On the Macintosh computer (new enough to have GarageBand or see below)…

1. Open GarageBand
2. Click on the Control Menu and uncheck the metronome
   
3. Click on the Track Menu and click on New Basic Track
   
4. Click the red record button
5. Read your piece into the tiny hidden mic
6. Click stop
7. On the Share Menu click Send to iTunes
8. On iTunes grab the track you just made (it should have the same name as the GarageBand file) and drag it to your desktop.
9. Send that file as an attachment to an email to bawpzine@gmail.com
10. Troubleshooting: a) if your mic isn’t working, try System Preferences – Sound – Input; b) if the file is too huge to send, try going to Advanced, in iTunes and click on convert to .mp3. If it doesn’t have that option, go to iTunes Preferences – Advanced – Importing and change that to .mp3 and then try again.

On a PC or an older Mac…

1. Google “Audacity + download” (or click here) and find and download Audacity. Also find and download “LAME encoder” something or other (or click here). When you download LAME, you may have to unzip it. Then you should find where it ended up (do a search if you don’t know) and move it somewhere easy to find like the desktop or My Documents.
   
2. Install and open Audacity
3. Plug in a cheap mic (Radio Shack, etc.)
4. Click record and read your piece into the mic.
5. Click stop or space bar.
6. Click File – export as .mp3 (the first time you do it will ask you to locate the LAME encoder that you downloaded. Once you’ve done this, you won’t have to do it again).
7. Send an email with that .mp3 as an attachment to bawpzine@gmail.com
8. Troubleshooting: a) if your mic/speaker isn’t working, check out the sliding volume controls on top of Audacity screen, also check that your computer’s speaker isn’t on mute (click on speaker icon at bottom right of screen); b) if your mic isn’t working go to the Control Panel and Sound and make sure all the volume levels are up with no mute; c) Audacity is moody, so sometimes you need to quit the program and relaunch it to make the volume levels work.

I give you the summer issue of your online magazine, Digital Paper. Issue Seven squeaks out with hopefully just enough time for a little summer reading. As you will see, BAWP writers came through in a big way. This issue boasts an abundance of wonderful writing about nearly everything under the sun, from urban renewal to old wounds, from new life to old swimsuits, plus more, more and still more! Again, the contributors range from the recently BAWPed to our wise BAWP elders. Thank you to all the wonderful writers who built this issue with your magic words.

The issue is also graced by more wonderful artwork by BAWP artists Vicki Sievers, Hector Lee and Barbara Bornet Stumph. Also, thank you to BAWP photographers Marna Blanchard, Erin Berelle Munro, John Levine, Lola Brown, and Claire Noonan for sending in pictures. A big thanks to Art Editor Elisa Salasin for sorting through, tracking down, and creating from thin air the wonderful images that adorn this issue. Thanks also to Misa Suguira, our Poery Editor, for taking time to sort through, respond to and select the wonderful poetry you find at your fingertips.

As you read and look at Issue Seven, I want to issue a challenge to you to consider sending in an audio track next time. If you don’t know how, look for an iBAWP workshop in the Fall. Or, open up GarageBand on the Mac or download Audacity for the PC and start poking around (click here for a very basic guide I just dashed off). Or, maybe you have a cell phone that can do it. Or, ask a digital teenager. We would love to add your voices to the next issue!

Enjoy!

Your Digital Paper Editor,
Evan  Nichols
Oakland, California
Planet BAWP

Twist my soul
Eat out my heart
Burn eternally in my memory

Rip
Defile
Crush

A flame that burns
But never consumes

They are the excrement of humanity

A society that destroyed a people
An experiment that unleashed a plague

In a family
They are the wounds that seep and ooze their way through generations
Build walls and crush hearts
Curse lives with knowing looks, never explained
A trust shattered
Ultimately dividing forever

Bitter almonds
In cool water

©Marna Blanchard, 2008

BAWP 2006. Marna Blanchard is currently living with her husband and daughters in San Francisco. This Fall she will begin a new teaching position with Francisco Middle School, where she’ll have the opportunity to teach film, incorporating her love of the written word with film.

©Hector Lee, 2008

Hector Viveros Lee, 1998BAWP, has been teaching in public schools for
the 20+ years. He has been an Instructional Reform Facilitator in San
Francisco and is involved in the deBAWP series for teachers, a
collaborative effort between the deYoung Museum and BAWP. You can find
his books at http://www.leeandlow.com/home/index.html. He is
currently on sabbatical, traveling somewhere.

©Thomas Hawk, 2008

©Jennifer Cook Sterling, 2008

Jennifer Cook Sterling drives south on Highway 101 to teach fourth
graders at Bacich School in Kentfield. She has been a BAWP TC since
2006. Contact her at jsterling@kentfieldschools.org

©Erin Berelle Munro, 2008

I board the ferry at 9:10am for a 9:15am departure, secure a seat on the uncovered, upper-deck, and welcome the sunlight on my cheeks and shoulders. Breathing the sea air, I feel adventurous and alive, ready for my excursion.

