Peanut butter cookies

Just in!

I burned an entire batch!

***

The whole house smells of peanut butter cookies. Was it an impulse purchase that made me buy the Betty Crocker mix?

Not all all. I wanna bring them to the Beehive at 2 pm.

The timer just rang. The cookies look great but they're soft in the middle like me.

Four more minutes.

Meantime I'm reading EDUCATED, a Memoir by Tara Westover, which I've described as living in a medieval torture chamber.

When I woke up I mis-read my clock and thought it was 10 am.

It was actually 8 am.

Ran downstairs and ate my oatmeal and peanut butter, waiting for me in the stove.

Ate slowly while listening to a Passage to India by EM Forster.

Followed the directions for the Betty Crocker peanut butter cookies mix.

You needed tablespoons of things.

I had no tablespoons, only teaspoons.

Twice I lost everything I wrote on my blog so I'm typing it now onto Wordpad.

My short story for today is tentatively called IVAN.

His real name is Arnie but ain't Ivan a great name?

The proofs came in from Rene, the graphic designer.

Lots of corrections must be made.




PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES

Betty Crocker in her Starbucks Apron
has made one batch of peanut butter cookies.
They are good, maybe even delicious.

Tiny cracks like rivers in Minnesota
jigsaw across each delicacy, which
Betty, really me, Ruth Z,
thinks, What could be better?

Cookies for breakfast, baked in
total silence so I could focus
on what I was doing.

Mrs. Evelyn Hess, my fifth grade
teacher in Shaker Heights, would
have been proud of me.

But who will save me if a prowler
breaks in at night?

Can I talk him down?

2019 Compass - A Thousand Oy vehs! - Poem: The Fear of Insolvency - It Grows and Grows

Numerous problems have arisen, but Rene and I will take care of them.

Entered my short story Finding Mailman Dante into Pure Slush.

One of the best YT videos was about a runner who was brutally attacked by a young mountain lion in Colorado and finally killed him.

Check it out here.

Also watched a very long video about the daughter of a serial killer in Wichita, Kansas.

Here's a video. From Feb. 15, 2019. Gruesome, of course.

How did you NOT know? is the question Kerri was asked. I think that's her name. She has a happy marriage and two children. Of course after she found out, her life was ruined: panic attacks, psychiatric hospitalizations, suicidal ideation or attempts.

Scuse me while I get my oatmeal w peanut butter and almond milk which is soaking via pilot light in the oven.

Wore my Starbucks apron so I wouldn't drip onto my clothing.

Scott stopped over with the greens and lo sodium matzo ball soup I'd requested.

Who should I write a postcard to, I asked.

Bernie Sanders. So I did.

THE FEAR OF INSOLVENCY

Once we were honored by grants.
That day is no more.
The first thing I'd do
was buy a new CD or two. Glenn Gould,
of course, maestro Karl Richter on organ,
Rubinstein playing Debussy.

The performers are dead, while
the music lives on.

What a wonderful breakfast I ate
Waved to the trashmen
While sipping on vanilla sugarbush tea
and celebrating the craziness of life
one sip at a time.

***

That was yesterday's poem.

Lemme write one for today.

IT GROWS AND GROWS AND GROWS

A spikey plant called Dracena has made its home
with me on my front window sill.

Its stalks, slender as a high heel, bend toward the
light

The other stalk touches the high ceiling.

A strange sound squeaks from above

Fee figh ho hum

I smell the blood of an Englishman.



Why, tis the young Albert Finney, newly dead at 82.

Scott and I will celebrate Valentine's Day at 3 pm today at Bonefish Grill.

I'll bring my champagne and drink only a tiny bit.

Readers, whomever you are.

Celebrate Valentine's Day, the Day of Love, EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR.

It's snowing, it's snowing

No telling, honest to God, what will thrill us - or me  - next.

I wanted to discover the very first snow flurries.

They began coming down at ten minutes to ten, or 9:50.

We had our support group last night. Small but mighty.

Helped a lotta people.

