for the S.F. Chron. (She also is a co-director of the Napa Valley Writers Conference, from which I got a "Fiction Workshop" scholarship one year, 1990, I believe--and, no, I didn't sleep with her to obtain, my short stories each most certainly stood on feet of one's own...)

As many of my puzzled students then were having difficulties with Mrs. Maxine Hong Kingston's "Woman Warrior," too, they were referred to me (as my buddy knew that I was very much a practicing Buddhist), and, yes, I have another story about myself and Maxine as a result (another missive, too much today already!).

Found this kind of old one related to teaching for you:

 OCTOBER BLUES 

Strange how each time 
leaves turned hard scuttle 
across the sidewalk, 
I’m newly fascinated... 

Swirls of fall colors, 
the scent of plum stains 
beneath, rising with the sharp 
pungent crispness of the leaves. 

Shrug of coat around, 
I return to my pondering; 
last night, very late, 
not a sound in the stilled air— 

colder now, yet another summer 
passed, this little sleepy college town 
abuzz again with bright faces, 
classrooms beckoning 

for the first time in years... 
How deep within some grief 
buries itself in our flesh, 
no cathartic shock 

ever quite enough. 
How mysterious indeed 
that feeling, too, 
finally there— 

the time has come for myself to leave… 
Bearings and degree having soft-fallen 
into place, like a melody, dancing 
through the tiny hairs of my skin... 

Thomas Francis Noonan 10/7/97 
[deliv. Maxine Hong Kingston...] 

What I've been reading lately (a bit ruefully, given the elegance of the language): 

Sonnet CVII

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

This sonnet appears early in the sequence; to me a big clue is contained in the previous sonnet (22) and seemly raiment. Our man Shakespeare is bemoaning his "disadvantaged" position, in that his "lowly" state of being—in comparison with the finery-clad dandies that he calls "prancing jacks" elsewhere (and too the Rival Poet's, Marlowe a.k.a. "Dr. Faustus," and Ben Jonson, a.ka. "Volpone Himself")—is "putting [him] besides his part," as in an actor, who, knowing all too well that he is merely "acting," becomes all too "imperfect" for the stage. Modern usage is "stagefright," but the complexity of the matter is well-put here. 

Too, as one forced to endure humiliation knows all too well, assuming a "fierce" countenance can make one seem a "thing" (or monster) "replete with too much rage." Continuing the acting analogy, one failing to deeply understand the "kingly" motivation of say, a Prince Hal (Henry V) might play the part too much of a bezerker ( a Nordic/Slavic warrior from the Middle Ages known for leveling a land with slaughter without any "second thoughts"); "Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart" thus becoming clear in meaning—the wisdom is from the more ancient concept of "warrior" (in particular out of Vedic India and subsequent Eastern traditions) in which one flaws one's strategy with a heart too hardened to permit the tender notion of mercy . This process, especially, being the role a woman plays in bringing about the influx of the feminine as a warrior's redemption… 

And yet, knowing how all important this matter is—as a man to a woman—if the bond of "trust" is not present, the man, from "fear" of being rejected as umworthy, may not "get all the words right," so to speak: in his mind's eye seeing some "perfect ceremony of love's rite," again, based on ancient and medieval courtier rituals of love (think back to the Krishna, in particular, for our wellsprings of "love's rite," the double entendre of "right" with the meaning of being "right" for a woman's choice of love as opposed to force of "right" as some propertied privilege most powerfully present). Even when the words are merely I love you… 

The subtle grace and nobility of a soft-spoken Shakespeare—his "love's strength" of his "honey-tongued voice"—thus making him "seem to decay," i.e., by not being arrogantly bold (think the devilishly clever Richard III) his competition can make claim to be a sign of growing weakness… 

"O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might," then, can be seen in the particularly Shakespearean way of his "having played kingly parts in sport" (as one well-known eulogy stated). Perhaps the meaning "encypher'd" here is that our man Will was what Thomas Jefferson was to term a natural aristocrat: one more "self-made" than merely born. 

