Showing posts with label richard brautigan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label richard brautigan. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 22, 2022

Extended Meditation on Fathers and Missing Fathers and The Orchardist, by Amanda Coplin / Update with additional relevant photos added / And now an update when a relevant quote appeared
































1.  My father during World War II.  There was something about my father that was missing, although he was present.

2.  My father's father in the early 1900s.  First child in the family to be born in the United States, his two older brothers having been born in Norway.  Two of his younger siblings died during a smallpox epidemic when my grandfather was a young boy.  The family had a farm on what had recently been Dakota land in Western Minnesota.

3.   My father's mother's father and grandfather (first on the left in the top row and on the far right).  My great grandfather was born in the United States.  My great great grandfather was born in Norway.  They had a farm on what had recently been Dakota land south and east of Minneapolis. 

My great grandmother is the second person from the right in the top row.  Her mother came with her family from Norway when she was a young woman.  A few years after their arrival in Iowa, she became pregnant while working as a domestic servant for a family in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin.  There is a record of the birth and christening of my great grandmother and the name of her father who disappeared from her life.  He was said to be German.  My research shows that his mother was either English, Irish, Welsh or Scottish (I have recently found a distant cousin on Ancestry.com who looks very much like me and my first cousins on my father's side).  My great grandmother's mother died when she was 6 years old.  She was raised by her grandparents and then her mother's brother and his wife.  She went to college and became a teacher.  She met my great grandfather at St. Olaf College in Minnesota.

4.  My fatherless great grandmother, a few years after her mother died.

5.   I have no photo of the younger sister of the great great grandfather who settled on Dakota land south and east of Minneapolis and have often wondered about her life.  That sister remained in Norway and, at age 30, gave birth to a daughter whom she raised alone, working as a laborer on a farm near where she was born. 

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1.  My mother during the years her father was serving as a doctor in the U.S. Army in World War I in France.  She was two years old when he left for war and 3 years old when he returned.

2.   My mother's father as a boy soon after his father disappeared in the 1870s.  He had a younger sibling who died as an infant in a cholera epidemic in Boston some years before my grandfather was born there.  My grandfather's parents were both young people from Germany -- his mother from the Achern in the Black Forest and his father from Stadtlengsfeld.

3.  My mother's father in his Army uniform in 1918.

4.   My mother's father arriving home from war in 1919.   Before returning to the United States, he had spent a short time in England and Ireland. My grandmother brought my uncle and my mother to Boston to meet him.  I just noticed how my mother is holding my grandfather's finger and how lost my uncle looks.  I wonder who took the photo.  Could it be my mother's grandfather, seen in the following photo?

5.   My mother's mother's father who had roots in London in the 1700s, with the family leaving England for Canada and then leaving Canada for Boston.  At one time my great grandfather was the president of the Theosophical Society in Boston.

Boston was built on what had been the land of the Massachusett tribe.

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When I visited a friend last week, she had three books that she was giving away.  She said that The Orchardist was the best of the three and so I took it home with me.  Something prompted me to begin reading it immediately.  It wasn't long before I wondered if I should keep reading.  The story was becoming disturbing to me on a deep level, but then I remembered how many times I started reading Beloved before I was able to read beyond about the same place in that book.  I kept reading The Orchardist and, at times, felt that there was much about the story that reminded me of Beloved.  There was also something of the beauty and melancholy of Richard Brautigan's writing and that of his daughter Ianthe, something universal, archetypal, unsettling and yet filled with an odd clarity about missing fathers, shattered families, hard-won healing in later generations, and strong families that can be formed by people unrelated by blood.

It turns out the young woman who wrote The Orchardist was strongly influenced by Beloved.  

One of the main characters in The Orchardist, Clee, is Nez Perce and a childhood and lifelong friend of Talmadge who, along with a woman friend of his, steps forward in the role of parent to two young girls who are alone in the world.  The fruit orchard he tends so lovingly is on Wenatchi land, about 300 miles from where the Nez Perce live today.  The story begins with the death of Talmadge's father.  His mother brings him and his younger sister to live and work in an apple orchard near the Columbia River in Eastern Washington State.

The story takes place in the years that my fatherless great grandmother was growing up on her grandparent's farm in Iowa, where Winnebago, Sauk, Fox, and Oneota people had once lived and brings into focus so many family histories of settlers and indigenous people.  So many missing fathers, along with men who step forward to father the children of other men.  

The Orchard, like Beloved, is a book I will read again.  Not immediately but eventually.  I first read Beloved in the 1980s and then again in this past year.  I don't have time to wait that long to re-read The Orchardist.












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Synchronicity?  Just now I was given more to meditate on via Beth at Alive On All Channels:

Sometimes when you are devastated you want not a reprieve but a mirror of your condition or a reminder that you are not alone in it. Other times it is not the propaganda or the political art that helps you face a crisis but whatever gives you respite from it.

Recollections of My Nonexistence :: by Rebecca Solnit

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

B-R-A-U-T-I-G-A-M / Your Catfish Friend






















I just finished re-reading You Can't Catch Death: A Daughter's Memoir by Ianthe Brautigan. After I read these words, followed by a quote from her father's last book,

"I'm glad I had the courage to wander alone with sharp objects tempting the release of a pain that has resided in me for so long. I have found that from my walking in painful places long enough, the knife edges, formerly so sharp, become dull. All they are good for, in the end, is to spread butter on toast for breakfast I will eat with my child. My flesh is safe. My father is safe. My words are safe in this pale new dawn that I share with my father.

