Life Amongst the Dull Normals

Dream

2011-10-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

Dream

by Elizabeth Bishop

I see a postman everywhere
Vanishing in thin blue air
A mammoth letter in his hand,
Postmarked from a foreign land.

The postman's uniform is blue.
The letter is of course from you
And I'd be able to read, I hope,
My own name on the envelope

But he has trouble with this letter
Which constantly grows bigger & bigger
And over and over with a stare,
He vanishes in blue, blue air.

Where's That Place...

2011-09-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

Baby where's that place where time stands still
I remember like a lover can
But I forget it like a leaver will
It's no place you can get to by yourself
You've got to love someone and they love you
Time will stop for nothing else
And memory plays tricks on us, the more we cling,
The less we trust
And the less we trust the more we hurt
And as time goes on it just gets worse
So baby where's that place where time stood still
It is under glass inside a frame
Was it over when you had your fill

And here we are with nothing but
But this emptiness inside of us
Your smile a fitting, final gesture
Wish I could have loved you better

Baby where's that place where time stands still
I remember like a lover can
But I forget it like a leaver will
It's the first time that you held my had
It's the smell and the taste and the fear and the thrill
It's everything I understand
And all the things I never will

-Mary Chapin Carpenter

kindness

2011-09-17T15:55:00.000-07:00

I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don't respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.

Sadness by Donald Justice

2011-08-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

Dear ghosts, dear presences, O my dear parents,
Why were you so sad on porches, whispering?
What great melancholies were loosed among our swings!
As before a storm one hears the leaves whispering
And marks each small change in the atmosphere,
So was it then to overhear and to fear.

2
But all things then were oracle and secret.
Remember the night when, lost, returning, we turned back
Confused, and our headlights singled out the fox?
Our thoughts went with it then, turning and turning back
With the same terror, into the deep thicket
Beside the highway, at home in the dark thicket.

3
I say the wood within is the dark wood,
Or wound no torn shirt can entirely bandage,
But the sad hand returns to it in secret
Repeatedly, encouraging the bandage
To speak of that other world we might have borne,
The lost world buried before it could be born.

4
Burchfield describes the pinched white souls of violets
Frothing the mouth of a derelict old mine
Just as an evil August night comes down,
All umber, but for one smudge of dusky carmine.
It is the sky of a peculiar sadness—
The other side perhaps of some rare gladness.

5
What is it to be happy, after all? Think
Of the first small joys. Think of how our parents
Would whistle as they packed for the long summers,
Or, busy about the usual tasks of parents,
Smile down at us suddenly for some secret reason,
Or simply smile, not needing any reason.

6
But even in the summers we remember
The forest had its eyes, the sea its voices,
And there were roads no map would ever master,
Lost roads and moonless nights and ancient voices—
And night crept down with an awful slowness toward the water;
And there were lanterns once, doubled in the water.

7
Sadness has its own beauty, of course. Toward dusk,
Let us say, the river darkens and look bruised,
And we stand looking out at it through rain.
It is as if life itself were somehow bruised
And tender at this hour; and a few tears commence.
Not that they are but that they feel immense.

A Lifetime with Smudge

2011-08-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

"All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle." -Saint Francis of Assisi

     The first time I visited Lucinda's home at Park La Brea I was taken aback by the austerity of the decorations. She had suffered two recent profound losses in her life and the place was pretty sedate. There were no wall decorations and the furniture was utilitarian but without great color which sort of matched the bruised heart she carried. The grayness vanished however, when I was greeted by the ebullient Smudge and eventually by his cat sister Macska. He strode majestically into the front room from a nap somewhere with his dark plume of a tail wafting like the great sail of a feline frigate. He was massive and ebony handsome beyond description but what amazed me the most was the confidence he displayed as he walked up to me seeming to shake paws and sniffed my shoes as if to give me a security check before allowing me to speak to his human. Smudge was ALWAYS in charge and was extremely careful about who got near his Lucinda. His face was impish and he seemed to have some cat secret that puny humans could never understand but he was a young man in love and that lit up the room. Suddenly, the gray brightened to blues and greens and reds that blended into a sable richness. Macska eventually, carefully entered and glanced my way, then lept up onto the window sill where she could pass judgement on my worthiness. Together, they were enough ornamentation to decorate the finest gallery in Soho. That is the greatest thing about sharing our lives with animals that they bring a healing light into our days while sweetly softening the edges of this sometimes rough old world. Smudge and Macska were the candles in Lucinda's life that made the darkness tolerable.
       I have loved and been devoted to animals since I was too young to walk but I have never seen such a powerful bond as Lucinda had with her Smudge. He seemed to fit perfectly next to her as she read one of the countless books that were the bridge in our human friendship. When I visited Park La Brea or Camino de las Rosas and finally Evergreen he was the number one attraction along with his striped beauty queen sister. They were passionately worshipped by the resident human with her kind eyes and opposable thumbs and the feeling was most certainly mutual. One of the wonderful moments in any day was the question from Lucinda "quieres comer?" which was always greeted by surprisingly piping mews from hisseowf and the ladycat who sometimes stood upon her back legs and gently touched the legs of the server. The perfect night for Smudge was to just sit near his human and purr, he needed little else after his sizable belly was full. Even when his days became numbered the reports came that he could still clean that china plate and motorboat purr.
     Smudge finished his adoration of his Mumma this morning by simply stopping his breaths and stepping into another cat dimension where he undoubtedly will charm everyone in sight. Paradise for this inky emperor of impudence was by his lady's side but let us hope fervently that there is a rainbow bridge where he can continue his devotion once again. Of the hundreds of felines I have known and admired over the many decades Smudge would be in my hall of fame. He was the extraordinarily colorful Prince of Cats and the world is a little grayer this morning for all of us who knew him.

outside again

2011-06-22T15:34:00.000-07:00

The wolves have returned

Curled, skulking outside in the darkness

The doors will not keep them out

When we lay together they dared not

Could not touch us

Could not even come near

But now my flesh is food

Pink and weak and tender meat

Where are you now?

How did you leave without

My knowledge, my heart
The blood bearing your imprint
The memory inside the bones
My heartsick hearing of their calls

Says what lips cannot

The wolves have returned

And I miss you terribly

So sad how they howl

Jaspurr

2011-01-28T16:59:00.000-08:00

Jaspurr Bonchat D’Tusque Creason 1991-2012

Jaspurr was known as a “ the tall, stately gentle cat,” always reserved and dignified, an elegant black cat with a beautifully sweet face. He was quiet and shy and quick to remove himself from any threats or loud noises. He was so sensitive that even a good sneeze might send him into hiding and if arguments raged in the house he would wisely vanish until the heat cooled. He came to us not as a kitten but as a kind of teenage cat, around six months of age. We found him at an adoption by a fine organization called “Lifeline for Pets” who held an event in a San Fernando Valley pet shop. Partial to black cats I leaned toward him to take a look and he returned my interest by marking my chin with his cheeks. I was won over and said “this guy is the one!” He had started life terribly as he and siblings were abandoned in a cardboard box left in a public park. One of his littermates was dead before “Lifeline…” intervened but he survived. This left him rather careful and sober in his approach to humans and the big world in general. It took a long time for him to trust and he was very choosy about which humans he would allow into his confidence. I was the lucky one as we bonded after much caution and careful interplay. To be accepted by Jaspurr was like winning the world series and the Super Bowl in one.

Originally we lived in a noisy and dangerous for cats duplex in Silverlake where I tried and failed to make him an inside cat. When he was delivered, as a six-month old he hid behind the stove for weeks before he came out and accepted pets but only slow ones along the ridge of his back and scratches under the chin. He also trusted Katya but that was it for people in his estimation. After he found his way outside he spent much of his time on the hillside next to our apartment and his wily ways kept him out of harms way. When I finally found sleeping at this duplex impossible due to unruly neighbors our bond was almost broken since I spent no nights at home and few waking moments as I searched for an alternative to this constant barrage from upstairs. In September of 1995 I managed to buy a home in the hills of Glassell Park and set out to bring this now half-feral Jaspurr with me. The day I went to get him was sticky hot and he had been on his own for a while with just food set out each day and the nights solo since I was sleeping in a vacant house nearby. I knew he would be desperate in his attempts to avoid the cat carrier so I shut all exits and hunkered down with an old black and white TV, a can of tuna and a single lamp to lure him inside. Finally, he came but when I closed the front door he panicked and set off trying to avoid my towel and cat carrier. He actually ran on the walls, leaving great scratches in the paint and finally spied a tiny three inch opening in the kitchen window which he managed to get half way through before I grabbed his tail and hauled him yowling back into the room. I knew this was my one chance and if I failed I would lose him forever to the back alleys of that neighborhood where we had had two cats killed by predators. Finally, with hisses and bloody scratches and several escapes from the carrier I managed to get him into my car and set sail for our new home.

Jaspurr stayed true to form in the new house, darting into a closet and staying in hiding for a mind-boggling four months!! Years later I would find sports jackets with claw marks where he climbed up and down to his dish and litter box. I was determined and eventually he found this new domicile a heaven for his kind. He lay in the sun, snoozed on my bed, ate his fancy feast and watched the birds in the acacia trees outside our front room. Yet, not too long after he had accepted and reveled in his new life he received a jolt in the form of a kitten named Purrkins who was brought by friend Lucinda. Jaspurr’s first official act in greeting “baby one” was to attack him murderously and bite him on the neck, drawing blood and terrifying the newcomer. Still, they eventually became close and groomed one another, slept within inches and were fine friends. A couple of years later a usurper was fought viciously in the front room by Purrkins while Jaspurr stood by and when it became apparent the combatant would be staying he was appropriately altered, named White Pwaws and was welcomed to the feline family but only as an outside member since he peed on all things interior. Inside the house belonged to the firm of Jaspurr and the dynamic junior partner Purrkins who ruled with iron paws and coexisted quite well. That was until the terrible morning of October 1, 2003 when a coyote killed our precious Purrkins and left Jaspurr alone once more. Already 12 years old Jaspurr became the elder statesman and was giving the dignity deserved by such status, sleeping on the human’s bed and hiding whenever company visited. As a matter of fact most friends and family never laid eyes on the old gentle cat who was so shy he would vanish at first sound of a doorbell or car door in the driveway.

His peace was short-lived when Katya and Bobby moved in, bringing noise, activity, drama and in order; Frankenstein, Chiona and Dexter. Each passed muster with the old cat and were accepted by the Big Boy who deferred to most demands but was capable of throwing an angry paw at the bossy Chiona if necessary. Jaspurr wasn’t for everybody but being accepted by him was the greatest honor in the Creason household. Only a few ever knew the feel of his velvety coat and the grace of his sweet purrs. His health started to fail when he reached 14 or so and after a seizure in February he had an MRI and then cancer treatments that left the poor scaredy cat radioactive in his basement “cell.” It was hard for him to forgive such treatment but it did save his life as he rehabbed by burrowing into the box springs in the basement room where he was quarantined for a couple of weeks. After another rather messy extracation from the box springs he once more rejoined the household and seemed to actually enjoy his rise from the ashes. He had beaten cancer and old age only slowed his caution creep down to half speed.

For five sweet years he cheated the reaper and kept one old human wonderful company. In the bad times and through loss and heartbreak the old cat purred his healing arts into my heart. Sometimes it got to be too much with him standing on my chest and smearing my face with his “kisses” but then I would remember how close we had come to losing him and I would again welcome the drool drops to my beard and stroke his bony old back in gratitude. At least four times I had to take him into the vet because of problems with his bowels or dehydration but with May up ahead he was set to reach 20 years of age, a tremendous feat for a cat who just stayed out of harm’s way and lived a long, loved life. Just weeks ago, when one of his back legs was not functioning I accepted that I must do him the last favor but the vet sent him home with grateful tears from his ecstatic human. He aint ready yet, she said.

Last Monday I got up early and threw down the yoga mat, which was always a signal for him to emerge from his little cave he created behind some CDs on a bookshelf. He loved to join me in seated fold and head to knee pose and his purrs would sweeten any asana. At the beginning he walked around me like a Lilliputian and at the end when I assumed the corpse pose he stood guard, purring loudly in triumph. That night, we sat in our chair together and as I chatted on the phone he turned his wise old head upside down and slept the sleep of cat perfection. I petted him gratefully and praised his beauty. In the morning I again performed my yoga with his supervision and prepared breakfast while he slept in the chair where my scent permeated the cushions, his favorite smell. When I left and remembered to leave the front door unlocked for the housekeeper I looked back at him, getting a glimpse of his aged ears as he snoozed contentedly. I thought that this could be the last time I might see my sweet Jaspurr alive. At nineteen-plus every day is lived with one foot on rainbow bridge and the other on a teflon banana peel. The lady came to clean the house at 11 and sometime around noon she scared him from the chair and out the window into the outside where he had not been all winter. I don’t have any idea what went on the rest of that day but I guess that he decided to accept the fate he felt coming on by going it alone. A true gentle cat to the end he wouldn’t want to trouble us with the end of his life and he went down to some dark and private place and turned his back to the noise of the world and went to sleep forever...so I thought. However, after three full days of abscence and hope evaporating to a bitter dryness in the heart I went searching for the final posture of the beloved boy. I have read that when cats go off to die they find some place dark and quiet and very private. All signs pointed toward the creepy, shallow crawlspace under my deck. Yet, as I shined my flashlight under the house here and there, I opened the room in the basement that I had gone into last night to access the crawlspace there. Unbelievably, like Lazarus there stood the bony, ebony frame of Jaspurr, very much alive, albeit looking pretty freaked out. He ran from me but returned when I presented a large plate of tuna and shrimp. I gave him room and he had a fine dinner but then vanished again. Maybe, like Pip in Moby Dick he has gone mad and maybe he will never come upstairs again into the human's world but he meowed loudly like Mark Twain that the rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated. The following paragraph was to be my last words on the subject but I guess we will have to try again later, hopefully much later

If you have never loved an animal then you may think this emotion strange but the emptiness in my heart is almost unbearable, a sorrow that only time may dull to the point of acceptance. Over the twenty years that we shared our lives he brought me joy every single day. When mere humans moved in and out of my life he stayed by my side, never judging me except by the touch of my hand on his fur. Every time I came home I could count on his light lifting me out of my petty worries and when he looked at me I felt pure and simple love. I have had many wonderful animals in my life and several lovely cats now that share my home but I will never, ever, never, ever have such a deeply affectionate friend as my Jaspurr. He was always the difficult one, the reticent one, the rare jewel of black catdom but a very special fellow to me. Farewell my boy, wait for me on the bridge.