As such Sweet Will was what we now would call an "alpha male," despite his disfavor with Elizabeth and the dandies of the Court: think of the wily old weasel "Justice" Burghley, her "legal advisor," and the way that anyone could be made subject to Elizabeth's edicts; in particular was her predilection for posing as a "kingly spiritual initiator," one, ironically enough, in the exact same Gaelic mode of being "married to the land as sovereignty" of the Irish she was attempting to exterminate. Thus the origin of her "matchmaker's cult," in which ,by hocus-pocus pronouncements, those in her disfavor were fiat declared as having to be gay or gone; the Elizabethans, and the James' to follow, deployed an arcane system of sorcery to hold not just the subjects but too the "inner circle" in check in which your fate after death ("the undiscovered country" the thoughts of which "must give one pause") was allegedly determined by these all too human rulers as Elizabeth and James… 

So, despite "mine own love's might," our man Shakespeare finds himself in a position of being unable, that is, his love here addressed is most likely a Lady of "standing" with the Court (mine own pet theory is the Countess Mary of Pembroke), thus his "burden"…Some "wall" of Elizabeth's making, which, when put into combinations of four and assigned human mobility, quite effective in ensuring this "upstart crow's" most mournful isolation… 

For solace he turns to books and seeks tales of past unrequited love. Finding the "eloquence" there through accounts of others presagefully struck "dumb" by the "might" of "love"… 

His "tongue" having already yattered too much away (perhaps an ancient Biblical allusion, as well, of "speaking in tongues" as the Tower of Babel meant, i.e., all these different "dialects" and "profusions" and still no understanding at all "express'd"), our man Will, humbled by the accounts of the others "Who plead for love and look for recompense," feels his "speaking breast," the finely spiritual way (think Moses having "hidden the blessings of Heaven in my breast") of love, in which one "silent" look from a Krishna, to a woman wishing to be his "consort," when properly "read," speaks volumes; in the same Vedic wisdom way training one's "eyes" to "hear" a divine path (known as "Bhakti Yoga," subtle devotion to one's beloved) "to love's fine wit"…[end posting]

Gotta run and get a plane ticket to see HHDL in Burbank next month; I'm not working tonight (I'm a bit miffed about not being invited to the cast party Weds. night--my "network" has been dropping all kinds of "hints like anvils at this point" about the fact that I'm dying to "get back on my feet again" with the upcoming Irish play, Beauty Queen--I even told Terry, the subscription manger, who did get to attend, even though he has little use for the theatre, about the concept "roar of the greasepaint," a well-known phrase that, as I explicated, means that one knows one's play "has legs of its own" and is going to be a success when the actors begin to "hear" the roar of the greasepaint, i.e., when every time that the stage makeup goes on, some deep, profoundly "transcendental" silence descends (as in meditation) and each is magically transported to some place far away, long ago, as the sound of an audience's enthusiastic applause after a successful performance (with any luck in the actor's memory) becomes the faint roar of the sea, breaking on some moonlit beach...

Let me know what you want to do, I'll check my voicemail (510-549-8828#540) later (plus the Aurora is now doing "The Glass Menagerie"...)
best,

 tom noonan

**********

Date:
        Sat, 25 Sep 1999 12:14:55 -0700 (PDT)
   From:
        k. [a female friend ]
 Subject:
        Re: "O, for my sake do you with Fortune
        chide..."(Sonnet CXI)
     To:
        Tom Noonan <fenian47ronin@yahoo.com>

                                                 
        
Dear Tom Noonan,
What an e-mail!  And to think I just asked if you
could meet me at four. . . So, yes, I'll be at the
Berkeley Art Museum this afternoon.  Can you meet me
at 4:45- 5:00 at the entry?  I'll leave a voice
message on the phone number. What a verbal marble, or
is it marvel, you are!  Are you a Shakespearean
scholar or Tom Stoppard? Did you read the wonderful
article on Shakespeare in Harper's a few months ago on
who wrote what?  I've saved it if you are interested
or didn't read it. Thank you for the sonnet, the
reverie on the sonnet,and your poem. I'm sitting here
in piles of clothes, books, student papers, laundry,
etc., the trail dust of my daughter and roomate, both
of whom left to go wherever this week.  I am so glad
to have my houseboat back.  The quiet and spaciousness
of the quite is lovely.  I've never appreciated it
more.  But now to bring back some of the order and
rearrangement of the parts. (Sounds like what I
recommend for the essay to my fledglings). I'm sleepy
and would like to go back to bed with a book, but too
much beckons.  As for tomorrow evening, I'm afraid I'm
going to have to pass (damn! double damn!) I'm not
going to Washington DC, thank god, but before I
thought I was, I'd made plans with a friend to
celebrate her birthday.  The date has been set for
quite sometime.  I thought I could switch the time and
then dash to Berkeley again, but I hate dashing.  I'm
trying to do less of that, so I can really enjoy where
I am without worrying where I'm supposed to be next. 
But please ask me again.  In fact, if I see you today,
which I hope I do, I'll buy my Berkeley Rep series
from you in cash
and you can attend with me when I come to see some of
the plays if you'd like.  I've always enjoyed Berkeley
Rep. And thank you for your autumn poem.  It reminded
me of one of mine.  I'll send it to you:

MILL VALLEY AUTUMN

Here the leaves don't turn
a bright New Hampshire red;
they soften. Maples deepen 
into rusts and plum. The poplars
in the upper boughs go golden.
Grass stiffens with frost.
Pine needles from the limbs above
lay strewn upon the ground
like a child's game of pick-up sticks.
There is a clean edge to things--
fences, roof lines, ridge.
The air is cold.
Suddenly, or so it seems,
the dog is older, the children taller.
We pull the collars of our jackets
tighter at the neck, slip
our hands inside the sleeves,
and go on believing, as did Penelope,
that a world this loved will not vanish.