Ada and I drove Margie home. She lives in a lovely area in Horsham, townhouses.

Cars were parked in the street. You had to squeeze through.

Just found a poem I wrote about Horsham.

PASTOR RON

The trail of breadcrumbs led me
to a living room in Pennsylvania
part of a development whose name escapes me.
They had a gas fireplace in the living room
and islands of creamy white Corleon countertops
in the kitchen.

It was a book discussion group,
led by Pastor Ron, his home
before leaving for the temple. 

There were eight of us gathered around
The usual seven plus a new man who sat beside me
I watched him from the side. A face like any other,
large nose, hooked a bit,
curved mouth bespeaking ill fitting
but ardent false teeth. 

He spoke and his arms waved in the air,
I watched those arms, followed them
wherever they went,
waving
like an orchestra conductor,
Leonard Bernstein
nearing crescendo with swords.

Or Moses
standing on his mountain in Canaan
commanding
his people to behave themselves. 

And then from my seat beside him
I saw the way his shirt cuffs
were unbuttoned at the wrist,
Unbuttoned, so he could be more comfortable.
And I wondered what it was like
to love a man so much.

It was really a Bible-discussion group but they
didn’t call it that. They called it a book discussion group
And they were all moved by the call of God,
except for the man with the shirt cuffs.
He lived in a house by the water and walked
along the beach. He didn’t say it,
but the man was looking for God. 

And Pastor Ron said, “I was called to the Lord
when I was eleven years old.”
He lived in Oklahoma back then,
still had the twang, huge as a smile,
and round eyeglasses.

You could see him under those vast Oklahoma skies,
more sky than earth,
a boy swinging on a tire swing, round as a Cheerio. 

And the pastor spoke and he was telling his story
and you wondered how many times
he had told that story,
hundreds certainly,
a man with the face of the kind of boy
you’d sit next to in the third grade
and never in a million years pick
for your side of the baseball team. 

And he looked out into the middle of the room,
maybe at Lillian or Herman,
eyes blazing,
his beautiful wife Shari of
thirty-three years sat next to him, her face
radiant, this was her husband Pastor Ron speaking,
she sat in a flowered chair with a look
that can only be described as rapture,
and I sat there, too, watching her rapture. 

Ron was leaning forward in his chair,
one of those little
mock rockers that look like a real chair
but rock
when you sit down. 

And he looked at me sometimes
and I sat there taken in,
oh, boy, was I taken in,
big time.
consumed with white fire
- it did no harm – just
seared my insides hot to the touch. 

He wasn’t talking loudly, mind you,
not spewing out spitlets that glistened in
the lamp’s glow,
but just reporting, 

just put himself back there when he was eleven years old
and the Lord came calling one morning
and swallowed him whole.

***
It was published somewhere. Where, I do not remember.

***

I am sipping lukewarm Dark Roast Coffee, Giant Brand. Quite good, but, baby, some like it hot, and I'm one of them!

Lemme check and see if the mailman is on our street.

He just came. Brought only junk mail.

I had one item to mail, so I hobbled across the street to give it to him.

A very important note. 

He said it's very difficult to drive and to walk. He was all bundled up like a downhill skiier. 

***
Just added hot water to my coffee, which I'm drinking in my celebrating the marriage of Harry and Meghan cup.

So many different cups to choose from.

I'd like to have a party in the Spring, after the snow is gone.

***
Damn! Won't be able to invite Ron Abrams. 215 627 1012. 



Or Stephen Weinstein, whose photo I can't find.

Pastor Ron and his wife moved to West Plains, Montana.

All things are possible with the Lord, he writes.

IT'S SNOWING

Throughout the night
I pulled back my lavender drapes
and stared.

Nothing.
Nothing.

The first flakes came down
at ten minutes to ten.

I was there, like Jesus at Golgotha.

Kalie, the dog who lives across
the street, is barking.

Has Jesus come, or is it
the Mailman?

The roofs are now white
like spun sugar or
frosting for a wedding cake.

On the backyard deck
tiny feet have left an
imprint.