We leave the embrace of Auckland’s harbor and move towards Rangitoto, the last and largest volcano to be formed around 600 years ago in the Auckland volcanic field. Believed to be inactive, Rangitoto is now a public reserve with a series of walking trails and a vast array of rare, native plants including over 200 species of trees and flowers, (several varieties of orchids among them) and more than 40 species of ferns. The brochure in my hand also informs me that in Maori, Rangitoto literally means “bloody sky,” not in reference to the eruption, but to an injury sustained by a chief during a battle fought on the island. The full name is “Te Rangi i totongia a Tamatekapua” or ”The day the blood of Tamatekapua was shed.”

The trip passes quickly and soon I am standing on the black lava rock shore. Enthralled, I begin the 45-minute climb to the summit: a vantage point that boasts 360-degree views of the harbor and surrounding area. Slowly, I make my way up the rocky trail, pressing on through the stifling humidity and steep terrain, until I reach the top. The city skyline from this perspective is stunning. Clouds gather in the distance, encroaching upon the clear blue sky, but I welcome the cool breeze now whispering across the path as well as the fact that the unsettled weather creates just the right blend of light and cloud; I eagerly snap photos.

After circling the track around the crater and drinking in more of the views, I begin my descent and venture to the lava caves: tubes left behind after the passage of liquid lava. Not one for dark, enclosed spaces, it takes some mental coaxing to will myself inside. “You have one shot at this,” I tell myself, so in I go. The weak light from my flashlight does little to quell the darkness, but I gradually make my way over the slippery rocks and through the passage into a filtered patch of light that breaks through where the cave has worn away. I drink in the sunlight in preparation for the next longer and narrower passage.

Emerging at last, I celebrate my victory over claustrophobia and press onward. I wander through groves of kidney ferns and over ragged lava fields, marveling at the diversity of landscape. Though there were many people on the ferry with me, I have encountered very few others. The solitude is blissful.

The clouds steadily move in and now a light rain begins to fall. I slip into my rain jacket and hurry down the path, determined to catch the 12:45pm ferry. I move swiftly over the rocky terrain, feeling momentarily graceful—until my toe catches on a root snaking across the path and my body lurches forward.

It is a spectacular sprawl.

My hands and knees bear the brunt of the fall, but I am momentarily stunned. Lying beneath the weight of my pack I take a minute to assess the situation. No one is around; my pride breathes a sigh of relief. Gingerly I draw myself up to vertical once more and inspect the damage: My knees are badly scraped, but useable. My hand is a mess of rock and blood. It stings fiercely. I brush off as much as I can and hobble forward to a more sheltered spot.

At the next scenic overlook, I veer off the path, pull out my first aid kit, and clean and bandage my wounds as best I can, leaving my pride to suffer a bit longer.

The progress now is slow but steady and eventually I am once more seated on the ferry—the lower deck this time to avoid the storm. I strike up a conversation with the woman next to me whom I passed a few times on the trail. It turns out she’s from Berkeley—Kensington, actually—just a short distance from where I grew up. She has lived away for many years now, taking time off periodically from her work as a librarian in Utah to go out and see the world. Retired now, she has more time for exploration. Most recently she volunteered for a year in Australia, working at an animal shelter and then teaching ESL. She’s now on a six-week trip through New Zealand. “I just dotter along,” she tells me, “going about this way and that.” Her eyes sparkle. I marvel at her spirit, forgetting the throbbing in my knees and palm. “I’ve seen most of the world,” she tells me, “It has just taken forty years or so to do it.” We part when the ferry docks. I do not even know her name.

Gradually I limp up the numerous hills between the ferry terminal and my hotel. The pain returns and I begin to dread the point at which I will have to clean my wounds properly. I steel myself for the task, reminding myself how well I have coped so far, then my husband Andrew walks in and I fall apart.

“What happened to you?”
I relay the story. It occurs to me then that it is my right hand I’ve injured and that it is most unlikely I will be able to clean it by myself. Andrew has also noted this fact. He reaches for my hand to inspect the damage then tells me to grab tweezers and some cotton so he can remove the debris.

I adamantly refuse.

He holds my hand tighter. “It has got to be done.” I shake my head fiercely and cringe as my eyes fill with tears. Why am I being such a baby about this? I was fine a minute ago. “Just hold still,” he tells me, and memory takes over.

I am five years old standing on the deck of our friend’s cabin in Yosemite. It is a beautiful, wooden deck. My father holds my hand tightly as my mother stands poised with a needle nearby. The splinter is lodged deeply in my palm, an angry, swollen red engulfing the wooden mass. My father secures my squirming form between his knees and grips my hand more firmly to discern the placement of the sliver.

I howl.

I writhe furiously as he presses the sterile needle to my palm. It hurts, yes, but it is the feeling of helplessness that causes the bulk of my distress. I trust my father. He is gentle and patient. I beg him to comb my hair after my baths because he doesn’t pull like my mom. I know that he would not intentionally hurt me. Nevertheless, I am terrified by my lack of control.

Eventually, after many, many tears, the sliver is removed and I collapse into his arms.

Twenty-six years later, I look into Andrew’s concerned face and feel the same wave of terror coupled with a deep feeling of missing my father.

