Programming

Until this year I never watched a television series, especially not through to its seasonal end. But this year I did, and these left me speechless:

- NCIS I watched on the net the day after its conclusion. The team went to Israel after a Mossad agent was killed by Tony. Ziva stayed behind but at the end we see Ziva bloody and being beaten by Arabs.
- CSI-NY ended with the entire team together under attack and ducking for cover. The after-preview implied one or more of the team would not be back, but they didn't know who would be written out of the series.
- CSI-Miami ended with Eric shot accidentally by Calleigh and missing after trying to save his father.
- Criminal Minds ended after a 2hr special with Hotchner facing a masked intruder with a gun.

Quick Pear Streusel Coffee Cake

Quick Pear Streusel Coffee Cake By Gale Gand From her grandmother on her mother's side, a great baker in the Austria-Hungarian tradition, Gail found this great ample streusel coffee cake recipe in her card files. And here it is revised with a little twist from using pears instead of apples. For the cake: Unsalted butter, for the baking dish 1 1/4c. All purpose flour 2 1/4tsp. baking powder 1/2c. Sugar 1/2tsp. salt 1/2tsp. ground cinnamon One at large egg 1/2c. Whole milk 4tbsp. unsalted butter, melted 2 ripe pears (Bartlett's are preferred,) unpeeled cored and chopped approximately 1 1/2c. For the streusel topping: 1/2c. Sugar 1/4c. All purpose flour 3tbsp. cold unsalted butter, cut up 1tsp. ground cinnamon Heat the oven to 400°F.Butter and 8inch square baking dish. To make cake combine the flour with the baking powder, sugar, salt, and cinnamon in a large bowl. In separate bowl, beat the eggs and then mix in the milk and melted butter. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, add the pears and mix well. Pour this into the buttered baking dish. To make the streusel, mix with the sugar, flour, cold butter and cinnamon in a bowl by the pinching them together with your fingers until well combined. Sprinkle over at the top of the batter. Bake the cake for 30 to 35 minutes until it is golden and dry on top. Cool in and the pan and then cut into squares. This cake keeps for to four days covered at room temperature Recipe courtesy "Gale Gand's Brunch," written by Gale Gand with Christie Matheson, Clarkson Potter, 2009.

The final poem in Poetry Month

Written Late at Night

Almost all day I sat at the table
And, swapping two pens, wrote letters.
One of them, as a joke, was in gothic script.
I tried to be honest, avoid untruth
As far as the truth about myself and events
In their general contour was accessible to me.
Then a few longer phone conversations
And a short break to read eight poems by Cavafy.
How great! Superb! Who can write like that about desire and love,
Admitting that when they burn out
And the bitter tasting of the body is taken away,
They guide the poet’s hand. In them and only in them
All future incantations.

Poet: Janusz Szuber, Translator, Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

From: They Carry a Promise, Random House

Sal Mancini, Photographer

NPR: Meals under $10.00

Chefs submitting good meals for under $10.00.

Here is one I found.

Some Different Kinda Books She asks why we always read books about black people. (I spare her the news she is black.) She wants something different. Her own book is written in pencil. She painstakingly goes back & corrects the misspelled words. We write each day. Each day the words look like a retarded hand from Mars wrote them. Each day she asks me how do you spell: didn't, tomorrow, done husband, son, learning, went, gone . . . I can't think of all the words she can’t spell. It’s easier to think of what she can spell: MY NAME IS CARMEN LOPEZ. I am sorry I was out teacher. My husband was sick. You know I never miss school. In that other program I wasn't learning nothing. Here, I'm learning so I come. What's wrong with my husband? I don't know. He's in the hospital. He's real sick I was almost out the room when I hear the nurse ask him, Do you do drugs? He say yes. I say what! I don’t know nuthin' 'bout no drugs. I'm going off in the hospital. He's sick. I'm mad. Nobody tells you nuthin'! I didn't hear that nurse I wouldn't know nuthin'. Huh? Condoms? No, teacher. He's my husband. I never been with another man. II I think he got AIDS he still don't tell me. I did teacher. I tried to read the chart at the hospital but I couldn't figure out those words. Doctor don't say, he say privacy. The nurse tell me. She's Puerto Rican. She say your husband got AIDS. I go off in the hospital. Nobody tells me nuthin'. He come home. He say it's not true, he's fine. He's so skinny without his clothes he try to hide hisself nekkid don't want me to look. I say you got to use one of those things. He say nuthin's wrong. with him. III He stop sayin' that. Now he just say he's gonna die all the time all the time dying. I say STOP that talk, the doctor say you could live a long time my sister-in-law say, he got it so you got it it's like that. I say, I don't got it, my kids don't got it either. Teacher, I need a letter for welfare that I'm coming to school on a regular basis. IV He's in P.R., before that he started messing around again. Over the Christmas holidays he died. That's where I was at in P.R. I'm fine. Yeah, I'm sure teacher. What do I wanna do teacher? I just wanna read some different kinda book Poet: Sapphire Collection: Black Wings & Blind Angels

---

Poetry Month: John Hollander

Some Playthings

A trembling brown bird
standing in the high grass turns
out to be a blown

oakleaf after all.
Was the leaf playing bird, or
was it “just” the wind

playing with the leaf?
Was my very noticing
itself at play with

an irregular
frail patch of brown in the cold
April afternoon?