Let the snows come
Let the birds scurry to their nests
Let peace be upon the earth.




Watch John Oliver on Mike Pence. He also discusses James Dobson, Focus on the Family.

Poem: My New Dishrags - Neeva the Miserable

My very short story RICKY IN JAIL was rejected by Flash Fiction Magazine. Of course I'll submit it somewhere else.

Remove me from your mailing list I spat back.

NEEVA THE MISERABLE

I don't care if you're having a bad day
I don't care if you haven't had enough sleep
When a customer comes through
Put on a mask and make like it's
a pleasure to serve us.

***
I needed new underwear so I parked at the library and walked down to the Motherhood store in the Marshall's shopping center.

Yes, it was for big-bellied women.

Dominique was my guide.

When she rang me up she said she was a surrogate mom for a friend of hers. An easy pregnancy, she said. They're best of friends.

As she said, she did something wonderful, helping start a new family, so now her life is complete. For now.

***
At Giant, I bought new dishcloths.
They're hanging on the white clothing rack now.

MY NEW DISHRAGS

My bowls and mugs
My skillets and Helene's
fine porcelain plates
made in Germany

Will love a good clean
scrubbing by you, "Made
in China."

A housewife, you may be,
Made in China, saving up
money so your two children
may sail across the Pacific
Harvard-bound or perhaps Yale.

Let them do better than you
and your lazy husband.

Hello Neighbors! Poem: Silence - Will I Die of Heatstroke if published by Adelaide magazine

Something vaguely awful was perched below the window sill. First I thought it was a hole in the wall. Yes, that happened a dozen years ago when carpenter bees worked their way into my house.

Exterminators were here but they were slow, so quickly I grabbed a manila folder and blocked their entry, and then Scotch-taped them out.

  Was reading BECOMING in bed. I've gotta get to page 50, I thought, and then I can go to sleep.

What a remarkable book. I like that the book is not by Michelle Obama WITH... know what I mean?

Went to bed listening to WXPN. Music I'd never heard before and wonderful. I lay there and let it sift thru my mind.

Much of Obama's book reminded me of other things in my life. I kept drifting back to when I lived in San Francisco. I was free from my family, though I did work as a secretary, always a favorite job.

Here's a few things I shared with New Directions.

Think twice about Kidney Dialysis.

Loud noises are bad for your health.

Our writing group liked my short story for Pure Slush. I called it Finding Mailman Dante. I have until April to submit it. That's the worst part! Following directions.

My new friend Margie said she liked this story better than The Great Photographer.

The Great Photographer?

Couldn't remember it!

Ah, there it was on my upstairs computer.

I'm on my downstairs laptop now and will leave for Second Home for the Elderly at about 10, windshield wipers wailing in the light rain.




Am always worried about finding a parking space.

There are several businesses there. Whenever I pull up and round the bend toward the parking spaces a woman is outside smoking. She never looks up.

Marlene will pick me up tonight for the Valley Forge writers group, held right here in Willow Grove.

Have an idea of what to write about. My former BF Curtis B, or an older woman who refuses to go outside.

Will think of a poem right now. It's President's Day, no mail.

Ed Q liked a poem I wrote about silence. Can't remember it, so lemme write anudder one.

SILENCE

A lamp with a long stalk leading up to the light
A rock from Helene's garden
A clay figure of a Buddha
The Lavender Lady, slender arms at rest
Man and Woman from Belgium looking straight out
Ralph Nelms' Mama and Baby Stork
Hut made of Red Clay

Nothing is what they hear.
Nothing is what they say.

I have yet to use my voice
this morning, though I hear
the tap tap tapping of
my laptop keys. 




Stevan from Adelaide Magazine sent me an email that my true story, WILL I DIE OF HEATSTROKE was just published.

It was rejected by Bella Mused Online. Once I was a favorite of Lisa Shea and published nearly everything I wrote.

Now, she spits me out like a piece of used chewing gum.

