Songs of the Sand Country

[Howard Wallace]

This just came in the mail today.

Songs of the Sand Country
A Collection of Poems (and other things)

by

Bill Martino

Adams Press
Copyright 1972

Could there be two? It's not the Bill we knew. Younger, rougher, more confusion and despair, obviously just partway through his journey.

I'm not sure who owns the copyright now. It says "copies of this book may be obtained from: Mrs. Virginia Martino ..."

I think it would be fair use to give you some exerpts. This book is from a time he retreated into the desert, and some of the things he found.

About the Author

BILL MARTINO is one of those individuals who shouldn't be. Or perhaps he should be locked up in a dark forgotten padded cell in some remote, overcrowded, understaffed mental institution. Why? Because he doesn't fit into our society. He doesn't understand the basic fundamentals of our society. He doesn't even understand the vocabulary of our society. Words like strive, attain, success, wealth, position, prestige seem foreign to him. In fact, he doesn't understand the simplest things-like why he should pay taxes to support wars that he feels are wrong! Now what can be done with a. person like that?

He has become so disappointed with his fellow man that he has turned into a recluse.
He goes off to the hills for long periods of time "just to get away." When asked why he preferred this solitary life he replied, "Because I'd rather talk with a cactus than most people I've met."

And indeed, Bill does talk with a cactus, and records what it says. And then writes a song in its honor. In this book he honors the cactus, the trees, the cougar and coyote. However, he seems to have a revulsion of modern society. He speaks of some human desert friends, but mostly we see this kind of view of people.


THE LAST TIME I SAW DOS CABEZAS

Ten miles west of Ocotillo
Far from stream or creek or rio
Is a place called Dos Cabezas
A spring and trees above the mesas
Nestled on Lagunas shoulder
Decked with rock and mighty boulder
This was where I used to go
To be alone for a week or so

I had been there for just two days
Far from the city and its ways
I had clambered up the mountain
Above the trees and nature's fountain
From this high perch I thought I saw
A pick-up truck turn up the draw
Then I saw the dust cloud churning
And knew it was a pick-up turning

They drove to the spring and parked by a tree
I could see them but they couldn't see me
A man and a woman along with four kids
They opened some bottles and threw down the lids
The man went to the truck and pulled out a saw
And cut a tree down, though forbidden by law
He sawed the tree up into little logs
And started a fire to cook their hot dogs
They opened some sacks, the paper went flying
I sighed when I saw the wilderness dying
The kids went over and pissed in the spring
How could their parents allow such a thing
The folks drank more beer, the kids drank more pop
Then they wolfed down the hot dogs like pigs eating slop

Finally they left and I went down
And saw what they'd done, these people from town

The fire was still burning, they'd not put it out
Lids, bottles and papers were scattered about
That brave little tree that had felt the blade
Would never again offer me any shade
That minuscular spring where I used to drink
Was now full of piss, God what a stink
A rock that had stood here for millions of years
Had names painted on it-My eyes filled with tears

What kind of people have we in this nation
Who don't give a damn for God's own creation

There is considerable pain with and for humanity. This was a time of wondering, of honest searching.


From "A Motorcycle Ride"

It's awe inspiring, that's the sensation
It makes me wonder about the creation
Where did we come from, where are we going
And while we are here what seeds are we sowing

All questions, no answers, it's a one-sided game
With just this consolation: For all it's the same
For the good, bad and ugly, for the rich and the poor
They're here for awhile--and then here no more

This is the final poem in the book.

DESERT SONNET

When I am with you I am purple hills
And a grain of sand on your trackless dunes
Your cool breeze on my face cures all my ills
My restless soul is calmed by your full moon
You are harsh but you are fundamental
There is serenity in your being
You turn the complex to elemental
And cause me to pause when I am fleeing
Past ghosts. And untold future fears desist
I am alone with God in solitude
Men are fools trying vainly to resist
Your spell. They should succumb with gratitude

The Garden of Allah, Bedouins say
Won't let a man come and leave the same way

It's funny. Although Bill wrote this at a time of disillusionment and despair, a dark night of the soul, the statement he made of the rest of his life casts it in quite a different light. For those of us that knew Bill, the early work and the life together form a statement that there is a way out of the pit.

 

[Kismet]

Thank you.

 

[Rice]

...It's not the Bill we knew...