These questions that hang
motionless in the now-stilled
air: what of their

frailty, in the light
of even the most fragile
of problematic

substances like all
these momentary playthings
of recognition?

Questions that are asked
of questions: no less weighty
and lingeringly

dark than the riddles
posed by any apparent
bird or leaf or breath

of wind, instruments
probing what we feel we know
for some kind of truth.

Poet: John Hollander

Collection: A draft of light

...in Pittsburgh ... to Pittsburgh

J.R. Weldin Company; 415 Wood Street; Pittsburgh, PA 15222 This is Pittsburgh's oldest store since 1852. It has stationary, pens and more.


Good Sushi, great pastry, wonderful bread.

Eat out as often as possible.

Suzanne's journal prompt

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.
~Helen Keller

Today's Yahoo Prediction

Everything is right in front of you, waiting for you to just reach out and grab it!

Poetry Month: Mark Strand

The Midnight Club

The gifted have told us for years that they want to be loved
For what they are, that they, in whatever fullness is theirs,
Are perishable in twilight, just like us. So they work all night
In rooms that are cold and webbed with the moon's light;
Sometimes, during the day, they lean on their cars,
And stare into the blistering valley, glassy and golden,
But mainly they sit, hunched in the dark, feet on the floor,
Hands on the table, shirts with a bloodstain over the heart.

I Had Been a Polar Explorer

I had been a polar explorer in my youth
and spent countless days and nights freezing
in one blank place and then another. Eventually,
I quit my travels and stayed at home,
and there grew within me a sudden excess of desire,
as if a brilliant stream of light of the sort one sees
within a diamond were passing through me.
I filled page after page with visions of what I had witnessed—
groaning seas of pack ice, giant glaciers, and the windswept white
of icebergs. Then, with nothing more to say, I stopped
and turned my sights on what was near. Almost at once,
a man wearing a dark coat and broad-brimmed hat
appeared under the trees in front of my house.
The way he stared straight ahead and stood,
not shifting his weight, letting his arms hang down
at his side, made me think that I knew him.
But when I raised my hand to say hello,
he took a step back, turned away, and started to fade
as longing fades until nothing is left of it.

Jill Bialosky: 7 April Poetry Month

Jill Bialosky's Intruder is a volume which stretches our understanding of the creative process and the mind behind it, as in "Touch-Me-Nots," given below.

---

Touch-Me-Nots She brought a little of the country into the city in the pots of impatiens she had planted. The petals white, pure, the opposite of color. She had transferred the impatiens from the garden, digging her hands into soil two parts fibrous loam, one part leaf mold and peat moss and pushing the roots into the earth. Despite the quality of the soil—its rich decomposition of life— still they would not last. The plants were hardy and tender, with thick stems and dark green leaves, the seedpods inside waiting to release, the air awash in pollen. She looked into the flower as into a pair of beckoning eyes offering sustenance independent of a body, free floating and regenerative and wholly belonging to what was impossible ever to touch.

Dreams, quote

“Dreams are renewable. No matter what our age or condition, there are still untapped possibilities within us and new beauty waiting to be born.”

Dale E. Turner quote

Ruth Padel? 3 April Poetry Month

Like Giving to a Blind Man Eyes

He’s standing in Elysium. Palm feathers, a green
dream of fountain against blue sky. Banana fronds,
slack rubber rivulets, a canopy of waterproof tearstain
over his head. Pods and racemes of tamarind.
Follicle, pinnacle; whorl, bole and thorn.

‘I expected a good deal. I had read Humboldt
and was afraid of disappointment.’
What if he’d stayed at home? ‘How utterly vain
such fear is, none can tell but those who have seen
what I have today.’ A small rock off Africa –

alone with his enchantment. So much and so unknown.
Like taking a newborn baby in your arms. ‘Not only the grace
of forms and rich new colours: it’s the numberless –
& confusing – associations rushing on the mind!’
He walks through hot damp air

and tastes it like the breath of earth, like blood.
He is possessed by chlorophyll. By the calls of unknown birds.
He wades into sea and scares an octopus. It puffs black hair
at him, turns red – as hyacinth – and darts for cover.
He sees it watching him. He’s discovered

something wonderful! He tests it against coloured card
and the sailors laugh. They know that girly blush!
He feels a fool – but look, he’s touched tropical Volcanic rock
for the first time. And Coral on its native stone.
‘Often at Edinburgh have I gazed at little pools
of water left by tide. From tiny Corals of our shores

I pictured larger ones. Little did I know how exquisite,
still less expect my hope of seeing them to come true.
Never, in my wildest castles of the air, did I imagine this.’
Lava must once have streamed on the sea-floor here,

baking shells to white hard rock. Then a subterranean force
pushed everything up to make an island.
Vegetation he’s never seen, and every step a new surprise.
’New insects, fluttering about still newer flowers. It has been
for me a glorious day, like giving to a blind man eyes.’

Listen to Ruth Padel reading a poem of Darwin’s boyhood, “Stealing the Affection of Dogs.”