Learned a lot about myself - Poem: Dining at Dunkin Donuts - The Proud Robin

My sister Ellen came over. I persuaded her to stay so we could talk. Not necessarily about 96-yo Mom, but about life in general.

I really enjoyed it and so did Ellen. She said she'd read that everyone thinks about killing themselves.

Not true, I argued.

Just then, Scott came over.

Did you ever think of killing yourself, I asked.

Of course not, he said. If something was troubling me, I'd figure out how to solve the problem.

I may have mentioned that one of Scott's SEPTA buddies died at age 66.

His wife called and said My husband hasn't come home yet.

Mike was in the parking lot, his engine still running, and died of a heart attack.

Thank you so much, AARP Awards, for giving me the award for best actress.

 She was actually wearing a blue patterned suit.

Just checked the Times. No mention of the AARP Awards for Grownups.

I bicycled while watching. "The Bicycle Thief" was the favorite film of the first guy Savarin Savarin who designed me a website.

What I learned from Ellen was that I'm neat and organized. No stuff lying in the living room / dining room. Can't stand a messy house. My bedroom is also neat. Used to be that when I was working on the Compass my house was a mess.

That's bc I was also working at Bristol Bensalem Human Services.

Am now gonna watch a documentary suggested by Rem.

Here's a poem I wrote earlier today.

DINING AT DUNKIN DONUTS

An Iced Cappuccini, please,
said a woman in the Drive-Thru.
Before I forgot, I ordered
the same thing, putting my
book on the table with my
gloves and sunglasses.

How delicious. I opened my
book and read the gruesome
details of a murder in the
City of Sin, New Orleans.

My eyes began to close.
Whoa! Coffee's sposed to
keep you awake. Open your eyes
I said or you'll
end up on the floor.

What a master of disgusting
language is James Lee Burke.
A clock was in the corner.

Great! Time for lunch!
A croissant with eggs and cheese,
no meat, I said, forgetting
the word please.

Took seven minutes to eat, but
I was in no hurry. Home would
wait for me, until I couldn't
go home no more.

WALKED around the block when I got home. Saw a Red Robin, my first.

Then, when Ed walked by with his frisky black dog Maggie, I popped my head out, told him, and he said, "I've got you beat, I've seen three or four."

THE PROUD ROBIN

He could be a doorman at a downtown hotel
Or a father coming home from work,
opening up the paper on the red couch
and waiting for dinner to be served.

He could play hopscotch with the kids
down the block who will hug him
when they're finished.

He could sleep on the husband's
side of my bed and we'd cuddle
through the night.

When morning comes
he'd be out the door
before I had time
to miss him.

Two poems - Whose House is This - and The Lavender Lady, a figurine

When I awoke this morning, I said to myself, as I often do, Friends, where are they, I have no friends.

Exaggeration? Not at all. Nothing like picking up the phone and saying, "What's new?"

Mailman Dante just arrived. Nothing but junk mail. Put it in a box as tonight is - you guessed it - Garbage Night.

Dante, who's relatively young, delivered mail to the Kiernans and then slid down their snowy hill like a child.

I read Lavender Lady to Judy L who loved it.

And Carole H loved my "House Poem."

After this, I'll go upstairs and continue the Beaver book.

WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS?

Ever been here?
Swinging with color
Everywhere you look
there's something to see
Something that I like
Maybe you will too
but I do it for me

A place to be happy
content and serene
an Ecuadorean tapestry
hides signatures of
dead folks I loved

Will set a place at the table
Will bring up the champagne
chilling downstairs
And you'll be the celebrity
for there's only one of you
on this green revolving planet
the mother of us all.


THE LAVENDER LADY
A figurine

It's impossible to know
how she's lasted so long
Her bearing, composed
this 19th century woman
her face turned demurely
to avoid the looks of
gentlemen on the English
promenade.

Feathers flowing from
her wide-brimmed hat
purple parasol at her side

I have named her
Miss Victoria, after
the former Queen

Tell no one, please,
than in difficult times
I will kneel down
before her and beg she
bring me peace.

* * *




Go ahead, proud Beaver, smile at your nine readers!

