Candy anyone? Or dyou wanna keep your teeth? Poetry book - Paterson, NJ - I still have this book, somewhere - Mom's Ashes

 Ellen received a note from THE PHILADELPHIA COLLEGE OF OSTEOPATHIC MEDICINE to mail us the ashes of the late Bernice Greenwold.

MOMMY !!!

Ellen will sign and date the form.

Also sister Donna, at the library I finally picked up AMOR TOWLES book THE LINCOLN HIGHWAY.

Can't wait to start reading.

Actually while I was in bed waiting to read this, I had absolutely NO ENERGY. That is because my sugar was low.

One of the worst. 38.

Almond crackers to the rescue. 

PLUS Kind Bars.

Was on phone for a couple hours arguing to have my blood tests picked up by my BCBS health insurance. First spoke to India, then David, then Rachel.

Possibly the reason MEDICARE blocked initial payment was the WRONG CODE was written in.

It's impossible to provide more than a synopsis of the thought behind the work Paterson, and more than a fragment of it's lines, on one simple web page. We leave you, the reader, with an excerpt from Book One, and hopefully an understanding of the heart underlying our musical and visual response.

"Paterson lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls
its spent waters forming the outline of his back. He
lies on his right side, head near the thunder
of the waters filling his dreams! Eternally asleep,
his dreams walk about the city where he persists
incognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear.
Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom
seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his machinations
drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring river
animate a thousand automations. Who because they
neither know their sources nor the sills of their
disappointments walk outside their bodies aimlessly
for the most part,
locked and forgot in their desires-unroused.

—Say it, no ideas but in things—
nothing but the blank faces of the houses
and cylindrical trees
bent, forked by preconception and accident—
split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained—
secret—into the body of the light!

From above, higher than the spires, higher
even than the office towers, from oozy fields
abandoned to gray beds of dead grass,
black sumac, withered weed-stalks,
mud and thickets cluttered with dead leaves-
the river comes pouring in above the city
and crashes from the edge of the gorge
in a recoil of spray and rainbow mists-

(What common language to unravel?
. . .combed into straight lines
from that rafter of a rock's
lip.)

A man like a city and a woman like a flower
—who are in love. Two women. Three women.
Innumerable women, each like a flower.

But only one man—like a city."