Journey of the Iced Passionfruit Tea

You heard it right. Iced passionate fruit tea (total typo). I studied the menu at B&N Jenkintown desperately needing a cold drink, one w/o caffeine. The color was beautiful.

I like to defer pleasure so I didn't taste it until I found my seat. All the good ones were taken. Finally, in the magazine section, I sat down with the two books I wanted to look at. No sooner had I sat down than I noticed a man on his cellphone, head missing, but with a booming voice. Curse words poured from his mouth. I looked up and caught the eye of another patron. I sat there stewing w/indignation, not knowing what to do.

I love getting people in trouble. Unfortunately he failed to attract attention again so I couldn't call over the officials. Darn! I have a strict moral code. I asked a man at our support group never to return. I didn't say, Please return when you're on the right medication. But I ordered him out, then and there. No one's gonna scare off my members with their ill-advised comments.

I sat reading How to Write a Novel in Six Months by a man I'd never heard of. Most people I haven't heard of. I live in a bubble. My own novel took two years. Like the man said, I wrote it in three-hour increments.

Last nite when we ate at Ada and Rich's, I brought a copy of The Blind Pig, a novel by Beth Dougherty, a woman in one of my online novel-writing classes. In her intro, she thanked those of us in her online class. I wanted to show them what a completed novel looks like. I'm halfway thru. As you may know, if I don't like a book, I refuse to finish it. I only have 13 more years to live and I'm not gonna waste time reading bad books...or writing them.

Bad poetry, I'll continue to write.

Next in my Messy Desk series. The letter on the bottom is from my wonderful grantor, who's supported us since 2001. We gave her our Year-End Report. All done online, the first of its kind, which is also the name of our Grantor.

I parked my car at my doctor's office in Rydal, PA. I have a different doctor for each organ I possess. We're in a race to see which organ will kill me off. After Cesar de la Torre gave me a good report -- btw, he has a SALT WATER POOL in his backyard -- I felt so alive, so invincible once again, that I slung my backpack on my back, and walked the half hour down The Fairway to the Barnes n Noble.

Temperature hovered around the early 90s. I passed all sorts of car dealerships. Scott began his career as a mechanic at car dealerships. To a man, he said they treated the mechanics "like crap." Really verbally abused them. He'd put his app into SEPTA and finally they called him. True, he gets treated like crap at SEPTA, it's not known for its humanitarian care of its employees, but at least he makes good money and enjoys his job.

So I tromped along The Fairway...dyou believe that's the name of the street...like the Champs d'Elysee...interesting how the mind works. Soon as I get outside the doc's office my mind begins playing a tune, whatever was on the radio when I got out.

Geez, I said to myself, I don't even like that tune. Relax, I told myself, your own thoughts will soon swarm over the song. Plus looking all around. A guy was up one of them poles changing a light bulb. He smiled at me and I waved. That got me to thinking how people are so friendly in the suburbs. Then a woman drove by and asked me where Trader Joe's was.

I watched myself put my hand on my beard & start to think. Universal language. You're going the right way, I said. She said that's all she needed to know. You know why I never shop at Trader Joe's? It's out of sight...you forget about it.

B&N seems miles away. You can do it, Ruthie, I said to myself. It took 25 minutes, not bad. The straps of my backpack were soaking wet when I went in.

I got my two books. I also asked the bookseller to recommend a book that explains Gay Life to someone who is not gay.

"Lucy" called me yesterday and upset me. She said the Bible says it's wrong to be gay.

It's not wrong to be gay, I shot back. The Bible is a fine book but it doesn't have all the answers. I was furious at her, thinking how dare she be prejudiced against gays when she herself is a complex woman who dare not tell people what her true diagnosis is. Must she have someone to look down on to assuage her ego?

You know, Lucy, I said, we have gay people in our group. But I couldn't forget about what she said.

First thing I do when I make breakfast is turn on the radio and look for something good. Changing the stations, I heard this baloney: "Punishment comes from a judge..."

Suddenly I thought to myself, People who are racked with guilt for various sins need to hear that. See, we all have a conscience (except psychopaths) -- and NO, you are not a psychopath -- but certain people cannot live with their sins or supposed sins, maybe they came from a shame-producing family -- and this type rhetoric makes em feel good.

Jews, for the most part, do not use the word sin. Catholics love the sinner cuz they keep them in business. Come to me, my little sheep. And I shall teach you what a bad person you are and god forbid if you're gay, then God will shun you.

Gayness occurs naturally in the animal kingdom. Everything serves a purpose.

I thought of a new definition of a poem. A poem takes you to a particular place. This profundity, or lack thereof, came to me last nite when I was falling asleep. I commanded myself to remember it. Fortunately that area of my brain still has blood flow.



I think the Passionfruit Iced Tea looks nice on my windowsill, don't you? It's next to the empty powder-sugar container George gave me when they moved to Ann's Choice. I'm quite partial to sturdy plastic cups like this one. With the darling green straw.

I'm working on a poem now about my late brother David. Maybe I'll mail it to Sarah and see what she thinks.