So you want to write a memoir? 12 Tips on Writing a Memoir

In 2010, I self-published YES I CAN, My Bipolar Journey. Shockingly, I forgot to put a date on it, so I'm guessing 2010.

Here's the back cover. Look how tiny little Max, the Moonlover, was!



One of my former therapy clients has a friend who wants to write a memoir.

I just finished writing this, and hope it's helpful to him.

12 TIPS ON WRITING A MEMOIR 

One. Meditate on why you want to write a memoir. 

Two. Read memoirs you like, such as A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, Out of Africa by Karen Blixen, Night by Elie Wiesel, Return to India by Shoba Narayan, and A Serendipitous Life: From German POW to American Psychiatrist by Karl Rickels. 

Three. Carry a pad of paper or a smart phone and jot down ideas to write about. 

Four.  Who is your audience? The general public? Readers interested in illness, addiction, rare diseases?  

Five.   Hone your writing abilities. No matter how fascinating your story, readers will never get past the first page unless you are a good, if not excellent, writer. Compose whenever you get a chance. We are not talking e-mails here. Mail friends real letters. As you fashion each sentence, make it the best you can. Do not repeat words. The word “compose,” for example, may have been written as “write.”   

Be as precise as possible. Instead of writing “Send friends real letters,” go with “Mail friends real letters.” 

Six. Adhere to a schedule. Many writers claim the early morning is their best time to write. Their creative powers are alert and alive. At night, keep a pad on your bedside table for when inspiration comes. 

Seven. Do not depend on inspiration to strike you. If it is 10 a.m., your writing time, and you can't think of anything to write, sit at your computer and re-read what you have written the day before. Walk around the room. Look out the window. Music? Certainly.   

Eight. Whether you’re a believer or not, pray. Close your eyes and ask The Almighty to help you in this immense endeavor you’ve undertaken. 

Nine. Avoid food when you write. Instead, drink liquids – with or without caffeine – you may even enjoy sipping on hot chicken broth or vegetable broth if you’re a vegetarian. 

Ten. Main points to cover. Suggestions include when did you decide to write your memoir. What is different about your memoir from the millions that have already been written. Notable incidents from childhood. Description is paramount. The reader must feel he or she is swimming in a backyard swimming pool when geese fly overhead, honking. 

Eleven. How to divide your book. If you’ve lived in different places, you may write:  San Francisco; Los Angeles; Sitka, Alaska; Quebec, Canada. 

          Also you may divide by the seasons: Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall. 

Twelve. Every human being has failed numerous times. We’ve been fired from jobs, have had failed relationships, been humiliated, made terrible mistakes we wouldn’t do in hindsight. We must show our humanity. 

Write your memoir and then we’ll discuss publishing options.

Visiting Mom with our new friend Margie - Linda Ronstadt - Poem Quenching Thirst

I've complained in the past how hard it is to make new friends.

Met one Evelyn at the library, certain we'd be friends.

Not to be.

Emailed Mom and Ellen and Lynn I'd be bringing along Margie, a new friend.

We were sposed to meet at my house for brunch at 1 pm. Mom didn't feel up to it so I said, We'll come to you, then!

Hold on! Lemme see what's on TV tonight. I do like Queen Victoria. She wants everyone to love her. C'mon Vicki. C'est impossible!

Here is Mr Rogers being inducted into the TV Hall of Fame. Click here.

So moving!!!

Take 10 seconds, said Mr Rogers, and think of all the people who loved you, here or in Heaven.

My dad, of course. Scott. And now Mom. Our relationship has vastly changed in the past 10 years.

Quibble quibble quibble went the sisters.

We ate pizza with green and red peppers AND steak sandwiches with meat n onions on them.

No, I'm not a vegetarian but meat is not healthy. Any meat. Our bodies must work hard to digest it.

Am drinking loads of water as our dinner was thirstifying. Also our dessert.

Each of us had two tiny doughnut pieces.



Lynnie used to make these.

Okay, I confess.

412.