Howard,

I knew Bill when he was writing that.
I last saw him a few days before he died.
Bill would present himself differently to different people, so he will be remembered according to many points of view.
But Bill never changed.
What changed was his understanding and acceptance of who he was.
The Bill I left in Reno in 2005, was the same Bill I met in Death Valley in 1970.

 

[BrentH]

I only knew BM vicariously.
Joined at the end.
But this is a fascinating insight into a man who understood.

It is not easy - recognising that we, the chosen, are so weak and pathetic.

When this is acknowledged, we are enabled to accept the differences that make us unique.

HW, Thank you.

Although the more optimistic of us believe there is a way out of this "pit"

It may be , that this is life!

Edit.. For this I am grateful.

Saving letters, suspect they are important.

 

[MauiRob]

Thanks Howard

 

[Howard Wallace]

Howard,
I knew Bill when he was writing that.
I last saw him a few days before he died.
Bill would present himself differently to different people, so he will be remembered according to many points of view.
But Bill never changed.
What changed was his understanding and acceptance of who he was.
The Bill I left in Reno in 2005, was the same Bill I met in Death Valley in 1970.

Rice, It's good to have you here. Thanks for your perspective. I guess there's something about us that doesn't change, because we retain our recognisable identities. Yet we evolve. Heraclitus said "You can't step in the same river twice," and I believe his words were true. I'm really glad you posted your perceptions, as you had an opportunity to know my friend long before I did, and it's very interesting to hear what you say.



By the way, I'm starting a pass-around for this book. If anyone is interested in reading it they can sign up in the pass-around thread.

 

[munk]

Bill would present himself differently to different people, so he will be remembered according to many points of view.
But Bill never changed>>>>>>>>>>> Rice


That's an interesting observation. We all do that so it's a matter of degree.
I think Bill did change a bit, though; from what I can gather from all who knew him. That's OK, isn't it; change but remain the 'same' in an important sense too?




munk

 

[Yangdu]

Thank you, Namaste Howard

 

[Rice]

Howard,
The first thing I remember reading of Bill's was a little self published book about Bill and his friend Chet DePew prospecting for gold. They were both pretty naive and neither of them had much outdoor experience, but they went into one of the most inhospitable environments on the earth, Death Valley, to "strike it rich."

As I remember, the book contained stories of their adventures, general desert lore, characters they had met, and some poetry. There were also pictures that Bill had taken with his old Nikon 35mm.

Bill distributed this little book wherever he could. I saw copies in the park store at Furnace Creek, the little grocery store in Shoshone, and the Hippie art shop at next to Marta Becket's opera house at Death Valley Junction.

It sold for about a buck or so. I didn't buy one. It was too expensive. Bill let me read his.

There was also a companion volume of poetry. I don't remember the name of it, but it was maybe 20 pages with an orange cover. The poems were like what you quoted from the book you bought.

Around that time, Bill met a woman from Las Vegas. I think she worked for a newspaper there and had access to the Art and Literary circles of Las Vegas. Bill thought this would be a great help in establishing him as a serious writer. All it really did was cause discord between Bill and his second wife, Jeannie, and sew the seed for their eventual separation and the next step in Bill's journey.

I don't think your observation about these times: "He has become so disappointed with his fellow man that he has turned into a recluse." was accurate, Howard. He may have given that impression by the tone of some of his poetry, but Bill was always very personable, friendly, and outgoing. He was the kind of guy that would come up to strangers with his hand extended and say "Hi, I'm Bill," which was exactly how I met him as I gathered burro dung for a campfire.

There were millions of acres of isolated desert where he could have parked his trailer if he were a recluse. Instead, bill always chose to live among people at places like Death Valley Junction, or behind the bordello near Beatty . Bill liked people, especially the odd characters, the misfits, the individuals. He liked to think of himself as one of them, but he had a hard time admitting just how much "one of us" he really was.

I think he realized this later, but by that time it didn't matter because he had also realized that the gold that had originally taken him into the desert wasn't to be found in the ground, but at place on a much higher level.

 

[Howard Wallace]

Howard,
The first thing I remember reading of Bill's was a little self published book about Bill and his friend Chet DePew prospecting for gold. They were both pretty naive and neither of them had much outdoor experience, but they went into one of the most inhospitable environments on the earth, Death Valley, to "strike it rich."

As I remember, the book contained stories of their adventures, general desert lore, characters they had met, and some poetry. There were also pictures that Bill had taken with his old Nikon 35mm.

