THE WINNEBAGO
From Oregon Mark also known as
Cactus78 or Mark Bufano :
friends of my travels(as well as you others you know who you are..or do
you?!)...i have rarely done this but since i have insomnia tonite i
thought
i would sit for a bit and let you know what has been happening with me(
as i
can imagine you all have been just dying to know). well, i am now
curenttly
jobless and semi-homeless(i have a place to stay but you know it's not
MINE
mine). spent the first few weeks staying fairly low key and just seeing
a
few friends here and there. those weeks to be honest felt like a few
days
and i often wonder where all my time goes. something i did last year
and did
again this year was build a car with 2 other friends for the portland
soap
box derby. we bulit, now get this, a 1970 scale model of a winnebago.
complete with interior wood paneling, wet bar,linoleum floor, the "W"
stiping on the outside,spare tire,ladder and wiper bldes. we showed up
almost 2 hours late to a warm crowd as they just went ape shit to see
the
13 foot long, 5 foot high and 4 foot wide travel vehicle ( most cars are
like
6-8 feet)just as we were parking it the weld for the steering
broke...yep
heros to zeros in ten minutes.but with some friends help and some luck
we
actually got an electric welder up on to the hill and found some power
to
weld it back for the 1st race......we went down and it was pure bliss i
tell
you. we laughed and waved as the crowd yelled their praise.just as we
reached the top of the hill after being towed up our axl broke....no
fear
just more welding and we were back(kind of fiitng since our team name
wasTIME TO DIE [this worked on so many different levels it was
insane])after
2 races we just sat back and drank mixed drinks and beers fromour cache
inside the winneago...smoked herb and had just about everytype of
person
stop by admire and most have some shots( you know BOOZE!!) and chill
inside.
i'm talking white trashers with missing teeth, rastafarians,
hipsters,dorks,
friends,gangsters...the whole scope....everyone fucking loved it. By
end of
race day we were fucked and soon was the winny as we took her down for
the
parade, the axles were dragging and scrapping so we jumped out and some
people pushed her over a very steep double grass hill where she came to
rest
bent up, trashed but still yes but still beautiful. Now you must
understand
it had to be this good as we were in the local paper the week before
showing
just a picture of what we were trying to build*(as it was still just
barely
a frame and we had a reputation to uphold)...so have got some
recognition
from one being in the paper and then yesterday people coming up all the
time
to see the beauty that was THE WINNEBAGO. so what now...good
question,some
more summer events to come and lots of great bands coming here....but
of
course it's family time and i will head to the deserts of phoenix,
arizona to
visit my brother and folks.it should be alright and have got my
pictures
developed to show them and some of you (censored) as well ...i mean some
of
you.....er uhh sorry quote/unquote other people.
other news...hmmmmm well i don't realy know what the (f...) to exactly
do
so i
am just chilling watching and enjoying my time being out of the
rigamarole
of daily "real" life...whatever the (f...) that means. the weather has
been
great here for the most part and should be for some time still.i
thought i
had more to say but i guess not. so hello to all of you wherever you
may be
whether it is still travellin, in school, working or just plain nothing
but
something, a like me...enjoy it! so that is it for my first
installment of
a group email. fuck that was lame i hate doing this shit and
talking
to all those (censored) that...wait am i still typing, what the (f...)
oh
well.....take 'er sleazy compadres.......m
(copyright: Postcard made in Dundee)
From Iain Campbell Webb
the W.B. Yeats Foundation
For Struggling Writers
Monkishtown
Much Laughington Co. Antrimshire
The Northern Realm of the Emerald Isles
Welcome to beautiful Ireland - Even the donkeys have the blarney!
"A poem by the master, W.B. Yeats….":
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core
Primavera
Arriving at the cusp
The wasteland wakes
A vernal equinox erupts
Like children
Playing in the luminescence,
With cherry pink smiles.
In every street miracles occur,
Revelations of leaf and flower
Through this veil of tears
One name shines
Below his feet sap green shadows
Weave holy tapestries.
Under time photomontage
Life stories slowly develop
The divine comedy continues
Captured by angels with dirty faces
Iain Campbell Webb has been writing poetry seriously for some ten years.
He has published poetry both in Ireland and England in various literary
magazines, and his work has appeared in a number of anthologies in both
countries. He has read his work in festivals in Belfast and Dublin, and
across Ireland. (ed)
St Valentine's Equation
Passion fell down, passion fell down
On Valentine Street
Living the love of life
A tottering crown
He counted the sum
Quixotic equations,
Under the kisses, under the kisses
Of the vampires,
Such apparent but delightful distress
The womanifest needs a manifest
Calculate an arithmetic of pleasantness
We all fall down; we all fall down,
Those who jump
Those who are given a shove
That expected clumsiness
Wigs and red noses, and painted faces,
So many clowns
Bunches of poisoned purposes, supposes,
Atiooh of lies, atiooth of truths,
Believing in blood red roses.