Will go on bike and finish MAD RIVER by John Sandford.

bc

Scott said to me, he couldn't put it down.

That's bc he reads one book at a time!

Before I go on bike, lemme write a poem.

I have no idea what to write about.

Lemme look outside to get inspiration.

QUENCHING MY THIRST

Is there a better sensation in the world?
Choose your favorite cup
Fill it with cold water
Drink slowly.


Interview with Linda Ronstadt on Good Morning America, I think. She talks about her Parkinson's Disease and her inability to sing, even in the shower. It's like a cramp, she said. Watch it here.

Email I just sent to my friend Judy Kroll - Poem: Goodbye Stacy Briggs

Oh no!!!

Mom cancelled. Will bring my shtuff over there.

Gonna work on my mobile now.

Scott opened the bubbly champagne with a corksucker. Well done, ma boy, Well done!

Why, you may ask, am I eating soup in the morning?

Am trying to finish it up before company comes at 1 pm.

I am so excited!

My 96-yo Mom will be here as will my two sisters, Lynn from New Hope - and Ellen, my mom's caregiver. Mom also has another woman who comes in frequently.

Mom's favorite food is CANDY!

Lynn will bring the lunch.

I will provide water from Scott's Britta pitcher, plus coffee. I made it too strong, but what the heck, you can always add hot water.

I also bought 'champagne.' I rarely drink but this is a special occasion.

Scott hasn't had champagne since his bar mitzvah.

And thanks again, Judy, for your generous donation !!!!!

Shall I write a poem now?

GOODBYE STACY BRIGGS

Something made me google you
in the wee hours of the morning.
Stacy! How could you? How on
earth could you?

We worked together at the Intel/Record
on Easton Road. Lunchtime, I would
run across the busy street, a bullfighter
hoping my ass wouldn't get bit

Always I made it. Unlike you, Stacy Briggs,
unlike you, dead at 74. How could you?

***
Stacy was married for 25 years. He died in 2018, a year ago. One yearns to know the cause of death.

Very cold this morning. My front door is open bc the sun is shining in my living room.

I had a beautiful map I received in the mail. Where to put it? Upstairs in my office.

Haven't yet finished my new mobile. Hid it from view.

Remember, my house must look great.

What song should we listen to now?

Daft Punk? The Smiths?

Just listened to an interview with Linda Ronstadt, 72, who has Parkinson's Disease.

Fascinating!!!

Neil Diamond on TV - Poem: I Believe

Was having a dream that I was composing something - terrible -  when I heard music playing.

Neil Diamond. Twas a famous concert, which, of course I'd never heard of.

I did like the music I heard but had no idea it was Neil Diamond. He has a fascinating history you can read on the Net.

Today he's 78.

Read about his Parkinson's Diz here.

So there I was wide awake at 5 am - not again! - and decided it was time to change my sheets.

You can hear the washing machine downstairs now.

ga-rink, ga-rink, ga-rink

Just took about 15 pictures now with my Purple Nikon. Have no idea how to load em onto this blog.

This is an old photo which I keep on the wall of my bedroom.

Now, I was at the Upper Moreland Library today at our Book Group where I was 20 minutes late since I had just finished The Signature of Everything.

Lively discussion and then Marie gleefully said, "So then, the author was wrong!"

I sprang like a snake, "The author wasn't wrong! You just didn't understand what she was saying!"

When the group was over I asked discussion leader Cathy if I could run a workshop on how to get published. She liked the idea and said she'd pair it with a children's workshop. Sure, I said. Sked for the summer.

When I left the library, I left my car in the short term parking and walked down to the shopping strip aiming to get something for my door for Valentine's Day.

Stopped at A Dollar or Below. Kaya helped me. Told her about our beautiful Kaia Rose.



Bought something that looks like



Plus I got these gell stickers that I put on my window.

Gee, hope Mailman Dante likes them.

You can be sure I'll ask him tomorrow.

Or bearded Mailman Joe who came by yesterday.

It's very cold in the living room where I sit. I keep the temp at 68 degrees at all times, per Scott. Yes, yes, I know I'm just a pawn in his palm.