Bill distributed this little book wherever he could. I saw copies in the park store at Furnace Creek, the little grocery store in Shoshone, and the Hippie art shop at next to Marta Becket's opera house at Death Valley Junction.

It sold for about a buck or so. I didn't buy one. It was too expensive. Bill let me read his.

I think the book you're describing is "Songs of the Sand Country." It has a white cover. It does tell some of Bill's adventures with Chet DePew. I especially liked the part where they came out of the hills from prospecting, completely destitute, and flipped a coin to see who got the truck. Bill lost.

It's marked on the cover $2.50.

There was also a companion volume of poetry. I don't remember the name of it, but it was maybe 20 pages with an orange cover. The poems were like what you quoted from the book you bought.

Bill had a little book with an orange cover called "Fallen Feathers." There were just 100 copies printed. The illustrations were hand colored. I wonder if that's the one you're thinking of. It contained 2 short stories.

If not, there's another poetry book out there I don't know about.

Around that time, Bill met a woman from Las Vegas. I think she worked for a newspaper there and had access to the Art and Literary circles of Las Vegas. Bill thought this would be a great help in establishing him as a serious writer. All it really did was cause discord between Bill and his second wife, Jeannie, and sew the seed for their eventual separation and the next step in Bill's journey.

Very interesting.

I don't think your observation about these times: "He has become so disappointed with his fellow man that he has turned into a recluse." was accurate, Howard.

Those are not my words. That is a direct quote from the book, as is all the orange text in my first post. It's from the "about the author" section. I suspect Bill wrote it himself as it slips into first person sometimes.

I also suspect that you are correct in your observation that the words were not completely true. Bill may have been indulging in a bit of melodrama.

He may have given that impression by the tone of some of his poetry, but Bill was always very personable, friendly, and outgoing. He was the kind of guy that would come up to strangers with his hand extended and say "Hi, I'm Bill," which was exactly how I met him as I gathered burro dung for a campfire.

There were millions of acres of isolated desert where he could have parked his trailer if he were a recluse. Instead, bill always chose to live among people at places like Death Valley Junction, or behind the bordello near Beatty . Bill liked people, especially the odd characters, the misfits, the individuals. He liked to think of himself as one of them, but he had a hard time admitting just how much "one of us" he really was.

Your words paint a vivid picture in my imagination. Thanks.

I think he realized this later, but by that time it didn't matter because he had also realized that the gold that had originally taken him into the desert wasn't to be found in the ground, but at place on a much higher level.

He he he ...

 

[Rice]

Howard,
I don't remember the exact chronology, but the little books I saw predated the publication date of either "Fallen Feathers" or "The Dreamer." So, there may well be more stuff by Bill floating around somewhere.

If someone were really interested in researching, I think John Brandi is still alive. He may know of, or have copies of other stuff by Bill. He was a great influence on Bill, and in many ways John was what Bill, at that time, aspired to become.

John was a well recognized poet, writer, and artist. He had been in the Peace Corps, and he had been to Nepal. He was also involved in the small press publishing movement of the 60's and 70's which gave a lot of poets the chance to actually get their material out and read.

I never saw a published copy of "The Dreamer." The copy I read came right out of Bill's Royal portable and I suspect the final product underwent several revisions because somewhere along the line someone would have been more honest than I could be.

When Bill asked what I thought of it, I told him it moved me to tears. And that was true. What I didn't tell him was that there were parts that seemed to derive directly from "Black Elk Speaks" and "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee."

I suspected that Bill had internalized these sources so deeply that they had become his own and when they came back out he had lost sight of where they came from. But that wouldn't fly in the "real world" because both those works were well established in mainstream literature had become counterculture icons.

Bill also put himself in the story in such a way as to become a main character, not just the narrator. I didn't think this would go over well, especially when read by native readers.

I can see the manila envelope Bill kept it in, I can feel the warmth from my lantern as I read, and I can feel the moisture in my eyes from Bill's sincere heartfelt writing. I liked the work and I told Bill so. But I couldn't be truthful about the feeling of derivation and the egocentric framework.

I felt like I was lying and I was ashamed. I don't know why it should bother me so much, but many times over the years I have thought back to reading that manuscript and I wish I could have been honest.

 

[hollowdweller]

Very cool info guys!

 

[Kismet]

Rice?

Seems like you were loving.

Loving is more important than honest.



Be well and safe.

