Rem from our writing group predicts we'll have no snow this year.
Something about El Nino.
Told the writing group I met with police officers from Upper Moreland at Weinrich Bakery's Coffee with the Cops.
I asked how to drive in the snow and rain. Slow and steady. The group wanted to know other Qs that were asked by the two older gentlemen who were there.
While I was taking the pix outside just now - chilly out there - I noted how steady my hands were taking the pictures.
I had just watched the film Hilary and Jackie, the story of the duPre girls. Jacqueline, a cello prodigy, died at age 43 of multiple sclerosis. Heartbreaking to watch her decline and the decline of her marriage to Danny - pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim, originally from Argentina.
I will scramble around getting a decent photo of everyone at the meeting.
Previous photo of Bob and Judy.
Judy didn't like her true essay at all! It was called Why I Go to Shul - Jewish word for synagogue.
Amazingly beautiful!!! You must believe us, Judith!!!
We loved Bob's essay "Thanksgiving, 2015."
"Let's face it," he began, "I've got a lot to be thankful for." He did spend the holiday alone but he ended the essay with "How dare I complain?"
Bob's sister is none other than Donna Krause of the Beautiful Nails and Beautiful Heart. She did not like either of her two poems, both of which were sublime!!!
Judy asked Donna how many children she has. Donna said Two, plus a daughter who passed away. I told her that was a wonderful answer.
Her poem THE FIRST SNOWFALL contained great lines such as The new flakes tickle our nose.... marshmallow clouds....Saucers and sleds.... Hills that God provided....
Rem and Judy both loved the poem and made many comments.
Linda Barrett read a fabulous new poem LUCY'S EIGHT NIGHTS.
One of her best ever!!!
She likens the eight nights to Chanukah and its eight days.
Day One:
Lucy runs out of pills, her medication. She cuts them in eighths to quell the voices and paranoia.
It works and by Day Eight, when the oil ran out for the Jews, Lucy's doctor, who was away in England - playing cricket? visiting the queen? watching BBC films? - was back in town.
She also spoke about Latkes, potato pancakes, which are served with applesauce or sour cream. Such knowledge for a Christian young lady!
Let's give her a hand!!!
Next we heard from Martha who wrote on FB she'd been up all night writing. Moi aussi.
We loved her piece HOT LOVE AND MARRIAGE.
"Who doesn't like a good romance novel," it began. "The sweeping grandeur of their magnificent bodies! The urgency!"
Very well-done, it went from the initial honeymoon phase of the couple to the realities of waking up together with one's arm losing blood from the mate lying on it, or bad breath that could be used as rat control.
I paraphrase. It was hilarious! Quite difficult to write funny prose, I said.
Last nite as I scrolled thru Netflix I began watching comedian "I'm Brent Morin," which couldn't hold a candle to Martha's witty piece.
Off with his head, of course.
Helena Bonham Carter plays the despicable queen.
His poem NAKED was about a dream he had. Totally fictitious, he said, but absolutely wonderful and believable.
Ladies and gentlemen, he wrote, he's naked again.
A yellow snake appears and the mother hangs them on the clothes line by their tails. His mother pretends not to notice. His father is outraged!
Freudian? Jungian? Adlerian? Or... the work of Harry Stack Sullivan?
The interpretation is up to each one of us. All 7 billion of us on the planet.
Scuse me. Gotta go eat something.
While in the kitchen I listened to more of my audio book The Bridge: The Life and Rise of Barack Obama.
Wanted to eat something quick so I could get back to you, my devoted - what? - seven readers?
Eleanor Steber is on WRTI-FM singing Knoxville Summer of 1915. One of the great songs of all time. Listen to it here. Ahem! Where were we before I so rudely interrupted myself.
Gotta run upstairs to email my work downstairs to blog.
Let's see how my hip feels.
Much much better! Thank you, God, I said at the top of the stairs.
Allan called earlier today with his regrets he couldn't be there. We also missed our Beatrice!!!
And Kym Cohen gave us an update on her condition and sent in a little something describing her condition. That's what I believe in doing... instead of telling us, write us a poem.
Creeping
By Kym Cohen
It traveled with a friend with a single intention.
They didn't know her but they would be intimate quickly. Not
even a "Hello" when they met her. They had a job and there would
be zero distraction.
The one stayed in the other room for a few hours
until it could have one on one time with her.
She stared at the first one, overthinking the
kindness of this stranger. Perfect strangers they would stay. No
name. Ever.
Creeping slowly towards her, she watched. Closer.
Closer. Slowly. She could not leave. This connection was her
destiny.
The first stranger crept in and after a few hours
signaled the other stranger to meet her.
She warmed to the second stranger a bit faster. Time
flew. Tick. Tick.
Both strangers stayed mute yet their goal was shared
and specific.
The two nameless strangers saved her life against a
silent killer. She was eternally grateful and thanked them
silently.
She named the duo "Universal 0."
These two strangers were now in her, part of her
life, with her day and night until their natural deaths for
blood can only live for so long.
***
Lovely poem, Kym!!!
***
So I went to bed around 4 am and got a great night's sleep. In the morning before I went to meet the coppers, I composed a poem for my friend Kim Ruby.
She put it on FB!
HEALED
Who
would find the artists?
Who would find the bands?
Who would find the bands?
Who
would be mother?
Who
would be wife?
Who
would mind the garden
with
the glorious colored peppers?
The
tiny red-lipped girl with
the
faltering kidney underwent
the
knife. She couldn’t see the
surgeons
in their blue-robed
garments.
Nor could she see her
Saviour,
hovering over the
table.
Do not worry, Little One,
he
whispered. All will be well.
You’ve
got a lot more peppers to grow.
And I signed it Ruth Deming.
***
Strange photo of Donna and myself.
RESCUE
I
am ill.
My
hip went out
again.
Lying under the
covers,
all is well, but
what
will happen when
it’s
time to rise from the bed?
The
phone’s on the sheet
and
I dial his number. Ten minutes
and
I hear the front door open.
I
bark orders from my bed.
Turn
off the crock pot. Bring
me
four pens from my desk.
(They
get buried under the
covers.)
My
eyes are closed with
pain,
but he enters like Sir
Lancelot,
holding the pens.
He’s
my man and always
will
be. I am his.
His
Guinevere.
***
Good ole Rem said it reminds him of a poem by Chretien de Troyes called Lancelot of the Heart. Was there really life as we know it in 1200 AD.
Of course, silly girl!
***
Of course, silly girl!
***
A GLASS OF MILK
Books
make you pause
and
think. She writes
about
a glass of milk.
My
eyes close and I
remember
milk. The glass
is
one of those classic
water
glasses, plain,
functional,
served at
inexpensive
restaurants.
It’s
filled to the brim
with
shimmering milk
cold
to the touch and
to
the lips. My hand
trembles
with
excitement
as I lift
it
up. I am thirsty
for
I have eaten a
slice.
A slice of pie.
Pecan,
if you please
with
real whipped cream
on
top.
What
restaurant is
this?
David Lynch’s
diner
of course. But I
shall
not be dead like
Laura,
buzzing with flies
on
the grass.
I
sit at the counter
watching
my reflection
in
the mirror and dab
the
corners of my
mouth.
My
delicious
no-flies-at all
mouth.
For more info about the 1990 TV series directed by David Lynch Twin Peaks go here.
My son Dan introduced it to me.
Hey! Now what'll I do?
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