J. D. McClatchy: 1 April Poetry Month

J. D. McClatchy's new volume of poems, Mercury Dressing, brings us fresh tales of the drama of love and its aftermath, exploring figures by turns heroic, operatic, and simply human.

---

Going Back to Bed Up early, trying to muffle the sounds of small tasks, grinding, pouring, riffling through yesterday's attacks or market slump, then changing my mind—what matter the rush to the waiting room or the ring of some later dubious excuse?— having decided to return to bed and finding you curled in the sheet, a dream fluttering your eyelids, still unfallen, still asleep, I thought of the old pilgrim when, among the fixed stars in paradise, he sees Adam suddenly, the first man, there in a flame that hides his body, and when it moves to speak, what is inside seems not free, not happy, but huge and weak, like an animal in a sack. Who had captured him? What did he want to say? I lay down beside you again, not knowing if I'd stay, not knowing where I'd been.

John Updike: 1 April Poetry Month

Half Moon, Small Cloud, John Updike

Caught out in daylight, a rabbit’s
transparent pallor, the moon
is paired with a cloud of equal weight:
the heavenly congruence startles.

For what is the moon, that it haunts us,
this impudent companion immigrated
from the system’s less fortunate margins,
the realm of dust collected in orbs?

We grow up as children with it, a nursemaid
of a bonneted sort, round-faced and kind,
not burning too close like parents, or too far
to spare even a glance, like movie stars.

No star but in the zodiac of stars,
a stranger there, too big, it begs for love
(the man in it) and yet is diaphanous,
its thereness as mysterious as ours.

Today's impersonal horoscope

"You are holding yourself to standards that are too high to reach. Scale them back."

A start

I come from humble beginnings.

My materal grandfather was a farmer. My paternal grandfather owned a bath house, but years of story telling by my grandmother had him a soldier before coming to America.

Quotes

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles.

Charlie Chaplin
British actor, director, & screenwriter (1889 - 1977)

Quotes

If we're growing,
we're always going to be out of our comfort zone.

~ John Maxwell

Catch it before it flies away

A dream that is. A wish fulfillment dream, I'll call it.

Amsterdam, Capobianco, good friends, a wonderful outdoor/indoor cafe, with lockers. Freedom to be myself, no judgment, the possibility of a 5 year pension, a house on a straat, not a canal, slender figure, admiration of acquaintances, & some revealing clothing.

It started to rain cancelling my plans, but Capobianco reappeared and I suspect we went off together.

Then I awoke, gleeful as a girl.

Loss in Dreams

I was away, abroad and upon my return I was worried that everything would be intact. I couldn't find my apartment, 5D, in a vast side by side sprawl of apartments. I came upon what I thought was 5D but it was 5P.

I had too many things to carry, typical, and although M was with me, too much to bring upstairs.

5D kept eluding me. We found a floor manager, a strange thought, and he took my key to open the door.

He seemed to disappear, too, and we went downstairs to bring up the balance of my possessions.

We found another elevator bank.

M and I seem to be separated.

I got into the elevator with three other people--two women and a man. Strange behavior of the couple. I was still shell shocked, humbled by my loss, or separation, and suddenly before we reached the fifth floor, I realized I had probably lost my laptop.

Dream ended.

Dreams

About G; more about Marc (Worcester) and friends and acquaintances w/H.

Quote this one

“Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened," says Dr. Seuss

The Love of my life

I didn't marry the love of my life. Reluctant to commit to someone as flighty as I was then, and having already had one failed marriage, each step that brought us closer also inevitably pulled us apart.

Movies, Sex Workers

Interesting piece in Alternet. I haven't seen any of these films.

The Artful List

1. Yo te quiero much
   
2. Beanie's Treasure Box
3. Holocaust Series
4. Susan B. Anthony
5. Just Journaling
6. Just Experimenting

J sent this to me today for Valentine's Day

Paul Colin (1892­1985)

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...
It's about learning to dance in the rain.

A loving and lovely story

About a heart that passes from one to another.

Stewart Chase

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.”

Other quotes from Criminal Minds here.

Gathering the Words, Pentacles

"Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come."

- Proverb

Writers' Rooms in the Guardian

Writers' Rooms series at the Guardian.

Gathering the Words, Pentacles

Accept losses as gains.

Gathering the Words, Pentacles

Spending money is not the solution for poverty of the Soul.

Gathering the Words, Finding the Images

As I was cleaning up the kitchen, a little, I saw the sheet music, and realized that I could use it to visualize BM:

"he was nothing but a voice"

or better yet

"he was but a voice"

Journal Suggestions from Misty for a Month

• Self Portrais
  Colours: White, Blue, Orange, Green, Red, Yellow, Pink
  Embellishments (buttons, beads, fabric etc.)
  Word Art (focus on one word)
  Alter a photo
• Just crayons
• Your favourite artist as a focus
• Shapes

Desnos: Holocaust

When I think of Desnos, I think of the beauty of his dislocated syntax. I think of possibility, freedom, a horse running free.

May Sarton quotes

Here is a reference to May Sarton quotes at Painter's Key.

If I manage to drag myself to the fires and write a short story about women's relationships these might be included...somehow, somewhere.