A certain hubris
That rather exposes
The frequent heartache
Applying the cynical cream,
For goodness sake
Like paper petals,
We all fall; we all fall down
Despite being made of semi-precious metals
Lady Luna
The dark cat walked on darkness
Was heard but not seen
A journey was made
To share a celestial gift
She was shadow casts
Wearing her little black number
An amorous star came so close
Wanting to kiss and tell.
The umbras short life
Revealed so much more
The seven sisters forever taking tea
A storm in a galaxy cup
Catches the milky luminosity
Stained the coffee black sky
She wandered across the night's abstraction
An atmosphere dust paints her face
With power and rouge
She leaves her dark admirer
After an hour of abandonment
The touch of star shine
Revives the long orbiting marriage
With a full embrace
Such prodigious beauty
Leaving four werewolves
Howling at the moon.
published online by zebras54, September 2003
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A casual visit
by Sergio Campanale
 He checked his pocket watch again. It was coming up to six o'clock. The
sun was shining brightly in the sea blue cloudless sky. In this intense
sunlight the rough green metal seemed almost like Chinese jade. It was
an effect Don Fernando found enchanting. He got up and walked towards
the little monument once more.
"To the genius Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches Guttierez Pelayo: From
the Grateful people: 1901". It read. A wave of pride passed over him as
he read it again. "To the GENIUS, Don Fernando De La Rives
Sanchez-Guttierez Pelayo: From the grateful people: 1901" from the
grateful people!
He removed his silk gloves, closed his eyes, and ran the tip of his bare
fingers over the elegantly embossed letters. How gratifying they felt!
It was like caressing the skin of a beautiful woman again, yet somehow
even that long ago memory of Dona Monserrat's warm delicate flesh seemed
to pale into insignificance compared to the satisfaction this cold,
lifeless metal now gave him.
He opened his eyes again and took a few steps back.
"To the genius Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches Guttierez Pelayo: From
the Grateful people: 1901".
The artist had caught his likeness very well he thought, though he had
made his nose perhaps just a little too big. Don Fernando felt strange,
looking at himself cast in bronze. It was nothing like looking at a
mirror, for a mirror catches your reflection. This was something
different, unexplainable. The eyes, though wide beneath the spectacles,
had no lights in them, no life. He would have liked them to have felt
more alive, silently following passers by like some mischievous child,
but he understood that a monument of such importance had to carry a
graver tone, so he was prepared to overlook so small a defect. The rest
though was perfect.
His eye felt back down to the naked figure by the inscription, the
lithe, sinuous little nymph who snaked around the base, her hand
outstretched in supplication to his smiling face, exposing her ample,
well rounded bosom to the world going by. At her delicate, perfectly
formed feet sat an angelic cherub of a baby, his little hand stretching
hopefully towards him, though unlike his mother above yet unable to
reach. Motherhood and childhood embodied, stretching out to him like a
ray of hope from the heavens. The scene so moved Don Fernando that he
found himself having to pull out his immaculate monogrammed handkerchief
to wipe away a tear.
In the back of his mind a little voice began to scold its master for
succumbing to the vice of pride. The genius found this little voice
troublesome, for he feared there might be some truth in its
lamentations. Was he being too proud? Was he now being what had never
been in his own lifetime, vain? His head told him yes, but his heart
knew otherwise.
"Of course you didn't do it for this!" Don Fernando told himself as he
contemplated his own epitaph. "You never once thought about the fame or
the recognition, nor did you ever act according to the dictates of your
ego. What you did was for the benefit of all. THEIR well-being was your
guiding star, your glittering inspiration. No, Don Fernando De La Rives
Sanches Guttierez Pelayo, genius! You of all men, can look at yourself
in the mirror and truly say that you spent your life selflessly. That
you gave your every moment to the betterment of those around you, and
their children, and their children's children, those very souls passing
by you as you speak." He took a deep breath of air and allowed his broad
chest to puff out just slightly. "No, Don Fernando, you have done
nothing to be ashamed about! You have every right to feel proud!"
He took a few steps back, letting the space give the monument a fresh
perspective with every pace, until he found himself pressed up against a
tree. He sat himself back down on the wire-framed bench, and rested his
hands on his ivory tipped cane.
"No, Don Fernando. You should feel proud, proud that the city fathers
valued your humble contribution so much that they saw to it no one would
ever forget!"