Don't forget to look at the lake

2010-09-10T14:58:00.000-07:00

Silverlake is a speck, a blue spot
A reservoir of some millions of gallons
Home for wayward sea birds
The glimmer mostly ignored
By the sundry hipsters strolling there
Still that silver lake was part of our days
Dreary and mundane
My daughter and I drove past
While we navigated unsteadily
Together on a stormy sea
I, supposed to be taking the helm
“Don’t forget to look at the lake”
The wisest words I ever gave her
Where tears, curses, and heartbreak
Made the view murky and sad
We sipped those moments in the azure depth
Taking a pure draught in the raining ashes
Letting a few wayfarers of blood
Settle sweetly while we drifted
“Don’t forget to look at the lake”

Jewels of light dancing on the windblown water
Death, divorce, depression all softened some
When we shouted at each other, releasing hate
Sharing blame for our failures
Silverlake answered those calls too

“Don’t forget to look at the lake”
Even the sad throb of defeat
Quieted in the dark water there

A heron broke from the nest

High in the Eucalyptus branches

reflected in the mirrors below

"Don't forget to look at the lake"
When love asked to come in once again
I remembered and each window glance

The moments adding up as balm
Each sliver of hopeful sight
That came in on cool currents

“Don’t forget to look at the lake”

the parking lot of dream

2010-06-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

Someday I will stop blaming myself
For the dark hours
When you tread gray waters
Forgetting fireworks and moonlight
But today the blood
Seeps through my chest
Staining my shirt a tacky purple
That is the color of ache
The time of impatient wanting
The clouds will clear I know
The sun may slant through
We may smile again, broadly
But this morning there is a sodden sadness
Sticking to the flesh of my soul
I will wait like a kid
On the baking asphalt
Folded up outside
The so-called convenience store
Arms around my knees
Remembering the taste of
Your happy laughter
With a crease between my eyes

And a lightness in my heart

What I Know

2010-05-21T12:22:00.001-07:00

What I know

I see your dark lashes when you sleep
And love the soft turns of your body
I know the feel of your lips
And the lilt of your shy laugh
But there is more
More I have felt and heard
I can hear your grandpa speaking
About the wisdom of condoms
Feel the touch of your brother
As he sought a current in your small arm
I know the joy of your escapades in another man’s arms
Of the good days and the heartache
And how your children make you glow
How their sight and smell are burned deep
The easy grace of motherhood on you
I know how you move your legs
Under the dinner table, fighting nerves
I know your memories see a sad mother
Suffering the greatest loss imaginable
Know how you were smart but lost
I know how you use books like blankets
Covering your pain and soothing your spirit
I know how your eyes light when watching
Drama and the tears that drift quietly
When your heart overflows
I know how the word touches your soul
It is where I want to go, to find me
I know you sometimes love me like a supernova
But I also know there are days that
I do not exist, buried in the sadness
Just a seed, waiting to germinate again
I understand why others fantasize
About the dark beauty with the kind eyes
I know how you suffered on lonely nights
Wishing it was different, wanting something
I know your soul is restless
Your heart is purple sweet with love
I know I love you beyond reason
Beyond the bounds of my own imagination
But I know you may not always believe plain words
I know you may turn away from me someday
I know today is not that day
I know today is not that day

Diving

2010-03-19T18:41:00.000-07:00

I too hear my amino acids vanishing
Down the hourglass evening
Watching you on my plasma
That screen above my heart
Last night with you, eyes closed
Like the last movement of
The 1812 Overture
Church bells thundering, cannons thumping
Red blood coursing
In veins filled with doubt and ecstasy
You told me you were letting me go
But I just got closer
Closer to beginning the ascent
To that cliff above the sea
Where I dive or slink back
To the hotel room and
curl like a dog, sighing about
How I might have won you if…
Then I am airborne, salt stinging
Bones ready to be crushed
Eyes open, hoping

2010-03-12T17:26:00.000-08:00

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

By William Wordsworth

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay: 10
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood, 20
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

those roses

2010-02-17T19:06:00.000-08:00

Those roses
turning from red to blue
settling into an image
not so different from when
I offered them upon
the altar of love
They are not dying
or losing their appeal
just changing, transforming
the idea is the same
These have no thorns
but our love does
There is blood and pain
along with the valentine
Yet, like the roses
We will persist, changing
from red to blue and
sometimes to black and blue
part of the boquet I suppose

Routines

2010-02-12T21:33:00.000-08:00

Routines

I rose and plodded into the pre-planned
Shower-water
Today no shampoo, tomorrow yes
Dried with the beige towel
Fitted on my comfortable sensibles
Sat before measured oatmeal
Filled a thermos with coffee
Placed an apple, an orange, a banana
Into a recently washed clothe bag
Drove 5.5 miles to the reservoir
Put on my certain soft shoes
Walked 2.4 miles around
Looked at the lake at given points
Searched for the blue heron
Listened to the geese in flight
Drove 5.8 miles to work
Listened to that morning show
On radio, mostly Mozart
Parked underground, gave up my keys
Walked approximately four blocks
Put a badge around my neck
Entered through the same door
Road the steel elevator to the basement
Checked my e-mail, opened a window
Drank the coffee and thought of you
Of that night we became eachother
Holding on and letting go
Loving with reckless abandon
That love smashed down the fences
Roared out over the Pacific Ocean
Turned the tight spool of my heart
Into a whirring blur of line
Like taking a blue marlin
On heavy-test
In the Sea of Cortez
I soared above the San Gabriels
Head up, breathing sweet clean air
Heart pounding, blood coursing
Like wild horses exploring the canyon floor
At a full gallop without concern
For the next bend in the trail
No bounds, no boundaries
Not a care in the world

Except when will I see you again.

wishes

2010-01-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

In Chinatown by the stalls
There is a magic place
A wishing well where
I tossed a coin years ago
The water rippled and I forgot
The wish so long ago
Until yesterday when
You kissed me
Casually without much thought
That concentric circle of a dream
Came back to me
The memory complete as I
Inhaled as you exhaled
Breathing you in and holding
To the waves in my heart
On my lips there was
The taste of a wish

Sweeter than any

I could have imagined

2009-12-01T14:37:00.000-08:00

Don’t Listen

Why can’t you believe me
When I have said it so much
This idea, this ache that compels
Such longing and professing
Love is such a cliché
Spent counterfeit so often
Sometimes my mouth feels
Like I am holding pennies
Such little worth off the tongue
The metal taste of the futility
When I utter such banality
Yet, it is dark blood true
Gloriously real and honest
A seven hundred foot waterfall
Of unadulterated emotion
When I find you near
Don’t listen to my prattle
But believe my eyes
When they drink from Your own

in the silence

No longer

2009-11-17T09:15:00.000-08:00

Her dark, mysterious eyes
Open across my dreams
Like the moment at the movies
When the curtain rolls on casters
The wide screen glows to life
Flinging the colors into my eyes
The small screen of today
A phone of all things
“te amo mi amor”
The words wake me
Like starlings startled from an Acacia
Flooding the heart with
Blood I have searched for

So long

When a Friend Dies

2009-10-27T15:21:00.001-07:00

When a friend dies

By Marge Piercy

When a friend dies the salmon run no fatter.

The wheat harvest will feed no more bellies.

Nothing is won by endurance but endurance.

A hunger sucks at the mind

for gone color after the last bronze

chrysanthemum is withered by frost.

A hunger drains the day,

a homely sore gap

after a tooth is pulled,

a red giant gone nova,

an empty place in the sky

sliding down the arch

after Orion in night as wide

as a sleepless staring eye.

When pain and fatigue wrestle

fatigue wins. The eye shuts.

Then the pain rises again at dawn.

At first you can stare at it,

Then it blinds you.

ice

2009-10-09T11:53:00.001-07:00

On the Ice

Walking on ice so thin
I can see the cracked pebbles
On the bottom
Beneath this delicate sheen
Glinting with menace
Waiting for my frail
Moment of weakness
I know not what awaits
In your heart, in your secrets
Still I edge out
From the shore
Remembering the shock
Once I crashed through
I hold my breath
Is this false hope?
Am I lost or found?
All of my yesterdays
Fade in one word
From your lips
All the tears dry
All the empty nights
Fade away
Is that a crack that I see?
On the ice ahead
Or the path away from here

the noise in the pool

2009-06-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

"You ask of my companions.

Hills, sir, and the sundown, and
a dog large as myself, that my

father bought me. They are better
than beings because they know, but do not

tell; and the noise

in the pool at noon excels my piano."

-a letter from Emily Dickinson to Thomas Wentworth Higginson

garden song

2009-06-15T13:21:00.000-07:00

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe
And a piece of fertile ground
Inch by inch, row by row
Someone bless these seeds I sow
Someone warm them from below
Till the rain comes tumbling down
Pulling weeds and picking stones
Man is made of dreams and bones
Feel the need to grow my own
Cause the time is close at hand
Grain for grain, sun and rain
Find my way in nature's chain
Tune my body and my brain
To the music from the land
Plant your rows straight and long
Temper them with prayer and song
Mother Earth will make you strong
If you give her love and care
Old crow watching hungrily
From his perch in yonder tree
In my garden It's as free
As that feathered thief up there

-David Mallet

still beating

2009-04-29T15:02:00.000-07:00

I know the dog days of the summer

Have you ten to one outnumbered

Seems like everybody up and left

And they're not coming back

The shadow that you're standing on's still here

Sometimes that's all that you can ask

And your heart's still beating

You're not the fastest draw in town now

How many times you been shot down now?

Seems like everybody else could see

The things you never did

But if you could yourself

You'd probably never have made it through the things you did

And your heart still beating, yeah

I know the dog days of the summer

Have you ten to one outnumbered

It seems like everybody else saw

Trouble sneaking up behind

Left you half dead in the street

But that just means you're half alive

And your heart's still beating

Still beating, still beating

And your heart's still beating, yeah

- Josh Ritter

I remember mama

2009-03-21T21:33:00.000-07:00

Mom said I was most like her

Grudge holding, passive but sentimental

rattlesnake venomed sweetheart

Sending out fireballs of hurt

innocently meaning well

Standing at the stove simmering

Peeking out at the world

Disgusted at its sweaty reality

Smiling wanly, holding back

Cursing through gritted teeth

Offering a shoulder to lean on

Jumping in reluctantly, then

treading and making strokes

She endured, persisted

Taking us along

Toward a somewhat unsatisfactory

conclusion to the grand story

30 Line Orphan Song

2009-02-17T18:47:00.000-08:00

Thirty Line Orphan Song

I’m not an orphan
Though my folks are gone
Left me with a softness
In the center,
Their lilt to a laugh

No orphan in that blood
Still flowing through
Veins mixing vintages
Into a varietal of temperment
Can’t or won't fake those

Sometimes you will see them
Without searching too hard
A certain tilt of the head
When lifting up a kid
Or kneeling in the loose dirt

Orphans don’t look
Like my Mother
When she explained
How mistakes are not permanent
Such a difference for me

Love doesn’t always last
But the bond stays strong
In these chromosomes
Things handed down
We hold like a fledgling

I’m no orphan
Not in this album
Tattooed in my memory
Cobalt indelible inside

Not an orphan, never

I'm not lonely

2009-02-13T21:36:00.000-08:00

I'm Not Lonely

I'm not lonely sleeping all alone

you think i'm scared

but i'm a big girl

i don't cry or anything
I have a great big bed to roll around in

and lots of space

and i don't dream bad dreams

like i used to have

that you were leaving me anymore
Now that you're gone

i don't dream

and no matter what you think

i'm not lonely sleeping all alone

Written by Nikki Giovanni

One Step Backward Taken

2009-01-28T18:59:00.000-08:00

Not only sands and gravels

Were once more on their travels,

But gulping muddy gallons

Great boulders off their balance

Bumped heads together dully

And started down the gully.

Whole capes caked off in slices.

I felt my standpoint shaken

In the universal crisis.

But with one step backward taken

I saved myself from going.

A world torn loose went by me.

Then the rain stopped and the blowing,

And the sun came out to dry me.

