Armed with foolproof directions for the 40-minute trek to the home of Judy Diaz, whom I haven't seen in a couple of years, I pulled up to her condo and photographed it.
Not much of a picture, but it's good enuf to remind me of all the fun times I'd spent at her house. Judy will move to Boulder, CO, to live near her son Michael and dtr/law Tory, whom I have already immortalized in my poem "Lakota."
Traveling down Street Road to find her place was like being on a speeding interstate highway, except that gaudy signs assault you from either side of the road. On my way home I saw a spectacular sight I wish I could've photographed:
Our Lady of Fatima, a Spanish-style church and school, stood like a bulwark of integrity, while behind it, the Philadelphia Race Track flashed huge screens summoning the public with fireworks to come gamble inside and bet on the horses.
Yep, right into the confessional with you, after you've spent the family money for a day at the track. Thank you Father Meehan for absolving me. Judy and I used to work as therapists at The Atrium in Bensalem. Our suite of rooms is now an accounting firm. See above.
Judy's house is filled with antiques. Her mom was an antique dealer and Judy inherited many of "Mother's" things. Since she's showing her house, she can tell that young people sniff their noses as these once-priceless objects. One man insulted her by asking, "Will it be easy to remove the kitchen wallpaper?"
She and I are both Luddites and proud as hell of it!
Judy and her ex-husband Andy traveled extensively. She bought these b'ful objects in New Delhi
Now let's step outside into her backyard. She is a master gardener, though most of the garden has bit the November dust.
Dazzling fiery-red pyrocantha. She gave me a scissors so I could snip the thorn-ed wonders and bring them home to my window sill.
I also took these morning glory pods.
What we won't do for a little bit of beauty!
Hopefully the pods aren't the same as those in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." Don't go to sleep, Dana Wynter, don't go to sleep.
I drove home with a satchelfull of DVDs and VHRs she lent me. I was so exhausted, I lay on my couch and watched - and slept through parts of - a documentary about how the Mormons poured millions of dollars into defeating Proposition 8 in California, nullifying gay marriages. Though Jesus Christ is a god of love, the Mormons hate gays. God speaks directly to the senior prophet of the Mormans. He gave the word to Go all out and get them gays.
We all have temptations, say the Mormons, we're not perfect. Sure, we may be tempted to wander and try having carnal relations w/ the same sex, but it's up to us to know the difference between right and wrong. And, lordie, lordie, I swear on the memory of Joseph Smith, our founder, that being gay is wrong. It says so in the Bible.
A little therapy and medicine will fix it. Interviews are done w/gay men who were giving aversive conditioning w/electrodes and drugs to quell their natural urges. A few men killed themselves after the sessions. Utah has the highest suicide rate in the nation, according to the documentary, with gays killing themselves b/c they can't take the pressure from the families.
On to more pleasant things, but we've all got to be aware of what's going on in our community, Mitt, don't you think?
Grace left her phone here.
Champion walker. She's wearing "Chucks."
Grace, 15 months, changed her m.o. when she came to Bubby's yesterday. Instead of going straight for the stairs, she headed for my kitchen. That is, after she made sure the living room was to her liking: Hmmm, I don't like these books on the coffee table, I think I'll sweep them to the floor. What? You're listening to WXPN? I'll find something better.
She loved my kitchen cupboards, esp. a box of flex-straws I have. She would take one out and hand it to me, and then another and another.
Mom, said Dan, she'll do that until there are no more straws left in the box.
After they left, Scott and I went for a walk on a new trail at Pennypack. The boy scouts had built a bridge on it. We walked a good 20 minutes and then there were no more signs so we never did get to the bridge. We did not wanna get lost in the woods that are Pennypack, so we grumblingly turned around.
I think I'll go to my poetry group, after all, I told Scott. I'd cancelled my appearance saying I had too much to do (kidney memoir). I did complete a new poem, which you'll read below. I still can't look at it tho I'm pleased with it.
After I printed up 9 copies I decided not to go. That's when I called Judy Diaz and invited myself over.
The one and only....Helicopter Man!
THE HELICOPTER MAN
At almost midnight
I step outside
blinded by my living room lights,
tottering a moment on my
front porch steps,
I hear it:
a small buzz a few houses down
the crickets have left
the bumblebees too
the distant sun is
closing us down
here on Cowbell Road
beneath a streetlight
a man I know only as Mike
faces the sky
performing a ritual
for his wife and his sons
sacred as the prayers
of the Algonquins
he prays alone
as I back inside
to leave him to his:
Mike is the Helicopter Man.
his tiny model
with its dreadfully pumping wings
soars above the denuded maples
can the planets view it?
pick up signals from the electrifying whirr and buzz?
or see the sweating blue-eyed man with cragsome brow
wills the plane to soar ever
What he doesn’t realize is
he is out there
casting a cosmic spell over the
sleeping inhabitants of Cowbell
asking the gods that no harm shall
come to our quiet street,
as a fistful of feathers
falls unseen to his feet.