Taipei, Taiwan is where the Valentine decorations are from, so says the backing that came with it, plus that the gel is compliant with formaldehyde emissions, just as Wells Fargo did nothing wrong by giving poor people mortgages.

Believe, Ruthie, Believe!

Clearly, that's my next poem.

Daydream Believer, what a great song. Dyou Believe in Magic. That's it.

BELIEVE

Deception since the day humankind was born.
What can I believe in?
Let me go to the door at six in the morn.
Open it slowly so the cold won't rush in.
Lights!
People are awakening.
I'm not alone.
I believe beyond a doubt
that people dwell in
those lighted rooms.
Satisfied, I will trundle
off to bed and turn out the lights
believing I shall wake up whole
in the morning.

Will I finish by 2:30 pm? Poem: I Like Living Alone and All's I Wanna Do is Read

Nancy Pollock, not to be confused with Jackson Pollock asked me if I like living alone



Unlike Our Nancy, Pollack was impulsive and died in a car accident.


LIVING ALONE

The echoes of their footsteps
The whispers of their voices
The rain pounding on the roof tonight.

I love living alone.

The sweet hum of the refrigerator
The water heater purring like a cat
The subtle settlement of this yellow house
onto what was once farmland

I love living alone.

ALL'S I WANNA DO IS READ

The library books all come in
at once. They reside in comfort
on the husband's side of the bed.

Jack Hirshman, an old man now,
a Communist and freethinker, writes
poems that are surprisingly sweet
and sensitive.

The book comes all the way from
the Bala Cynwyd Library and often
gets lodged beneath my shoulder.

James Lee Burke has written another
winner: New Iberia Blues. Gruesome,
bloody, disgusting, just what we'd
expect. What a thrill!

The Signature of All Things by
Elizabeth Gilbert is a virtuoso
performance I listen to in the
kitchen, while frying my morning
eggs. When I add onions am I
crying from the fumes of
M. L'Onion, or from what happens
to Alma, in this monstrously
long book.

PHONE IS OFF HOOK. Gonna lie down on red couch and listen to da book.

Wish me luck!!!

Poem: Safety Pin and Paper Clip - Poem: Coffee

Google just notified me that starting on Feb 4, yesterday, they are instituting changes. If you think I understand a word they said, the white tulips on my window sill, have just turned green.

SAFETY PIN AND PAPER CLIP

Simple configurations

of wire, no bigger than

your thumb

Let them rest

one at a time

in the palm

of your hand

Admire them

a little while

feel their

simplicity

and their weaponry

Then set them free.

Marvelous, simply marvelous.

Went on a vacuuming binge this morning downstairs.

Task for today is putting THE COMPASS in order.

What kind of coffee shall I make or brew?

We need one more poem in here. Hold on while I go upstairs and change out of my PJs and into my clothes. Will wear a pink shirt with elbow patches - Hello Father Knows Best - oh, of course, you're too young to know about that show - that I bought in Paris.

COFFEE

Might we compare coffee to a song?
Georgia on My Mind, by the
late Ray Charles?
Or how about a symphony?
The First by Charles Ives in
its welter of confusion?
Ah, Sibelius, there's our man.
His sublime Violin Concerto
Finished only moments before
the first performance was a flop.

He revised it in 1905. But who
had the fingers and ear to play
the violin? A maestro from
beyond the deep, as Richard Strauss
led the Berlin Philharmonic.

Sip Starbucks Christmas Coffee
as we cherish every note. WE
are only here for a little while,
but music is forever.

Many things to discuss - Literary Yard publishes Herdsmen and other short poetry

I have many things to discuss with you.

Cousin Sally came to town to visit Mom, 96. She Ubered in, her first time using Uber. Her Arabian driver was very good and they became best friends during the drive. His son shot himself to death bc he was depressed.

Sally thought Mom looked great.

Ellen ordered Mexican food and we all liked it.

I asked for a cuppa coffee which Ellen made in a lovely white cup. She bought it at the Habitat for Humanities Gift Shop.

