Writer's Group at Weinrich's Coffeeshop, downtown Willow Grove PA

Bob, who was this month's leader, read the next chapter of his children's book, a charming tale about a whale and an ant. Can you see Beatriz in the photo to Bob's left? Originally from Argentina, she's a retired biologist who shared work about the hummingbird moth, which masquerades as a hummingbird, down to the buzz it makes with its wings. Here's her blog.

Newcomer Carly Brown is on Bob's left. She had to hand-write her poem cuz her computer knew she wanted to make a good impression at her debut yesterday so it froze up. I B Singer used to talk about demons who attacked his writing. He won the Nobel about shtetls in Eastern Europe. Nice to outwit your demons.

Mary is making notes with her portable Braille writer. Her exquisite poem on a trip to the beach with her dad and brother took place when she was very young and could see. She has no vision today and couldn't see when I flashed the photo her way.


Donna read a stunning poem about her bipolar disorder. She's collecting her work into a book. She wore gorgeous silver nails which I asked her to display.

Dinner and movies

Nicole and Dan nursed this cat back to health. He's still on meds to combat whatever ailed him. A mystery.


Nicole has only a month to go before Grace Catherine enters the world. The baby weighs 6 pounds.

Remember my tiny cucumber I brought to mom's? Here's the famous sweet n sour salad she's been making since we were kids in Cleveland.

After dinner we watched the new Swedish cliffhanger murder mystery The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Five stars out of five.

Off to the Orchards lickity split

Summertime is Solebury Orchards time. Located outside New Hope PA, it's open Thursday thru Sunday.

I bought a bottle of their ice-cold apple juice w/the sediment on the bottom. Scrumptious!

For breakfast this morning I had their blackberries and blueberries. So delicious! No comparison w/bought fruit. Sorry, Giant.

Rows and rows of blueberry bushes covered with netting so the birds won't get in.

My sister Ellen and I drove 45 minutes to the orchard. We each picked about a pint of blueberries. What a thrill! Dyou remember picking fruit as a kid? Try it sometime. Marcy picks lemons from her lemon tree.

Blueberries grow in sprigs like this.

Manager Freya prepares a batch of apple cider ice in the back. She says they don't have to advertise. They're always busy. Moms and kids were there. When I went to Dan's for dinner I asked if he remembered when I used to take my kids to pick strawberries. He did.

Identity crisis: she thinks she's Bill Hess / Tarp poem

Nice symmetry, Patrick, on your Legos palace. I asked my 6-yo grand-nephew what he likes to be called since there are so many names for him. "Patrick" he answered. No one calls him that. His family calls him Paddy and his teacher calls him Pat.

If I were Bill Hess, I thought, I'd photograph this. Originally there was a second-story on this house on Terwood Road but the builders removed it. Since no one was behind me on this busy street, I stopped and photo'd it thru my window. Note the blue tarp. I'll print my Tarp poem at blog's end if I can find it.


I always have ice-cold water in my car.

When I got home the sun was reflected in the window. Snap! I don't know about you, but I have a special relationship w/the sun. During my second manic-psychotic episode when I was 38 yrs old, I stared at the sun and it gave me messages. Then I asked my then-boyfriend Russell to drive me to the Abington hospital ER. I met a terrific psychiatrist there, a man from Turkey, who I wrote about in the Compass magazine. He gave me some nice little white pills to "cool the fires" as he called it in my brain. He was the only psychiatrist I'd ever met who had respect for the manic-psychotic episode.

TARP IN WINTER

Masculine.
Feather-light folds.
Beating back rain and
rain-becoming-snow.
Knots tied by quiet hands.
Open at the bottom like a
flapping tent, sucking the
wind with bluejay plumes.

Nearly every neighborhood its tarp.
Blue tarps, black tarps,
Wide-shouldered silver tarps
to catch the falling snow.
A little wind, and puff -
the snow rides the wind.

Tarps confer a gritty grandeur
to our block: Porch furniture shrouded in blue,
ornamental trees trussed and pinioned;
boats, marvelous boats, like airplanes, docked,
and blanketed in the rain-soaked yard.

A bedroom, aloft during an
autumn facelift, got stuck with its walls wide open.
A mirrored closet reflects
The roofs of houses, silver maples
caught in the mirror, while
a kneeling man in work gloves
knots the tarp before winter comes.

From my warm bed, I hear them all,
All the tarps in the neighborhood,
flapping in the night air:
Whoo-hoo,
Whoo-hoo.

Heart appt / 2 poems / Clan of Spiders

This morning I had an appt w/my cardiologist to see if my heart can withstand a kidney transplant. I wanted to take a photo of my doctor for my blog but he wouldn't let me. "My picture is on the Internet," he said. "But I wanna take it myself," I said holding up my camera. He shook his head no.

As a consolation I went back in the exam room and shot this horrid picture of some sterile instruments.



And then, still seething w/disapptment, I photographed the hideous parking lot below



Fortunately the human organism is resilient (the new buzz word, for about 3 yrs) so I came back to life and asked the doctor if I have to see him again.

No, he said.

The service I got from Einstein Hospital was so poor that you can only wonder -- and wonder you must -- what would happen if I get a kidney transplant from these people.