He lent down and rested his head upon the back of his strong gloved
hands.
"No, Don Fernando. No one will ever forget you!"
The young woman looked at her watch. It was just after six o'clock, and
she had little idea how to kill these two hours she had spare. There was
no chance of getting a table at the Café de los Reyes. It was full to
the brim, as always was on a Sunday afternoon. There might be a table at
the Café Lope de Vega, but she had grown a little weary of that place.
It did not have the same charm as the Reyes, and the coffee there was
not as good. In fact she only ever went there when there wasn't a table
at the Reyes and this, she now reflected, was no basis for choosing
somewhere to lose two hours of her life, no matter how worthless they
seemed.
The sun was still shining, and the woman stopped for a moment to let
herself absorb its precious rays. It was so quiet in the paseo,
everything was so still. When she had been younger she hated such
stillness, yet recently she found herself appreciating such moments,
savouring them as one would savour a rare and expensive delicacy which
very unobtainability makes it so desirable.
There was an empty bench right beside her, empty and inviting. She
thought the matter over for a second then sat herself down. She finally
put down the bag, which had been weighing on her arm since she had left
the house. The end of the rolled-up magazine protruded provocatively
from the top of the bag, and she found herself unable to resist the
temptation to pull it out. Mechanically, she opened it and began to leaf
through its glossy pages, yet it gave her neither pleasure nor
satisfaction. It just did not feel right. She closed the magazine again
and put it straight back into her bag. It was quite clear that her mind
craved no such distractions. This quiet perfection was all the diversion
she would need.
She lay back on the wire bench and shut her eyes, hoping perhaps to
catch a few moments of sleep. The breeze whistled gently through her
ears like a lullaby, and the rest descended upon her. Some moments later
she opened them again, and found herself looking directly into the eyes
of a moustachioed, bespectacled man before her. She kept the gaze for a
few moments then pulled away, yet somehow it was if the man was still
watching her.
 The young woman craned forward and gazed at the bronze bust
"To the genius Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches Guttierez Pelayo: From
the Grateful people: 1901".
Like the rest of the Paseo, Don Fernando had committed herself to her
memory. He had been there yesterday, he was here today, he would no
doubt be there tomorrow as well, a friend whose constancy was second to
none. Yes, Don Fernando DeLa Rives had become a friend alright. She
found his rounded, serene face strangely reassuring, like that of a
perfect uncle one dreams of having, someone you could talk to when you
had problems, someone whom you knew would listen, someone you knew would
always have the answers in his pocketÂ… Many times in fact she fancied
she was having a conversation of sorts with him, a conversation without
words. He made her feel at peace like few others could.
"To the genius Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches Guttierez Pelayo: From
the Grateful people: 1901".
Who the hell was "To the genius Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches
Guttierez Pelayo?
It was a question she had asked herself many times. It was obvious he
had been a man of some importance, otherwise they would not have
dedicated a memorial to him in the Paseo De Las Columbias. But who was
he? What had he done so special? How was he, of all his contemporaries,
distinguished enough to earn the gratitude of a grateful people? What
liberating ray of hope was this bearded old man in a hefty frock coat
offering below? His name, as his face, had become part of her
consciousness, yet she had absolutely nothing to connect them to apart
from a date, and this frustrated her. She moved in closer and stared
deeply into those serene bronze eyes behind the tiny turn of the century
spectacles.
"Who are you?"
The Don replied with a smile and an enigmatic silence.
In the absence of any facts she had created a story for him over the
years, that he was a doctor, a very important doctor who had founded a
hospital in the city for the poor, for poor women and children, whom he
treated and cured absolutely free of charge. That was why the naked lady
and her child were reaching up to him. Yes, a great humanitarian, a
wise, kind benefactor, guardian angel of the cities poor and needy. She
had grown to like this story. It corroborated perfectly with her view of
the Don as her own personal, kindly, protective uncle Fernando. Under
the hot sunlight, it made her feel warmer still.
She looked at her watch and saw to her amazement that almost an hour had
passed. An hour spent in the open air doing absolutely nothing. As she
got up to leave she turned one last time to the smiling old man in the
hefty frock coat and spectacles "See you tomorrow, Don Fernando!" She
sang as she picked up her bag and set off down the Paseo de La
Columbias.
Don Fernando De La Rives Sanches Guttierez Pelayo rested his round,
full face on his large, gloved hands and looked into his own bronze eyes
once again.
"No, Don Fernando." He told himself "No one will ever forget what you
did for this city!
Originally written in 2002 and sent to zebras54 by c) sergio campanale
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