Writers of the Mendocino Coast
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AUTHORS RESPONDING TO ARTISTS

Janet
Ashford 

Lea
Callan

Jan
Edwards

Maureen
Eppstein

Doug
Fortier

Nona
Smith

Nancy

Wallace-Nelson

Norma
Watkins

Zelda
Zuniga


AUTHORS WRITING FOR ARTISTS

Henri
Bensussen

Alena
Deerwater

Susan
Fisher

Charles
Furey

Harriet
Gleeson

Jewels
Marcus

Fauna
Perkins

Ginny
Rorby

Donald
Shephard

Holly
Tannen
Picture

Holly Tannen
"Song of the Suburban Shaman"






Once I was a husband, but now I am a man
It was in the year 2005 that my new life began.
I went out to find myself amid the mushrooms and the trees
Along with forty other Joseph Campbell wannabees.
With me rantin-toorin-addie-fol-the-di-do.

I went into my closet to see what I could find
My dacron and my polyester I did leave behind.
I found my goatskin drum with the Navajo designs
And I borrowed Martha’s silver fox to gird around my loins.
With me rantin, etc.

I drove up to the camp on a Friday afternoon
I heard what sounded like coyotes howling at the moon.
I took out my Diner’s Club Card to pay them what was due
They said “You are a Cave Bear, you’re in teepee #2.”

Claire Fortier
Hunkering Down
With the Bear Clan
Oil on Birchboard

Picture
click image to enlarge
They took away my glasses, my flashlight and my watch
All they left me was the silver fox to cover up my crotch.
So I staggered through the dark, hoping I could find my clan
But instead I stumbled on another naked howling man.



I asked was he a Cave Bear, and could he help me please?
He said he was a Stag and we were mortal enemies.
He gored me with his antlers, I slashed him with my paws,
I grabbed him by the neck and held him in my mighty jaws.

Then I dropped him on the ground, and gave a mighty roar
For I heard a lusty chorus chanting hymns in praise of Thor.
There were half a dozen cave bears hunkered down upon a rock
And a chicken wrapped in plastic from the Safeway down the block.

We planned a rite of passage so we could be born anew
But we found we all were circumcised, so what else could we do?

We set up a peyote rite, and brother, it was deep.
I could tell you more about it if I hadn’t gone to sleep.

Now the weekend’s over and I’m on the freeway home.
Along with my bold comrades no longer can I roam.
No more wading in the river, or leaping from the rocks
And there’s mud and blood and chicken grease on Martha’s silver fox.
With me rantin-toorin-addie-fol-da-di-do.
Picture
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