Saturday, December 26, 2015

Photos to illustrate a story I wrote - Poem: He built me a room (Ed Quinn)

 My bipolar story is called The Muse Sits on Her Shoulders. The writing rules were changed from 2500 words down to 1800.

Then the editor wanted photos of me. The first batch of photos illustrated some of my creativity. He didn't want them - he's the editor - instead he wanted photos of me throughout my lifespan.

I wrote back, Will do.... but I don't like to advertise myself.

Here are the photos I wanted him to use.


 Here I am at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, practicing the piano. My teacher was Ray McIntyre. Years later - two years ago - I ordered a CD by Ray playing Couperin.
I paint everything, even the closet doors on my bedroom closet. Also the room door on the right. I ride my stationary bike several times a day for 20 minutes. In fact, just got off now, after eating a piece of challah and butter - spikes my blood sugar - while reading The Green Ripper by John MacDonald.

 Two paintings on door of Guest Room I made in my Acrylics Class at Abington Adult Evening School.

I am in absolute terror that I can't paint that well again.
 The 2015 issue of the Compass.
 My autobiography, Yes I Can!
Mental Health Magnet and ND brochures.



 I paint lampshades which have a particular significance to Jews like me.
Postcard to cheer up struggling members of ND.

 One of several Guest Columns in the Bucks County based Intelligencer. Above is on New Year's Resolutions.
 My pets Pal and Richard Parker.
 Upstairs office in the rhododendron season.
Photo of ND members which appears on our website.

 Paddle-boating on Lake Galena in Bucks County. Betsey Kirk is my invisible partner.
Sarah and me before the kidney transplant.

Just found this precious photo of Little Me.  Years ago there was a book by the same name.

HERE ARE THE PHOTOS I EMAILED HIM EARLIER TODAY.

 Little Ruthie in Cleveland Heights, OH.  This is part of a big photo album Mom got for me.
 A year after my breakdown. Am at my friend Helene's House on Bauman Drive. Behind the house was a little woods.
 Sarah drew this of me. She also drew great pics of herself and Dan.
Phone duty at the apartments. I hadn't yet begun to gain weight from lithium, which I went on in 1984. For Art Matters mag, I wrote a long profile of the Russian emigre artist Vladimir Shatalov. He came over with pastries and a painting for me, a still life, which you can barely see in the background.

 At the Allentown Museum in the Frank Lloyd Wright Room.
 Guggenheim Museum in New York.
Mom and daughter.

Was at Mom's around dinner time. She's healing very slowly. I told her it will be several months before she's better. She's in lots of pain.

My sister Donna called while I was there. The three of us talked on the speaker phone. Here are some interesting things I learned.

The house on Grant Avenue in Willow Grove sold for 220.  The owners had lowered the price.

I told Donna I had wrin a story about that house but titled it The House on Lincoln Avenue. Just liked the name better.

It was rejected by a dozen lit mags and finally was accepted by one called Quail Bell. I emailed it to her and she'll read it.

Also, I told Donna I had to take my blood sugar and pulled out my kit. It was a fine 131.

We agreed what a friggin pain in the ass the diabetes is.

My ex-boyfriend Simon had neuropathy in his feet bc he paid no attention to his diabetes - his feet felt like they were burning hot

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to Scott's. He found a new film noir on YouTube we haven't seen. Cry Danger.

HE BUILT ME A ROOM



He built me a room
He built me a life
I lie in bed and stare
at the lipstick pink
walls. As kids we had
a pink upstairs bathroom
where I could listen to
Dad and Uncle Marvin
play ping-pong in
the basement. Pink
the color of the sands
in Bermuda – sift them
through your pecan-brown
hands – the lips of
jazz critic Stanley Crouch
and Miss Bev, too, Dan’s
preschool teacher who he
called “the one with the big
pink lips.”

My new pink room is
where I lie in bed reading
and when lightning strikes,
I write down an idea
on a Habitat for Humanity
pad. Cashews? I’ve had a few
while watching The Blacklist
on the TV. If push came to
shove, I could live here a
few days, thanks to a Scrabble-
playin’ man named Ed.
 


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