A good recipe for Kugel

Here's a recommended recipe for kugel--something I've never made.

Harold Pinter

Another contemporary dies. Harold Pinter at 70-odd.

And more on Pinter.

RIP.

Fighting, Curing HIV and AIDs

Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infections Diseases in the U.S., said the procedure was too costly and too dangerous to employ as a firstline cure. But he said it could inspire researchers to pursue gene therapy as a means to block or suppress HIV.

The complete article is here.

Will this be available on all networks?

God on Trial?

Are we terrorists?

Is this legal?

Vulgarity and all

This sums up my feelings.

Another Author Fallen

Tony Hillerman, who wrote more than a bookshelf worth of mysteries died.

RIP in the Navaho.

I want to be Vice President...

The Washington Post's video cartoon

Hilarious: Get the Voter Campaign

How will this play in Peoria?

The Acorn at my doorstep

Salon talks about the recent controversy stirred by Senator McCain about voter fraud. Who is the real fraud?

An Important vote for Justice

It appears that a return to Justice is in the wind as some try to turn the tides to the dark side.

Female Clinton Supporters may say no to McCain-Palin

One NH resident,Carol Kunz, a 42-year-old attorney from Manchester, said, "To compare the two women is insulting to women everywhere."

And whether I live in NH or PA, I couldn't imagine voting for the Republican ticket in today's times and hope that more voters in New Hampshire feel the way those quoted in this piece suggest.

Milan Kundera Accused

It appears that with more intent than fact accusations can be made, publicized and taken as literal. Defending oneself is difficult in these situations and more so for the likes of Kundera.

Memory and Cycles

Now this article comes at the precise moment I've been concerned with my own short-term memory.

An endearing story

A wistful, romantic story true or false.

Thoughtful Article in Newsweek

Still coming out strong, Newsweek reports the sad story of why Senator McCain may have selected Gov. Palin as his running mate.

McCain says the surge is working

Then why are we seeing suicide bombers in Iraq.

Searching for what makes sense

I've taken out much of my artwork, sorted some of it, and trying to organise not only the mounds of collages, loose papers and completed projects, but more importantly my thoughts.

I've signed up for a refresher and/or entry level framing workshop on Saturday coming, 27 September in Livingston Manor in the hope that if I do go on with my collages I can also frame them myself--flat, or with a mat.

It's not as if I am keeping count

Another fallen at 68, mystery writer Crumley. Eleven books under his belt, I only heard today that he died as I was driving home from Honesdale.

Rest in peace.

In a world where trees matter

This editorial caught my eye this morning in the Boston Globe, and it underscores once more why I'd prefer living in Vermont.

Panajchel

D called from Panajchel tonight and we had a long, wonderful talk.

It made Guatemala more real and a greater possibility as the conversation went on. She says Panajchel is affordable, less expensive than when we lived in Taos, mild in Winter (January-March) and pleasant to visit.

I am going to start a Guatemala fund on Monday and see if I can build it up enough to make a two month sojourn.

The container search

Sometime yesterday I started to seriously sort through the plastic bins down cellar, the very bins I bought to protect my paper, artwork and collage material from the humidity. I brought up to the living room two of the many and have created quite a few piles, separating the

• tarot cards
• finished art work
• unfinished art work
• collage material

It looks as if I am missing several of the 22 tarot cards I produced in the Temple exchange and that I don't have the original artwork.

Also it appears I may be farther along with the Holocaust series than I remembered as I found quite a few in progress, and also the collage material for others.

In addition to the 8x10 collages I could add the Dark Materials piece, and a piece of art I must have done for a collaborative project that I am quite fond of that depicts Naxism in the 30s.

A fairly good beginning effort to re-enter the world of visual art.

Getting the juices flowing

Nothing like a deadline to get a job done. It appears that outofsight is running the 11th International Collage Exhibition and Exchange , formerly known as the Baker's Dozen
show and the work is due in NZ on 20 March 2009.

Can I beat the clock?

Keen Slip ons from Sierra Trading

I got a catalogue from Sierra Trading and they had those Keens I wanted from Back Country or a close match for $30.00 less. I got them in the mail today.

The Last of the Neanderthals

No magazine can compete with the National Geographic for pictorial and historical fodder and they did it again in this article about the Last of the Neanderthals.

Not only did they stir up my interest in history, but they touched on that growing sense of unrest that is percolating inside of me--to travel.

The things that sooth, those that unnerve

Finishing up an article for a news magazine is one of those things that unnerve--will it be accepted, how much will it be edited, have I hit the high points, the right points or met my editor's goal? I heard from my editor today and she gave me a passing grade but also did quite a bit of editing. But it is over, the waiting to hear and the finish line.

Now I'm thinking of those personal and creative endeavors that sooth rather than rattle my senses.

The projects I have in the hopper, or rather are either on my mind or on my drawing board are not necessarily quieting, either.

So, what's next?

I have a workshop coming up if registration is sufficient in October.

I have a quasi-outline of an article to do with a photography friend for a major magazine.

Neither of these will still the voices inside that scream at me.

Perhaps all I can do today is sort rather than start the juices flowing, or maybe sorting will get those juices coursing through my system.