-Robert Frost

inch by inch and row by row

2009-01-20T10:31:00.000-08:00

We brought the salvia greggii

Scent of the west

the westringia fruiticosa

out of the Mediterranean

the lavandula Goodwin Creek

California's fecund riches

Young citrus too, a tradition

Round these parts

Dropped them into the clay of dry Ojai

Gave them sustenance from Lake Casitas

Made fertile with friend's words

the laughter of children

And some sweat from the old men

Bent with their hopes

for the same kids running over

This sanctified dirt

Where some day we will

stain our shirts and dresses with

pomegranite and peach nectar

Sugarplums

2008-12-26T15:09:00.000-08:00

Remembering the smell of Ivory soap washed flannel
Pre-dawn sounds, quiet in the house
Waiting, counting each tick of the alarm clock
Several rooms away in the dark
Uncle Hank’s manger with real straw
Sitting on top of the old Philco console
Our Southern California tract home
Trembling in anticipation
Fake icicles on the windows
Plastic snow on the tree
But the time was molasses thick and real
My brother stirring uneasily nearby
Waiting for delirium when we would
Be herded into the hallway
Our bent, bath robed grandma summoned
For the rush out of that chute
Into the dazzle of the American dream
The bubble lights made magic
Sending reflections off little appliances
Hoppalong Cassidy games
A big, shiny Schwinn kickstand down
Some so-what clothes folded neatly
Everything orderly, safe, deliciously new
Later little sister curled up near our
Friend Arlene who pulled the child
Into her Claire McCardle dress
Where they played Tickle Bee

And dozed like heaven had come down

My Best Message

2008-10-07T11:16:00.000-07:00

Ed
I still have questions for you
Still want to compare our aging mugs
Against those days on Annetta
Can’t get used to this
Vast breezeway in my heart
Want to leave my best message
It’s there on speed-dial
Yesterday, tickets to the game
I automatically wanted to include you
Yet your plaque sits up high
Out of reach, the dull ache
Thumping, straining
Beyond the tears leaking
Grudgingly, moving forward
Toward your tutorial on
The afterlife where LSD
Is just a walk in the park
The South Gate Park where
We learned about mysteries
Still mysterious and lost
How could this happen?
When my questions get more urgent
Where have you gone my homeboy?
What is it like out there?
When can I expect you

To return my call

Blood

2008-09-18T16:15:00.000-07:00

The Writers Almanac
by Glen Creason
Selected Poems) --THURSDAY, 8 February 2009Listen (RealAudio) How to listen

Poem: “Blood”

Bloody, bawling, bundle of anxious questions
I held her up, our eyes locked in love
Where would we go from there?
Her jagged breaths were my own
Sleep never seemed to matter then
We held each other up together
Constant as the northern star
This glowing stellar child in my heart
I held her up to see the monkeys in the zoo
Upwards she made me stand in lines
Thick paper mortarboards and ballet tears
She held up to the lessons
Sitting up proud in stale studios
I’m the bedtime pony! I said
Waiting for her teenage exhale
Up she grew, past my concerns
I held her up to scrutiny
She held me up in mutiny
I hate you she screamed
I hope you die, the words cut
You’re stuck with me I said
Those breathes of bravado, masking dread
I can’t, I won’t leave that upward look
Years crawled past too quickly
I held her up without feeling
The ache she learned from me
The old man, bending toward earth
Broken hearted now, once more
Thinking my road was again hopeless
cul de sac dead end
The once little one held me up
Like once we craned upward, at monkeys
Forgetting to do anything but
Feel how wonderful the air
Felt up there.
Lifted up again

Ramblin Jack said

2008-09-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

"Now a Ramblin' Jack Elliot said:

I got these lines in my face

Tryin' to straighten out the wrinkles in my life

When I think of all the fools I've been It's a

wonder that I've sailed this many miles..."

-Guy Clark "Ramblin Jack and Mahan"

Sparrow's song

2008-09-02T09:48:00.001-07:00

This bird that sings, heaving her small breast
Becoming something courageous, wonderful
The song breaking the day’s stillness
Sweetening the world as it softly winds
Around the trees and into rooms nearby
Even distracted by our skins
We hear and exalt in the sounds

Expanding our slice of sky outside

These same birds, grooming
Sitting silent on the deciduous branch
A little brown sparrow ducks in ryhyme
Making no mark in this morning
Yet, when she sings it makes things right
Ablution in the stone clean water
Splashing the joy of notes over us
Hearkening the new day and hope for
The coming cacophony of the battle ahead

Where no such songs will be heard.

Dear Wrinkled Face

2008-08-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

Dear wrinkled face,

oh, lover friend.

Best enemy,

I love your hands.

That whole fine mind

every place I find myself,

dear wrinkled face

Such midnight love on this cross hung

would have scared us when we were young.

Our sweat flows down along this trace

The way is steep,

dear wrinkled face.

Why should we fear to say God's name?

We are from here,and go as we came.

We're part of all this terror and grace.

Give me a kiss, dear wrinkled face.

Though in this deal we can't always speak of what we feel

my legs go weak when your dark eyes light up this space,

We're yours, we're mine,dear wrinkled face.

-Greg Brown

The Layers

2008-07-31T10:58:00.000-07:00

The Layers

By Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being abides,

from which I struggle not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look before

I can gather strength to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice directed me:

"Live in the layers,not on the litter."

Though I lack the art to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

restoration

2008-07-17T11:21:00.001-07:00

"By surrounding ourselves with landscapes that reflect the true nature of
our region, we embrace the unique character that makes California such a
wonderful place to live. The California garden is tended nature in miniature.
It’s not about the plants. It’s about generosity. It’s about giving back to the
land and giving oneself the pleasure and satisfaction of loving, getting
involved, and tending a garden modeled after the natural beauty of the region.
It’s about giving to everyone that sees and enjoys it the opportunity to
experience authentic California... "

What Are Years?

2008-07-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe.
And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in it's defeat, stirs
the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accededs to mortality
and in his
imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.
So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he
sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty
singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

-Marianne Moore

2008-06-07T15:39:00.000-07:00

"Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom"

Soren Kierkegaard

living prose

2008-06-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

“Any man who can write a page of living prose adds something to our life, and the man who can, as I can, is surely the last to resent someone who can do it even better. An artist cannot deny art, nor would he want to. A lover cannot deny love.”

Raymond Chandler

My Reason...

2008-05-17T11:10:00.000-07:00

"No man can possibly know what life means, what the world means, what anything means until he has a child and loves it. And then the whole universe changes and nothing will ever again seem exactly as it seemed before." -Lafcadio Hearn

gallantry and grace

2008-05-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

"I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really."

"A high station in life is earned by the gallantry with which appalling experiences are survived with grace."

Honey

2008-05-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

"Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail."

-Theodore Dreiser

Melville's map

2008-03-28T14:38:00.000-07:00

Ironic, that
I am looking for the path
slogging in the heavy mud
following the routes and desires
the ruts and rocks filling the way
Sitting amongst all these maps
and going nowhere but
back to where I have been
"It is not down in any map
true places never are"
The unknown howls up ahead
like a fiend in the dark
I have got to get moving
the map says it is right
the pulse speaks of what
lies ahead
Nothing and everything
depending on the fork in that road
"It is not down in any map
true places never are."

Necessary

2008-03-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

when an old culture is dying, the new culture will be formed by men and women who are not afraid of insecurity.

Suzuki Roshi said "All of you are perfect, and you could use a little improvement."

Yeah. So, you know, one of the things with the bodhisattva warrior, they say that "No matter how far you get in terms of being unhooked yourself, or being happy yourself, or always look back at who you used to be. Never forget to look back at the neurosis that you carried for so many years. Otherwise you'll lose your contact with the suffering of other people."

So for the bodhisattva warrior, our kinship with each other is the crucial thing, you know. So it isn't that really you want to avoid the pain of the world, because that educates you about what other people are up against. But the suffering. When I remember earlier I tried to distinguish between pain and suffering? And that suffering is what could lessen, and there could be a sensation of suffering. So you're not trying to tell people that then there'll be no bad more things happening to good people. But that the good people will relate to things in a way that doesn't escalate their suffering, and therefore the suffering of those around them.

Shantideva said, "We, who like senseless children "Shrink from suffering, but love its causes."

Skin and wishbones

2008-03-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

Day after day afterTrying to understand
Why the world tries to grind you down
Make a ghost out of a man
Your date of grace is due
And you've pawned everything you own
I guess some dreams just don't come true
Nothin' left but skin and wishbones
Each year the world gets lonelier
And uglier with sin
You'll never see those blue skies

Through young eyes again
You've prayed to every god you've known
Just to wind up all alone
Your friends are gone, your mama's dead
Nothin' left but skin and wishbones
Spin the bottle cap
Throw a shot back
Everything's gonna be all right
Spin the bottle cap
Throw a shot back
Cough and cry
Lay down and die
Grab an end, hold on tight
Bottles and bones in the night
You'll never go back home
You old wishbone
Can't eat can't sleep can't think
Not knowing where to go
This is real life brother
This ain't no reality show
If suffering is human

Well I guess we're not alone
You'll survive on next to nothing
But you won't live on skin and wishbones
Spin the bottle cap…

-Slaid Cleves

the atoll

2008-02-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

The flash and the solemn shudder

Have passed days ago

Now the silence and the scarring surround

Like a shroud, impenetrable, final

The whiteness of the landscape

The wind over the broken particles

Sings a song of sorrow so deep

Once the wild parrots sang here

We walked along beaches

unsullied by man

Life was all around the atoll

In full and lush vitality

The trees creaked in the southern breezes

The scrub stood smelling sweet

Twelve years I dwelt among these

The craggy peaks of fantastic vistas

My heart full of hope and yet longing

Now, each cliff is rubble

Each vista flat and without effect

Yet, I do not regret my stay

Yes, I would do it all again

Despite the blast that has left this debris

33 Great Songs About Food

2007-12-10T14:26:00.000-08:00

Thirty-three Great Songs About Food

By Glen Creason

“The fine arts are five in number, namely: painting, sculpture, poetry, music, and architecture, the principal branch of the latter being pastry.”

-Atonin Careme

Songwriters spend eternities pondering the passions in their existence, coaxing blood and notes out their foreheads to wax poetic about love and pain and other precious items held in their hearts. Some even extend the search to the precious cargo that has caressed their palates and filled their bellies. What could be better than combining two of life’s greatest pleasures into one sweet bundle of endorphins? Of course, people have been combining sex and music, or food and sex and most certainly food and music since the first time man thumped a hollow log in the forest primeval while munching on a brontosaurus burger. Scholars have found manuscripts saved from the Library of Alexandria showing the ancient songwriter Virgilius Publicus’ song “carnarius ballo” penned during discussions in the Roman Senate. In the past thirty years I have tried to collect some songs about potent potables and these are just a handful of my personal favorites.
Bangers and Mash- Peter Sellers and Sophia Loren- The strangest of musical partners until Bing Crosby joined David Bowie to sing Christmas carols Seller and Sophia formed a delightful duo who sang several novelty tunes in the 60’s. Highlights are when Ms. Loren moans in delight.
Sukiyaki- Ryu Sakamoto- What we may have thought was a nice, bouncy tune about a tender meat dish in a Japanese restaurant was actually a tender, heartbreaking song on love lost. Japanese weep when hearing this, we try to sing along.
Java Jive- Ink Spots- For pure harmony and musicianship one of the truly great songs about food. There are several versions out there ranging from espresso tempo to decaff.
Animal Crackers- Shirley Temple- In my childhood household my little sister’s version ranked up there with “It’s a Small World” sung repeatedly in the back seat on the way home from Disneyland while exhausted.
Big Fat Ham- Jellyroll Morton- Jelly’s songs were never really about food but they sure do sound good the way he sings them.
Jambalaya- Hank Williams- Certainly in the Hall of Fame for several reasons, primarily the practically step-by-step menu on the bayou.
Savoy Truffle- Beatles- the greatest pop band ever had a sweet tooth and despite this White Album throw away not being in their top one hundred best songs it is about chocolate.
Salt Peanuts- Dizzy Gillespie- one of the most recognizable riffs in all of jazz history. Everyone from Diz to Screaming Lord Sutch has recorded this.
Mother Popcorn- James Brown- a masterpiece of funk that actually recreates the rhythm of the cooking process in describing something pretty unintelligible to be honest. Yeah! Popcorn! Oh! Uh! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! EEEE Yeah! Do the Popcorn Hu! Ooooooooooh! Popcorn! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
Dixie Chicken- Little Feat- speaking of lyrics that might not always have a literal translation from rock and roll to English. “If you be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tennessee Lamb/ and we can walk together down in Dixieland.
Matzoh Balls- Slim Gaillard- yep, an African-American hipster vout-spouter singing about the Jewish delicacy that contains all the flavor of the cardboard that back the Big 10 tablet.
Mashed Potato- Dee Dee Sharp- You can always date folks on the dances they choose to do at Wedding receptions when they are sauced. You might see the Funky Chicken, the Frug, the Cabbage Patch or the Posin’ but if you see someone doing the mashed potato they are like 60 something and might be headed for the Ben-Gay after.
Home Grown Tomatoes- Guy Clark- A truly great song-writer craftsman puts in words the heart-swelling joy of those divine fruits of the vine it normally costs you are $85 to grow unless you live in Ventura county.
Sweet Potato Pie-James Taylor- some folks complain of James Taylor’s songs being a little treacley but this one actually is sweet in melody and lyrics.
Black Coffee- Peggy Lee- the one, the only Miss Peggy Lee turning a mundane subject into a full-blown soap opera in thirty-one lines. “Now a man was born to go a lovin’/ But was a woman born to weep and fret/ and stay at home and tend her oven/ and down her past regrets/ in coffee…and cigarettes.” They don’t dare write them like that anymore. In coffee and cigarettes
Green Onions- Booker T. and the MGs- Kids may be humming this one in the twenty-second century. An infectious groove that has been rolling on for almost fifty years without missing a beat..
Punky’s Dilemna- Simon and Garfunkel- It may not have food in the title but it does contain references to corn flakes, raisins, muffins, boysenberries and jam in one song.
Cheeseburger in Paradise- Jimmy Buffet- Yes, it might be on the jukebox in hell someday but it IS the best of the best cheeseburger songs when you put it up against “hold the pickle, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us…”
Watermelon Man- Mongo Santamaria- the tropically delicious slice of sweet, undulating Latin soul could go on and on and on without a soul complaining. Mongo had his watermelon mojo on that day.
Hotcakes- Carly Simon- Despite the food reference and the mention of breakfast staples I bought the album just to look at Carly Simon on the cover. She still looks damn good and I don’t even eat hotcakes anymore.
Peaches in Regalia- Frank Zappa- Always light years ahead of his time Zappa put this out in the last gasps of the 60’s while most people were trying to imitate Tommy Rowe and “Dizzy.” I’m sure these peaches are not the drupes we love to eat over the sink but the song truly rocks.
Eggs and Sausage- Tom Waits- One the true classics of food folk, this song lists most the late-night diner fare including eggs, sausage, coffee, hashed browns, toast, chili, burgers, fries and pie. Pass the Pepcid AC
Guava Jelly- Bob Marley- while guava jelly doesn’t appeal much to me I am sure if you smoked what Bob was smoking all day long it might have it’s appeal sometime during the munchies period.
Spam- Monty Python- So good, they made a musical out of it!
One Meat Ball- Ry Cooder- While this is Josh White’s song I like the growl of Master Cooder and his stinging guitar accompaniment.
That’s Amore- Dean Martin- An obvious choice for the classic opening line “when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…That’s Amore! It also mentions the less memorable “when the stars make you drool, just like pasta fazool…”
Hot Pastrami- Dartells- Appropriate that a song saluting this fatty meat sandwich should basically repeat the same riff over and over and over again. Pastrami, the delicious but deadly concoction has that quality of staying in the digestive system and revisiting itself to your senses over and over and over again too.
Piping Hot- Ade Monsborough- the anomaly in the group this song has no words and therefore no lyrics but was the only jazz solo I know played on a sweet potato.
Goober Peas- Kingston Trio- a truly oddball folk song which combines the Civil War, wearing rags and having fleas with eating peanuts. No, really.
Lechon y Bachata- Miguelito Cuni- One of my favorite Cuban dishes that I consider a creation of the Gods, which is appropriate since this, is a Christmas song.
Lemon Tree- Peter, Paul and Mary- Anyone who actually believes the “the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat” has never had great Peruvian ceviche or lemon meringue pie or lemon barbecued swordfish or an iced cold lemonade on a hot day for crying out loud. If you can remember Trini Lopez singing this, you are probably too old to eat lemon Thai chili salsa.
Pepper Steak- Art Pepper- while the tune is undoubtedly inspired by the musicians own name it certainly contains all the juiciness and spices of the delicious and cholesterol zooming qualities of this glorious dish du la 1950’s when butter and bacon were king and queens of the grill.
Sprout and the Bean- Joanna Newsom- certainly the most unique of all the compositions here. Ms. Newsom’s voice has been compared to a pre-teen on helium but her fantastic and unique lyrics alongside the haunting strum of an electric harp make for a rather magical musical journey.
I could go on, on to sweets and candy, on to beverages and booze, on to even salads but I am getting peckish and will send this one into the ether.