 

[MauiRob]

That's an interesting observation. We all do that so it's a matter of degree.
I think Bill did change a bit, though; from what I can gather from all who knew him. That's OK, isn't it; change but remain the 'same' in an important sense too?

Probably what we see if just a dropping away of unneeded extras. It was Uncle Bill all along, but he was carrying more things back then, not necessarliy negative things, but maybe things that he didn't find useful later on. As we age we (hopefully) drop the heavy stuff we don't need as we move along 'the way'[sic].

 

[Howard Wallace]

I don't remember the exact chronology, but the little books I saw predated the publication date of either "Fallen Feathers" or "The Dreamer." So, there may well be more stuff by Bill floating around somewhere.

Very interesting. I hope the forumites will keep an eye out for any additional volumes by Bill. The other poetry volume you mention with the orange cover would be a great find as well. I enjoy Bill's poetry, not for its technical excellence, but for its heartfelt quality.

If someone were really interested in researching, I think John Brandi is still alive. He may know of, or have copies of other stuff by Bill. He was a great influence on Bill, and in many ways John was what Bill, at that time, aspired to become.

John was a well recognized poet, writer, and artist. He had been in the Peace Corps, and he had been to Nepal. He was also involved in the small press publishing movement of the 60's and 70's which gave a lot of poets the chance to actually get their material out and read.

I just found Mr. Brandi's website the other day. His old Nail Press is the one that published "Fallen Feathers." It seems from what is written in that volume that Bill may have been staying with him and farming when it was printed. I haven't contacted Mr. Brandi yet. I'll let Yangdu run her trapline first.

I never saw a published copy of "The Dreamer." The copy I read came right out of Bill's Royal portable and I suspect the final product underwent several revisions because somewhere along the line someone would have been more honest than I could be.

When Bill asked what I thought of it, I told him it moved me to tears. And that was true. What I didn't tell him was that there were parts that seemed to derive directly from "Black Elk Speaks" and "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee."

I suspected that Bill had internalized these sources so deeply that they had become his own and when they came back out he had lost sight of where they came from. But that wouldn't fly in the "real world" because both those works were well established in mainstream literature had become counterculture icons.

Bill also put himself in the story in such a way as to become a main character, not just the narrator. I didn't think this would go over well, especially when read by native readers.

I haven't read "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee." I think I may have read "Black Elk Speaks" many years ago. However I was aware of both volumes. After reading "The Dreamer" I looked up the publication date of "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee" on Amazon, and found that it was first published in 1970. I was wondering myself how much of an influence it had on Bill's book.

Do you know if Bill visited Wounded Knee? Both his poetry and his stories imply that he did. The back jacket of "The Dreamer" says:

At age 35, Bill Martino gave up his $100-a-day job as an aeronautical engineer and "set out to see if I couldn't find more to life than building weapons of destruction." Disowned by his family, divorced by his wife, and ridiculed by his friends, he bought a trailer and a pick-up, and soon found himself at the old Sioux Reservation near the Black Hills. He met there an old Sioux Indian who knew "the old ways." The two men gave much to each other, and Bill Martino acquired a new name_Sunkmanitu Tanka Inyanke.

In the context of the story in the book the cover statement implies that there is an element of truth in the story of his interactions with the old Indian Dreamer. The points of the story stand regardless of its truth or fiction, but it would be interesting to know just what mixture of truth and fiction Bill used.

I can see the manila envelope Bill kept it in, I can feel the warmth from my lantern as I read, and I can feel the moisture in my eyes from Bill's sincere heartfelt writing. I liked the work and I told Bill so. But I couldn't be truthful about the feeling of derivation and the egocentric framework.

I felt like I was lying and I was ashamed. I don't know why it should bother me so much, but many times over the years I have thought back to reading that manuscript and I wish I could have been honest.

For me and my morality, being truthful does not require blurting out everything I know, or all my opinions. Sometimes I find that when I follow my instincts pertaining to what to say and what to leave unsaid, things turn out ok, often for reasons I had no conscious knowledge of.

The egocentric framework, and I suspect the derivations, made it into the published copy of Bill's book. There is a direct quote from "Black Elk Speaks," and Bill is a major character/savior. Perhaps a little hubris, depending on how much is truth, but Bill pulls it off without seeming (to me) to be a jerk.


edit- Howard, I edited a very small portion of your post because Yangdu contacted me and was not happy or comfortable with it. She appreciates the conversation about his poetry. I normally do not do this but this is the anniversary of his passing and think the wishes of the family important. munk

 

[Rice]

...I think the book you're describing is "Songs of the Sand Country." It has a white cover...

