Saturday, August 1, 2015

Writers' Group Meets at 4 pm with the Fab Four!!! - Two new poems: The Birthday - I'm Sick of it All

Floyd made a heroic effort to get here at 4 pm. We had read his short story online about his days when he was a supervisor at a huge plant and was responsible to discipline misbehaving employees.

He kept a diary when he worked there - for 28 years.

He's turning these stories into a memoir. But only of his work life, not his personal life.

They is good!

The stories just flow, he said. Once he begins, they take on a life of their own.

Not easy, he said, writing interesting prose about a civil engineer - his job. Remember, he told us, a civil engineer designs things for a better civilization: bridges, roads, sewers, water systems, you name it.
 This shiny blurry object is a coffee brewer, made by Brasilia. Read shocking news about it here.  

I ordered a glass of ice water from Tiara, a new gal, whose tiara was a black Giant cap.
While we were chatting, Beatriz read the first graf of Carly's story and pronounced it wonderful, as did Marf. Carly and Marf bumped into each other at the Giant - Ladies and Gentlemen! Meet your friends, your neighbors, your enemies at the Willow Grove Giant.

Marf, too, was impressed, she wrote in an email.

  Allan Heller called to say he missed us and would be there at our next meeting.

Am I his official photographer?

Carly's fictitious story was about family relationships. She wrote it 'blind,' meaning she had no idea what was going to happen to the characters.

This is both exciting and scary as hell.

It makes use of Carly's life in the San Jacinta Valley near Palm Springs CA. The main character, Judge Jackie G, travels out there to see her mom, whom we learn is in a "nut house."

I was gonna say "insane asylum" but Floyd said it was a "nut house," a much better word. "Psychiatric hospital" is too refined.

We talked about

Image result for blue moon july 31

In fact, I was on the phone with Mom and told her about the rising moon. She was in bed and couldn't see it so I described it for her, just like I'll describe the moon RIGHT NOW for you.

Yes, I'm a watcher of the Moon.

"Light me up in moonbeams," I say as I go out on my front porch to greet it.

My sister Donna is also a big fan of the moon.

Hard to make out.... a creamy white color... makes you feel like it's a baseball and you'll catch it in your mitt.

Always good to see Beatriz!

I'm wearing the very same pink sundress as Jenna Fitzpatrick, MD, main character is my story The Doctor in the Bikini.

Thanks to Marcy and Scott for giving it good reviews. I finished it and am ready to submit it, god knows where.

Oh, maybe a medical journal. She's a shrink with a sex addiction.

When I walked Scott to the train station tonite he said he liked it bc he wanted to see what would happen. It was unpredictable.

Like Carly's story, I wrote it 'blind' but the words just came to me. I had to pace myself bc I had some difficult scenes and had to get in the mood to write them.

Father McGarry - where'd that name come from - visits the young Jenna's home to confront her parents. The dad, originally from County Cork, beats the shit out of his kids. 

McGarry comes up with an amazing thing to tell Sterling Fitzpatrick.

While at table, I took my sugar.


Beatriz gave me some candies and I reached into pocketbook for my protein bar.

When we left, I bought some General Tso Chicken from the Chinese booth

Delicious! I said to the woman who served me.

Natch, when I got home I couldn't stop eating it, so I walked Scott to the train station to work off my 176 sugar points.

When I walked home by myself I saw a house being refurbished. Gotta remember the address, I said, estimating it to be 528. Am walking along saying 528 528 how'm I gonna remember this and remember that my sister Ellen was born on 5-28.

Here's the houses... apartments.

Forget it.... Blogspot is making trouble.


Breasts grow bigger with age
we agree, one of many things
we talk about at the kitchen
table with the faux chicken liver
nearly gone. No one can guess
that cashews and green beans
account for the taste. Mom,
nearing ninety-five, is it? has
forced her shutting-down
body to make it. The woman
has everything – family, friends,
Ron and Hildegunde, servants
like Ellen who do her bidding –
everything but her legs which
used to command a tennis racket.

We don’t cry over the past. Miles
eyes framed in black glasses and
Veronica in a purple sundress will
travel to her country of Columbia
during Christmas. Her family hails
from a modern city, too civilized,
she says, for El Chapo to hide there.
He’s running his drug emorium from
the hills.

Ah mescaline! Mom’s antibiotics
made her see patterns. Hands went
up around the table over who used
it. There wasn’t time to describe the
trip I had in the rolling hills of Goddard
College, the three of us walked into the
unlocked library, with its red carpet. I
stole a book, then mailed it back later
that year.

Would it be a lie – or my imagination –
if I told you El Chapo Joaquin Guzman
has tunneled his way into my house?
At sixty, we are almost compatriots. He
sleeps on the husband’s side of the bed
in his black Hanes briefs, tapping me
when I begin to snore. We love the
same TV shows – Mad Men and X-Files.

I won’t let him smoke in the house
so he goes on the screened-in back porch
and lights up the night with his
Spanish Galleon cigars. He has a
loving heart and sends me to
the mall to buy gifts for his
mother, a few former lovers,
and tells me: Someday, Amor Mio,
I will buy you a ring.

He is not to know - and don't
betray me - but when I am through
with him, I will turn
him in the everlovin’



Finding the plumpest cherries
at the grocery store, the firmest
peaches, the freshest baby
spinach, then being asked if I
have my bonus card, and
carrying my canvas bag to
the car, windows wide open
to catch the summer breeze
I am sick of it all. 

How I long to escape!
They’d miss me
for a few months, and then
I’d be as forgotten as the
red and gold maple leaf
making its early descent.

From the ATM, I’d take a
bundle of twenties, and
ride the train all the way
to Cleveland, my old home
town. Aunt Selma’s house is
empty, since she moved in
with her daughter.

I’d break through the back door
in the middle of the night, holding
my purple flashlight, and find my
way to the living room. There I’d
spend the night on the fuzzy
gray davenport.

Do you need help? I’d ask at
one of the Jewish bakeries
that are still left. I’d move
around, my apron caked with
flour, in an aroma of
coconut cakes, pecan tarts,
and fresh-baked challah. My
hair would again be black
and they would call me
“Rifka” my Hebrew name.

I’d be young again
and spend my nights on
the screened-in back porch with
the rickety steps
staring up at the stars.


  1. I like the photo of me that you posted, Ruth! Nice Mickey Mouse tie, no?