As Death Approaches

2007-11-09T09:04:00.000-08:00

As Death Approaches

By Susan Deborah King

I can't believe I'm laughing!

I'd have sworn I'd be shaking or sniveling.

And I sure didn't expect a limousine.

I've never been in a limousine.

No biggy.

I've had better than fame.

Who needs the pressure?

As for fortune, I'm filthy.

That's why I'm laughing.

I've had so much love:the giving, the getting.

It's shameful.

It's embarrassing.

And it's too late.

No one can take it away!

And I've had the pain to help me appreciate it.

Thank God for the pain!

Easy for me to say now that I'm going!

But no, seriously,

the kicks in the teeth,

the gut,

the rugs pulled out,

slammed doors,

setbacks,

snubs.

Without them, I'd never have recognized Love,

bedraggled, plain eyes shining,happy to see me.

Do I want more?

Of course I want more!

I always want more of everything:

money,

hugs,

lovemaking,

art,

butter,

woods,

flowers,

the sea,

M&Ms,

chips,

tops,

bottoms,

trips

— I did give up drinking

—time, sure,

and yes,

I'd like to see my grandchildren,

if there are any.

I'd like to see my books

but more has never been good for me anyway.

Enough

— that's what I've always needed to learn,

and is there a better way?

So this laughterI had to work up to

through so many tears,

it just keeps coming like a fountain,

a spray.

Let it light on your refreshment,

benediction, as I'm driven away.

776

2007-11-02T16:49:00.000-07:00

When you pass in the car

the number glints in headlights

776

new folks in freshly painted rooms

Living a new life with no memory

Of the blood spilt here

sleepless nights of needless worry

the raucous laughter of grandchildren

tearful pleas of the "kids" now grown old

ruddy faces at so many Christmas bacchanals

The agony and the ecstasy here

the abundant life lived without a care

pacing in the darkened house

Can I make the payment?

a hundred birds calling in the bouganvilla

the garage opener rumbling

Daddy fell here on the rug

and never returned

Do the new ones know

Can they hear the morning cough

the reedy phone conversations to Chrissie

A doorbell and dog pandamonium

Mom slowed to a stop still in the den

the new babies, the partners now forgotten

Cole slaw and sugar cured ham

cold beers and briquet smoke

We remember, separated by space from it now

The vigil during a coma

The admission of impending divorce

the thousands of greeting kisses and ball games in the front

A golden anniversary with oxygen

tapdancers on the bricks out back

Laying baby Daylon on the bed upstairs

Walking past the roses, stopping

Thinking you will smell them next time

The pitched battles against addictions

Home movies whirring on the old projector

Cassettes of holiday ghosts drifting away

Riding trikes out front with the grandkids

Paul and Steve "bust" out the rockem sockem robots

Slow down!!!

Polyester cheese hanging in the cedar walk-in

Mister Ito is out front in his truck

Now Dad just sits and dreams of Manhattan Tower

Never leave me...never leave me

Mom grits her teeth and yells at the pups

It's the time rushing by she hates really

Even the kids got wrinkled and gray

Jeff and Shaun's skateboards grinding across the hardwood

Fried chicken bouncing into the air

As a fist hammered down in disagreement

The girls went out carolling

Where are Shaun and Lori?

Triumphs taken for granted

Small worries grown huge

A dizzy spell that became a pacemaker

Eye patches, then independence vanishes

The Spanish meal, Stephen take some home!

Bubblebaths and contentment in the new-cuzzi

Do they hear the ghosts

Smell the orders from La Rizza just arrived

The barking that changed timber

the hushed voices, the wide mouthed laughter

duck or you'll hit your head

Sad last car trips to rainbow bridge appointments

Dancing in the den, arms flying free

An invisible welcome mat to all of blood

That's Dahlia, she's our latest

The walls do speak in past present

the kitchen stools creak before grapefruits

Past the curtains to the grass

Seven "boys" throw a turbo-football

Shouts, curses and sweat on the street

Aunt Cheryl sure looks tired

Why did Glen leave so suddenly?

Goddamned MaryAnn always wants to go

Her belly full and no interest in us

Wow, Lori is a teenager

Freddy rode that zodiak like a sailor

Check out the arm on that kid

He's a natural that one

Girls! Look at the camera

Look at that red hair!

That cake... we bought it at Ralphs

Truth is the front room smells like dog piss

The dogs were not the problem really

Do they, do they hear it still?

Walking up the entry hearing Jilly's laugh

There's another one shouts a kid!

Easter eggs in obvious places

they eat them with the shells on

Long, solemn talks on the patio

Meetings with hospice care

Gray faces, gray spaces and tears

In places kept secret there were stories

we saved for last

the diaries, the mementos, the words kept

Four newspaper clippings in an envelope

Read them again, live them again

photographs and memories

A scrapbook just waiting to happen

We just keep on living, going on

Hey! Shut the F**k UP...it's 1:30 in the morning!

Just some miles away

A plaque reads grandma...grandpa...father...mother

But they lived here

They lived at 776

waiting

2007-09-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

He felt it still burn
Like a buck knife stuck under the ribs
The years stacked on top of the scar
Could not stop the throb that came
In quiet moments, alone, again
The promises, the looks of hope
All those kisses, the sweaty summer sweetness
Skyrockets in flight and all that
Yet, she left him there
In the junkyard of his heart’s obsolescence
Loping in a meadow of new love
He went to the movies alone
Masturbated, cursed himself as he came
The ensuing rust from tears got old
After the blood dried he forgot the kisses
The days holding hands during TV shows
The obligatory receptions and sorry family dinners
To love, honor and endure, yes
The years have past, the levels achieved
He smiles at friends, looking cool
But, he still waits for the miracle

The soft water to make it clean again

Fair Quote of 2007

2007-09-11T15:44:00.001-07:00

"....this mop, you can give it to a four or five year old child and then adjust the handle upward. The mop actually grows with the child!!!"

"Meadowbrook Nursing Home" by Alice N. Persons

2007-09-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

Meadowbrook Nursing Home

On our last visit, when Lucy was fifteen

And getting creaky herself,

One of the nurses said to me,"Why don't you take the cat to Mrs. Harris' room— poor thing lost her leg to diabetes last fall

—she's ninety, and blind, and no one comes to see her.

"The door was open.

I asked the tiny woman in the bed if she would like me to bring Lucy in,

and she turned her headtoward us.

"Oh, yes, I want to touch her."

"I had a cat called Lily — she was so pretty, all white.

She was with me for twenty years, after my husband died too.

She slept with me every night — I loved her very much.

It's hard, in here, since I can't get around.

"Lucy was settling in on the bed.

"You won't believe it, but I used to love to dance.

I was a fool for it! I even won contests.

I wish I had danced more.

It's funny, what you miss when everything.....is gone.

"This last was a murmur.

She'd fallen asleep.

I lifted the catfrom the bed, tiptoed out, and drove home.

I tried to do some desk workbut couldn't focus.

I went downstairs, pulled the shades,

put on Tina Turnerand cranked it up loudand I danced.

I danced.

Kabir poem 14th century

2007-09-05T19:09:00.000-07:00

"Friend, hope for the guest while you are alive. Jump into experience
while you're alive. Think... and think... while you're alive. What you call
salvation, belongs to the time before death. If you don't break your ropes while
you're alive,you think thatghosts will do it after? The idea that the soul will
join with the ecstaticjust because the body's rotten--that's all fantasy. What
is found now is found then. And if you find nothing now, you will simply end up
with an apartment in the City of Death."

Someday

2007-07-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

To a Daughter Leaving Home

by Linda Pastan

When I taught you

at eight to ride

a bicycle, loping along

beside you

as you wobbled away

on two round wheels,

my own mouth rounding

in surprise when you pulled

ahead down the curved

path of the park,

I kept waiting

for the thud

of your crash as I

sprinted to catch up,

while you grew

smaller, more breakable

with distance,

pumping, pumping

for your life, screaming

with laughter,

the hair flapping

behind you like a

handkerchief waving

goodbye.

Orphan Corner

2007-07-20T12:25:00.000-07:00

Wearing the orphan weeds and find them heavy
On the lost street corner, sweating, trying to move
Toward a landmark I can remember
Somewhere, I do recall the lights
The house of memory, standing open, empty
Blazing with hope, comfortable chairs

Bathrooms of clean tile, privacy
I’m moving with increasing unease away

Losing it, losing me, losing them

The house of memory, standing open, empty

2007-07-09T15:45:00.000-07:00

LAPL Librarians taught the basics of shushing

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/08/fashion/08librarian.html?ex=1341460800&en=e47a5b7e5c4ae125&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

New...New...New...hipper librarians...again in NY Times....

Oh no, the profession is doomed for sure as the New York Stodgetimes has declared the bun-haired brigade to be born again hip...again. Thus burying the over-thirty Dewey Lemmings to be truly obsolete, un-tatooed, nerdians, smelling of malt o' meal and over-ripe bananas. Returning from days of making tiny check marks on data sheets, ` watching reruns of Sam Riddle's Hullabaloo and sipping very uncool domestic beers in stifling, tiny apartments with mangy cats astride their tattered, thrift store furniture. Oh God, I wish I was young and firm enough of flesh to get the contents of the Geschlechterbuch branded onto a bicep!

One more letter to the editor that will never be published: to the NYT

Dear Editor:

I know my opinion is not supposed to matter since I am over the age of 29 but one more article on the new hip librarians ("A Hipper Crowd of Shushers" July 8)has me moving out of my rocking chair and to the keyboard. I started in the library game in the term of Jimmy Carter and have come to accept certain facts:
Libraries and librarians will be declared soon to be obsolete every five years.
Bun hairdos and librarian stereotypes went out with words like “keen” and “daddio.”
Shushing is over, now it is “turn off your cell phone please, this is a reading room!”
I have never, ever been called “guybrarian” to my face and hope to continue that streak.
Communicating in Dewey at the cocktail hour is unadvisable due to the lack of easy recall of cutter numbers.
Hipness of librarians or other professions is not due in direct ratio to tattoos, the name of your blog or the length of names on your cocktails. Cannonball Adderly said it “Hipness is not a state of mind, It's a fact of life!" Librarians will become obsolete when the American public gets smart enough to put us out of business.