Dark Art Project

Although I found the notebook of all the other artists' work my own contribution to the project was missing.

Tonight I opened one of the several storage containers and there it was--ready to be resurrected and brought into the light.

I had so many plans for this work, a handmade book shaped like an envelop, barbed wire to keep the pages together, various sizes, shapes, thoughts but none materialized.

Now it is time to publish it or see it perish.

November 25, 1945--A man shall be as rivers of water in a dry land. Soon I'll be on dry land.

Holocaust Series

After more than three years of neglect it is time for me to return to the Holocaust series. I found Westerbork and have Geboren in my office, but the the others are more a product of my mind than my paint.

Long over-due!


Geboren: born

Letter from the Road

On June 22, 2006 (at 05:57:40 PM MDT) I wrote, "thanks, sweetie,

not certain this was such a good idea but I'm certainly on the road.

I made it through the entire State (to Las Cruces). Las Cruces is among the finest towns/cities in the entire State but hot, hot, hot. It was 104 when I was there in this little community called Mesilla (just a few miles south of Las Cruces itself)) and a college town.

Today I made it as far north-east as Roswell. Well, I haven't met any aliens yet but judging from the terrain coming into town I can imagine Martians or crater-aliens landing. It is dry, flat, and somewhat strange. While traveling I thought of you often as I am certain you would have been so fascinated with the changing landscape and
vegetation. I saw some large cacti that looked like scarecrow in the Western desert, but here at the eastern end, fewer and very few with blooms of any kind. Somewhere before Ruidoso are White Sands, a military base, but actually large areas of sand, the first and last I've encountered. And no water, just dry, parched land, and green where there is heavy irrigation.

Ruidoso (yesterday) is in a huge forest, and coming into and out of it, I was surrounded by nearly lush green valleys. Ruidoso is the mildest of the three cities I've been in the last few days. However, when I visited the old cabin of an acquaintance the land around was patchy, and so dry I was afraid it would go up in smoke. All around me have been fires.

Last Saturday Lani and David couldn't come down to Taos (from Clayton) because they were having two terrible fires coming in two directions at them and the ranch. We missed them! :(

I've learned a lot about NM this week, not much good I am afraid. The North, Taos and Santa Fe are really the picture book towns of the State. Although I do admit (I say admit freely) that Las Cruces impressed me but not enough to stay because of the intolerable heat. I couldn't enjoy walking around, and seeing whether the surface beauty is more than surface.

I'm having dinner with an acquaintance I made today at the Roswell Chamber (my age, sex and a person who lived in Taos) at a recommended Italian cafe. Roswell is a flat piece of over-rated real estate, another tourist town, but not perty at all. Two museums tomorrow and then it's up North again.

I'll stay in touch but this was the first wireless internet cafe I've found.

All my love, and I sent the Bean her gifties from Alamagordo yesterday,
two day priority. Please let me know when it arrives. If the dress is too small, send it right back because the owner of the store said I can exchange it for the three. I thought it was so beautiful and it reminded me of YOU! :)

Kisses on your pillow,

Meme

>On Monday, June 19, 2006, at 06:07 PM, Marijke Hecht wrote:
>
>> glad to hear you are going to take a trip...paint some pictures for
>> me...let me know where you are at in general.
>> i love you
>> xox
>> m
>>
>> On 6/17/06, Zoe Hecht <parsifalssister@mac.com> wrote:
>>
>> Good talk; I'm going to take your suggestion and do a week or more trip
>> down South and see New Mexico. I called Bob (and his Leslie) and told
>> them I was 85% certain I'd do this. It gives them a little breathing
>> room, also, to keep the electricity off and see how to get this couple
>> out of the house.
>>
>> I love you and only wish life was simplier or I was younger!
>>
>> Give big knuffles to the Bean, Popi and Papa,
>>
>> Meme
>>
>>
>
>

A pretty new one year old

Ruby Slippers, just a little over one year (August 2008).

Just for Laughs

New Milford, CT 2003

Out of nowhere or somewhere I found a receipt for two books, bought at Baileywick Books on Bank Street. The books were Ladies Detectives and Morality for Beautiful Girls.

The date of the purchase was 22 August 2003.

Now I didn't remember being in New Milford in '03. The house was gone in '97.

I'm miffed and will have to jiggle my memory.

Is this $12.00 Mapcase the same as the Tom Bilhn

Side by side, a Mapcase that costs $12.00
















and a Bihn bag at $50.00.


Which one?

It is my hope that all women will unite against

the misrepresentation of what women want and who women are and take up this banner:

As my contemporaries fall or sleep

I contemplate my own life. And suicide is not uncommon among my peers.

The Boston Globe, a newspaper I still have a strong attachment to has a gallery of 2008 deaths.

September 11

If you were among those going to work on that Tuesday morning 7 years ago you might have missed the television coverage or the blow by blow updates on the tumbling down of two skyscrapers.

I was one of those people.

I was on the "A" train or perhaps that morning the "C" train when the first aeroplane hit, and just about to enter my Penn Plaza office building when the second plane came into view and struck the second building.

