Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A gray scaly fish, dead,
with a glazed eye bulging
past its socket,
floated on the water.
I dipped my hand into icy Echo Lake,
rocking the rowboat.
My father said sit still,
do you want to turn us over?
Of course not I told myself,
because if we fall in and we sink,
I'll get lost in a bottomless evermore.
Echo Lake was lassoed by trees
in a ragged circle,
the sky rising above forever,
and water that went down, kept going
on a path till it reached a star
on the other side.
Nothing returned to raise its head
If I called out
only my own voice would come back
over and over like a ghost
before I became one.
And that would not save me.
My father was right,
so I sat still.
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Monday, March 30, 2009
MYSELF AND ALL ARIES,
SHUT YOUR MOUTH TODAY!
Don't say anything. Better to be safe
than sorry. Zip it. Stuff will enter your
mind today that's better left unsaid.
Might create a problem if you can't
control your jumpy thoughts.
It's going to be a little iffy for you to
distinguish between a good idea, which
you always think you have, and one
that's off the wall.
Try this new way: Stop and think before
you utter a word today.
Without a pause to consider the real world,
you might wish you'd stayed in bed.
BUT REMEMBER, TOMORROW'S ANOTHER DAY!
GOOD ARIES/ BAD ARIES,
WHICH IS IT GOING TO BE?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
THANK YOU SO MUCH, POETIKAT, FOR INVITING ME TO PARTICIPATE IN A LITTLE HOUSE CLEANING CONFESSION SESSION. QUIRKY YOU SAY ?...
I'll have to reach for that one. THANK YOU, KAT, FOR RAISING MY CONSCIOUSNESS!!
No, that's not the entrance to my apartment. That is the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Just a bit of gallows humor. Anyway...
I'm almost overwhelmed by the introspection necessary to explore this task. It's been a long time since I've pondered anything this deeply.
1. Cleaning is not a concept that immediately comes to mind. My cleaning arsenal consists of a neat card, with a picture of a dust mop on it, and a telephone number for Merry Maids, Inc.
2. I have not abandoned all chores. Milo (cat) lets me know if I'm not doing my part. But I must wear rubber gloves to empty the litter box. Otherwise I'll be ill. That stuff is so yucky.
3. Kat uses a bikini on her face to filter dust. I use mine the normal way, for my kind of house cleaning, when I sometimes swipe table tops for dust. And to see how far my neighbor can lean out his window before he loses his balance.
4. I no longer get any newspapers, so it's hard to clean windows anymore. The only "windows" I do clean are on the Internet. A bit of spit on my finger tip takes care of drops of sticky food on the screen.
5. I always have tape wrapped around my hand, endlessly picking up the hair that Milo sheds. You'd think he'd be bald by now.
Well, that's it. It is rather exhausting just writing about cleaning. I salute all of my bloggy pals who use something called
Thursday, March 26, 2009
APARTMENT THIS MORNING. NOT THE FIRST TIME.
Coming out of the kitchen, balancing my oatmeal bowl
on the small yellow tray, I pay close attention to Milo,
the cat, who is having a flying fit. He generally crosses
my path a few times as I walk to the bedroom,
where I have my breakfast every morning, so
I must pay attention not to stumble. Which I have done,
without oatmeal, and Milo cries when I'm hurt. It is
plaintive and sadder than my tears. His amazing
soul is then thoroughly exposed as my mate.
We were passing that ordinary corner, before the
bedroom door, where Milo sometimes pauses to stare,
as cats sometimes do, at an empty space. Today he
almost skidded to a stop, looked upwards, because he
too heard the distinct sound of a cello, one note
only, perhaps a "G".
I stopped for a second, then put my tray down on this
desk, this very place, the center of computerland,
bloggyville, my full life's destination. How the hell did
that happen? Anyway, sitting down, reaching for
the white napkin..it's gone. Compulsive me, back to
the kitchen..has to be there because I use it to pick up
the bowl to place on the tray. Not there. Foolishly think
I'll find it under the desk. Why waste a new one? Cello
corner is neutral. I pass it by. Something says my name.
Milo's on the windowsill, can't be a witness to ectoplasmic
hi jinks. I reassure the air that they'd be better off to
stop hanging out in my apartment and just go to heaven!