My Very Last “Independence Day” in the Gate

2007-07-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

typical South Gate resident checking his stash for "Independence" day.

It’s official; in a year of lasts I declare this to be my very last 4th of July in la ciudad de South Gate. My first was in 1948 so I guess it is about time. A series of events doomed me to accompanying Greg and his family to his Mom’s house on McNerney Avenue in the heart of the Gate this year just as I have done maybe twenty times in the past little while. The Gate was thoroughly latinized in the 80’s and is possibly 95% native Spanish speaking Mexicanos at this time. Now, the area is not terribly run down or showing a TJ countenance for the most part. In fact, the “new” Latin Gate looks quite a bit like the old “Anglo” Gate. The Mexi-Gaters take pride in ownership and my dear Annetta Avenue is be-lawned and nicely painted. So, on those rare occasions when I “inte-Gate” I don’t feel too foreign or on guard. That is EXCEPT on the day our forefathers busted our chains to the British and established the U.S.A.
As a lad in the 50’s the 4th was a time to set off some “piccolo petes”, a Coliope Vesuvius Cone, a “Giant Brilliant” (interesting name indeed), burn some “glow worms” or set a “Smoky Joe” to smoldering. Early on I saw the old unsafe and insane stuff like ladyfingers and Roman Candles that once sent both Farrier brothers to the emergency room on the same night. In 1960 I personally threw about fifty cherry bombs into the Pacific Ocean when the family rented a beach cottage at Surfside. Mostly, we celebrated by standing on the Whitney’s front lawn as the impressive pyrotechnic show took place at the South Gate park or guzzled precious beer from Gracies liquor and smoked up Tareytons in the Knowlton’s back yard as a Red Devil “lawn party” was torched up using neighborhood safety techniques comprised of a galvanized trash can lid and a garden hose. Billy Hogan and I used to like to get a load on and leap through the shower of cinders put forth by the Bull’s Eye Cone. The worst injuries almost always came from barefooted kids stepping on not yet cooled sparklers.
Now in 2007 as I approach a terrible birthday with a zero on the end I crave only peace and quiet tempered by sips of red wine and Dodger heroics crooned over by the great Vinny. Such is not possible in my home surrounded by three separate construction projects (worked on all day on the 4th) and the local miscreants who amuse themselves in the wee hours by disrupting the neighborhood with M-180 blasts in one of the nearby concrete ravines. My nerves are a bit frayed from life with Sid and Nancy and the incessant auditory fill. So, darkly circled eyes drooping, here I was on McNerney as the sun began to set and the air filling with a cacophony only before found on the battlefields of World Wars One and Two. Think of the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan” and the shooting gallery at Frontierland on busy day.
The days of “screaming panthers” and “snakes” are over in the Gate and now every citizen seems to have a pipeline to some Somali warlord’s ammo cache. M-180’s with the punch of an landmine have become the new ladyfingers and skyrockets that once were only seen at special events at large municipal parks are in lead bottomed paint cans in every other driveway on every Gate street within earshot. Sky rocket mortars, palomitas (powerful triangular packets of black powder), helicopters (whizzing buzz bombs), now pipsqueak cherry bombs and the kind of multiple skyrockets once used for the grand finale at Dodger stadium zoomed up from fifteen corners at once in a dizzying and deafening sensory overload. Showers of burning embers rained down on palm trees and the old roofs with a red devil may care attitude. True to the bubble syndrome mind-set of much of the mega-bass blasting, tailgating, SUV driving, cell-phone shouting LA there seem to be no connect between these dangerous balls of fire and the future fire-retardant integrity of the local structures. The tragic part was the birds darting hither and thither in mid-air in a panicked search for some safety. They whirred and whizzed from one blinding flash to another never reaching a sanctuary. Also, there were the dogs wandering in terror, tongues hanging askew with eyes burning for a comforting hand, fleeing away from their homes and the onslaught of idiot fireworks.
Next door to the matriarch, the last of the great Moms of the Gate a new “family” has moved in without much in the way of community spirit or manners. The front room is “decorated” like a cantina with a wooden tables set within a neon lit interior with dull, wood floors, a stereo system and some hardscrabble metal chairs somewhat like the Hula Gal Tavern back in the day. The front door was left wide open so the nearby folk could enjoy the string of racist obscenities that blared forth from the rap songs booming from the amplifiers within. There were some breathers from this when techno-Banda thundered forth to retain some connection to the old country.
When nightfall completely blotted out the natural light it was replaced by the rain of rainbow hued explosions that never abated below say klieg light intensity and the thick sulphur fumes really made breathing outdoors difficult. I skulked into the front parlor and resisted a fetal position, instead focusing on a Dodger loss as Bret Tomko threw his own brand of fireworks show. Even icy cold beer and the best potato salad in the known world could not settle my shattered nerves, so I let the mother of noise hug me in the front room where I had passed through many a crisis.
Some of the Sheehy’s bravely cringed in the front yard and watched the pale imitations of pyrotechnics coming from the park where Floyd Wakefield was once propelled skyward by a red, white and blue flower of fire. Finally, after what seemed like days, I begged for release and Greg rounded up the rest and as a nice touch to the end of this misery he pulled the van out of the driveway, perfectly illuminating a fallen inebriate on the lawn next door. The jellyfish-state sot slumped out front of the same little el bada bing where the rap still bathed the jagged pieces of auditory damage in a sleazy glow. They stood the senor up like you would straighten a four by eight but his play dough knees could not hold. And as we crept up McNerney in our escape capsule we could see them negotiating the front steps that looked like the San Gabriels to this besotted chump. Luckily for Grace, she is pretty much deaf and is saved from much of this madness. Our voyage to the 105 freeway was a tour of illegal fireworks and befuddled, terrorized stray dogs looking like me for some cessation of the bombardment. Hooking up with the 110 we zoomed north, the sky still lit with mortars, skyrockets, and grand scale pyrotechnics belching from streets where kids learned to light the things with Daddy’s Marlboros. All this supervised by beer-soaked idiots with one hand on the Budweiser and the other on the two-for a buck lighter. One slip and somebody loses a finger or eyeball but they do look so cool flying up out of your very own backyard. In Glendale a mental giant actually burned up his home and others in his complex by setting off fireworks INSIDE his apartment. When I got home, the explosions and showers of fire continued until I dragged off to my bedchambers with earplugs and white noise to sleep the sleep of the disgusted. Earlier, in my pre-slumber channel surfing I ran into a corn-fest with Pops orchestra playing the old glory wrapped, patriotic war horses while red-faced Kentuckians sat in the audience festooned in red, white and blue “outfits.” On the jingo-lameometer this program sent the mercury to the top. Still, I had a twinge of musty identification with the well-ordered Yankees blessed out with the team spirit. When we got skull-fucked in the Knowlton’s back driveway, eating watermelon, 20% fat burgers and smoking our cigs we did so with some small inkling that the day held some more significance than a cold Burgie. This is the new Los Angeles and the Raider nation mentality for which it stands. As for me, I have had enough and will begin my search for that remote lighthouse with a garden in the coming months.

An Expedition to the Dead Sea without a canteen

2007-05-04T17:21:00.001-07:00

They turned her to dust in the morning
Wheeling a cold gurney
forward into
the heated penumbra
Her strawberry nightie lightly floating
As the
rollers moved the old flesh forward
Those arms that gripped
my arm
Those lips, kissed a thousand times
Those loins that bore me squawling into this
carnival
The sparks of sweet neurons gone in 1500 degrees
No more wake up
showers
No more microwaved coffee
All her deeds, good and otherwise
Into the
dissolution of a “ Power Pack II” Cremation system
Two
hours to disassemble
Six decades of a Mother’s love
Suddenly I am alone
on the salt flats
Dizzied, stunned, disoriented and silenced
The dust
stings my eyes
The salty tears wash them clean

2007-05-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Consummation Of Grief

by Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water is their tears.
I listen to the water on nights
I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoe horn
a laundry ticket
it becomes cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines
. . .it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses
down the avenues of the dead.

Words for Mom

2007-04-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

Mom 1917-2007

“How feeble these words, billowing

in this aftermath, how ineffectual

this utterance of sorrow.”

