27 Years Ago I Married My Best Friend . . .

He is not only my husband and lover, he is my rock, my confidant, my partner in crime, my biggest fan, and I can't imagine my life without him.

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.

A note about BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.:

These are not, in any way, meant to be comprehensive reviews. They are intended to acknowledge that I have read the book, and give my honest core impressions.

If a real review is what you wish, there are many wonderful book blogs available, and I have provided some tools to find them under the tab marked "Useful Stuff."

~ AUDIOBOOKS ~

Revival - (audiobook) - Stephen King

Revival does indeed have many meanings, and leave it to Stephen King to raise the scariest of them.

King has a gift for creating engrossing characters who pull us into the most fantastical of stories. Because of this, we grow up with Jamie and are drawn into the world of Reverend Jacobs in spite of our selves.

And like all King stories, the road ends in a place we don't wish to remain, at least not alone.

The Drowning Man (audiobook) - Margaret Coel

Wealthy collectors with no respect for history run afoul of the ancients, and come between partners.

But in the end, faith and trust can set things right.

Known To Evil (audiobook) - Walter Mosley

Noir set right in the middle of the present. It doesn't seem like it should work, but it does - and well.

McGill is hired to check on a girl, but when she turns up missing, nobody wants him to find her. Nobody!

And he does not like being pushed around.

Sometimes I Wonder About You (audiobook) - Walter Mosley

This was the last in the Leonid McGill series (so far) and I am definitely looking forward to more.

As I stated before, I decided to add more minority authors to my reading list this year and this, my first choice, is definitely a positive addition to my list of favorite authors.

Mr. Mosley has several other series, as well as non-fiction, erotica, plays, and a graphic novel to his name.

I plan to explore more of these offerings over time, but I also plan to explore more authors that seem to 'escape' heavy main stream promotion.

The Long Walk (audiobook) - Stephen King

As with all Steven King books the writing was vivid and visceral, but this was a painful book to read.

One could see this story as a metaphor for life, where one simply has to keep going regardless, and the alternative is death.

Or perhaps it is an exploration of the human spirit when faced with the ultimate challenge.

Whatever its true meaning, I just need an Aleve and a nap.

Go Set A Watchman (audiobook) - Harper Lee

I haven't really wanted to read this book.

At first, the controversy surrounding its publication forced a reevaluation of its predecessor, To Kill A Mockingbird. In my childhood, Gregory Peck was hero and brave soldier, standing strong against the forces of hatred and oppression.

Like so many things of our youth, when reexamined, that turned out not to be the case. I wasn't the only one who failed to look too close and, in my defense, I was only five years old when the movie debuted.

Still, it hurts.

This book still swirls with controversy. Did Ms Lee actually write it? Did she really want it published? Was she victimized by nefarious people? If these questions have been answered I don't know. I stopped reading about the mess when Ms Lee died.

But at last I've read it. Other reviewers say that the key theme of the book is disillusionment. I can agree with that. I felt it through most of the book, that an profound sadness.

The casual racism used throughout the novel by all the characters was difficult to tolerate. It was used as much by Jean Louise, our heroine, as by the racists she supposedly objects to.

I ran across a sentence in another review that pretty much sums what I think about the book. "Go Set a Watchman endorses undeserved tolerance and respect for hateful white people."

Joyland (audiobook) - Stephen King

The story was interesting, but the real strength of this novel is its strong, dimensional characters.

That, in my opinion, is King's strength. If you believe in and care about a character, you will follow her/him through the wildest of plots.

Rumpole of the Bailey (audiobook) - John Mortimer

I watched the series on PBS ages ago and it was fun to revisit cranky old Rumpole and, of course, 'She Who Must Be Obeyed.'

The Wind Through the Keyhole - Stephen King

There are writers, some of them excellent in their chosen genre, and there are story tellers.

Not all writers, no matter how captivating their creations, are story tellers. But in the hands of a story teller, you delve deeper and deeper into other worlds with only their words to guide you through - and you go willingly.

Stephen King is a story teller.

~ EBOOKS ~

Mycroft Holmes (ebook) - Kareem Abdul - Jabbar

I often wonder who did most of the writing when I read a book that has been cowritten, especially when it was cowritten by a celebrity.

This was a new view of a different Holmes, and it was engaging as well as well written.

~ REINCARNATED TREES ~

Double Homicide - Jonathan & Faye Kellerman

Two novellas that, while not offering the opportunity for plot or character development of the longer form, are still entertaining none the less.

Capital Crimes - Jonathan & Faye Kellerman

Both plot and dialogue seem stilted in these novellas, which is unusual for both authors.

I was disappointed, but also a bit stumped. Jonathan Kellerman is easily one of my favorite authors.

The Murderer's Daughter - Jonathan Kellerman

This book was p-l-o-d-d-i-n-g.

Okay. I understand what is happening here.

