Woke up in the middle of the night, probly after an unremembered dream, and thought about my Dad and his generation. Every one of em dead and gone, except for my mom and Aunt Selma, both in their 90s.
Evelyn and Eddie Garber, their brilliant son Donald Isaac, who lost his long battle with leukemia, same diz as Gramma Green had, and on and on.
It all seemed so real when I woke up.
At 9 am the phone rang. Oh dear, I thought. What if it's that psychiatrist - Langman - I asked to come and speak to us.
Boot and I ran downstairs, only to be greeted by yet anudder call by the unknown Ralph Varden.
The boot puts terrible pressure on my groin, so I removed the exterior of the boot and am now hopping around on the softer boot inside.
Made a cup of Maxwell House coffee this morning to help me get thru loading the October sked for New Directions, odious task that it is.
First, tho, it's necessary to do the blog.
Donna K from our writing group gave me the Maxwell House. I'd like to email her a Thanks, but then she'd answer me, and I'd never finish my odious task.
After that, I've gotta brew some Chili for my neighbors who cleaned up my backyard. Will listen in kitchen to Colson Whitehead's Underground Railway, poem about dat at bottom.
Late last nite, I pressed the wrong button on my i Phone and got Ada Fleisher. I could not turn the goddamn thing off.
Turns out Rich was in the hospital. Wrote this poem about him, then drove after Mailman Dante to give it to him to mail. Dante was sitting in his truck. I passed him. He should've honked, but didn't. Then I figgured it out and off went the card w poem.
Can it be true? Your appendix removed?
Ah, the relief, the surcease from pain.
Soon you'll walking again, your sneaks lined up in
the garage, reading the Times and following the
antics of one Donald Trump, as Saint Hillary
wows us in Red.
And most of all, Rich, you'll be husband again
to the gal whose beauty rivals the constellations
Ada Moss Fleisher, good catch, Riccardo!
This tea's for you both. Sip slowly, don't
burn your tongue, and ponder the eternal
mysteries of the world, sip by sip.
PS - Am listening to the audio book Underground
Railroad by Colson Whitehead.
***
Good coffee, Donna. Gotta get a refill, but not until blog's fini.
As you know I always write a poem every morning on FB.
As I sat down on at laptop in living room, I thought a moment. What's on my mind, I asked myself. Here's what I wrote.
***
SUFFERING
I take my breakfast
while listening to
Disk One of Colon
Whitehead's Under-
ground Railroad
The cruelty of the
Randall Brothers who own the
plantation is astounding
Under the lash and the
hatchet and the noose
go Cora, Michael, Caeser
while women - or 'property'
are penetrated on the floors
of their slave cabins,
families silent in bed
Suffering too are the
candidates for American
president, drawn and
quartered last night
in a Frontline
presentation
Donald, lacking the
qualities of human
feeling and empathy,
drawn to glitz, tits and
glamour
Hillary, an indentured
servant to the one man
who stole her life
away.
Whomever will parade down
Pennsylvania Avenue next
January will have one
full day of happiness,
thereafter to quarrel,
disagree and burn.
***
On the Charlie Rose Show, a young man whose name I didn't catch interviewed a wonderful British writer Ian McEwan and I watched fascinated.
He talked about his own writing process.
He also mentioned how boring he found memoirs. He's gonna write one himself and has to figger out how to make it interesting.
Sarah and I are working on ours. It has an unusual format and is quite interesting.
***
SUFFERING
I take my breakfast
while listening to
Disk One of Colon
Whitehead's Under-
ground Railroad
The cruelty of the
Randall Brothers who own the
plantation is astounding
Under the lash and the
hatchet and the noose
go Cora, Michael, Caeser
while women - or 'property'
are penetrated on the floors
of their slave cabins,
families silent in bed
Suffering too are the
candidates for American
president, drawn and
quartered last night
in a Frontline
presentation
Donald, lacking the
qualities of human
feeling and empathy,
drawn to glitz, tits and
glamour
Hillary, an indentured
servant to the one man
who stole her life
away.
Whomever will parade down
Pennsylvania Avenue next
January will have one
full day of happiness,
thereafter to quarrel,
disagree and burn.
HAVE A GREAT DAY FOLKS. Sposed to rain quite a bit, but I ran outside with inner boot on, as I noticed the birds at bird bath were dipping their heads quite low.
Gotta take c/o our little friends the way they take c/o us!
I've stopped reading Undergound Railroad. Tho well-wrin, its gratuitous violence is too much to bear.
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