She was just a housewife. You know, something simple and not too self-important. She was happy to be humble but reasonable and quiet about most things. I guess that's nothing much… but it was everything to us. So these words are not about how grand she was or how she stood above the rest. I am not here to build some kind of marble monument but only to give praise to the one who gave us everything and asked for very little. She was never perfect nor did she expect us to be candidates for sainthood either. This is about someone who was like us, with maddening faults and weaknesses and the occasional streak of wonderful. A person rich with those veins of golden pure human goodness that make the evil in this world fade away. For lifetimes she was content to stand stage left and let the others go their way until they turned to her for help. Then she was always ready.
She was my balance, my place to go where I felt safe, and my lighthouse of brilliant, warm understanding. Her voice at the other end of the phone was as comforting as a childhood blanket and a constant reminder that we were safe in this family, secure in love and special in her eyes forever. When stages of our lives crumbled around us and the whole world was just a town where no one knew our names, you could still count on having this steadfast lady in your corner.
Mom was a creature of routine, a homebody and steady on through every crisis we faced over the last six decades. When she slowed in these last few years it made everyone take a long look at the clock and realize all the more, how precious her company was at each and every family gathering. From the sweet-faced beauty in those 8 millimeter home movies of the 1950’s to the wry old lady with the walker just months ago she was a force to be reckoned with and the engine that drove all of our families here today. Websites might not appear in her honor, miniseries will not be produced and granite monuments shall not be erected in her likeness. Except in our hearts, where grand obelisks of memory will rise, strong into our futures, standing through generations, indestructible and shimmering with love. In real life there is a big difference between famous and important. She made her mark with flesh and blood virtue, the best kind of contribution one can make in this world. She is still here in every one of us.
Let us not think of her as the fragile creature who hobbled in her last days, trapped in silence but of the strong woman who lived a pretty full life. In her day she was actually quite a character and her dry sense of humor could be hilarious and insightful. Once, as I sat near her at Thanksgiving and the great-grandkids were running wild (as is the family tradition) one zoomed past bumping a table between us filled with glassware. She leaned forward and asked me “anyone have some chloroform?” Another time when I was out to dinner with my parents , a sexy lady passed our booth in daisy duke short-shorts. She looked across the table at my Dad who was wearing an eye patch from retina surgery and she remarked “you can put your eye back in the socket now Ben!” She enjoyed life and experienced things most people on the planet can only fantasize about. She traveled to exotic places, ate at some great restaurants, drove a Cadillac or two, lived in comfortable homes, wore beautiful clothes and witnessed some of the most remarkable entertainments of her era. This included theater, film, and sporting events from Rose Bowls to World Series to multiple Super Bowls all over the country. Once upon a time she smoked, she drank, she showed off her petti-coats and was quite a live-wire. Look at the little video today and notice her central position at parties in the salad days of her social set. In her single days she traveled to in-crowd Catalina and danced at the Casino to Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller while sipping coca-colas right from the bottle.
Not bad for the little girl, born Charline Grace Hurt in Denver on July 13, 1917 who was forced to move constantly from place to place following her telegraph operator father. To Long Beach where she was little Tiny Day Hurt, to Casa Grande Arizona where some of the happiest days of her youth were spent and finally to Los Angeles and a long, productive life we sadly saw finally come to a close last Monday. She was the little girl in the always white dresses who was not allowed to play outside where there was dirt so she read and studied instead. She was a fine student at Los Angeles Polytechnic High School, graduating with honors in 1934 and had planned to attend the new UCLA but her mother’s illness and her father’s lack of character forced her to take a job as a telephone operator instead. While she may have lost out on her higher education she learned instead from the handsome and worldly Benny Creason. They met in a Hermosa Beach watering hole in 1941 where she said “he talked too loud and his nose was red…I wasn’t impressed!” Gee, I wonder why? Later when his nose was not so red, the smitten Ben showed up at the telephone offices in his new Chevy coupe and a crisply pressed suit. Pretty, young Charline looked out her work window to spy her future husband of 51 years shining his shoes with a hankie while leaning on the running board. He fell in love when she finished off her steak with gusto on their first date. She often told the story about sitting around with his pals as a newlywed, hearing many stories of his exploits and thinking to herself “what did I get myself into?” What she got herself into was a colorful but certainly splendid family life in South Gate where they raised four children and lived as close to the American dream as existed in our time. When I say they I mean he brought home the dough and my Mom did the rest.
This brings up the big question we all keep asking “what did she give us?”
First: Have you ever been at a public function with the Creasons? We are the animated ones yakking to each other, hugging one another and punctuating our conversations with raucous laughter. We genuinely love to hang together. If you have ever shared a Christmas at my Mother’s home you would have seen happiness unalloyed and bonds of love so strong they will live on for many more generations. Money can’t buy those feelings, that support, that sweet affection. A large part of that flowed from my Mother. She is still here in every one of us.
Second: our uppity women. The girls in our family are strong, smart, opinionated and thoroughly capable. Check out my sisters or Tricia, Michelle, Jill, Stephanie, Sunny and on and on. She showed them that the sisterhood was powerful way before Betty Friedan.
Third: fealty to furry creatures. For some five decades we saw her suffer discomfort so that her dogs or cats might not be disturbed. She sat on the edge of her chair at the dinner table for God’s sake so that her poodle might snooze behind her as she dined. She made attaining cat milk her raison d’etre in her last years and each every family member here serves the animal kingdom in some way. I have five cats myself but don’t sit on the edge of my chair. Stormy, Fritz, Hansel, Gretel, Eloise, Bridgette, Cognac, Frou-Frou, Fred, Alice, Maggie, Abby, Scooby, Grover, Peggy, Amber, Sally, Cowton, Honeymuffin, Peppermint, Bon Bon, Butterscotch, Alice, Jumpin, Big George, Desiree and many more were waiting for her at Rainbow Bridge where she was rewarded with much more than cat milk.
Four: recipes. She was a fantastic cook in her day and has left us a culinary legacy. Some of us can make them but all of us love to eat the multi-cultural menu she taught us to prepare. Who would expect the child of a British woman would make killer enchiladas, superb Polish cabbage rolls, Australian style leg of lamb, English Pot Roast with kosher egg noodles, tacos garnished with parmesan cheese, white folks wonderful cole slaw, potato salad and BLT’s to make you weep with joy. She was, as my Dad said while gaining a hundred pounds “one helluva cook!”
Sort of Five:High Cholesterol: well, not everything she gave us was good but she showed them doctors by living 89 LDL rich years.
Six: Stop and smell the double-delights: Mom took it slow, studying everything around her, savoring the experience and never hurrying. She spent an hour eating dinner, did her famous “turtle-walk” through stores, and exercised her household routines methodically and with great clarity. She could de-flea an entire dog with a pair of tweezers and a cup of coffee. Up until her last two weeks on earth her mind was a steel trap and her nerves were as steady as a surgeon’s. She also believed in taking a moment to study that sunset over the Pacific, to sip the fine cabernet slowly and to smell the double-delight roses when you had a chance. She got her money’s worth at her own pace.
Seven: Athletics: she loved sports and excelled in them in High School where she was captain of the speedball team and despite her own Mother’s over-protectiveness she competed with vigor. She was a religious to the rules golfer and always played better in the clutch. She bowled in her days in South Gate and could practically play any sport she chose. While she wasn’t as fanatical as her husband she liked to watch sports too especially, golf where she got little carried away, tossing hexes at Vijay Singh and rooting for the likes of Gene Litler or Arnie or that guy named Tiger. Participating in sports has always been a family diversion and indeed she is the grand matriarch of the Strange Heads, our family formed softball team that has endured for thirty years!
Eight: Motherisms: Now this could go on for pages and pages but I’ll settle with just three.
“You slop in, you slop around and you slop out!”
“I just should have raised poodles!”
And “I hope you have kids just like you!”
Last: Devotion to Family: Most of us are familiar with the Harry Chapin song “Cats in the Cradle” about a father who reaps the bitter harvest of being too busy to raise his son. My Mom was the antithesis to this story. She was at every sports banquet; Boy Scout meeting, open-house, birthday picnic, baptism, ballgame, graduation, every opportunity to cheer on her own. She was at Daylon’s pop-warner games, at Stephen’s senior league softball, at Katya’s ballet recital, at Papa Romo’s Passover dinners, at Cheryl’s graduation from nursing school, at Shaun and Jeff’s free throw triumphs, at Julia’s games in blistering heat and Jill’s Wilson High heroics. One of my best moments at Central library was when she joined me for the “Shades of LA” reception and we stood before our photograph in the exhibit, taken a half-century before. It never seemed like a chore to her, she went willingly and with great pride. Even as her hearing began to fail she sat serenely in the middle of our hooting and hollering in the den smiling, feeling the glow of love. This family is built on a bedrock of love and she poured that foundation with plenty of hard work and attention. This is her legacy, one of solid gold Mother’s love.
Yes, she didn’t care much for widowhood and she was a rose with needle-like thorns on occasion. Mom journeyed on after Dad died for fifteen years but she wasn’t all that comfortable in her place in this disjointed world. She tested us and sometimes exasperated our intentions but she was as she herself might say “as independent as a hog on ice.” Family here today can tell plenty of stories of happiness and affection that is especially treasured as it was gathered in this sweet bonus decade and a half. Yet, those who lived with her after my Dad passed can tell us of the old widow’s wrath if you put a mixing bowl back in the wrong cupboard. She had her system and the devil take you if you violated Mom’s protocol. I can guess that Jill, Corry and my sister Cheryl are nodding in agreement here.
We have learned from her on both sides of the ledger. We learned to tenderly comfort and to care for our loved ones. We also learned to be stubborn and self-defeating and exasperating in our reticence to act in our own self interest. Hopefully, along with all her recipes and golden advice we will also take a determination not to waste a single day in self-pity or fear of embarrassment or failure. We will not be adamant or vexed by trivialities and hold out our own fragile hands to others in the family. That we will accept comfort in sad times and accept our own failures without condemning others around us.
Some day soon we will be here too, and as it always was, she is just showing us the way. I can understand as with her blood I share many of her attitudes. She was not a joiner but did so against her grain, always rising to leadership roles because of her intelligence and willingness to roll up her sleeves and focus on the task at hand. She was president of the Mother’s Club at St. Helen’s parish and the Ladies Golf Association over at her beloved Rio Hondo G.C. She was one of the super-six Moms of our South Gate youth and stood with Grace Sheehy, Olivia Whitney, Margaret Knowlton, Kathy Carroll and Sighela White as concrete proof that woman are smarter and the real centers of family life. If there is a heaven four of those ladies have greeted my Mom with celestial coffee and cigs already.

Mom’s paradise must certainly be a place where animals share her space, there are soaps on a big TV and coffee and chocolate is at hand. It might be like the back nine at the old Rio Hondo Golf course on an autumn day with the putts all dropping and good pals standing at the tee waiting. Of course, she is would be up because she played well and never cheated on a single stroke. Dad called her a square apple and certainly her morality guided us onto the fairway where his strayed into the rough occasionally.
This raises one more question: what did she love most down here? The obvious is that she loved her family and her home but there is a list of other things she expressed admiration for once or twice.
*Her bratty grand and great-grandkids, especially one certain young man named Daylon.
*Key lime pie.
*The chicken dinners at Knotts Berry Farm
*Playing golf, talking about golf, watching golf on TV, watching golf with her son Stephen.
*The Soap Operas, as if being around my family wasn’t drama enough.
*A clean house, especially shower doors
*Shopping for bargains…with coupons!
*Gardens in springtime
*Coffee with half and half
*Chocolate malts made by her son Stephen
*Rachmaninoff
*Gless Ranch Grapefruits
*Broadway musicals, especially at the Biltmore Theater
*Gewurz Traminer with cheese and crackers
*Reading her newspapers cover to cover
*Red cabbage
*Solo piano
*Double-delight roses
*The combination plate at the Taco Kid on Long Beach blvd. circa 1957
*Frisky pups.
*…and…Yammering on the phone with Christine

Some things book ended her span like dinner at Lawry’s where she spent her first date with my Dad and her 80th birthday with her four children. She was born in Denver and her grandchildren came here from Denver to bid her adieu. She was born to a Mother who loved her and she died a Mother who was loved. She passed through life a very active participant and like the song goes: she sailed down her golden river and was never alone.

Down that golden river and she was never alone, not after 1941, not after Ben and the kids, not after Michelle and Steve and Jill and Lori and Paul and Tricia and Shaun and Jeff and Katya and then another generation with Stephanie and Maya, Caleb, Daylon, Amanda, Holly, Sunny, Ivy, Anthony, Julia, Sara, and darling Dahlia. No, she was never alone except in her thoughts in the den without Ben. Now, finally she can see him again.

When I was a little boy I had the good fortune of taking a trip with my Mom to the Coronado Hotel in San Diego. The stars were all aligned perfectly and it was just the two of us. There in family lore is the story of how I sailed my little hound’s-tooth matching cap from Robinson’s Department store into the bay during a harbor cruise. The trip is golden in memory. Early on it became apparent that I had a hearty breakfast appetite that Mom satisfied by ordering me adult sized servings of flapjacks, Denver omelettes, and bacon, the food of joy. When we checked out the staff knew us as a Mother and son who fed the squirrel, Nutty Jimmy out on the lawn and ate the big breakfasts on china plates. As we dawdled at the front desk, a staff member mentioned my status in the dining room and she took my hand tenderly and said “yes, he’s good boy!” It was then I realized what I enjoyed for the rest of my sixty years with her, that she loved me. Nothing ever came close to being that valuable for me. For all the stupid, insensitive, coarse and selfish acts I have committed, for the hundreds of times the raw old world bruised me to the bone I could hold to those words and remember the softness of her voice calling me “sweetie” even when I was as sour as lemon rinds. My dear friend Lucinda expressed it well when she predicted a joyous reunion on Rainbow Bridge for my Mom where the crowd was large but she added “on this side there is just sadness and a hollow feeling left by the passing of a great soul. “ Yes, Indeed.

Being a force for good

2007-04-14T15:44:00.000-07:00

From Kurt Vonnegut: "...we are all here on a temporary pass. And yet, like Albert Camus, whom he once described as his favorite Nobel Prize winner, he recognized that the only moral choice in the face of an absurd universe is to be a force for good. "So you see," a character in his story "Welcome to the Monkey House" says, "I have spent this night, and many others like it, attempting to restore a certain amount of innocent pleasure to the world, which is poorer in pleasure than it needs to be."

