Neither do I like the book I reserved - and picked up last nite - at the library. The highly acclaimed, forget it's name, by Jane Smiley.
With my car parked at the library, I walked five minutes in the beautiful chilly night to B & N to get a cup of Decaf.
I give the Starbux girl my mom/law's pho no which I still dunno by heart. The coffee is delicious - I'm at table with a friend I met there - and I go back and ask Kaleigh (kay-lee) born in Texas to refill it with hot water. Instead, she gives me the real Decaf.
Am sitting with my neighbor Carole, who is waiting for her husband Wayne who works at B&N. Carole can never remember my name. She has unsightly skin cancer on her face, a blob like a piece of putty stuck on there. I'd learned this another time when I saw her outside raking her leaves.
We got into conversation with the woman at the next table - Jenn. She was editing a fantasy novel written by a friend. I asked if I could read a graf.
I didn't say to Jen "this is really poorly written, but the punctuation is great!" I said something encouraging to the would-be novelist.
Years and years ago in the early days of New Directions, I co-led the group with Mike P, a minor sociopath, who had also written a novel. There was not a single good sentence in the whole thing.
Drinking coffee to help my writing is an illusion. But I had something really important to finish up. The title is "My Friend Frankie."
I sent it to three people to review. Only Carly returned it, this morning. She told me to remove a cliche I had in there, which I will.
Frank did the back cover of our Compass.Yesterday Mom had an eye appointment, then she and Ellen came over. I wanted her to see my new lavender carpeting.
It's so hard for her to walk. She used her cane and we finally got her up into my bedroom.
She could not see the color of the carpet!
That's bc she has cataracts, but Dr Dale Ehrlich did not suggest an operation. At age 92, she's not too keen on being operating on.
Then, to my delight, we sat downstairs on the twin red couches, and chatted for quite a while.
Although Mom forgots a lot of things, her memory is quite good. She remembered to ask about my former neighbor, Winnie Bannigan, and how she is doing.
I told her about Scott's 56th birthday party and that we have loads of beer left over. She said June Biskind sent her a Chanukah card from Arizona. We used to live next to them on Glenmore Road in Shaker. I used to babysit for the kids.
Teddy, she said, has remained in Cleveland, with his wife and kids. They do very well.
Neil is an attorney and lives nearby in Phoenix.
June used to make her own pickles.
When I was at KMart buying a curtain rod, a woman named India helped me. Her daughter was 8 mos old when she was diagnosed with diabetes.
Now she's 15 and is an athlete and a scholar and has the diabetes pump, unlike me.
Pickles, said India, lower your blood sugar.
I told her that my nutritionist - Mary Ann Moylen - advised me not to eat them. Too much salt.
Trade-offs.
Below is one of my favorite poems that I wrote many years ago.
BARNES AND NOBLE: A GUIDED TOUR
When things go wrong
when the sun don't shine
and the bread don't rise
and the call don't come
and the windows reflect back on who you are
you can always go down to Barnes and Noble
Lit like a string of pearls.
But if you're lonely and go there
no one will soothe your soul
no one except maybe the coffee girl
whose dancing earrings, if you're lucky, may just rock you
into something vaguely resembling peace
But don't count on it, my friend.
I've come for Rimbaud.
I read him every ten years.
You may wish to do the same.
Perhaps I can be of help.
Simply pull the slim volume titled "Season in Hell"
from its place on the shelf
Take it, if you will, to a quiet station, off the main drag
Or better yet
Find your own place amid high and fragrant grasses
A nearby lake with water so clear you can bathe your face
You might lie there in the noonday sun while you turn to any
page your heart desires
But I must warn you, my friend
You must come to the encounter clean.
As yourself
Not pretending to be anything more
or anything less than
who you really are.
Your bladder emptied, your thirst abated
Feeling no urgency whatsoever that needs reconciliation
Your heart must be still as a sleeping bird
not pounding with remembrance of yesterday's ecstasies
So with quiet acceptance and lowered eyes
You will arrive like a pitcher
emptied of its contents
open
willing to receive
flowing with space
and then you may turn
to the title page.
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