Good day for now.  Maybe I'll see you in Berkeley
today. Yes, I remember Sherri Halgren from the Napa
Conferences. The last time I saw her she was very
pregnant. I hope you walk the precincts well for 
the very controversial Terence Hallinan.  Someday I
look forward to meeting you.

Truly,
K.
 
 

*********
Dear Tom,
So sorry to have missed your invitation.  I was working at the Mill
Valley Fall Arts Festival all day under the Redwoods, teaching poetry
to children and hanging their poems, written on silk, in the trees
above the creek.  It was lovely.  I then rolled over to Oakland to pick
my daughter up from the airport, had dinner, came home did not listen
to the answering machine until this morning.  I regret missing you
again.  Let's try to set something up this week.  I can come to
Berkeley, or we could meet in San Francisco.  I would like to meet you.
I will have a little more time now.  My roomate just letf for Scotland
yesterday, another reason things have been so hectic and busy, and my
daughter leaves for college on Tuesday.  I'm looking forward to the
quiet to the cleared space and more time. I tried calling the number
you left and couldn't get through.  I'll relisten to the answering
machine and make sure I got the number right. Thanks for the haiku. 
Here's one for you. 

Overcast morning,
high tides and tall white boat masts
The water rocks me.

Cheers to you for not giving up on me, especially after 
attempts to process my credit card.  Oh, woe, to tight budgets. 

Truly, K.
**********
[Tues  Sept. 21, 1999, 8:21:42]

We dream from the graves too. . . what an idea!  I'm
scurrying this am.  What a week, and it's only
Tuesday.
I would very much like to join you for tonight's
performance in Berkeley.  I was also offered tickets
to Tich Nach Han at Berkeley Community Center.  So
there are two options, which if I make it through the
day without blowing a gasket, I'll try for at least
one of them.  My problem is I'm on my way to our
quarterly meeting now and not quite ready. I'm to help
my daughter get moved to Santa Cruz with all of her
stuff
at noon, back into the city for a recording job from 2
to 6, and I teach at USF in the morning and should get
my prep done for that.  I'm what they say: Under the
Gun.  Please forgive me for not joining you tonight. 
It is a lovely offer.  I would love to meet you when I
don't feel pressed and when I know I could sit
comfortably and really enjoy the play or the
ambassador for peace. Saturday or Sunday if you are
available.  And thanks again for the offer.  I'll try
to call today during some window of time.  I've got to
slow down, and look forward to everyone returning to
where they are supposed to be, so I can have my abode
to myself and return to some writing.  Have a lovely
evening. Cheers.
Kathy

--- Tom Noonan <fenian47ronin@yahoo.com> wrote:

<HR>

<table>
<tr>
<td bgcolor="yellow" width="650"> 
<font face="Garamond, Georgia" size="4"
color="maroon">
<p> Dear Kathy,</p> 

   <p>How ironic; I started out for the Mill Valley
Arts Festival, as I'd caught some wonderful
woodcarvings from an artist exhibiting at a Live Oak
Park Arts Fair earlier this (now gone) summer, and
she'd mailed me news of this Fair (a Lisah
Horner)...</p> 

    <p>But, as I was dawdling here, I didn't get to
the city until afternoon; the "golden Gate" busdriver
I asked information about "how to get...?" was a real
*prig*, as George Elliot described so well, and so I
wound up going to a great street fair in Chinatown,
instead!</p> 

     <p>To top off a "Comedy of Misdirection" day,
when I returned to Berkeley, I discovered (and should
have remembered, that the Sunday evening show starts
at 7 P.M.! (So, did not attend, having missed the
curtain rise)...</p> 

    <p> I think we can do the Tues. night previews, as
well, I'll find out when I go in to work tonight.  If
you want to go, let me know. (my message # is
510-549-8828, box#540, the number at the Rep is
510-486-0896).</p> 

<p>Very beautiful poem, I was doing some "mast
watching" on Sunday as well...</p> 

<p>Best, Tom </p>