Halloween was always my favorite holiday--until October 31, 2012. Last Halloween, I experienced some fun, but I also experienced quite a bit of fear and loathing (with me on the short end of the loathing stick...) The fun part was when the three- and four-year olds came through the office in their costumes and I gave them chocolate eyeballs. The fear and loathing part came when I was interrogated about my union activities. And, in the spirit of Halloween fun, I was dressed as "The Witch of the West." I wore my lizard-print dress from Aotearoa, black leggings, cowboy boots, black fishnet sweater, green make-up, and a witch hat I purchased at the CVS on Park Avenue in Rochester one rainy Halloween. People said I looked good—for a witch. And that hat was a great hat, useful for both sun and rain with its wide brim and lightweight texture. But the hat is gone now. My friend Rob Tomlinson helped me get rid of it. We threw it into the wind after the last 40 Miles gig in Rinconada. He said, "Let it go." You see, the hat had become bad now. It had a "tail."( If you aren't familiar with the concept of something having a "tail," watch the film Genghis Blues.) During the interrogation (the first of many to come), where I was hung like a fly in a black widow's web, I suddenly felt exposed, battered, and just plain stupid with my witch hat and green-streaked face...so I removed the hat for the duration and did not put it on my head again. When it was over I wandered down the hall to the friendly confines of the Humanities office where I sat, shaking in my boots. I was consoled by a lady in pajamas and a guy in a Frankenstein monster mask. I didn't put that witch hat on my head again until June third. And then it felt wrong. So into the wind it went. And there was plenty of wind to carry it away. Plenty of wind. The winds were fierce in El Rito, they were fierce in Española, and they are fierce here. I suppose it goes with the high desert territory. A couple of weeks ago we experienced gale-force winds here. On the Beaufort wind scale, 40 mph is number 8: fresh gale or gale wind speed 39-46 mph; twigs break off trees; moving cars veer. To that list I would add the following: involuntary exfoliating facial; natural sand-blasted look for freshly painted toenails; sand in teeth. Wind coursing across the mostly bare sand at such speeds results in a "brown-out," otherwise known as a DUST STORM. Driving through that is like driving through the blowing snow in western New York. And northern New Mexico. You know that snaky pattern that blowing snow makes on the highway in front of you? That happened both places. But it shouldn't happen here. It shouldn't. Anyway, we had some cleaning to do when the wind finally dwindled down to something more like a breeze. Now. Breezes occupy three positions on the Beaufort Wind Scale: number 2 is a light breeze: wind speed 4-7 mph; wind felt on face; leaves rustle; wind vane moves. Number 3 is a gentle breeze: wind speed 8-12 mph; leaves and small twigs in constant motion; wind extends light flag. And number 4 is a moderate breeze: wind speed 13-18 mph; wind raises dust and loose paper; small branches move. We celebrated the holiday by going to the local drive-in movie theatre and saw GRAVITY. It was pretty cool because the space scenery glowing on the movie screen was floating in a sea of real stars. Well...like I said, I wrote all of that last week. And Halloween is important to me. It is also important to one of my favorite people, Ms. Ava Kay Jones, Voodoo and Yoruba Priestess. Her birthday is October 31, in fact, so here is a clip from The Moth Radio Hour with Ava Kay telling the story of how she saved the Saints' game. http://themoth.org/posts/storytellers/ava-kay-jones and just to put some harrow in your hallow....here's the DOCTOR. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWvdO3l4_P8 And a poem of course. Were you scared I wouldn't send one?? Old Bones by Gary Snyder: Out there walking round, looking out for food, a rootstock, a birdcall, a seed that you can crack plucking, digging, snaring, snagging, barely getting by, no food out there on dusty slopes of scree— carry some—look for some, go for a hungry dream. Deer bone, Dall sheep, bones hunger home. Out there somewhere a shrine for the old ones, the dust of the old bones, old songs and tales. What we ate—who ate what— how we all prevailed.