Dave's Not There

by Zvi Baranoff

If one has spent any time in Illinois Valley in the last three decades, chances are you have at least a peripheral awareness of David “Carver Dave” Newell. Anywhere that he could display and sell his unique, folksy artwork, Dave was there. At the Farmers Market, Dave was there. At craft shows, Dave was there. At the Barter Fair, Dave was definitely there. He was often strumming enthusiastically on a banjo tuned like no banjo you have heard before or will ever hear again. Dave considered the personal tuning Dionysian. With beard, floppy hat and walking stick, he resembled Odin, Norse god of war and poetry or perhaps Merlin of the Arthurian tales.

For years, there has been a sign in David’s driveway that reads “Dave’s Not There” with a wink to the Cheech and Chong routine. Now that Dave has made the transition to another dimension, the sign takes on an altogether different nuance. Like the brevity of his poetry (The Poem Said published by Left Fork Press) it still does not tell the whole story.

Dave will be remembered, but remembering is one thing and knowing or understanding is a horse of another color.

In 1989, David sold his house in San Diego, CA and purchased property in O’Brien OR. Public records show this to be true. This is the property that I refer to in other essays as Woodpecker Flats. According to David, he used a pencil hanging over a map like a pendulum to magically pick out the spot. He also claimed that Woodpecker Flats is shaped like a pentagram which is evidently untrue.

I lived on Woodpecker Flats for the last two and a half years of Dave’s life. Dave gave me an assortment of personal histories as well as histories of Woodpecker Flats but the chronologies often did not match up and with each telling details were added, deleted and reformed. I am not saying that David would purposefully mislead me about his history but he had a fluid sense of storytelling and as in the telling of a saga the details vary and just don’t matter much. Entertainment value and the deeper truths matter more than the actual words.

So, according to the saga, with the money from the sale of the San Diego house and with the decision making assistance of the floating magic pencil, Woodpecker Flats was purchased. Dave told me that he had cancer at the time and only expected to live another year, so they spe nt the rest of the money buying buckets of ice cream for everyone and other forms of immediate gratification. After a year they ran out of money and he wasn’t dead yet. So much for planning. From that point on, he lived without planning.

At Woodpecker Flats, there are various sculptures in varying states of decomposition. Clearly decades old, they were not meant to last forever, reminiscent of Tibetan Prayer Flags. As elaborate as they may be, after a project is finished, decay in place, the natural order of things.

David incorporated magical thinking into his understanding of the world around him. Space and time can warp in on itself. As in quantum mechanics and Erwin Schrödinger’s cat, anything is possible and we just make shit up as we go along. So, if a battery doesn’t hold a charge, maybe it will tomorrow. If the roof leaks, maybe it won’t the next time it rains.

Dave’s belief in the magic of the universe included faith that individuals are truly capable of anything. He would hire shade tree mechanics to work on his car based on the quality of the fellow’s story. The more outlandish the tale, the more likely he would seem to accept it. One claimed to be a fugitive pilot for a drug cartel. The fellow also claimed to have some sort of brain cancer, drawings on his scalp with a marker as proof. Needless to say, he did Dave’s car no good at all. It took Dave months to acknowledge this, but he still valued the entertainment quality of the absurdity, the comic interlude, the rhythmic contribution to the saga.

Privacy was sacred to David. He did not want “them” to have information about him so he refused to get customer reward cards from the grocery and hardware store yet he carefully filled out and mailed in Publishers Clearinghouse forms with the hope that Ed McMahon would appear with a giant check. After all, anything is possible.

David would occasionally express ideas about the sort of funeral he wanted. He envisioned a huge funeral pyre that would shoot flames high into the air. He wanted everyone from the Hari Krishnas to the Hell’s Angels to be invited. He wanted massive quantities of drugs and guns to be handed out as party favors. I assured Dave that absolutely NONE of these things would happen. Sometimes you needed to reel David in.  

Dave celebrated his 74th birthday the Sunday of Labor Day weekend. He passed away that week, peacefully in his home. He moved through this world and our lives on his own terms. He was working on art projects and making notes for the next book right up until the end. Somehow, somewhere, perhaps in an alternative universe, I am sure I will hear from David Newell and see him again.