No napkin on the desk or under the desk. I'm not going
to retrace my footsteps again. Some things that fall to
the floor under my desk disappear into another dimension,
stay for about a year. Like the gold earring I dropped,
searched with practically klieg lights shining on the floor.
It popped back into the world about a year later, nestled
near my tapping toe.
A napkin shouldn't vanish. An earring, maybe.
Could be some wraith wants to play dress up.
But what use is a napkin? Unless to be draped
in ghostly fashion so that the cellist can just say "boo".
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I want to give full credit to an article,
"Mapping the Sea and its Mysteries",
that appeared in The New York Times
I like to be surprised by accomplishments
not dreamed of in my experience and admire
the good Dr. Sylvia Earle for being a pioneer
and an adventurer.
In the photo above, Dr. Sylvia Earle pilots
a one-person submersible known as Deep
Worker. In the 1980's, she helped found
two companies to make vehicles that would
open the sea's depths and recesses. Ever
since, she has sought, illuminated and
explored the abyss of the sea.
The sea squirts in the photo, may indeed seem strange.
They are chordates, but the list of their relatives is
17,000 kinds of fish, 70 species of dolphins, whales, seals, sea lions,
and yes, strange as it may seem, otters! Also, 10 kinds of sea
turtles, and about 80 kinds of sea snakes.
As stated in the article... close relatives to Homo Sapiens!
What are we not a part of?
Maybe that's why we love the beach. Just looking for some colorful cousins.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxphoto/ Dr.Sylvia Earle/ National Geographic
Monday, March 23, 2009
I was standing on the warm side of the glass
as a deer tracked along the fence,
stopping to snatch
a crimson berry
lying beside a jutting root.
The cold side of the window
wore its winter mask.
A panorama of shivering trees,
frozen in a blind ritual of icy slumber,
waited for a signal breeze
to bloom the first bud.
This year the snow is less stacked.
A filmy blue curtain touches my face
as I lean against the window frame,
again in honey warmth.
I watch a squirrel in chilly famine
scrape the barren earth,
not two feet away
from where we buried Harleycat
on August fifteenth.
He loved to sit on the sill
in sleepy pleasure,
watch a cardinal swoop
to alight on a low branch of the sycamore,
then leap against the glass
with a craving
to make the red feathers his feast.
from Two Ghosts/ poems
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Friday, March 20, 2009
WELCOME TO ARIES!
Here's one Aries baby, March 22,
jumping to the conclusion that
Jack Frost is history once more!!
Falling in winter's demise,
three inches of snow can't halt
the impertinence of daffodils
pushing to stand on earth
made virgin again.
Renaissance in the garden
is a holiday for Aries.
A promise carried on the air,
a trace of green to sniff as hope,
to live anew no matter what the year collected.
Aries discards history with a snap so sharp
that the past is not only over and done,
but resting in winter's crypt.
At the vernal turn,
trust without end,
a blade of grass,
a childlike laugh,
once more to cross
the threshold into spring.
from TWO GHOSTS/ poems
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
What brings this up is an article in the Times
about the series, "Crackers", starring Robbie Coltrane,
which is now being issued on DVD. Hurray for that!
For those of you not as fanatical about British Police
Procedurals as I, let me explain. Fitz, Eddie Fitzgerald,
Coltrane's character, is a plump, arrogant, masterful,
penetrating, harsh, sharp, forensic police psychologist.
Solves them all, of course, and receives spiritual as
well as physical bruises.
I place this series just slightly below "Prime Suspect",
Helen Mirren's masterwork. On the level with
"Inspector Morse", with the late, great John Thaw.
And almost side by side with the esoteric,"Wire In the Blood",
with the riveting Robson Green.
Coltrane's been Hagrid in "Harry Potter and the Sorcerers
Stone", in recent years. But started and was trained In
Glasgow. Was a partner to Emma Thompson with a
comedy troupe, appeared in Kenneth Branagh's "Henry V",
added to the mayhem of Black Adder, as did the original
Bertie Wooster, Hugh Laurie, (opposite the inimitable
Stephen Fry as Jeeves), who is presently wasting
his time as the dissipated and misogynistic "House", when
he should just shave, wash his face and do a bit of song,
a bit of dance, a bit of seltzer down his pants.
But I digress.
