Then I came downstairs for breakfast - leftover Caesar salad from The Willow Inn, where Scott and I ate last night.
Suddenly the words came to me: legendary incompetence, which I wrote down, and then enjoyed my delicious salad, with a mushroom/onion omelet.
Good, I thought. I'll write the Letter first so I can procrastinate on fixing up my short story Leaving Alma, which I was determined to save from its terrible disorganization. I mean, it was just awful.
Part of the story takes place in Bonita Springs, FL, where my sister Lynn lives. Yesterday I called up the chamber to ask a few questions which I used in the story.Read the story and Letter to my wonderful friend Freda Samuels, who tops the scales at 88.
She approved both the Letter to the Editor and Leaving Alma.
Was so proud of myself I went down into the kitchen to pour another cup of Peach Tea and stumbled over my
And watched a woman with insulin-dependent diabetes take FOUR sticks out and, going outside to enjoy them, crunched on them while looking at her flower-filled garden.
The white dahlia are doing great!
Without wasting a second, I was upstairs riding my stationery bike for 20 minutes. Paula Marantz Cohen, prof of English lit at Drexel, was doing an embarrassingly bad interview with one Nile Rodgers, who'd written a memoir.
I wrote down the name - Le Freak - and reserved it at my library.
This beautiful man is 61 already.
He used the term, "I'm a Participant" and I also wrote that down thinking it a good theme for a poem.
In fact, when I saw Mom after our group, I told her and Ellen about some tiny wasp friends of Beatriz. One of em lays their eggs in the seeds of growing figs - and there they grow. And, yes, we end up eating them and knowing nothing.
Another wasp lays its eggs inside the eggs of my mortal enemy - the stink bug - thus helping to control the stink bug population.
Double-Yuck!
Martha, on the left, wearing her homemade Lilac blouse, read a great poem Recovery.
A polite disagreement ensued about the ending. Of course, I argued, you thank God and are grateful that you recovered. You needn't say it.
Say something else that tells us about yourself, so we learn more about you.
Marf agreed.
In September, Marf's household will diminish by three people - no more Brianna, her granddaughter - they're all moving out.
How will you stand the silence, I asked her.
She said it'll be terrible but she'll figure it out.
After all, I did! I'm sitting here downstairs on my red couch, screen door open, so I can be part of the outdoors.
Photos above courtesy of Marf's Samsung Tablet.
He only mentioned this to her last week.
Imagine!
We loved the essay but suggested she cut it by at least 75 words, which you're hoping I'll do on this blog, right?
I read the below poem to Erich the pharmacist at The Giant, when I picked up my insulin test strips.
Told him, "I ate four fucking pretzels this morning."
And then of course went on my bike. He told me I was one of the few people who does well by my diabetes. One guy, he said, only tests his sugar twice a week, if that.
I test six times a day.
IS IT BAD FOR A
PERSON WITH DIABETES TO THINK ABOUT FOOD WHILE FALLING ASLEEP?
Despite
its beautiful name
Diabetes
is the devil
Like
a tick, once its claws
suck
your mortal flesh,
diabetes
has found its
new
home.
Lovers
cry, “Never leave me!”
Diabetes
sneers, “I won’t.”
Let
me name the ways
it
harms you, as it chews up
every
organ, with slow
toxins
worse than
a
rattlesnake bite.
It
creeps into the
souls
of your eyeballs
making
you blind
It
visits the tiniest traces
of
arteries and veins
clogs
them so that
pain
like red-hot fire
scalds
the bottom of your feet
Sadist,
its
finest pleasure comes
from
inflicting bullet wounds
to
the brain
Pshew!
See
the person over there
in
the corner of the nursing home
That’s
her, Ruth Z. Deming,
lost
her mind
see
her pumping her legs?
she’s
riding her bicycle
back
in Cleveland
her
hair’s not white
but
brown and she’s outwitted
the
villain Diabetes
eating
all the things she’s dreamed of
before
bed
except
for the New York
cheesecake
but
the banana pudding sure tastes good.
THE RABBIT
Fearless
he
hopped
on
my backyard deck
as
I sat eating my salad
turning
over the dressing-
soaked
romaine
and
cucumbers.
He
watched me
sideways,
long
ears
radiating
like antennae
for
more information
Who
is this woman who
dares
to eat my favorite things?
With
a quick jump
he
turned to face me
head
leaning forward
brown
eyes, so like my own,
fastened
for the longest time
on
the deepest part of my soul.
What
is it you want?
I
whispered.
We
are not friends and
never
can be. You eat
my
peppers and my basil,
my
tomatoes and eggplant.
Like
a cruel master
on
a cotton plantation,
I
go inside
slamming
the door
and
finish my salad
at
the kitchen table
without
the rabbit’s
manlike,
taunting gaze.
Format
5 7 5 syllables for a haiku.
INNER AND OUTER
WORLD
Deep
into my mind
Writing.
When the poem’s done
Raindrops
pound outside.
And now, if you'll excuse me, Scott is calling me home.
No comments:
Post a Comment