You may be right, Howard. The way I remember it, there were two versions of "Sand Country." One had a brown cover and one had a white cover. The second version, and I can't remember which was which, had a forward by Walt Curtis telling who Bill Martino was.

The book had already gone to press when Curtis wrote this, so it was hand pasted in the front of each book as a separate page. If you have one of these volumes you are really lucky as they are impossible to find. Especially, since Curtis now ranks as one of the Northwest's most influential writers along with Ken Kesey.

Even harder to find, but for entirely different reasons, are copies of Bill's sex instruction book. The only copy I know that could actually be read is the one Bill donated to the college library at his alma mater in Pittsburg, Kansas.

Bill went back to school in the mid-70's to study creative writing. His professor said he should write poetry as a hobby, but to support himself by writing he had to write what was marketable. The professor supplemented his faculty income by writing pornography.



Of course the question will always remain: Did Bill really join the Peace Corps and go to Nepal the first time because the Mafia was after him to pay back the money he borrowed to publish that book? Or did he really have higher motives? Whatever the reason it was a good trip wasn't it?

Mr. Rice? I've edited a very small portion of your post out of consideration of Yangdu's request on the anniversary of Bill's passing. Not of all of Bill's life is seen as appropriate for analysis at HI forum. munk

 

[Rice]

...I just found Mr. Brandi's website the other day. His old Nail Press is the one that published "Fallen Feathers." It seems from what is written in that volume that Bill may have been staying with him and farming when it was printed. ...

Well, if that's the case it was most likely in New Mexico. Bill and his woman at that time, I can't remember her name, were living in the little trailer and fixing up an old barn as a studio/livingspace. She got tired of that life and left. Bill continued to write and become.

That was Bill's Hippie period. When he was back in Cherokee studying writing again, he was clean shaven and had short hair. He showed me some pictures from New Mexico. He had a beard, a red bandana on his head, and was building an irrigation system for his pot plants. He was really proud of the progress he had made in his "journey."

He always said he envied the Hippies and would like to live "like them," but was too up tight, too straight, too afraid to let things just flow. He said it probably had a lot to do with his training as an engineer. It was easier for an artist he said.

I told him that didn't have much to do with it. It was all in the acid. All you have to do is take do a couple of tabs of Purple Haze and your hair and beard automatically begins to grow and your clothes magically become very colorful.

He said he was afraid it would make him crazy. I told him that was the point. He didn't seem to get it.


It was during the New Mexico Hippie period that Bill had his first heart attack. He had sharp pains and a shortness of breath after climbing up a hill. His doctor told him it was a mild heart attack and he had better quit smoking. This was probably in 1973 or 1974.

Years later, after he had "The Big One," I brought this up. I didn't know if it was due to his failing health or some sort of selective denial, but he had absolutely no memory of that first heart attack in New Mexico. I got the feeling that Bill thought I was making it up, but he couldn't figure out why I would do that. We didn't dwell on it.

edit by munk.

 

[munk]

Howard and Mr. Rice; we are enjoying your conversation- but as I mentioned in the edits I just did, not all of Bill's life is viewed by Yangdu to be a fitting topic of conversation on HI forum. I hope you both understand. It might be considerate to contact Yangdu about this. I know she appreciated Howard's attention to Bill's poetry.


munk

 

[Rice]

Mr. Munk,

I understand.

I would never intentionally say anything to, or about, Bill Martino that was offensive or derogatory. My intent was to honor Bill's memory by giving sort of a mini-biography within the framework of his writings from my personal perspective.

The parts that were edited were parts of Bill's life that, in my opinion, made up a fascinating chapter of his life and contributed much to his understanding of himself and who he eventually became.

But, I also realize that there may be cultural differences that I do not understand and am not sensitive to that would make that discussion inappropriate in the eyes of his widow.

I will keep my reminiscences to myself and I will honor and remember Bill, warts and all, in my own mind.

 

[BrentH]

Munk. Mrs Martino is gaining strengh & self identity while we watch.
I am sure someday she will allow the story of BM's complicated life to be told.

Personally, Have found the intensity of this mans journey, to be
a catharsis.

Thank you for doing what you must.

Regards,
Brent.