Farewell Buddy Boy

2007-04-14T15:42:00.000-07:00

Ed Carroll

I feel humbled to speak about Ed Carroll since he was such an extraordinarily fine man who should merit the words of a master. He deserves Vin Scully speaking his name and great poets praising his deeds. Yet, he was like me; just a boy from South Gate who grew up on Annetta avenue and I think he would be comfortable with my telling a few simple stories about his world, one I understand quite well. I grew up with Ed in that little slice of the American dream and remember him before he was allowed to cross the street by himself to visit the Knowlton household, where we all met back in the mid-50’s. This will be the story of many Ed Carrolls and the first, is that small boy on Annetta who was just known as “little Eddie.” He was a cherubic, rosy-cheeked kid who was unusually good-natured and even-tempered. You may have seen the old cartoon where just three people sit in a cavernous auditorium festooned with a banner reading “meeting of the children of normal parents.” Ed would have been one of those people. He was just plain good from the crest of his brillcreamed hair to the tips of his high-top Keds. “Good boy Eddie” that was another name and he earned it by being nice to everyone, not just the Moms who seemed to run the kids world but to other squirts who weren’t as big or as smart as he was on our blocks. It’s no secret why he was so kind, so generous, and so infinitely patient with other brats. He was Cathy’s son. And everybody near the family knew Cathy as hands down the nicest person who ever drew a breath. Ed just followed her lead.
Being an only child, Ed soon sidled into the world of 9604 Annetta where, as Tim Balderama said he became the “10th Knowlton.” The little guy was sharp as a tack, a great sport and a Cracker Jack athlete which was the currency of all prestige on the street. He was well nourished and could be called “Pudgie Dumpling” but his skill and coordination was such that he could play with the big guys named Johnny, Paul and visitor from far away 9400 answering to Glen. Without embellishment I can say he was the best hitter in Pee Wee baseball at the South Gate Park I ever saw, hands down. There he starred as a 7-Up Yankee, coached by the great Gil Montano forming one of the most fearsome batteries in history, teaming as Pitcher/Catcher with Bobby Cunningham. On the diamonds of South Gate Summers he battled the likes of the dreaded Bombers featuring Niall White and the scrappy Comets with Greg Sheehy. Little Eddie was a team guy just like in the rest of his forty-plus years, never bragging, never bullying and always sharing the glory. Ed would have probably gone on to further athletic glories but for an unfortunate tangle with a sprinkler head on the front lawn out on Annetta while playing pickle with a tennis ball. After that Ed had all the foot speed of a veteran catcher.
Eddie was the model citizen, getting good grades, obeying his parents and teachers and serving 6:30 mass on Sundays for Father Kelly down at St. Helen’s parish. He always excelled at St. Helen School and was a quick study in a wide variety of subjects. He was a cute little guy, looking something like a Hummel and it was early on that girls noticed the rosy cheeked lad and everybody gave him Valentines on the day of love. He was the soul of affability and was liked by big and little kids alike. By the time little Ed reached double figures in age he took on the appellation “Tuss Boy” which will go unexplained here but it stuck like glue to him up to and including recent history. Indeed, in adulthood he was called the transmogrified versions as “Tuzzle-Tozzle, Tozzle and Doc Tozz.” Whatever the squirts on Annetta cooked up Ed joined in. If it were “red light green light” or “draw the magic circle” or “wee-gee ball” he was there and playing fair. Cathy didn’t even have to call him home, she just stood out on the porch of 9601 Annetta, the tidiest home in America and Eddie reported for supper. He joined the Knowltons in their long-time Sunday at dawn pursuit of fortune called “the paper route,” pulling the old wooden wagons along in the early morning with Kevin and Mike, calling out Exaaaaaminer-Times Paaaaper!!” He was like blood-kin and to this day the Knowlton sisters call him a brother.
By the time puberty hit Ed did as all Annetta kids did in that day: rebelled at warp speed from his parent’s values. He learned to smoke by cadging Pall Malls and Newports from the Knowlton household and took up other vices evidenced by one of the most delightful bits of Annetta street lore. An older Knowlton brother (John and Paul) hosted camping trip for the boys was just an excuse for underage suds sipping. The jig was up for all when little Kevin exhuberantly exclaimed while describing one night’s events to his Mom “…and a spider crawled right across Eddie’s beer can!!!” I don’t know if Margaret ever busted Ed to Cathy Carroll but from that day forward the nickname “Spiders” was added to the lengthening list of Eddie appellations. Yet the man himself tried to beg off from his own shenanigans recently in an e-mail when he wrote “Niall and I were once as pure as the Indianapolis God driven
snow. Certain candidates for seminary school..until the OGs (Older Gators) hit the scene and sullied our purity !!!… We were led down the red ant infested dirt hill road to hell and our unsullied good Christian souls !!! Yes, we were led astray by the OGs and no amount of our mother's prayers
could save us !!! EC
PS I believe one of the culprits was named " Zeke" and I forget the other's name but do remember he
was named after an athletic shoe !!!” Translation: “Zeke” was Paul Knowlton and the athletic shoe guy was me.
I would be remiss if I failed to mention Eddie’s acumen at the pinochle table in the Knowlton’s front room. Sitting in a cloud of smoke, hearing the bids he would sit motionless until the exact moment of weakness in an opponent and then strike. Because of his inscrutability and the way he let bids pass like a bump on a log he was known at that table as “Bumps.”
Despite straying a bit from the path and straining at the bounds of Tommy and Cathy propriety Ed continued to do well in school and eventually graduated with honors from St. Helen, then as a CSF winner from Pius X High School in 1969 and was admitted to UCLA as a freshman.
Ed’s further corruption took place at a dorm known as Weyburn Hall and the stories of the hi-jinks there are too many for me to tackle but there are many here who will regale you of a book thicker than “Gone With the Wind” on this stage of Ed’s debauchery. Ed was now a hippie with long-hair and whiskers who managed to excel in the Psych department despite his constant time-wasting in the quad, hurling Frisbees and hobnobbing with ne’r do wells like fellow student revolutionaries Niall, Derrick, Barney and Maxine. I was finishing off my foot-dragging, draft-dodging, college career at Westwood and in 1970 Ed and I used to have flesh burger lunches in the old bomb shelter and fantasize about all the free love we never seemed to be getting on campus. We took trips together, both in cars and on the back of Don Juan’s raven in that mind-expanding time. Memories of camping in the Sespe Condor Sanctuary, the pine forests of Northern California and Grateful Dead concerts are fantastic in more ways than one. There was a real riot in that final quarter of 1970 and when the police stormed the campus Ed had the bad luck to get caught in a stairwell with an overzealous LAPD officer who gave him seventeen stitches under his chin.
The final road to perdition for young Eddie was a stay at Midvale Street in Palms, a hippie crash pad he shared with three other gents in 1971 including myself, Paul Knowlton and Bruce Alpert. That era may be like the decade of the 60’s in that if you lived through it you probably can’t remember it anyway. I do recall that we had tons of fun and were hated by the neighbors since our main activities involved listening to loud rock and roll music and the playing indoor basketball in the front room at all hours of the early morning. Ed was a terrific roommate except for the part about never doing any housework or cooking a single meal. How anybody ever studied in that house I don’t know but Ed managed to forge ahead and gain his Bachelors, then after his escape from Midvale and a long stay at the Colby avenue crow’s nest, there was a Masters and lastly he became one of the rarest birds in all of South Gate annals: a PhD. Thus, he became “Doc Tozzle” I never told him but I was very proud to have an Annetta homeboy earn such a grand scholarly achievement. I think we all were proud just to have him as a friend. It didn’t change him; he was still just the “Tuss Boy” to us.
After I left West LA to move back to South Gate in 1976 I saw Ed less and less but managed to keep in contact through strange news-clippings he would send in the mail or lengthy telephone calls. Those were happy days for him when he lived with Freya, probably the one true love of his life and he was full of good humor. When the old gang began to disperse across the country to New Mexico, to Oregon, to Wildomar, to San Francisco and San Diego it came to pass that Ed and I were the last of the Annetta Street Mohicans. I have looked at my photo albums of the past quarter century and it is amazing how many include this man. Ed was always at weddings where he consistently beat me to the car in escaping the demands to join the drunks on the dance floor. At every anniversary, birthday and celebration ever held in our circle Ed Carroll was as essential as laughter itself in these revelries. His dark-humored Christmas cards are legend and despite the fact I had to hide them from my young daughter I kept every one to this day. There is also a treasure chest of offbeat phone messages in which Ed cursed the vanquished Trojans or trumpeted Dodger success. They are indeed like gold today.
Before and especially after the death of his parents, Ed was adopted into several families’ holiday scenes, filling his void and giving a valuable addition to those lucky ones who were able to include him. There was the 4th of July with Grace Sheehy, Christmas dinner with Greg or Niall, Ed’s own magnificent Lawry’s Holiday feast and for thirteen, sweet years: the Opening Day of Dodger Baseball with thirteen of his closest pals. There were also UCLA games with the Bobcat, backyard barbecues, concerts, trips to Laughlin and any other excuse to bend an elbow and shoot the breeze. With e-mail came constant contact and copious ribaldry from Edocspud etc. Agent provocateur Derrick often set out the cyber-bait to bring Ed out of his electronic cave and the results were often hilarious.
It’s not that losing Ed is like losing a part of yourself because he was much more than that, he was like the very fabric of our lives, like the threads in the garment that protected us and kept us warm. Ed was not only my friend he was my advisor and buoyed me through several major crises in my life including divorce, depression, parenting a teenager and dealing with the decline of my own Mother’s health. I seriously doubt I could have made it through without him. What I feel is Ed’s greatest achievement, one that shows his extraordinary character is that I never had an argument with this man. It is well known that I am cantankerous to a fault yet I just never had occasion to exchange cross words with my friend Ed. Once, I had fibbed myself into a deep hole at work, selling them a tale that I was being treated in therapy when in fact I was sleeping in after partying. I was told to bring in an official letter to determine that the therapy was needed. After a sleepless night, an anxious phone call and a long drive I did show up at work, greatly relieved with such a note signed by the esteemed Doctor Edward M. Carroll. Still, he was a true hero in the strictest sense of the word regarding his own Mom and her struggle with cancer. He never complained and dutifully drove every single day to Downey to sit at Cathy’s bedside for month after nerve-shattering month. Right up to the end he stayed the good son and a man of exalted character.
In the past decade he was a guy who loved his solitude and routines that gave comfort. It might have been a show on HBO, his beloved cats Thunder and Lightening or a nice martini after a hard day’s work at the Veteran’s. He went to Bruin games, cheered at Opening Day, was seen at the bar in Lawry’s, and he stoked the cyber fires on the Internet. Thus he found a sweet rhythm of middle-aged contentment, cruising from one appreciated contact to another, smiling like he was in what Margaret Knowlton called “the catbird seat.” Indeed, he was like clockwork; dependable, solid, honest and sure to show up when asked to attend. Then, one Thursday morning when we all heard our clock radios harken the new day, Ed got up, poured himself a glass of juice, sat down at his desk and opened a door to eternity.
Like everyone here, I have been watching an Ed Carroll marathon movie festival for the past week. I can’t stop it and I don’t want to let go. It seems incomprehensible that he isn’t sitting out there enjoying this tribute. I’ve got a picture of him I want to keep on the mantle of my mind’s eye, I’ve told Greg about it and he agrees. It is a typical Christmastime, Ed Carroll-hosted visit to Lawry’s on restaurant row. I come in to the bar out of the December chill with Greg, Lissie and Maureen Sheehy and we search the place for a friendly face. There, up at the bar is the beaming, ruddy-countenance of Ed in his heavy, leather jacket, beckoning to us while lifting a pair of delicious looking martinis like a victorious hunter holding up the big game he had bagged. I’ll never forget you my friend.

The day the music died

2007-04-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

While riding on a train goin' west,

I fell asleep for to take my rest.

I dreamed a dream that made me sad,

Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room

Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon,

Where we together weathered many a storm,

Laughin' and singin' till the early hours of the morn.

By the old wooden stove where our hats was hung,

Our words were told, our songs were sung,

Where we longed for nothin' and were quite satisfied

Talkin' and a-jokin' about the world outside.

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold,

We never thought we could ever get old.

We thought we could sit forever in fun

But our chances really was a million to one.

As easy it was to tell black from white,

It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.

And our choices were few and the thought never hit

That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split.

How many a year has passed and gone,

And many a gamble has been lost and won,

And many a road taken by many a friend,

And each one I've never seen again.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

That we could sit simply in that room again.

Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat,

I'd give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.

-Bob Dylan's Dream

flung

2007-03-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random between the profusion of matter and of the stars, but that within this prison we can draw from ourselves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.
Andre Malraux

words of wisdom

2007-03-19T11:10:00.001-07:00

"Los ninos y los borrachos dicen la verdad!!!"

La Nana de Lucinda

Solitude

2007-03-17T13:13:00.000-07:00

How happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breaths his native air,
In his own grounds.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

Alexander Pope

Home

2007-03-01T10:28:00.000-08:00

"A man's home is his castle...until he misses three mortgage payments."
Raymond Lesser

Funeral Blues

2007-02-22T15:54:00.000-08:00

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

violence

2007-01-25T11:38:00.000-08:00

The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you may murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate. So it goes. Returning violence for violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction.... The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

Dr. Martin Luther King

the Heron's wing

2007-01-18T16:20:00.000-08:00

Her dark eyes sparked like flint
Drinking an oolong of the sight
In the Winter chill by the reservoir
Look at the heron in flight!
she, pointing toward the open sky
The lanky beauty soaring above
As rubber tires and steel lumbered by
On the spread of stained asphalt
Under our feet
The heron took it from there
Her voice trailing now
Like the brush stroke cirrus
For one moment, we thought of nothing else
Happiness, uninterrupted by machines
Or words about people and things
The heron lightly stepped from flight
To a nest of new life
As we walked back onto the earth

Turnips

2007-01-04T16:47:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in Texas he awoke
Sore, startled, scared
Seeing a sight he would long remember
Out the boxcar door
Men running with turnips in hand
From a farmer's field by the tracks
Eyes glazed with hunger
Like they were on hop
Sprinting desperately back toward the train
The big machine gaining speed
Struggling, like the men up the grade
In the late Summer afternoon
They, risking life and limb
to stop the ache in their empty bellies
They held their noses
Choked down the things
Quieting the demons temporarily
Ahead in Needles, he jumped off
Dusty but not disheveled
and spent his last quarter on a shoeshine

the lamp by the chair

2006-12-18T15:54:00.000-08:00

Often, as I sat in the old leather chair
in the den at
her sometimes sad home
I felt her looking past me to the space
where my
father had kept company,
the television reflecting the lamp by the chair
by the space where he had been.
She would look at his absence in the
dark chair
not noticing us who tried to bring the light to her.

2006-11-27T15:28:00.000-08:00

"I prayed for this: a modest swatch of land where I could garden, an
ever-flowing springclose by, and a small patch of woods above the house. The
gods gave all I asked and more. I pray for nothing more, but that these
blessings last my life's full term."

-Horace

zing went the strings

2006-11-22T15:17:00.000-08:00

"I've just read about his illness, let's hope it's nothing trivial."

Irving S. Cobb

"He was like the cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow."

George Eliot

"She looked like she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say when"

P.G. Wodehouse

"Sh'e's been on more laps than a napkin"

Walter Winchell

"She always tells stories in the present vindictive"

Tom Peace

"Some cause happiness wherever they go, others whenever they leave."

