Now, I did write the poem "Ken the Kindly Curmudgeon." After I got home from Novel Writing at the Upper Moreland Library - where I began a new short story - I drove around the block and found Mailman Ken.
Drove right up to him as he was about to mount his white steed and asked, "Did you read my poem."
"No," he said.
I drove off w/o a word.
After a salad lunch, went upstairs to compose. Wrote a poem for the Writers' Group, as I knew I would.
First off, Beatriz's son is staying with her and has a cat. She'll be receiving many guests for Xmas, some of whom are allergic to cats.
Anyone out there wanna be a foster parent to a cat?
Ahchoo! I can't have cats b/c of my immunosuppressants. Look, I just follow orders.
Met Kym Cohen at the Giant to lead her to Beatriz's house. I have no sense of direction so I asked a guy parked in a big gray truck if he knew where Fitzwatertown Road was. He told me how to get there. He, like many people, call it "Fitzwater."
She came to thank us all for being so supportive. She was thrilled to receive a gift bag of goodies from all of us, as suggested by Martha. Right now she and her dad - who gave her the Flyers' sweatshirt - are watching Second City at the Kimmel Center. Laughter is the best medicine (a column in the Reader's Digest).
She's also gonna use a cream, invented by NASA, which she'll rub on the places where her 9 tumors are growing. The cream was to help astronauts after returning from space from the radiation they received high up in space.
Donna's doctor told her she wasn't strong enough to drive. But thankfully she trusted her own abilities and drove both herself and her brother Bob to the group.
She gave her psychiatrist some of her writings.
"I didn't realize how talented you are," said Dan Hartman.
That made her feel great! I always advise people to share their work with their shrinks to help them know us better.
Rem, on the left, pointed out that blond is spelled w/o an E when speaking of a blond male.
"When he smiled, the stars twinkled in and out as they circled around the moon."
Donna's brother Bob, from whom she was estranged for 6 years - they got back together after Mariel's death - continued to write about his dear friend Joe.
"One Last Hug" was about the last day they spent together before Joe moved to Ohio to be with his family. He's living happily now in a senior residence in Dayton and Bob and Joe speak frequently.
Bob mentioned two of the many trips they took together - Ocean City, MD and Hershey, PA.
His absence, said Donna, who was also a friend, leaves a real void.
As a former Ohioan myself, I just checked on Dayton. Never knew it's got almost a million people, is the birthplace of Paul Laurence Dunbar - the first significant black poet - and the Wright Brothers, and is a great place for college grads to find a job!
"He Asks the Difficult Questions" was the title of his poem. He didn't like the title and will think of another.
"He wonders, if you can dream about it, why couldn't it be true?"
"If it's in a story, it's true / it exists in the mind."
He said he's a Jungian. Carl Jung, one of Freud's disciples, who later broke off with him. I remember reading his "Memories, Dreams and Reflections." Also read Ernest Jones' abridged bio of the master, who said "Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar."
Another good line is "His brain is not the least bit parochial."
He also cited Tarkovsky's last film "Sacrifice." Watch the 58-min film on YouTube.
I was SO HAPPY to see Fran Bareikis Pulli at B's house! Her BF Tom, she said, lives about 20 minutes away in Chalfont. Speaking of which, Beatriz visiting Lake Galena just the other day. It's just about my favorite place on earth.
I mentioned that yrs ago when I had bipolar d/o, I was walking around Lake Galena and I thought I was Christ! I was probably on Lamictal, which made me psychotic.
"I'm a warrior woman" - there were so many good lines in this Letter to Myself - "It took me 60 years to find the key" - "How wonderful my journey is" - "so glorious."
No wonder people want to be around her. We were comparing scarves when I was about to leave. I believe her daughter/law gave it to her.
Scott just left for the train and asked me, "Are you gonna wear your scarf to bed?"
my friend Iris from CT brought me this gift. (Luckily my whole life is on my blog.)
Fran met Beatriz at the Montgomery County Women's where they both volunteered. The writing workshop was probly held there.
Here's anudder good line - "We are all cups continuing to be filled."
During a couple of solitary months in the winter, Fran discovered a computer feature called "Paint" and has painted at least 25 computer paintings. Kym also does this.
Fran is rightfully proud of herself, doing very well after her marriage. She's the mother of three sons and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She's financially independent and has traveled to 15 different countries.
After I read my poem about E L Doctorow with the filched title "My Soul Resides in a Pond of Silence" Remington said he and his wife Valerie heard Doctorow read from "Ragtime" at a NYC event honoring the late poet James Wright from Ohio.
Both James and his late son Franz had manic depression.
Rem told an amazing story about he and Valerie being on a plane during the events of 9/11. The plane was grounded and they took a bus all the way to Vegas to spend their vacation. Anyone who's taken a long bus trip - yes, I see you nodding your head - knows how dreadful you feel on the bus and then running to get dinner when you're off.
Rem reminded me in my poem below not to use so many commas. Thanks Rem!
My son Dan just called. He said he was sorry he couldn't invite me to dinner tomro nite but they've all got colds, as was apparent by his voice. I told him I'd check him out on FB after I finish bloggin.
But I have a trip to make to Hatboro first in the dark of night. Think I can do it?
MY SOUL RESIDES IN A POND OF SILENCE
Someone at the library accused me of not
paying attention while listening to my audio
books in the car. Speak for yourself, goddamit!
Do not project. E L Doctorow reads from his
book “Andrew’s Brain” as two oak leaves float
onto my windshield. I pretend that Edgar Lawrence
himself can hear my wipers flinging them onto the street,
they’re sad, you know, leaving their brethren behind
on the maple. We all must die, I think blithely, knowing
my time has yet to come, as I sip on the Starbucks
red holiday cup that makes my brain keen.
Edgar, of course, has died of lung cancer. I pretend
to light a meerschaum pipe, so sweet-smelling, it’s
worth dying for, I think. Such sweet lines he
reads in a soft, old man’s voice, “the tensile strength
of her behind,” then later, “My soul resides in a
huge deep pond of silence,” lines I must remember,
I know not why.
Do not worry, Edgar. I shall light a Chanukah candle
for you and shout to the Macabees and the few friends
I have, “Read his books! Let the words and the ideas
flow through your brain like the raging Mississippi when
it floods, stand on a rise and see the black waters where
Huckleberry Finn sailed his raft – I see him now, dirt-
stained with his friend Jim – and the words shall
sail like clipper ships through our brains and make
of us all the writers we’re destined to be.
Edgar Laurence Doctorow (1931 - 2015)