Tom & Pete & Stardust

"I've always liked the concept that we're reconstituted stardust. A human life is just an eye-blink in the universe, man, if even that." -Tom Nattell

"He looks like your grandfather, if your grandfather could kick your ass."  -Bruce Springsteen, on Pete Seeger


On Monday night, Jan. 27, I attended the 9th annual Tom Nattell Memorial Beret Toss in Albany, NY. It's held each year on the final Monday night of January, as part of the Poets Speak Loud open mic series now held at McGeary's. Tom was a force in the Albany poetry scene from the '80s on, and our paths crossed frequently as I became more involved in reading out. We were not close, but I admired Tom for his energy, the thousand and one announcements he could squeeze in between readers at the old QE2 also held on the last Monday of each month. Tom was to have been the host of this new series, but became ill, and passed the hook to Mary Panza, a force in her own right in Albany and beyond. It was hoped he would be at least the first featured reader, but he died earlier that day. The reading became an impromptu memorial, with Nicole Peyrafitte leading a group to Washington Park afterwards to scramble up the statue of Robert Burns and plant Tom's old green beret on the Scots' head. The tradition has continued.

On January 28th, Pete Seeger's death was announced. It's not a stretch to imagine these two men were cut from the same recycled cloth. Each was an activist. Each spent the better part of their energies in promoting sustainable lifestyles. Tom began Artists' Action Against AIDs and Readings Against the End of the World. His Poets in the Park series has been continued by fellow poet Dan Wilcox, still held each July in front of the Burns statue. Pete was instrumental (pun intended) in cleaning up the Hudson River and founded the Clearwater Festival to raise awareness of environmental issues. He was banned from public media for many years, before the Smothers Brothers took a chance on booking him, in their brief heyday, on their CBS show.

 Both were quirky, grizzly creatures. Both wore caps, sported grey beards, dressed practically. Pete almost made it to 95, and up until a few weeks ago could still be spotted at local events in his beloved Beacon, NY, holding a sign, strumming his ancient banjo. Sadly, Tom died at 52, the same age I will be in just a few weeks. Without a doubt Tom would have continued to raise awareness, had not this evil disease silenced him. It was about the only thing that could.

Tom's poetry was as radical as his politics. One of my first encounters with Tom was at the Day of the Poet competition in Stone Ridge, NY, where he and his son Noah performed an eloquent dittie inspired by their summer vacation, "We Mooned Mount Rushmore." Along with Dan and Charlie Rossiter, he toured the country as 1/3 of Three Guys From Albany. Pete spread the word as one of the Weavers, but is mainly remembered as a solo performer. In later years, when his voice failed him, Pete grew skilled at leading audiences in song, involving everyone in the performance.

Tom's legacy is his attitude as well as his poems. It's comforting as I start the second half of my life. I think more sometimes, I do more sometimes, because I remember Tom and how much he did in such a relatively short time. There is no guarantee I will have the luxury of 94+ years to do the world any good. It is nice to think that somehow we'll all always be a part of it, sparkling, perhaps a few twinkles above the heads of poets a century from now, wondering who the heck Robert Burns and Tom Nattell were, anyway.

**The Muse Must Have Gotten a Better Paying Gig**

2013 wasn't my most productive year. In the spring, a health fright ultimately turned out to be overcautiousness on the part of the medical establishment. At my age (52 this coming February), I should get used to abnormal test results, but this one rocked me for three weeks. I also had the pleasure of my very first colonoscopy in the autumn. In between, I was learning
my new day gig and catching up on some bills. The Muse pretty much left me alone for a good part of the year.

I brought sections of an old poem to the Goat Hill Poets salon each month, so I was covered there. I took a break from most open mics in the Hudson Valley area, and tried out life as a non-poet. I came home most every evening straight after work  I cook more now that we've fixed the oven in the 1936 Chambers that came with the house, and this makes dinner more interesting. If you're still stuck with a toaster oven, let me know. I am a Master Chef with those.

I've worked on and off over the year on a memoir about my early years in college and after, and my very, very silly marriage. In referring to my journals from that time, I have been confronted with the true complexities of my life then, much more nuanced than the simple 'he hit me and I moved out' story that I'd learned to tell myself afterwards, to justify my actions and to help put that part of my life to rest, to move on to whatever was ahead. There were complications, someone else I met two weeks after my wedding that I may or may not have made a go with if I had met him just a month earlier. Someone I thought was as close to a soul mate as I'd ever get (not quite believing in the concept). There were complications with him. Complexities with school, family, work. I wish my younger self had been bolder, but I had a lot of figuring out to do. There were many reasons I jumped at the chance to marry at 19, the least of which was love.

Being confronted with the realities of my past has motivated me positively, if not creatively. I am more aware of time "wasted", and of the limited time ahead. I am cleaning out closets, cutting my hair, castiing off art supplies and remnants of hobbies that no longer speak to me, bit by bit. I feel compelled to put things in order, as if that will count for something at the end. I know part of it is a desire to live the rest of my life in a more streamlined fashion. How much does it all matter? What will the scales show once I'm out of breath for good? Not for me to worry about. But this is how I'm compelled to behave now. 

In fact, I almost feel like if I never wrote another word, I'd be good with it. I am satisfied with my efforts to date, short of my goals as they are. I am also comfortable with my limitations, finally acknowledging I'll never be Erica Jong or Sylvia Plath. I am quiet now. I've had years like this before. 2002 was one of them. Until I hooked up with my Roommate, my Beloved, I spent a long time in shock about 9/11. I had no desire to add to the piles of odes and graphic rants that tried to pass for odes. Words failed me. Now perhaps I'm failing them. There are stirrings, urges that indicate I won't be quiet for good. Very rough drafts right after returning from Costa Rica, a hit and run trip for work that turned out better than I'd hoped. But in the meantime, there's a birthday party to plan. Dishes to wash. Blue jeans to patch, or toss aside. And a desk to clear off and at least put papers in order.