What put Robbie Coltrane's name above the title was "Nuns
on the Run", with the "wacky" Eric Idle, who needs no
introduction here. I admit, I'm a complete sucker for
ridiculous drag and silly Nuns. Quite a transition then to
"Cracker", but my deep preference for comedy doesn't
erase Coltrane's personification of the super sleuth,
Eddie Fitzgerald. Ready for another round of that.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
From: TWO GHOSTS/ poems
Late in the afternoon as the sun swept
its final glow across the sky, I sat
in the kitchen with a blue lined pad
arranging my homework for tomorrow.
No noise was heard of footsteps approaching.
Then suddenly my grandmother was at my side.
I gasped in surprise again,
why she made no sound.
Because, she said, that's how we were
in the village where I was a child.
People floated when they wished to
and I learned their natural ways.
Not as high as the ceiling,
from the floor.
I asked if they were ghosts.
She said no, not at all.
Ghosts are able to do
so very much more.
I see a figure approaching through the mist. I know who it is. It's Jason,from Friday the 13th, and he's baaaack!
He scared the wits out of me the first time around, hate this kind of movie and the last thing I want to do is see the new bloodfest. I can't believe they're bringing it back, although major bucks will probably be made, since the newbie is coming out on Friday the 13th!!!! What a surprise.
I attended once, many, many years ago, only because my Sonny Boy, my son, was an actor in the movie, and done in by Jason, in the usual horrifying way. A mother's loyalty knows no bounds.
The premise is probably the same this time around, a group of teenagers gather at a secluded getaway. Never quite looks like the ideal vacation spot. They fool around, they get killed. Jason dies? Well, he comes back for the next film. Undead again.
So Sonny Boy gets offed, and adding insult to injury, he is also beheaded. Now here's the weird part. For the scene, a life/death mask is made. The "head" is to be placed into a trunk, to be discovered by whoever is left. Except the head disappeared, in real life, never to be found again. They rushed making a paper mache head for the scene, a very unconvincing "likeness" of Sonny Boy, but with blue eyes bulging. I laughed. I also tapped the girls sitting in front of me. Absolutely could not restrain myself from telling them that I was HIS mother. I almost had to sign an autograph.
The thing is though, who took Sonny Boy's "real" head? Will it someday turn up in an old prop room, roll out of a box, and....Or is it sitting on the mantle of some demented......Oh, sorry, that's another movie.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
NOT IN A POETIC OR POLITICAL WAY, BUT IN AN
EVER DETERIORATING WAY, WHERE OBJECTS
TOOK ON THE SHADE OF OATMEAL, NO BLUES
existed in my spectrum, only greens and yellows,
blending into a fog. Even my green eyes seemed
an odd, shadowy color. Which I just attributed to...
well, I'm getting older, aren't I?
I continued to "do" my art, collages still had their
texture and balance, exploration and originality
were never denied. But, aha, I'm also a makeup
artist and I persued that, as usual. I know where
your mouth is, those two orbs are your eyes.
Up close and personal, my style! Everyone
became as gorgeous as could be. From habit.
But I was failing. Walking down a long flight
of stairs, someone actually approached me
and asked if they could help me. Startled,
I thanked them and declined, stubborn within
my realization that the moment had come
to get real.
I've completed two successful surgeries recently,
and the amazing result immediately was seeing
the color blue again. And the astonishing outlines
around people, they lost their amoebic shape.
Me...I didn't look as soft and flawless anymore.
What's that? Freckles? Lines? My own face, hidden
from me for so long, tucked away in my dream of
myself, revealed at last! So that's what I look like,
and no one's run away ?
In the next few weeks, more work to be done, just
to perfect the total reclamation of my vision. I, a
long time embracer of fear and doubt, have released
myself. That eye below, not only can I do it, but
I can be it, if the crazy occasion ever arises!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Exerpt, "Two Ghosts",
from the poem:
A PHOTOGRAPH OF OCEAN BEACH
.....I'm thinking of myself,
of slipping into my yellow tee shirt,
jeans sitting low,
dancing with everyone, but mostly alone.
Of tasting a coke
and licking a lemon.
Of wading across the floor
at the Sea Turtle Bar, my shoes disappearing
in a blaze of purple strobes,
my bare feet lifting in levitation
to Jumping Jack Flash.
Of knowing the time is close
to winding down the dance,
and I have to go back to my life
past the door where the children sleep.