Weakened by the weight of memory, I feel light headed as Andrew touches the tweezers lightly to my palm and begins to remove the embedded rock and dirt. I move to the couch and lie down, closing my eyes tightly and taking deep, calming breaths.

The tears continue to leak through my closed eyes.

“All done,” he announces.

“Thanks,” I croak sheepishly.

“Didn’t know you were such a wimp,” he teases.

“Yup. That’s me,” I say, smiling now, “always have been.”

I share the splinter story as I bandage my hand, breathing more evenly now as I calmly regain control.

©Erin Berelle Munro, 2008

Erin Berelle Munro officially began her life with BAWP in the summer of
2005 (she was Erin Carlson then). After spending eight wonderful years
learning from students at Castlemont High School in Oakland, Erin
relocated to Adelaide, Australia, where she is taking a brief break
from the classroom.  She is enjoying her explorations of Adelaide and
now carries a first-aid kit with her wherever she goes.  Erin can be
found at erinberelle@gmail.com

©Matt West, 2006

This is the BWYB News (Be Watchin Yo’ Back) – The Goldilocks Cover-up
This just in tonight; Goldilocks breaks-in three Bears home.

Three Bears charged Goldilocks a.k.a. the Golden Bandit with illegal entry among several other crimes implicated early Tuesday morning. Witnesses say the intrusion took place just after the family left for a walk in the woods. It was said Golden Bandit knocked on the door and when no one answered, she let herself in. Moments after alleged entry, a witness on the wing said quote.

“I saw Bandit steal and consume Bears’ food, vandalize furniture, and sleep in Baby Bears bed,” unquote.

Investigators confirmed strands of blonde hair found in baby bears bed, did match that of Golden Bandit. Further investigations proved fried chicken, cornbread, sweet potatoes and collard greens, found on soiled clothing of Golden Bandit was indeed taken from Bears’ stove day of alleged break-in.

Despite evidence leaning heavily against Golden Bandit, Bandit stated, when the Bears arrived home from their walk in the woods, she feared for her life. A witness on the prowl confirmed Bandits accusation stating that he in fact saw Bandit flee from Bears home screaming repeated allegations of rape and attempted murder.

Bandit’s father, a superior court judge stated, he would prosecute the Bears to the fullest extent of the law, and signed warrants for their arrest.

Mr. & Mrs. Bear, held in Mad-Poly-Trick County Jail, sued Golden Bandit for illegal entry, theft, vandalism, loitering and defamation of character. The Bears also sued for Reparations they claim is due for injustices such as these reoccurring in their family’s history for the past 500 plus years.

Sadly however, Child Protection Services have placed Baby Bear in foster care until courts can further decide whether or not Mr. & Mrs. Bear are fit parents to raise Baby Bear in a safe healthy environment.
That’s it for tonight.
This has been the BWYB News saying,
“We tell the truth about the Fairies on your tale.”


©Tureeda Mikell, 2008

Tureeda Mikell is a professional storyteller, poet performer and writer.  A BAWP ’96 Fellow, her work with California poets in the schools garnered her production of over sixty anthologies. Widely published, and read among the top poets in the country, her works are broadly used in the P.D. curriculums of poetry.  She currently works with the Oakland Literacy Project, California Poets in the Schools, Alameda County and StageBridge. You can contact her at TrMk7@aol.com

©Taylor Summach, 2006

Xerox is killed on highway 8 by a truck delivering alfalfa to a nearby farmer.

I’m sitting on a haystack eating chicharones and drinking a tecate I stole from dad’s garage refrigerator. I’m supposed to be in school, but Spanish class in a town where Spanish is the native tongue is a position I have refused to put myself into since the first day the words “pinche weta” were officially tattooed into my body.

David drives the truck delivering alfalfa. David drives a bit fast so he can get home to his wife and newborn. Julie thinks he’s having an affair because she gained so much weight when pregnant and he’s been working late. David doesn’t want to tell her he’s been working overtime to keep up with the necessary diaper purchases.

Carmen stands in the kitchen in front of a pan of pinto beans. She is making her husband’s favorite meal to get back on his good side. Steve’s been stressed since their daughter left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Tires skid against sweating asphalt~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Xerox is killed when her white furry body, panting, wearing a diaper, runs into the road.

David stops the truck, opens the door, and stands looking at the mess.

I scramble off the haystack and jump the small canal that separates me from the scene.

Carmen hears the tires and runs out of the house.

We are each standing in different placements on the road looking from Xerox to each other – the truck and road soiled by her blood.

I feel guilt for feeling relieved this dog, covered in fur, wearing a diaper and panting from heat exhaustion in this desert town, has been put out of her misery.

David feels frustrated he’ll have to clean this mess and knows his wife won’t believe this one.

Carmen is scared she’ll have to tell her husband his beloved dog has been killed.

The three of us stand there looking back and forth, in and out, thinking…

“pinche perro”.


©Angela Claypool, 2008

Angela currently teaches elementary special education in Santa Rosa, California. She took part in the BAWP Satellite program at Sonoma State in 2007. When she is not teaching, she writes poetry and short stories. Having grown up in a small desert town on the border of Mexico, many of her stories take place in the desert.