CLINTON . 'V 5 ASHES IN THE BEERDROPS a farewell address by Musicmaster ‘ 'Let it be enough for us to state that one is justified in dashing the hopes o f anyone who expects from music the oblivion o f what he is, or what he had been. ” Paul Nouge (1895-1967) “ I either forgot to throw the radio out o f the window or I didn’t fee l like it anymore. ” Charles Bukowski from WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED Apostcard in Italia. I of Sancta Helena, A sepia-toned religious pin-up, she is haughtily expressionless like a Mad Ave minx being told by her photographer to act in- charge. She is carrying a cross without any visible strain, for it strengthens her; she is on a peak somewhere and little villages are suggested in the background by modest blotches with rooftop brims. It’s a kinky postcard because it’s old and foreign and eerie. She is overdressed for this occasion of displaying her virginal flesh. And the oddest thing about this postcard, though I don’t know if you’d spot it right off the bat, is that her halo (a perfectly round white circle and not a floating oval) not only wears her face, instead of her wearing it, but it also spotlights the parts of the cross which join somewhere behind her neck — like a cross-out or an illiterate’s signature or an “ x” on other postcards which want to inform you of the exact location of a vacationer’s motel room. A postcard of Sancta Helena to you. The Saint Lucy card, with its embroidered-in-Mexico tresses and the spooky plateful of two over-easy eyeballs on a plate balanced by her palm — a waitress-like offering and denial at once —, is no longer as wholly indicative of my stuttering ef- forts at was. I postcard choppy communication as it once mean, it’s still a dandy picture-side-up, but the news accompaniment has changed dramatically. A postcard image is viewed and appreciated only momentarily by an official addressee before being eagerly flipped over the the abbreviated news from somewhere else. Picturepostcards aren’t usually worth a thousand words and when they are, they aren’t usually read, because the cramped “ This Side for Message” space on the back, however filled with slapdash remarks on the weather or how one is missed in a way that words cannot describe, is the important side, it’s our side, in a few quick jots. So flip Sancta Helena over. On the back (though I only identify this opposite side as the back because that’s the common reference spawned by collectors’ eyes for postmarks over documented handshakes via mail) is my silly bit of updates. The writing is very tiny but legible. Not necessarily clear, but legible. I began to write this small in ninth grade when I decided that the only interesting thing to do with teacher’s lessons was to see if 1 could write a term’s worth of notes from them on a single sheet of notebook paper. 1 could. On the back of a postcard of Sancta Helena is this message to you; it’s also not worth a thousand words but I try: Dear Portland, We’ve been evicted and will Go East young man, to Minne-haha-apolis. Find a volcano that works. Probably end up in a place called Hiawatha Court of Minnehaha Arms. We’ll go to Minnesota and raise Monterey jack on the hoof, plant popsicle sticks, fish for already-frozen dinners. Lou Grant and Mary Tyler Moore did well there. Rocky and Bullwinkle’s Frostbite Falls is nearby. We’ve been evicted because we had a baby here, still have him in fact, and that’s against the rules. No Pets policy. I don’t know what we’ll do there. Get frostbite vaccinations I guess. B.J. Seymour, who once very wrongly referred to me as a street poet, will now be able to very rightly call me a sleet poet; sorry, but it’s mostly a matter of words. I’ll miss Portland because it’s the only city where one can smoke a cigarette in the breathable rain. I’ll become eligible for Portland Poetry Festival’s Exiles & Travellers’ fund. Wife and Musicminiature will forage for grits and I’ll cook icicle tubesteaks. I pray the kid doesn’t become a musician, 3 for musicians’ brains have been the s most underdeveloped part of our J I Portland; That’s Gen. Statement I r four-star and not meant as blanket “ x condemnation; it’s meant as musical 3 ' condemnation. Actually, bundles of " Northwest musicians are truly talented, often in plumbing or accounting. How many nose septums do you think the Musicians’ Union Trust Fund is going to replace in the next few years? Have a coke and a smile. Oops, rambling again. They laughed when I sat down to pray. We’ll go to Minnesota and learn to appreciate Portland. Another dumb stab at finding the Grail. Hope you like this postcard (do you think that’s a case for some arcane instrument she’s carrying over her shoulder?) Sleep well, stay warm, write often and on purpose, and if you don’t like the air, by golly, don’t breathe it. Yours very truly, etc. Et cetera, the alter-ego yet to come, inevitably forevet unknown. Stacks of boxes as dawn approaches. I’ve been shovelling clutter for lifetimes. Uncloseted heaps are dumbfounding, warm, abstract, sentimental, waiting to be crated for shipping or hauled outside for “ packrats evicted” sale. This is a Stonehenge. Issues of age discrimination have yet to allow for Hatjiil Tremaine, our bundle of born-at-home boy. I am Tenant Emeritus here, and my wife is an ex-nun, for God’s sake! and we’ve done things in this building that no other resident has ever dared before, Hamil being among the more speakable endeavors. And we’re getting the hook or the shaft or the boot. We had this Buddha-bellied kid and kidder right here in this apartment; and that’s not just history, it’s pre-hospital history, it’s pre-chickenshit drug-coached delivery, it’s pre-&- pro-life logic that physicians continue continued next page Illustration tn Gus Van Sant I.asout In Eric Eduards 39
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