He read Chapter 7 from his novel "The Village of Blood and Stone." Lots of violence. As Rem said, It's tough describing violence - and there was lots of blood shed - but Allan did a great job.
Might he actually be a killer in disguise?
Shhhh! Don't tell a soul.
A friend of his played a terrible practical joke on Allan. When Allan's head was turned, he salted his peanut and butter sandwich. Just loaded on the salt.
Allan knew what he had done and with a straight face he ate every last bite.
His friend asked him if he noticed anything different about his sandwich.
Not a thing, said Allan. Though later on, they howled with laffter.
Martha, my Dear, told us she wrote a silly poem. Twas far from silly. LOOKING OUT MY WINDOW was about the new picture window installed last week. The old window was held in "by prayer and rubber sealers."
The installation men got it in "without so much as a stumble."
We all loved her use of the word "effluvia."
Rabbi Peter spoke to the congregation about all the types of prayer the Jews have for different occasions.
Prayers begin with Blessed Art Thou O Lord, Our God. There are blessings for everything: for seeing a rainbow, for seeing trees in bloom for the first time in spring, for bad news, for good news, for seeing a person of abnormal appearance.
Told the group I'd send them a video I watched about a man whose body is filled with hair. "Larry Gomez was born with hypertrichosis, which results in abnormal hair growth all over the body, including the face. Here, he speaks candidly about what living with this condition is like."
Earlier, I had written a poem about little Stef who works at the Giant. I jumped up from the table when I saw her.
Did you like it, I asked.
She did. Here's Stef.
She's a blue-eyed girl
a behind-the-counter girl
who recognizes me by
my hand-painted backpack
of red and gold autumn
leaves, that never leave
my back. On her feet
all day, I wish she could
fly away to the Hilton,
there to soak in the pink
Jacuzzi, its jets like tiny
sparrows rubbing their
softness across her as
he sweeps her off her feet.
She calls in sick, while they
vacation in Oahu, lying on
her tummy, he oils her back –
it smells so sweet – but she
surprises herself by being
homesick, by missing the
Pharmacy, the Produce Aisle,
the white plastic bags. “You’re
the best,” she kisses his cheek
and returns next day to her
beat at the Giant Supermarket.
She'll check with Peter Rabbit. Luckily I remembered in the nick o time that I'm already a Jew.
Rem was operating on very little sleep.
That's what my story is about, I said.
He was up until 4 and had to report for work at the PO at 5, I believe.
He wrote a poem in the third person - that's how I get distance on it, he said - about his 12 years in Catholic school. One nun he described as "granite hearted." She was finally transferred from the Philly school to one in Virginia.
She fell down dead in front of her class.
Lord have mercy!!!!
A favorite teacher of his was Sister Boniface.
Scuse me, but why would you name a female after a male saint? I don't 'get' these Catholics.
Rem read in an alumni mag that she had passed away, this woman "who was always there with a smile," no matter how the teenagers mocked her.
At Thanksgiving dinner, my nephew Miles Greene called my scarf "an ascot."
I had a dickens of a time writing a story for today's group. Sarah and Ethan were here until 10 am. Then they drove off in their gray rented Toyota Camry to Poughkeepsie NY to meet The Pinkwaters.
Last night we ate out with their friends Tony and Mary at Mica in Chestnut Hill. Talk about a taste sensation!
We met Roman, below, the chef. We had wine, bottled water, and Ethan and Sarah had the boar. I had scallops, sweet potato ravioli. We had complimentary soups.
Of course we had dessert. Coffee cake and doughnuts filled with cream cheese or ricotta. I requested a large enough cup of coffee so I could dunk the doughnuts. I was glad to see them spelled correctly.
Sarah insisted they were doughnut holes, which they were. One time when I dunked, the entire doughnut fell into the cup.
My, it was delicious when I fished it out.
Went to the libe this morning for the novel-writing group. Got a good foot-hold on Chapter 13. Then I had to write something for the writing group.
Started a story. Worked on it for 10-15 minutes and could not stand it!
Deleted it and wrote about Thanksgiving Dinner at Nikki and Steve's in Clarksboro, N J.
The group liked it. Liked the details I used. As usual, though, I've gotta fix the tenses.... present, pluperfect, etc.
Stuck a poem in the true story. I told my sister Donna at Thanksgiving Dinner, rather than explain what I saw, I'll write a poem.
Judy L said she liked the poem stuck in there.
See what YOU think of the poem. However, this blog ain't over. Read what cometh after the poem.
FARE THEE WELL, MY OLD PENNSYLVANIA HOME
She, Harold and Bernice’s second girl, mother of
Nikki and Doctor Mel, moved to One Drummer’s
Way, where she dwelt alone. The creek was lovely.
Opening her sliding glass doors, she said hello to it every morn,
loved when the light made it sparkle, the sun come
down to earth.
Dennis bore a window into the red brick,
built her a stainless steel sink that reflected
his sad blue eyes and white undershirt.
One of her favorites, Dennis died alone,
liver ravaged as if a hurricane tore it
into tiny raggedy pieces. Hers was fine.
Quiet and calm, causing no problems.
Can we say that about her? Be nice and
she’ll get you whatever kind of Starbucks you want.
Make mine Columbian.
On Thanksgiving morn, I drive through town. Nothing
open. A ghost town like Sacramento when men
scrambled to become rich. It never works. A new
store is going up where Café LaFontana went down.
Drab boards hide its interior.
Donna is nothing if not a lover of beauty.
Whatever street comes after Daddypops, I turn
down and snake my way over to Drummer’s Way.
Look at the houses! Tiny, neighborly, porches full
of rocking chairs and left over pumpkins.
I see it! Orange. Huge as a two-storey house. A
long tentacle sticks out with a grabber attached.
And a seat enclosed in a glass tower. For the
operator. No one will throw themselves on the
ground in silent protest.
Except for her. In tight black pants, leather
jacket, and knee-high boots. She arranges her
long black hair and stares up at the autumn sky.
Last night was the Mourning Moon, the last full
moon – did you mark it rising huge and Yellow behind
the high school? She loves the winter. The whiffs of
cold air remind her of her childhood
The Beatles Basement, putting hair up in rollers, Mrs
Kultti, Uncle Donny, the Turnocks. Many gone to
The operator lowers himself down from the platform.
Rise up, young lady, he says, offering her his arm.
Church bells sound in the distance.
Together they dance the cha cha cha
and she blows him a kiss goodbye, then
climbing into the borrowed black Cadillac
she turns up the music and drives to
her new home across the river.
Tears plop down her freckled cheeks
as she remembers Dennis.
Was feeling terrible b/c two of my great prose works were rejected.
Curlicues and The Revival Tent.
Then I get an email from "East Jasmine Review." I don't even remember submitting to them.
All right, I think, I'll get it over with. I steel myself. I open the email.
Lordy Lordy, they liked two of my poems but wanna change the name of one of them. I have a choice and I choose Escape. They also wanna fix one of the lines.
They're right to do so.