My own memory of the minute to minute details are not clear but last night MSNBC telecasted two hours of that fateful morning. Katie Couric, Tom Brokaw and others were obviously in their studio, each trying to get information from Downtown, Washington and elsewhere. Andrea Mitchell seemed to have some information as did others whose names then and now are less recognizable.

It took quite some time for the facts, or at least those facts I know now, to develop.

I understood better after seeing the broadcast why my Albany staff asked if they could go home. One of the broadcasters said or implied that other sky-risers might be attacked. The staff was in former Governor Rockefeller's Towers miles away but feeling unsafe.

I remember seeing the second Tower collapse when I entered the Institute's NYC Director's office--and it now appears that was after ten.

I don't remember precisely when Mark and I left the comfort of our offices to walk Downtown but I do remember it was around Noon and that I arrived in Greenwich Village hungry.

I also remember, too starkly, the pillowing clouds of smoke in the sky as we turned the corner onto the Avenue of the Americas (6th Avenue) and Greenwich Avenue.

And even now 7 years later if I sniff I can smell death.

The facts of that day are surreal and watching the program all these years later didn't make it more real but rather stranger.

I knew people in those buildings, and knew people who often went to one of the two buildings enroute elsewhere. Of those I knew personally, like Maria, for one reason or another, they were either late or had a change in plans. The little difference in time saved their lives but something about people's souls changed.

Brokaw seemed to understand and voice what would develop after that day and remains in the consciousness of all Americans--fear.

Where the Wild Things Are

in Maurice Sendak's head or on my finger-tips, it seems we often don't value our strengths or acknowledge our successes.

To read that Mr. Sendak, the remarkable man of children's literature doubts himself almost gives me courage--but that almost gets caught in my throat.

It is also difficult to image that the author is 80 years old, and that I won't be at this birthday party at the 92nd Street Y (NYC).

His books, like Allen's movies, were tiny mirrors into my own childhood, writings and visual images that both awakened memories long lost but reborn with their charm, wit and humour.

I grew up you see, like so many others, in Brooklyn, where trees grew, and Really Rosie could dance in an open cellar door to the delight of her friends. I grew up in a Brooklyn that sheltered Coney Island, the Ferris Wheel, the Cyclone and the imagination.

The sand under our feet on Beach 2, Nathan's hotdogs, good neighbourhood schools, bicycles, and huge sour pickles even in the morning, were the making of many of my dreams, and some of my reality.

Thank you Maurice Sendak and happy belated birthday.

Lonely Planet and Guatemala

It's time to focus on what will serve me, and spending time elsewhere this Winter is definitely in my best interest.

D is back in Guatemala. I just checked the air fare and it is reasonable. And it is feasible to stop in Mexico and possibly see Mary.

I'm going to give Lonely Planet more of my attention.

Do I need either of these?

One of the things I've always been addicted to is hand bags--of which I have many--but I haven't bought one for a year and the two I did buy are both summer bags. So should I give myself permission to buy this spiffy one from Tom Biln in Washington State at $50.00?

And if I do what colour would I buy. My two winter jackets are black with red trim and khaki with an orange inner shell.

Also I learned the hard way how wet this area is and while I have really good, heavy boots, all my shoes are made for city-streets and urban life.

And Back Country is offering this pair of shoes for a mere $85.00

The Booker omissions and inclusions

I always look forward to the nominations, and this year, I am surprised by the outcome.

The Baker's Dozen

This is the line up I outlined before I left NYC for the Baker's Dozen

1. Overlevende
2. Shutesburgy
3. Tsivia
4. Fad to Black
5. Gorillas
6. Wisp of White
7. Discarded Love
8. Augusta (Siracusa
9. Faces of Resistance
10. Deer - Fish - Please do not immerse
11. 6M - Where I live
12. Behind the Clouds
13. Room for Rent
    

Back to the Visual

This was the line up for the "H" series

• Geboren (EN)
• Chana
• Dood
• Resistance
• Survived
• Ravensbruck
• Westerbork (EN)
  
• Sobibor (Poland)
• Treblinka
• Buckenwald
• Gypsies (Zigounor)
• Murderers (see stamp sites)
• Rescuers

Starting early on Friday morning until mid-day Sunday was a spinning top of local activity. The Wayne County Arts Alliance held its Artist Studio tour, Callicoon had its street fair, and Narrowsburg celebrated its annual Riverfest.

We started out in Honesdale to see stonework, and then headed over to Richard and Roberta's fabulous property at the Overlook road. Both stops were well worth it, but I went on to Mary's alone to see her plein aire pastels, gab and drink a cool glass of lemonade.

I thought High Watermark was scheduled for Friday night, but L called to check and we both discovered it was Saturday, so we stayed in, talked nearly all night and ate Chinese food.

Then Saturday I devoted myself to Callicoon's Street Fair, and held a few impromptu interviews with the Fly Fishers and the Men's Hunting Club. I also approached the Livingston Manor Quilters--not a very receptive group.

HighWater was a good evening with Tom reading one of his amazing short stories--a compelling narrative of a trumpet player. I certain hope it reaches a wider audience and appears in print. I also met some new and interesting folks.

