Also bought a new remember-me-foam rug I keep under my tootsies in my upstairs office. As you see, the two purchases have become fast friends.
I began writing my two poems and beginning of a short story at 12 noon this morning. I slept until 10:30 a.m., enjoying a deep slumber with unremembered dreams.
When I got to the Giant for our meeting today, I felt invincible and ordered their special coffee blend - Breakfast Coffee - with caffeine. After ten minutes, I got "high" and it affected my thinking. I told the group I used to get high naturally, when I had bipolar d/o and would get psychotic or out of reality.
Let me digress a moment or two. One of the reasons I woke up so late was I read until two or three in the morning. I'm fascinated with the Jeffery MacDonald murder story and had read an online interview with forensic psychiatrist Robert Sadoff, MD, saying that MacDonald, a former Green Beret and a physician himself, was incapable of murder.
The interview was fascinating. I printed it out and read every word of the 20 or so pages. Bob Sadoff, one of the leading forensic doctors in the country, was fairly certain MacDonald did not kill his wife and two children.
Why, then, has he been sentenced to prison until he is 120 yrs old. Answer: he probly killed them - and inflicted a harmless wound in his lung - altho we really do not know.
His father-in-law reopened the case. MacDonald remarried for the second time. Creeepy for the wife!
Below is author Joe McGinniss who wrote MacDonald's story "Fatal Vision."
McGinniss died of complications of prostate cancer on March 11, 2014, at age 71. He often used unscrupulous means in his journalistic career.
My daughter Sarah told me she read a wonderful book of ethics written by New Yorker staff writer, Janet Malcolm (b. 1934) called The Journalist and The Murderer.
Carly wrote "The One I Love," an excellent draft about our teachers when we grow up. Our first teachers are, of course, our parents. We're stuck with them. Carly was always a questioner and didn't necessarily believe everything her mom told her. Good for you, Carlana!
My Grandma Lily, who lived with us, told us not to flick the lights on and off, a fun thing for kids to do.
"It'll cause a fire and burn the house down," she said.
Once, beehives were prized for their honey and wax, but not for their important pollinator work. Charles Darwin - yes, Charlie himself - knew about it, but few people listened, until agriculture finally got the message.
Utah, "The Beehive State," erroneously believed the honeybee was responsible for the blight on alfalfa. Alfalfa is an important crop as this is what cattle feed on. They prohibited the import of honeybees to pollinate various crops.
Today over a million and a half beehives are trucked to states to help pollinate Blueberries in Maine and New Jersey; almonds in The Central Valley of California and alfalfa in the Midwest.
Better photo from Bea the Bee Lady 
He wrote a poem called "Springtime" and sang "Springtime for Hitler" to his wife Tati. She had never heard it before. It's from the Mel Brooks' 1967 musical "The Producers." Watch a clip here.
In the poem he wrote about the hated ice and snow.
"Solitude" was written in the "lai meter." And told about the way most of us write.... alone in our quiet place. "To get in the zone/ I must be alone."
"Scrooge in the City" was about beggars in downtown Philadelphia and how demanding they are.
Got the idea for the story when I was driving home from the Samuels' house in Warminster and put on my left blinker. I wondered what it would be like if you had no idea how much pressure to put on the signal indicator. I spose Jeffrey MacDonald, in his blind rage, would've broken the damn thing.
Also coming home from Freda and Bernie's, I saw a sign that read "Uneven Pavement." At the stop light, I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote down those words, knowing I'd write a poem about it on the day of our meeting.
Last nite, while eating my dinner in the living room, which is where I always eat - nice view out the front window -
That, I knew, would be the subject of another poem.
I will rewrite the library poem right now, as I blog it. The group gave me excellent feedback.
WHEN THE LIBRARY
CLOSES
The
universal mantra “Have a great weekend”
does not apply
Weekends,
the library closes early
And
at nine o’clock during the week
My
sadness overtakes me
at closing time
my red couch assumes a
black
veil
the
magenta cyclamen
droops with
long dog ears
on the window
sill
and
my tiny chrome
anniversary
clock
tolls
for me.
Why
is it so?
Long ago,
Mom
and I
walked
to the
Lee Road Library
where
I entered
new
worlds
more
thrilling
than
my own
Ah,
to be lost
in
a book!
The
travails
of
the world
drift
away
and
there are many
in
the headlines today -
Crimea, Lost Boeing over
the ocean
Cellphones
with Ears
Books are The Red Cross
of a thousand stories.
They comfort me as no one can.
All
asleep by the library curfew
Or
so we think.
As I walk by
one moonless night
I hear a fracas inside
language never before
heard inside:
laughing,
screaming, cursing,
the
language of the books
come
alive behind
locked doors.
Two new hubcaps I added to my outdoor collection. I found em when I was delivering the Compass to the Mental Health Center of Bucks County in Southampton.
We discussed what we write in our poems. Sitting in my upstairs office as I began "Uneven Pavement," the words "founding fathers" came to me quickly, w/o even thinking. I love discussing the process of writing.
UNEVEN PAVEMENT
Our
founding fathers
visionaries
who
guarded
against
violations
of the
Constitution
have
been succeeded
by
thoughtful procurers
of
the common good
who
create large yellow
signs
warning us of
every
danger on the road.
"Beware
of Aggressive Drivers!"
shouts
a sign in Warminster
as
I drive by and
remember the thrillseeker
who
zigzagged amongst us
like a carnival ride.
Now,
on this slightly rainy day
in
March, as my wipers toss away
the
pretty little drops
a
new sign beseeches us
“Beware
of Uneven Pavement.”
How
can I not laugh?
How
can I not remember the flat tires
my
friends have had
or
the shiny hubcaps
I
collect from the side of the road?
Is
it my imagination
as
I double-brake
past
the sign
and am catapulted upward
- a rodeo rider -
but
instead of landing
in
the dirt
my
car
a
passive compliant
Nissan
shows
me
what
she can do.
Turning
north,
we
swim across
duckless
Bradford Lake
plopping
softly
on
the newly-breaking ice
my
windows shut tight
and
feeling nary a drop.
Next
we visit the beekeeper
she waits in the drive while I buy
a
jar of thick wildflower honey,
then
lick a taste
as
I turn on the engine.
Wildflower
honey, gray Nissan
and
I drive home
as
I thank the car
for
a splendid ride.
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