The next words I say will be in sunshine,
and a beach with umbrellas
might calm my edgy spirit
till the night again takes me and the music
a downbeat away from The Dead,
or a short glide from home.
Monday, March 9, 2009
shoulder, as usual, as I try to mingle
with the crowd here at the Gare de l'Est.
Does my veil look too obvious?
The Count, my Uncle Vanya, roused me at an early hour,
opened the back gate of the Chateau Bonaparte, where I've
been held a virtual prisoner, thrust the Faberge Egg into my
trembling hands, told me to guard it with my life, kissed me
on both cheeks, and sent me on to The Orient Express,
where I will be guided by this little man, Mssr. something
or other, to my final destination, Istanbul.
My passport photo shows me as a simple
young woman, nothing, not a trace of my
past shows on my face. The name, of course,
is nothing like Anastasia. Just simple Greta,
a poor student from Paris.
BOARDING AT THE STATION
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
SHELVES OF MY BOOKCASE, AND
FOUND THE FRAGILE BOX, INSCRIBED
WITH THE LOGO, VAPO-CRESOLENE.
IT DIDN'T CONTAIN THE LAMP I
WANTED TO FIND, WHICH WAS MADE
TO HEAT A CREOSOLE SOLUTION
to cure what ailed the patient,
Inhaling the vapors was thought
to cure Bronchitis, Spasmodic Croup,
Asthma, and Whooping Cough.
Also to be used for distemper of
horses and dogs, and respiratory
diseases of animals, and manufactured
by Vapo-Cresolene Co.
62 Cortland St., NY, NY.
Care should be taken the first 15
minutes to make sure the device
doesn't smoke or explode.
From the late 19th Century through
the mid- 20th Century, many substances,
prohibited today, were legally available.
Pan American World Airways promoted
in their menu, the purchase of a
Benzedrine Inhaler, (amphetamine),
which was an over the counter
product till the 1950's.
I haven't yet found the vaporizer to complete
the set. It's back there somewhere. Mine is
clear glass, not the milk glass shown
in the illustration.
I would never have begun the search
for the vaporizer if it hadn't been for
Willow's post yesterday about a
lovely oil lamp.
So thank you for the inspiration!
Maybe they didn't travel as fast in
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
SITTING AT MY COMPUTER IN THE
WEE HOURS OF EARLY DAWN,
I AM POISED TO CLICK
ON THE ICON FOR "NEW YORK
STATE MEGA MILLIONS". TO
CHECK AND SEE IF OVERNIGHT
I'VE BECOME BATHED IN WEALTH
BEYOND EVEN MY DREAMS. TO
wonder FOR A SPLIT SECOND if any
deals with angels or imps will
FINALLY bear fruit.
Deeply held values, not far from my consciousness,
flee for a second, as I see myself entering my Rolls,
paparazzi in pursuit. Never for a moment will I forget
my humble roots.
Someone else won $212,000,000. One person,
from, for God's sake, New Jersey! Not even NY.
I am shrunk to size once more. I'm waiting to hear
the latest winner promise not to change, as I know
I surely would. If you can't flaunt it on the red
carpet...only kidding...you guys know how spiritual
I really am.
Friday's drawing, ONLY $12,000,000. I think I'll
wait a couple of weeks, till the pot becomes
"enriched", then try again.
xxxxxxxxxA fun opportunity to
join in the adventure aboard the
Orient Express, leaving on
Monday, March 9, 2009.
Room for all...details at
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
THAT AT SOME
TIME DURING THE
MONTH OF MARCH,
THE LION WILL LIE
I know I'm right, because the sun is shining
brightly this morning, the light so sharp, it bounces
off the drifts of snow that swept across the East Coast
yesterday. Lion must roar. But in the month of
March, I pray that the burgeoning hope of
springtime will urge the beast in us to calm down.
Foolishness and hopefulness permit me, as an Aries,
to rush to the gate, push it open, and ask all to
walk this way!
I'm offering a Triolet, a one stanza poem of
eight lines, of a form that is sort of rigid. I'll
get over that. From my book of poems/
Two Ghosts, here it is....
March tosses its lion's mane
Every year as the month begins.
The bite of ice, a slice of rain
March tosses its lion's mane
As the lamb starts to walk again
Free of death, devoid of sins.
March tosses its lion's mane
Every year as the month begins.
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