With just enough sleep to start Sunday morning with one cup of coffee, I dashed over to see Jim's barn structure, and stayed for more than an hour talking wood, barns, politics and life in the county. I excused myself to make my way to Ray and Carol's house to see his famous sculpture and amazing jewelry.

Imagine my surprise to find MlG doing a video of Ray, and my further surprise that somehow J and I miscommunicated and she never met me.

When passing through Narrowsburg I spied a parking space so I checked out Riverfest, and met a few of my neighbours and acquaintances. It is always lovely to met CB, a most accommodating and warm person to chat with anytime and even in the middle of a street fair.

I also stopped to chat with Charles, and ask if I could call and interview him for my convivium article. He agreed.

By the time I had retraced my steps back to my own house, I was exhausted but smiling.

Ross is off to college

Liz just flew by in her Legacy, beeping her horn.

Ross is off to Ohio and his first days of college.

About writing

My son in law is a writer. He writes for journals, magazines, does television and radio stories and possibly, secretly, he may be writing or has written something more personal. He started out in a career as a newspaper journalist, but is now free-lance.

Today, he sent me this online article from the pen of Elizabeth Gilbert about writing. I am not familiar with her work, and the book itself, although a best seller, doesn't appeal to me, but I do have to think about "what writing means to me."

Last night, in the dark, I kept writing down a few words and thinking about them: Dancing, Singing, Acting, Writing, Painting.

I closed my eyes in that dark room and tried to imagine each of these in my life.

Dancing came first. Why, I ask? I started out at age four as a tap-dancer. It didn't last long, and it never became a career, but I know whilst in acting school, I enjoyed the movement class as much as the ad lib classes. I also remember how free and wonderful I felt just plain dancing at parties, in ballrooms, at a night club or in my underwear in my own bedroom.

Have we confused Hollywood and the White House?

It is so discouraging to think that some people in this country, or perhaps many, think we are making a film about the United States rather than living in the United States.

Real world issues and home grown issues that will affect us today and future generations are on the table, but folks are playing to the crowd as if a projector was rolling and any outcome could be determined by the film footage.

A man that served his country and was interred as a POW does not make a hero, but a man who suffered misfortune. It doesn't make him a qualified candidate to run a country.

A woman who applauds an early pregnancy, and touts a rifle is not tough but 'ig'norant about the consequences of early child rearing.

And on the other side, I am not blind to the celebrity status Obama has received or the shortcomings of Joe Biden, but taken as a whole, trying to step back from the stage, I'd say we have a better chance, not an absolute victory, with this Democratic ticket than with this Republican one.

Convivium underway and pens put away

I officially started "Art of Convivium" today and might have worked on it longer but Ross came over, and then I went over to the B-H's for a bite to eat, and two glasses of our famous Tisdale.

So with more than 1300 words written and only half way through my interviews, I undoubtedly have my work cut out for me this week to meet Friday's deadline.

And in an effort to avoid confusion and distractions I've put away all the fountain pens floating around, inks and their related paraphernalia. I've also unsubscribed to all the forum to avoid being transfixed by talk of more ink and fountain pens.

I believe a reasonable hiatus from the pens and their life is in order and mandatory.

The Sun is Down

I promised myself a few days ago that I would alternate, and try to accomplish three stickies each day, but that these would be diverse, (a) physical, (b) mental and (c) emotional.

Today I spent a considerable amount of time taking wallpaper off in the Princess Room (physical); talked to my daughter for more than an hour (emotional) and gave more serious thought to Convivium and made some notes on the draft(mental).

Mission accomplished!

The New York Times Book Review

I receive the reviews on Friday in my email box because I can't get them easily or at all in print form. This fact frustrates me and forces me to read for long periods of time on-line. But read it I must, and enjoy it I do.

Reading today but two of many reviews I found myself harkening back to the summer of 1960, the year I sat through two summer classes at Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn. Mind, Erasmus was not my ordinary school but the school that offered me the opportunity to graduate one semester shy of eight from Midwood High School established more than one hundred fifty years later and a staunch competitor back then.

In that lazy summer of two classes, a long bus ride across Brooklyn and the introduction of jay-walking tickets, I received two "As" one for Creative Writing.

Why am I remembering this now?

I believe I took my pen to paper by carefully observing the brilliant writing in the New York Times Book Review section, and thus increasing my already well-established vocabulary, and re-enforcing my small but successful gift for writing better than average.

As I was admiring the first of the two reviews, I realized that none other than Joyce Carol Oates was speaking out to me years after I've lost track or touch with her words--words that in the past echoed into a large window-less room of my own unacknowledged childhood trauma.

Now as I continue to postpone and procrastinate my own writing, I find several of her words reverberating in my head: predilection and wry, just two of the many words she introduces into her review of "The American Wife" by Curtis Sittenfeld.

I also had a flash back to crossing the large expansive Flatbush Avenue on which Erasmus fronted, in thought and not mindful of ongoing traffic, and a police presence.

As a result of my dreaming of words, my own and the writers of those reviews, I received the first registered jay-walking ticket in the City of New York.

Do Americans Need a Civics Class?

I can't believe that Senator John McCain or the Republicans can think that one woman equals another and that Gov. Palen is the same or similar to Senator Clinton--merely because they both share the same gender.