"Where did that kid go, Mother?"
"I don't know, Father."...
"I don't see him anywhere."
"I guess he's gone."
"Maybe he went home."


--R.B., SO THE WIND WON'T BLOW IT ALL AWAY

I went to a bookstore to find that book. When I asked the young clerk if they had any books by Richard Brautigan, she asked me how the name was spelled. I spelled it for her. She said, "Hmmm. There is one book about places to visit in Orange County." I asked her what spelling she was using.

She said, "B-R-A-U-T-I-G-A-M?

So we tried again and found two books, each a collection of three of his novels and one including his last novel.

I mentioned this experience in the company of a group of friends this morning and one proceeded to quote this poem:

Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

Monday, April 9, 2007

Skeleton Woman (1994)






















This is the only painting I did in 1994 and was completed, I believe, in October, during a period of emotional exhaustion. After I painted it, I remembered "Skeleton Woman," an original literary story in WOMAN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. The book, IN WATERMELON SUGAR, by Richard Brautigan, was in my thoughts, too, because Skeleton Woman has watermelon seeds and watermelon sprouts on her blouse. With this painting, it was clear to me that I could not go on creating paintings that were inspired by grief and loss. What had begun as a way to heal had become a source of unending grief. I didn't want to paint any more pictures like this one. I wanted to stop grieving. I wanted my life back.

In early December of 1994, my mother died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack, after which my 80-year-old father left California and moved to a retirement community in the town where I live.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Calendar Series: 47th Month / Talking About What is Lost and What is Not Lost (1989)

Finding Daylight After Loss Shatters Your World: Seven Choices 

RESCUE A fire was burning. In another room Somebody was talking. Sunlight slanted Across the foot of my bed, and a glass of water Gleamed where it waited on a chair near my hand. I was alive and the pain in my head Was gone. Carefully I tried thinking Of those I had known. I let them walk And then run, and then open their mouths the way It used to cause the throbbing. It didn’t hurt Anymore. Clearer and clearer I stared Far into the glass. I was cured. From now on in my life there would be a place Like a scene in a paperweight. One figure in the storm Would be reaching out with my hand for those Who had died. It would always be still in that scene, No matter what happened. I could come back to it, Carefully, any time, to be saved, and go on. (Poem by William Stafford on p. 344 of FINDING DAYLIGHT AFTER LOSS SHATTERS YOUR WORLD: SEVEN CHOICES, by Elizabeth Harper Neeld, Ph.D.) The word MOURNING in Sanskrit means "to remember." Karma Repair Kit: Items 1-4

Saturday, February 24, 2007

Calendar Series: 33rd Month / Watermelon Seeds, Alphabet and Numbers for Richard Brautigan (1988)

To listen to Richard Brautigan read from IN WATERMELON SUGAR, click here

Hmmm .... that doesn't work. If still interested, go to: http://brautigan.cybernetic-meadows.net/tiki-index.php?page=The+Watermelon+Sun 

In 1967, during my freshman year of college, I had read TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA. That book, bought at its 1967 price of $1.95, along with IN WATERMELON SUGAR, is still on my bookshelf, one of a handful of books from that period in my life that I still own. I did read his earlier novel, A CONFEDERATE GENERAL FROM BIG SUR and read a few of his later books of poetry but didn't find there what I had found so peculiarly moving in TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA and IN WATERMELON SUGAR. 

I have never forgotten the boy he wrote about who was a "Kool-Aid wino" or what I think of as his "ode to Alcoholics Anonymous" titled "Trout Death by Port Wine" or the places he created which were called "IDEATH" and the "Forgotten Works." I was 17 years old. Richard Brautigan was "older and wiser," an imaginary older brother, much as Bob Dylan seemed to me in those years. I wanted to be as creative as they were. It has been said that there were "girls who wanted to marry a Beatle" and then there were "girls who wanted to BE a Beatle." As a 14-year-old girl, I had wanted to be a female equivalent of a "Beatle," which to me meant using creative energy in a lively and thoughtful way, although I wouldn't have had those words for that longing back then. 

In September of 1984, Richard Brautigan, after suffering from years of alcoholism and depression, shot himself in the head. His body was found a month later at his home in Bolinas, California. I had not thought about him in years and was saddened but not completely surprised at his suicide. His daughter, Ianthe Brautigan, wrote lovingly of her father in You Can't Catch Death, published in May of 2000. 

As a tribute to Richard Brautigan, one of his friends told this story

This link doesn't work either. 

If still interested, go to: http://www.brautigan.net/text/anonymous-tributes.html 

There is a poem by Richard Brautigan set into the pavement in San Francisco at Folsom Street and Embarcadero.

In 1989, not long after I painted "Watermelon Seeds, Alphabet and Numbers for Richard Brautigan," a friend of Richard Brautigan, Keith Abbott, published a book of his memories of Richard Brautigan, which he titled, DOWNSTREAM FROM TROUTFISHING IN AMERICA. Keith Abbott read from his book at our local independent bookstore. After the reading, I thanked him for his book about Richard Brautigan and gave him a photo of my painting tribute to Richard Brautigan. He took it and thanked me politely.