Oscar Wilde

No Coward

2006-11-16T11:19:00.000-08:00

My cats don't know I am a coward
That I have done shameful things
Stolen from drugstores
Used terrible concoctions
French kissed a neighbor when I was married
Ignored death and depression
They look at me in worship
When my craggy hands open the wet food cans
Never judging me that porn I watched
Never asking that I repent for sins
My cats don't care that I am weak
That sometimes I stink
That I once shot birds, kicked one of their kind
That I have been often mean to my own
Fought with my brother and sisters
Disobeyed my parents and teachers
Failed to say my night prayers for thirty-seven years
My lap is cushy, inviting, immobile for hours at a time
They see in my eyes that I love them
I am imperfectly wonderfully, opposably thumbed human
No coward

Halloween When It Was Dangerous

2006-11-02T18:52:00.000-08:00

I fear Halloween has become a rather pale imitation of my youthful super-holiday. Why, when I was a kid (here the young folk yawn and look at their watches) we had a REAL Halloween. The night before was called "Beggar's night" and almost everybody gave out candy to neighborhood kids who would be going to South Gate park for the festival where there was a dangerous bonfire, greased pole climbing contest, carnival booths and free hot dogs and hershey bars to local kids. There was a grand halloween costume judging as squirts paraded around the piled bon-logs and in 1949 I won like third prize and still have the plaque in my bedroom. I was a devil! After the pole climb (Buck Whitney won it one year) all the little ones crowded into the Auditorium to watch horror movies like the Mummy, Dracula or Frankenstein. Yes, they did have electricity and we acted up terribly, getting thrown out several years. Before the films star ted local young teens and pre-teens tottered around outside puffing Lucky Strikes and taking pulls of brandy or gin out of Mum's deodorant squeeze bottles. Even back then girls took the holiday as an excuse to dress like a whore. My young loins were on fire in 1958 when I saw Jean Lowe wearing red lipstick and fishnets!
Still, the Knowlton boys and I set out at dusk on Halloween covering like eight city blocks. We filled a duffle bag with candy and if we got a box of raisins it went straight into the gutter. Trick or treating in the 50's almost always featured the adults fully skunked sitting, smoking cigs and slurring out demands to others to "come see this kid, he's fucking mummy! Oh excuse my language." We didn't trick or treat, we WORKED those streets. Plus, if I had a big haul when I was little I had to hide the good stuff (snickers, 3 Muscateers, any Hershey bars, Look, Sugar Babies etc.) I had to hide it from my brother. He would take a favorite candy and fart on it, no kidding. Poor families like the Knowltons had a big, smelly box of hand me down Halloween costumes which were worn dozens of times but in my house we made our own and indeed I won best costume at my grammar school three years running. I had a jump on West Hol as one year I dressed as a woman.

later

2006-10-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

The truth of these photographs
Forming there in the monitor
Ghosts, evanescent in time
They will vibrate into another moment
Up ahead in the unknown mists
When today becomes the day
Reds and greens will fade but never these
Around that bend of the clock

There, in some strange and unknown place
We will see the forms once seen
In morning mirrors as catastrophic
And say: “God damn I look good!”
We will see what we took for granted
Calculating the years toward oblivion
With increasing care
But enjoying the thump within
Later

Without Looking

2006-10-22T14:57:00.000-07:00

Across the kitchen table her dyed black hair
shines over my natural red
She does not see the light in my eyes, looking down
Forgetting the un-done
dishes, the cell phone arguments at midnight
I feel the old, familiar
thumping of similar hearts
She doesn’t know, I don’t say
Washed clean
are the ragged wounds of teen nights
Sleepless and pacing then with
imagination on fire
Jolting me from routine, snagging my medicated passages
I remember holding her up to see the monkeys at the zoo
Her little body
like the melted butter of love
Dropping her off at school and watching her
coltish strides away from me
Away from me it has been for years now
She
drives away now from the sunken hull of my youth
Down the hills to a world I
will never know
I ache for the smell of stale quesadillas, the wadded paper
lunch bag thrown in my back seat
I pass her money and muttered complaints
She ignores almost all of it
I hardly notice her thankful eyes, looking
down
That little calf look that endures
Our cats are the bridge
of what is left of our days together
When we drove over the hills to Ventura
Calling out the Christmas lights and laughing.

kites

2006-10-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

Little sister just remember
As you wander through the blue
The little kite that you sent flying
On a sunny afternoon
Made of something light as nothing
Made of joy that matters too
How the little dreams we dream
Are all we can really do

In the middle of the night
The world turns with all of it's might
A little diamond colored blue
In the middle of the night
We keep sending little kites
Until a little light gets through
-----------------------------------

"...will there be someone to remember
a little place that we loved
how the music played all night and day
through the windows up above

how the birds sang in the morning
how the dog barked in the yard
i guess that's nothing much but everything to us
and that's what seems so hard"

both excerpts from songs by Patty Griffin "Kite" and "Dear Old Friend"

2006-10-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

School Prayer

In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

-Diane Ackerman

daffodils

2006-09-26T14:42:00.000-07:00

To Daffadills

Faire Daffadills, we weep to see
You haste away so soone:
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his Noone.
Stay, stay,
Untill the hasting day
Has run
But to the Even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will goe with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet Decay,
As you, or any thing
We die,
As your hours doe, and drie
Away,
Like to the Summeres raine;
Or as the pearles of Mornings dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

by Robert Herrick

Strength

2006-09-16T15:48:00.000-07:00

"We all have strength enough to endure the troubles of others."

La Rochefoucauld

Farewell, Farewell

2006-08-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

"I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up DOES rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend."

from "the Shawshank Redemption" by Stephen King

A Warning Shot off the bow

2006-08-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

Received at the reference desk this missive, delivered with stealth by a sweaty old man.

Lincoln shot
April 14, 1865 (10:00)

Titanic hit ice berg
April 14, 1912 (11:40pm)
sank 15th

Pure coincidence or Freemason engineering?

2006-08-02T15:30:00.000-07:00

Songs were made to sing,
While we're young!
Every day is Spring,
While we're young!

None can refuse,
Time flies so fast!
Too dear to lose,
An' too sweet to last!

Though it may be just . . .
For today!
Share our love we must . . .
While we may!

So blue the skies,
All sweet surprise,
Shines before our eyes,
While we're young!

( None can refuse,
Time flies so fast!
Too dear to lose,
An' too sweet to last! )

Though it may be just . . .
For today!
Share our love we must . . .
While we may!

So blue the skies,
All sweet surprise,
Shines before our eyes,
While we're young!

Pour the Wine

2006-08-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

"A hard drinker, being at table, was offered grapes at dessert. 'Thank you,' said he, pushing the dish away from him, 'but I am not in the habit of taking my wine in pills.'"
- "The Physiology of Taste" by Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

Frankie in the Nip

2006-07-26T14:56:00.000-07:00

It was easy to recognize in him the anti-social animus of a born evangelist, but there was also something else—a kind of voluptuous delight in the shabby and preposterous, a perverted aestheticism like that of a latter-day movie or radio fan, a wild will to roll in and snuffle balderdash as a cat rolls in and snuffles catnip.

2006-07-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

The rantings of a madman: Georges Louis Leclerc de Buffon - (1707 - 1788) The French naturalist praised dogs, but claimed that cats possessed "an innate malice and perverse disposition which increases as they grow up." He added that they "easily assume the habits of society, but never acquire its manners."

2006-07-13T14:19:00.000-07:00

My name is Addison DeWitt. My native habitat is the theater. In it I toil not, neither do I spin. I am a critic and commentator. I am essential to the theatre - as ants to a picnic, as the boll weevil to a cotton field.

2006-07-08T15:23:00.000-07:00

“By associating with the cat one only risks becoming richer.”
-Sidonie Gabrielle
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A little drowsing cat is an image of a perfect beatitude”
-Jules Champfleury

Dark as a Dungeon

2006-04-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

Come all you library folk so weird and so fine
And seek not your fortune way down in His-Gen
It will form like a habit and seep in your soul
Till the stream of your blood flows as black as the New England Genealogical Register

(Chorus:)
It's dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew
The danger is doubled and the pleasures are few
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It's dark as a dungeon way down in LL4

There's many a staffer I have seen in my day
Who lived just to labor his whole life away
Like the fiend with his dope and the drunkard his wine
A man can have lust for the lure of the whine

(Chorus)

Oh when I am dead and the ages shall roll
My body will blacken and turn into fiche
Then I'll look from the door of my heavenly home
And pity the clerk just a filing my bones

2006-01-12T14:02:00.000-08:00

The long surpressed fact is that Melville Dewey was not the creator of the famed cataloging system. Let the truth be told it was the Singing Deweys.

...from the sleeper film "Party Girl"

Judy Lindendorf: He's not a dick, he's a patron.

Mary: You don't think I'm smart enough to work in your fucking library?

Mary: I may have made a mistake, but that is no reason to patronize me. It is dismaying that your expectations are based on the performance of a lesser primate, and also revelatory of a managerial style that is sadly lacking. Is it any wonder then, that I have chosen not to learn the intricacies of an antiquated and idiotic system? I think not!

On Not Crossing the Street

2005-12-21T19:15:00.000-08:00

"I have lost friends, some by death, others through sheer inability to cross the street."
- Virginia Woolf

the holiday season seems to be a time of reflection and the shedding of old skin. The family is transmogrified and changes constantly, yet they are constant. Friendship wane and wither but some when pruned come back stronger than ever with new shoots of growth.

paging Mr. Greco!

2005-12-08T15:10:00.000-08:00

a crazy gal just stopped at the desk and blurted out a question to me with her face reddening: "what's the crisis in the library?!? I looked up and then she shouted "ask Celeste Holm!"

While Miss Holm is still standing in the public glare at 85 years it is still unclear to me as to her exact role in library politics. It must be done with brain waves or a rat pack of game players shooting laser beams.

urban legend

2005-11-21T15:11:00.000-08:00

…he looked a lot like that James Bond super villain played by Richard Kiel with a jaw made of iron and sharpened stainless steel teeth. He stood about eight feet, three inches and he measured about six ax-handles across the shoulders. He could grip a twenty-five pound thanksgiving turkey between each knuckle of his massive mitts. He spit when he talked and a stench like an open septic tank at a refugee camp was emitted from his gaping maw. He wore a huge potato sack stained with urine for a shirt and his “pants” were merely percale queen size Vera sheets stained with like a half gallon of feces. His hair was a tempestuous haystack tangled like an Australian rugby scrum. He roared and fumed. He tore a computer in two with his bare hands, cleaved a carrel with a prodigious blow and strode up to the reference desk and boomed in a voice like Darth Vader “hey, you fucking civil service faggot! Your mother is a whore, your father was a scalper and I am going to poke your eyes out and skull fuck you in front of all these lousy little pukes!!! As he pronounced the last words he unsheathed a gurka scimitar as long as your arm and swung it at my face, slicing the eyelid almost clean off as I lurched backwards. His left hand thundered down on my occipital, causing me to see stars and again the blade swished past my right ear as Michael dove toward the Family Search CD towers. I duck walked toward the end of the desk as Michael took an off-balance haymaker at the back of the giant’s head but monster caught me by back of my sport shirt and swung me like a hammer being thrown by one of the Press sisters of the Soviet Union’s track and field glory days. I bounced off the new gen-bookcase, boomeranged off the Wall Chart of History cases, flipped out the door with my back corkscrewing and sickening pops and snaps of tendon and bone. When I came to I was stretched out in a pool of blood and broken glass out on the landing while the jackbooted behemoth bore down on me, ready to finish the job. The only weapon I had was my identification badge which I lodged into my right hand and swung upwards with all my might. I caught him just below the solar plexus and he grunted low and hard. I twisted the lanyard around his femoral artery and held on as he rained blow after blow down on my kidneys. There was a metallic taste in my mouth and blood dripped from my lower extremities. I said goodbye to Katya, I thought of the Dodger pennant I would not live to see, I wondered about donuts on Saturdays for the rest of the staff. Yet, just before I started to black out I felt the impact of the blows lessen and the thudding slow. The lanyard twisted about the artery was beginning to take its effect. It was at that point that I saw a copy of “Descendants of Confederate Veterans of Valdosta Georgia at the Conclusion of the War Between the States” in a tidy, full bind with sharp corners. With the last ounce of my strength I bent my trembling knees and brought it up hard, directly into his oak tree like neck. The corner of the tome caught him just below the jugular vein and tore a hole the size of a Titelist 100 compression golf ball, right through the leathery flesh. Blood poured like cheap vin rouge from a two-gallon carboy, soaking me, the tiles and the glass with crimson. He gasped, fell to his knees, gurgled one last curse “you…you…you…fucking…sissy…librarians…I’ll sue…I’ll…Then, all was silence. That’s about all I remember, just that and waking up in the hospital with Micah standing over me wiping her eyes and lips…

Don't be a fat waster

2005-11-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

Remember

http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/adaccess/

Pretend

2005-11-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

Pretend you're happy when you're blue
It isn't very hard to do
And you'll find happiness without an end
Whenever you pretend

Remember anyone can dream
And nothing's bad as it may seem
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend

You'll find a love you can share
One you can call all your own
Just close your eyes, she'll be there
You'll never be alone

And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?

And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?

from Inherit the Wind

2005-11-08T10:58:00.000-08:00

In my ongoing jettisoning of my believer roots, cured as it were by G.W. Bush and his phillistine-evangelicals I watched "Inherit the Wind" yesterday. One of many great lines:

"an idea is more sacred than a cathedral"

thump-ripe melon

2005-10-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

"...i don't want too much a field across the road and a few good friends
she used to come & see me but she was always there & gone
even the very longest love does not last too long
she'd stand there in my doorway smoothing out her dress& say "this life is a thump-ripe melon--so sweet and such a mess"
Rexroth's Daughter by Greg Brown

Useful advice

2005-09-23T08:42:00.000-07:00

More useful advice from a very old man. The Reverend H.J. Bidder, aged 86, sat silently, with a crumpled face, all through dinner and then promulgated the following:

1) never drink claret in an east wind

2) take your pleasures singly, one by one.

3) never sit on a hard chair after drinking port.

Recalled in Geoffrey Madan's notebooks from The Cassell Dictionary of Anecdotes

How Dare We

2005-09-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

"Fear less, hope more; Eat less, chew more; Whine less, breathe more; Talk less, say more; Love more, and all good things will be yours "
Swedish Proverb
...in a rare serious vein I got my compass recalibrated last night as I schlumped home in my piece of Detroit steel. Antsy, disappointed by the delay in departure for my liberal wearing of the hairshirt I was ungabluzm as all getout. When I am feeling a little eggheaded I turn to "All Things Considered" which sometimes is light-hearted and uplifting. This story was not. It was recited by the sister of Darcy Wakefield, the author of "I Remember Running" which details this robust, athletic woman's sad decline due to the terrible disease ALS. A person who once was a rock climber and long distance runner now is reduced to helplessly lying in bed waiting for her boyfriend to turn her. She talks of worrying that the comforter might smother her since she cannot move her arms or speak at this point. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4854875 is the story and it will put things into perspective. As I drove, I suddenly rejoiced in my freedom to press down on the accelorator, the flip in a turn signal, to sing or speak out my feelings. No matter how much we feel sorry for ourselves we need to take stock in the face of the Darcy Wakefields out in the world.