It appears that they think women are stupid.

Three years later

It nearly shocked me that it was three years ago that New Orleans was hit by Hurricane Katrina.

I was still working full-time, but had taken the week off to visit G, and also see a friend in Raleigh, NC. In fact, I was actually considering a retirement move to North Carolina.

In these three years, I've lived one whole year in Taos, NM and ate in all their restaurants.

I lived six weeks in Pittsburgh, PA awaiting the birth of my second grand-daughter.

I was on and off the road between March 2007 and September 2007, but spent the entire summer of '07 in Guilford, VT and the month of May in Belfast, Maine.

Stunning changes.

An exaggerated story

Reading Alternet, I see that perhaps Senator John McCain exaggerated his treatment as a POW, and I wonder, "Do we all remember pain more severely, joy more exuberantly and the stillness of just being as boredom?"

It appears that Phillip Butler remembers the Senator's experience as less harsh, and that I remember some of my own life experiences with a different eye and ear than those around me.

How can we balance truth, from not fiction, but from a more objective position?

Art on the Loose...at rest!

During the last month I went through boxes, piles and folders to gather together all the issues of Art on the Loose, a zine I started when I went back to visual art.

The first issue I put together in Burlington and the last in Scottsdale--six issues in all.

Now they are comb bound together, no other copies survive as I burn barrelled them last week, and this single example will find a place on my bookshelf, downstairs, and be discovered sometime in the future.

In addition to the issues, I had one pocket put in the back, and one single blank sheet of card between each issue.

I may have something to write on the those blanks about what I was thinking, feeling and arting during that issue.

A project complete--on the artful journey!

Gamin writes

I was first introduced to Neil Gaimin, not as a novelist, but as the collaborator of Dave McKean and comic books. I was introduced to graphic novel comic books because of my keen interest in artistic tarot cards.

I believe I read that Gaimin was short-listed for the Man Booker prize for Neverwhere, one of my favourite science fiction novels.

Dave McKean's tarot, Vertigo, is also a big favourite of mine, and one I often take on trips.

Eyeglasses, Ice Cream and a Bagel

I was more than delighted to receive a call yesterday, "Your eyeglasses are ready."

So, a shift in plans and a trip to Honesdale rather than joining the action at the Damascus Citizens Auction got me comfortable new eye-wear, a new eye-glass case, a stop at the Cafe for a bagel with Nova, a plus one cup of coffee and a relaxing and profitable morning.

Before I stopped at the Cafe, I went over to Quality Print and organised the comb binding of my Art on the Loose zines, with inserts, and a pocket envelop. I also had my new Medi-card laminated and my wonderful old Tarot Joker spiffed up.

After filling up at Turkey Hill, I stopped at one of several yard sales and picked up a clothes rack (72") for a mere three dollars, and then traveled up Galilee to the Ice Cream stand. There I ordered some ice cream, to go, and bought two plants, one a hanging tomatoe with lots of small green tomatoes. I hung it up on the front porch.

It's a birthday weekend and one I'd like to remember with fond-ness, and fun.

Nearly there...

I had a few excellent interviews yesterday, and have 3 more on my list to follow up, and then I have to write, write, write and keep my personal promise to myself to be finished and ready for M's return from France on 20 August.

Will I make it?

A Sullivan County Artist

Had a good interview with Tom in his Callicoon studio today--made it there and back avoiding the rain. I even had time to make it to the Farmer's Market and get some Flemish quiche (3 for $19.00).

Soon I'll be so organised I'll make my own quiche again.

I also managed to buy another wooden rocker, almost a twin to the rocker I bought at the other Tom's antique shop but for only a tenner. It does need some work, but nothing that can't be fixed with a wee bit of wood and a tube of glue.

I have satisfied my rocker mania and saved $390. by not buying the two hand-made rockers up at Kellem's.

Sullivan County Dramatic Workshop

I had a terrific interview with these folks today.

And tomorrow I am meeting Tom at his studio.

This leaves an additional four interviews to conclude this week.

The Art of Convivium

I really should have posted on "an artful journey" about this project rather than Pentamento, but apparently got carried away by that blog.

I have several more interviews: one local community organiser; my art pal, Tom; two more theatre folks; perhaps someone at the Hancock writing group and the 4 Corners folks regarding fiber arts.

I'd really like to put this article to bed before August 18 and be prepared for Michel's return from France on the 20th so that we can start actively visiting, interviewing and photographing the farmers.

Many Wands

Yesterday and again today I pulled Wands.

And two days in a row, the Emperor.

I've been buzzing around the Scriptwriter 1250

I found a way, finally, to get it all together. L's old Scripterwriter 1250 and my two over-packed containers of small computer disks have joined together to produce the written words that started on my Macintosh SE.

These are not ordinary disks but the receptacles of nearly ten years of writing, writing that started simply, and ended with a burst of energy that didn't seem to end.

I've been able to print out several of these disks, and occasionally as the page sits actively on the computer monitor I pause to read a word, then a sentence and continue to get absorbed in the story line.

Yes, it appears that in among morning pages, PWs and poetry, there exists the real making of short stories.

Another icon of my reading life has died today.