Neither Linda nor I followed directions - which was fine with Abbie - and we each did our own thing.
Linda painted a Christian ship of hope.
Her poem, which we all liked was titled The Last Atomic Holocaust Movie Supper.
"I dreamed a dream," it began. She dreamt it on a Wednesday and poetated on a Friday.
Solomon Grundy was born on Monday, christened on Tuesday.
He told us about Trinity, the nickname for the first atomic bomb, which was detonated in Alamagordo, New Mexico.
Twould be nice if this were a bicycle helmet, but it's the Trinity Bomb.
She's quite weak from her chemo and when she walked in the door, she didn't notice that a "well-dressed black woman" was behind her.
The woman yelled at her for not holding open the door.
Beatriz, a kind soul, told her she didn't see her but the woman insisted on making a fuss.
In the story, Beatriz yelled at her, telling her she was an old lady and the woman had obviously been "snubbed" and was taking it out on her.
The entire post office applauded and the woman apologized.
Her Metamorphosis is about a dream trip she and Charlie want to take. They've been talking about it for years.
Floyd knows a couple who are doing it right now. They go "where the climate suits my clothes" - lines from the Grateful Dead. Their mailing address is in South Dakota, where cars do not have to be inspected, and neither do the cars in Maryland.
Floyd knows his music. He emailed us a rhythmic piece of his thoughts as he was listening to Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused."
Listen up, right here.
Stand up and take a bow, Floyd!
Use your imagination and see what you think Carly is doing here..... eating watermelon? biting her nails?
Am listening to the Blues Show on WXPN. Sadly, Jack Bruce of Cream passed away today. He's considered one of the greatest bass players of all time. He ruined his liver with drug abuse and had a transplant years ago, but died of liver failure.
Wiki - Bruce died on 25 October 2014 from liver disease in Suffolk, England, aged 71.[20] His publicist Claire Singers said: "He died today at his home in Suffolk surrounded by his family."
While blogging, I lost the entire contents of my blog, but decided to do it all over again.
Three people remained to read my newest short story, "Moses The Man." Thanks to Carly and Donna for reading my lengthy short story.
I had absolutely no idea what was gonna happen in the story. Let it percolate overnite but that didn't help a bit.
Am pretty happy with it.
DIVISION IN THE
DARKNESS
My
car knows the way
to
the small lit-up church
where
I go on Friday nights
to
drink coffee and listen
to
music but it is the
getting
there, the driving over,
down
the dark streets with
porch
lights calling out like
beacons
leading lost soldiers
home
from the wars.
I
am searching for Division Avenue
Off
on the left
a
huge grassy field
hosts
thousands
of
feet who play soccer
and
baseball
under
a blazing sun
and
hidden stars
I
looked at a house
overlooking
the playing fields
how
I wanted it
to
cheer my depressions
when
the mood was upon me
but
the rooms were like
small
caskets
cheerless and gray
cheerless and gray
The
small lit-up church
appears
before me
A
sign announces
Fresh
Ground Coffee House
where
the Decaf is free and so are
the
pastries my pitiful pancreas
won’t
let me eat.
The
Decaf will do.
I
am there only an hour and come
home
with a painting filled with
concentric
circles, dots and dashes
an
encoded message I fail to
comprehend,
and a hot cup of
Decaf
I sip on in the car.
I
find my way back home
Division
is empty, not a single
car
down this lonesome road,
so
I turn up the volume and
sing
out of tune.
At
home, I flood the upstairs
typing
room with light that
blazes
out into the darkness,
piercing
spikes that a careful
astronaut
may notice as
she
circles the only planet
we
know that has life.
Even
the pens and markers
in
my blue Walt Disney cup
burst
with life and bright colors
and
the cup feels cold as
I
stroke it with my hand.
In
memory of
Caroline
November
28, 1922 –
July 17, 2014
Meaningless
now
spoon
stamped
“stainless
Japan
the
cellar”
on
sale
in one of the grand
old
buildings
in Cleveland
our
ancestral
home
hers
too
her
mother
a
gray-haired
sylph
in
topknot
sold
furs
at
Higbee’s
dead
at
one hundred
and
three
Caroline
married
for
love
not
furs
Irv
admired
these
spoons
as
they dined
on
matzo
ball soup
with
soft
carrots and
translucent
onions
“Easy
to
hold with
their
flat
bottoms!”
he
laughed.
Their
mirth
spread
across
the
kitchen thinking of
their
own
fat bottoms.
Brian,
by
now, was
a
late-night teen,
like
the
spoon,
he
was
adopted,
a
misfit
miserable
with
downturned
mouth.
They
tried
everything
before
juvenile
detention
gave
him
confidence
his
life
was over.
“So
let
him join the
carnival!”
said
Caroline
in
that
husky voice
bursting,
I
swear,
with
love.
His
seed
impregnated
a
lovely woman
Holly
saw
something
in
that
boy’s eyes,
his
own
mother may have
seen
it
when she offered
him
up
Caroline
was
Mom’s best friend.
They
met
at the distribution warehouse
on
St. Clair where the smell
of sweat and men in
undershirts
and
crushed cigarettes
trailed
them
back home
Their
friendship
never expired.
When
we
moved next door to
Pennsylvania
they laughed
over
the
phone, and when I answered
she’d
say,
“Ruthie! How are
you?”
We
worry
about Brian
now
that
she’s gone
he
did
not visit
during
the
waning days
but
lays
in bed now
picking
his
lips
till
they
bleed
asking
for
forgiveness.
To clarify, Ruth: a woman I met at the Parkinson's walk, not in my support group, said that she was 70% better after DBS (Deep Brain Stimulation) Surgery.
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