Sally recently got her real estate license. Mom wanted to know all about her mom, Aunt Tay. Mom's got a lot of Tay's paintings in our house.

I have one in my downstairs, an abstract. She almost got it in The Whitney Museum.

At my volunteer job this a m, I painted the background with acrylix. I had taken a class and that' what Jane Something told us how to begin.

When I left after a delicious lunch of ricotta filled blintzes and carrot salad and a minestrone-like soup with sour cream inside, I checked on my paining. It was curled up on the counter.

Three excellent poems of mine were rejected this morning.

What am I doing wasting my great poems with N K Wagner? I asked her to removed my name from her mailing list, but keep em in the archives.

Earlier today Onkar Sharma accepted three poems I wrote.

View them here.

When I wrote, probly last week, I had cabin fever from being in the cold house - and colder outdoors - during our frigid wave.

It's quite possible Mom will visit me next week.

It would be like old times having her here.

Will ask Scott to hang up my new mobile, made in a pizza box, at Dan's house.

Where o where shall we put it?

My former boyfriend Simon B. hung up my mobiles, but when "The Russians" were painting my living room we took many of my things down and threw them away.

Thankfully, I have that capacity.

With a hop skip and a jump I'm going to Scott's now.

Yesterday listened on WXPN to this wonderful documentary of the late Ray Charles. Click here.

Time is evanescent.

What should I bring to eat at Scott's?

When I came home last night I was LOW !!!!!

Shuffling thru the snow with my soup! - Poem: Snow

I was so glad my next-door neighbor Eileen was home. She'd been at her daughter Debbie's the day before.

I did not wanna eat my soup alone.

In fact, there's a Bible passage that reads, "Thou shalt not eat thy soup alone."

We sat at the Adams' long table, while the soup was heating on the stove.

Click click click click click!

Yes, it's one of those gas stoves like my mom has.

Eileen figured out how to work it.

In the center of the table were several cyclamen of different colors.



Wish I could reproduce our conversation. Eileen is hilarious!

Told her there were cannellini beans in the soup. Neither of us had ever had them.



Made the soup last night while listening to my audio book The Signature of All Things, which is quite good. Didn't like it at first, bc of the unlikeable characters, but it's gotten much better.

Finally we learned the meaning of the title.

Click here.

I am not reading about it as I have yet to finish.

Our Book Group is this Thursday at 2:30 pm.

I'm on disc 9 of 18.

Eileen and I had a great time.

After we ate, we worked on coloring books. They were a joke gift for Bill, her son.



The pictures were absy disgusting!

I started coloring in anudder book and I said, I'm not enjoying this at all.

So don't do it, Eileen said wisely.

I have an idea, I said.

Sarah and I talked about my painting something.

Draw yourself, she said.

So that's what I did.

I drew Eileen, using the colored pencils.

She loved it and said the photo reminded her of something on TV years ago.

Finally it came to her, Carol Burnett.

We discussed her hilarious show.



Here she is as Scarlett O'Hara.

Now, on our canvas, which was the back of one of the awful pages, I asked Eileen to draw flowers.

She did a great job, so she had a hand in making it.

"I feel like a kid," she said.

She drew flowers of many colors - red, yellow, green, purple and blue.

When Bill came downstairs - he works upstairs at home - I showed him our masterpiece.

Let's hang it up, I said.

It's now on their fridge.

***
Sydney, the Australian dog of the Kiernans, is leaping through the snow.

Did you ever wish you were an Australian sheep dog?



Sydney is all black and has grown super-fast.

***

Poem time.

Hmmm. What should I write about?

Bear with me, as my newspaper colleague Felicia would say.

Where has she gotten to?

Good, she's still around.


SNOW

The snow is in no hurry
as it silently falls on
all things.

Grace and Olivia
in their pink coats
walking confidently

down our street. Rooftops
painting patterns like
Matisse or van Gogh

Felicia backing out
her drive, smiling
at the remembrance

of working in the Newsroom.