Wednesday, October 01, 2014

dad memories

I remember one time when I was hitching a ride ( it was the seventies. hush.) from Bloomfield to the University of Hartford campus, about three or four miles down the road. A middle aged guy in a Pacer picked me up. He was less than average looking, sporting a day old shirt, loosened tie around a five o’clock shadowed wattle and gray poly something suit
- clearly of the traveling business man ilk
- all around nondescript.
I told him I was on the way to school and he whipped out his wallet exclaiming that he had sent his son to Columbia and he lost his shirt doing it. He searched the wallet for a picture of his son (proud papa) and came up with a picture of his round hairless naked body instead. 
Get it? shirtless.

"Well now this is my stop and thanks for the ride, perv." thought I, as I exited the Pacer. 
I stopped in my dad’s office. He was a professor at the time at UHA, and told him my story 
to which he replied without missing a beat, 
“You should have said - oh is that a penis? I thought they were much larger."

Still makes me chortle. Miss him.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

How to read a long poem

how to read a long poem:

whisper the lines aloud
stop and perhaps reflect 

‘oh my God that is perfect’

read the line again for confirmation

I learned this from hearing the poet 
David Whyte read:
he stopped and reread the lines for emphasis
but softly 
so as not to bang you over the head with it

but to allow you the gift of the moment 
to embrace it
to breathe in its essence
to slow down 
there with the writer and 
comprehend, to hear them speak 
to hear them speak

to hear

Monday, August 18, 2014


Reading "Feeding the Hungry Ghost" while riding the train.
Asking my brother, 
"Are you a hungry ghost? "

The train lumbers through the outposts of Queens: 
Rosedale. Laurelton. Locust Manor. 

I have this scene in my mind of me pushing all my worldly goods to my dead brother, apologizing for my survival. 
He gives it all back. 

He does not require my suffering. 
His memory does not require my sacrifice. 
I read:
"Soy milk and raisins." 

Ingredients in a recipe for vegan seed cake

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

august poem

A friend can be a crack in the ceiling where you trace the features of a character you once met in a book that you forgot to to return to the library in the town where you once lived where you no longer have an address.

Or a someone on a bus who comes out of their lonely silence to offer you a gift of companionship and you ride together for a while knowing you will likely never see that person again and you will never be in their debt and yet you are grateful 

or the silence itself 
and as deep and 
as a cold quarry pond. 
Deeper than any still water 
and deeper than that. 

You can hear the whistle of your nervous system as it races to complete each thought and you know you are not hearing it all 

nor catching every nuance. 

And then you breathe in and realize you have been waiting for a rush of sound to release you from this crush of waiting. 

A friend could sit there beside you on the boardwalk bench, 
unexpectedly still wet from the condensation of the cool night before 

and wait for you to acknowledge their presence 

Understanding that if you do not know them it is because you are deep in the machinations of your own tangle of thoughts 

Lost perhaps 

And you need 
to find your way home 
you can open your mouth 

to speak 

Friday, August 01, 2014

and august came...

blocks are sewn

housing for friends

some sights

small finish

some water colors
I have been approved to go back to work for two days a week but the paperwork has to be passed back and forth between all of the parties. What a process. 
Writing a lot this summer and lots of doodles. They seem to go hand in hand. I have nothing earthshattering to report. 
May you live in intersting times, the saying goes. Or not. 

Monday, July 21, 2014

I notice there are dried peas on the chair where he sits in a booster seat with straps. A contraption that allows us to sit and eat with his constant toddler motion contained for a bit.  

In the couch cushion are the remnants of the saltine cracker that he crunched up and quietly observed as the bits crumbled and dropped. 

A purple crayon is beneath the ottoman that we have moved in order to vacuum under it 
hoping that the upright will inhale the tumbleweed cat hairs that bounce along the floor 
before he can. 

Several different sized disposable diapers are piled up in the loo. 

And I notice a tiny tube of toothpaste was left behind. The kind that tastes like a Popsicle. He made a disgusted face when we brushed his teeth with adult flavored toothpaste. 

And interspersed with our history tomes and knitting books are books with dinosaurs sporting underwear and mice that want milk with their cookies.
When he goes home with his parents we can hear the clock tick 

He hears a bird and puts his hand to his face in the universal sign language gesture and says 
'hear it? hear the birdies? hear the sound?’)
When he goes home 
we sit in our respective places and search the internet for the meaning of life 
or at least a good deal on shoes.
It is quiet. 
We have cleaned up in his wake 
restoring what passes for order in our home 
and we miss him.

in other news I finished a small painted monogram for Jen  based upon the necklace Jay gave to her for her birthday. The bottom one was the final iteration. For now.