My cardiologist complained to me that his department's medical charts were all scattered. I had assiduously forwarded all records to his office and they weren't in my chart. He had to go fetch them manually.

I wanted to photograf him -- b/c of his commanding presence. Possibly he is the strangest looking doctor I've ever had. Unforgettable. Darn, I wanted to photograf him soooo bad.

Yet, I would have married him had he proposed. And our children would have been darling, the little future doctors n scientists, coo-chee coo-chee coo!

I married my dead husband for his brains first and his looks second. I forgot to check for his personality and tender qualities.

The cardiologist said my heart was in great shape. And you know what? If, god forbid, I'd ever need a heart doctor I'd go back to him and that depressing office at Einstein where people hobble in, doubled over from not exercising, for sitting in their office chairs at 10:12 p.m. blogging inane stuff instead of exercising their vital limbs and neck and eyebrows.

Oh! How could I forget. I had two poems published in the Tookany Review. I sent Bill Kulik the requested five and he chose two: Shaker Furniture and Bach or Faure.

I sent the link to a million people I was so prouda the poems -- they're quite good -- I haven't written a really good poem in five years -- unfortunately true -- and I even posted it on Facebook.

On Facebook there are leaders and there are followers. Followers stay mute but read what other people write. Followers suck. Yours truly is a follower. My dtr/law Nicole is a leader. She writes something and a million people applaud by sending out little signals.

I decided to unmute myself and sent three messages today as a leader. I did it unselfconsciously, just to see if I'd pass out and fall on the floor. Nuffin happened.

Will I do it again? I'm betting I will not. Why? I don't wanna be a sheep on Facebook doing what everyone else does. I'm too weird. You'll like these poems. For some reason, Kulik didn't post our bios. People think I'm selfless and a helpful person. Au contraire. I did not even peek at the other poets poems. I couldn't give a FF about what they wrote. All I care about is that Kulik published my two. Click on my name on the Left.



On the way home from the cardio's, I stopped at mom's to give her the above cucumber I cut off the vine. It's not quite big enuf but I wanted her to make her famous sweet n sour cucumbers with vinegar. Dyou believe I didn't tell her -- or my sister -- that I just came from a doctor's appt? At her age, all she talks about is body parts.

One of the folks I mailed my poems to is Rod Crawford who works at a Spider Museum at University of Washington in Seattle. He sent me his updated website -- which I commend you to -- we all have intense relationships with spiders -- click right her.

I met Rod years ago when I emailed him a spider question.

In fact, I just emailed Rod a question: "Should I feel guilty when I kill spiders in my downstairs bathroom? Is there a little prayer I should say when I kill them, or, more accurately, put them outdoors."

He wrote back, Why kill them, they're so helpful! Plus, indoor spiders live indoors while outdoor spiders like the outdoors. In fact, here's a poem I wrote about outdoor spiders.

THE CLAN OF SPIDERS

The early morning
boy and dog
step lightly through the dawn
breaking through the quiet clatter of webs
wrought through the starless night:
lace curtains - feathery fences
they shine with dew
then break
only to be
knit again
by the clan of spiders
when darkness comes.

TV photos

This woman follows me wherever I go.

Keir Dullea, now 74, discussing his role in Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece Space Odyssey: 2001 The film will be aired next week. I think I've seen it six times.

Final scene in Fear Strike Out as Jimmy goes back on the ball field after having ECT and psychotherapy. Scott and I watched this film at dinnertime. He said it was tough to watch cuz it was about Jim's mental breakdown. My favorite line took place in the psych ward. The shrink asked Jim to talk about his dad, who we witness is very tough on Jim, driving him very hard. Nothing is ever good enuf for ole dad, played to perfection by Karl Malden.

I owe my dad everything, said Jim, played by the tall lanky Tony Perkins. I owe him everything...look where I am today. He had just had ECT for his catatonic depression.


Fear Strikes Out by Jimmy Pearsall. Scott was surprised I knew so much about Piersall. Wait a minute, I said, running upstairs, checking my email, getting some ice water, and then running up to the top shelf in my bedroom.

I plopped the book in front of Scott. "You own this?" he said. "Yeah, I bought it as a teenager."

What's for lunch, ma?

Sometimes I pretend I'm a normal person and can eat like anyone else.

You'd never know to look at today's lunch -- which I'll consume after this blog post -- the 'milk' is getting chilled with ice -- that my diet is severely restricted.



Note the pretend milk. It's Rice Milk. I used to love nothing more than a glass of milk with my meals. But now, no dairy foods are allowed on my Kidney-Healthy diet due to their phosphorus.

What's phosphorus?

Just discovered Rainier cherries. In the photo, they're paired with the watermelon. Rainier are actually reliably more delicious than the Bing. You and me can check their website together....ready? Click here.

My monkfish sandwich with sauteed onions and peppers is scrumptious. I hope I'm inspiring a friend of mine -- Hello there, Marce -- to begin cooking for herself. Marce, you may remember, was a character in my famous poem, Bach or Faure?

She was always a great help to me. She probly doesn't remember but in the early days of my psychosis she would come over and keep me company. I lived in terror when I'd get psychotic. We never forget our helpers on this long long journey called life.