It was great seeing everyone since I was in NOLA last week. Really?
Today I debuted the painting of my Dr Scholl's shoes. Had to paint em cuz they remind me of my mother's orthopedic shoes
"They're dry, Bubby," she said.
Beatriz's fascinating essay "Food Web in the Milkweed Patch" told how the plant protects itself by emitting several different poisons and playing 'cat and mouse' with those that would prey on it.
A particular kind of wasp spends its entire life cycle inside an oleander aphid, killing it and using it as food for its wasp babies. The aphid is turned into a "mummy."
Said Allan about the essay, "It imparts so much information w/o being pedantic." Yes, that's one of B's great gifts.
B/c she's from Argentina, I told her about an Argentine-made film I saw on Friday at the Huntingdon Valley Library: The German Doctor - a true story about Josef Mengele who experimented on victims at Auschwitz. Read about this inhumane racist here. Born in 1911, he escaped from Nazi Germany before the end of the war and lived in South America until his death in 1979.
"Very entertaining," pronounced Floyd, "and I like the way you dropped hints" of who the narrator is. He is, of course, homeless himself, and kicked a man off a grate, so he could have it for himself.
Selfish man!
He wrote it a week ago.
Then, in a surprise, Allan read us his obituary and the epitaph on his tombstone. Also very enjoyable. People found it sad. I sure didn't. These are imaginary works of art.
Beatriz questioned the title "Silhouette." Allan said the homeless are shadows of their former selves, silhouettes.
We discussed the great oldies' song "Silhouettes." Carly was not familiar with it. I said I thought it was by The Diamonds. Let us see.
But wait a minute! The Diamonds also performed it in a faster version, according to Wiki. Ach! I'm so proud of this ancient brain of mine.
"At that magical age after blowing out the candles on the cake," the kid is ready to drive! From southern California, Carly learned to drive the freeways. Floyd added that people think nothing of driving 70 or 80 mph and tailgaiting. We'd all be terrified today!
Carly and Charlie's new SUV, the Chrysler Pacifica.The two of them will spend Thanksgiving in NYC watching the Macy's Thanksgving Day Parade. In person and not on television.
"The Mangled Mess," replete with assonance and alliteration - the former is vowels - the latter consonants (thanks for your help, Allan) tells of a woman
Matter that resembles seaweed is multiplying in my brain
She had great similes in the poem - a dumbwaiter cranking down.
GOD was the title of her short poem which traced the history of the word 'God.' In the Book of Genesis, the word was unknown. It was first used in the Germanic for "Good One."
When Moses asked The Burning Bush, it answered "I am what I am." The word for God was invented one to two thousand years ago. The Old Testament was written in the third century, BC.
The poem featured other names for gods such as Juno, Ares, Artemis, and my favorite Coyolxauhqui, a goddess, whose picture has been recorded
This stele has been colorized - Ted Turner? Martha ended the poem with Namaste, a Sanskrit word meaning, "I salute the god in you."
We noticed how dark it was outside. Carly, Donna and I stayed and chatted with one another for quite a while. Donna will be spending Thanksgiving with her son and his family, including grandkids John Dylan and Brittany. The baby-on-the-way will be called Brianna, also the name of Marf's granddaughter.
Donna usually reads a piece of hers at Thanksgiving. We laffed hysterically when she suggested she read "The Mangled Mess."
Oh, I read the start of my short story which I newly titled The House on Lincoln Avenue. I passed around the photo of the real house, which my sister Donna was interested in purchasing.
EH, as Arnold Samuelson refers to him in the book, gave him a lot of advice about writing. They were all out on EH's yacht, for he had gotten rich from writing and having his books turned into films.
Poetry is easy, he said, referring to poet laureate Archie MacLeish, who was violently seasick on the boat and stayed inside his cabin. I can't remember a single MacLeish poem, so will look em up later. Maybe in ten years or so.
The best kind of fiction, he told Arnold Samuelson, who hailed from N Dakota - of Norwegian descent, is to not know what comes after the sentence you've just written.
Well, that's certainly me, with my new work. Since I'll probly stay home on Thanksgiving, weeping softly by the window, I can work on my story. I'm still coming off the 'high' of having "More Decaf Please" published.
Reason I wrote "December" is b/c I have a November I'm very pleased with. This, however, I am not pleased with. Que pense-tu?
DECEMBER
Birth
month
why
must you be
so
cruel?
Darkness
come early
as
when He lay
on
the Cross
questioning
His
rebellious
temperament
stilled
sobbing
inside
the
way all mankind
seeks
at
that one clear moment
the
truth
When
will my time come?
Shall
it be on a travel bus
toppling
over, hearing screams,
smelling
blood, as I pass from
here
to there
The
sun breaks through
the
clouds and joy
reigns
again
Gone
are the nasty thoughts
I
see my turquoise birthstone – huge -
on
the ring of a man I admire
Did
Jesus foresee the decimation
of
his people of the buffalo
or
those of The Rhineland?
Are
we a despicable species?
Why
they say God is good and just
is
as opaque as a stone inside my shoe
Let
me close my eyes to sleep
nearly
certain I’ve got one more day
to
celebrate the shimmer of life
and
watch the red-headed woodpecker
who
knows nothing of death
hammer
on the bark of my
last
remaining maple tree.
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