Kellerman is creating a new kind of protagonist: a broken person helping other broken people in her own broken way. Kind of like Dexter with more psychology. No?

If he continues with the character I will give her a fighting chance. After all, once he has established her back story it should be full speed ahead. Right? Right?

11/22/63 - Stephen King

I never realized that the facts I learned about this era in history class had left without a true understanding of the time. But King brought the cold war with its fear, paranoia, and hatred alive - as well as their consequences.

And the echo in today's political and social climate is chilling. Perhaps it is time to take stock of who we are and who we want to be

Driving Heat - Richard Castle

Unlike the TV series, this novel showed no sign of ending the Nikki Heat saga.

Like its predecessors, it was a quick and fun read.

The Heat/Rook relationship progressed; the plot was complex enough to hold my interest; and the supporting characters remained integral to the story.

This series remains one of my guilty pleasures.

Advice We should All Take To Heart

Like a good transcendentalist, Ralph Waldo Emerson advocated self-reliance, individuality, and the goodness of people and nature. When it came to parenting his four children, he advised, "Be silly. Be honest. Be kind."

Eating the Avocado

- Carrie Fountain

 

Now I know that I’ve never described

anything, not one single thing, not

the flesh of the avocado which darkens

so quickly, though if you scrape

what’s been exposed to the air it’s new-green

beneath like nothing ever happened.

I want to describe this evening, though

it’s not spectacular. The baby babbling

in the other room over the din

and whistle of a football game, and now

the dog just outside the door, scratching,

rattling the tags on her collar, the car

going by, far away but loud, a car without

a muffler, and the sound of the baby

returning again, pleasure and weight.

I want to describe the baby. I want to describe

the baby for many hours to anyone

who wishes to hear me. My feelings for her

take me so far inside myself I can see the pure

holiness in motherhood, and it makes me

burn with success and fear, the hole her

coming has left open, widening. Last night

we fed her some of the avocado I’ve just

finished eating while writing this poem.

Her first food. I thought my heart might burst,

knowing she would no longer be made

entirely of me, flesh of my flesh. Startled

in her amusing way by the idea of eating,

she tried to take it in, but her mouth

pushed it out. And my heart did burst. 

from: Instant Winner. Copyright 2014.

 

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday

- Rachel Zucker

 

                                                                    Saturday morning

two hawks flew over the soccer field and swooped in low

as Abram almost scored a goal. Moses, on the sideline, sat

on a stray ball reading a book, not looking up at the game

or the hawks or his brother who noticed. That night

at the Basic Trust Day Care Poker Tournament I got knocked

out with queen/nine against queen/jack by Dan Shiffman

who seemed almost sad to beat me. I sucked on ginger candies

and held new baby Phoebe Kate, born on the same due date

as the baby I miscarried. When she left I cried and had more candies.

In the end, Josh beat everyone and won a 40-inch flat-screen TV.

                                                                    Sunday morning

I couldn’t sleep so got up early, went to the Hell’s Kitchen

flea market and bought a dining table and chairs from a man

named Toney. Bargained him down to $690 (including delivery)

because “the chairs need new upholstery.” A 1950ish Danish

with expandable top and funny splayed feet—it reminds me

of my late Grandma Lotty, her sister Marguerite, and the heavy-laden

tables of childhood. I’ve no idea what it will look like

with my small family gathered round or if I’ll overworry

the polished surface. We’ll see—

it arrives on Tuesday.

                                                                    This morning

I got a stack of papers from sophomore lit. The top two

had the author’s name misspelled. I’ve not yet looked at

any others. I talked in class about how Art Spiegelman

chose realism over sentiment, how we conflate historical time

with personal time, how on 9/11 I took my nine-month old son

to his first day of day care and the city expoloded, went up

in smoke, and no one but me cares that he spent hours there,

only nine months old, while we watched TV in our phone-jammed

airspace, breathed in fumes, tried to give blood, wondered was there

anywhere, anywhere we could or should

                                                                                               flee to?—

Josh called right after class and said he’d gotten “strong intent” from an agent

who’s “all about the money.”

Nothing disastrous happened this week. Not so far. Unless you count

what I saw next, between classes on my way to read student poems

at Empanada Mama’s on 48th and 9th. A teenage boy lying on his side

in the middle of the street. The traffic stopped and a crowd watched

while six or seven other boys ran back and forth and stamped down

hard on his skull. I turn a gag into a kind of cough and dial 911

We’ve already called the fucking police, says a woman as I retch

into an empty trash can. Finally three teenage girls surround the boy

and the other boys move off.

                                                                                Later,

on my way back to Fordham, I stop a cop and ask

about the boy. EMTs got him, says the officer.

They had no shame, no fear, even with all of us watching . . . I tell him.

They’re kids, ma’am, he says. You know what kids is like.

                                                                              Tonight

in Writer’s Workshop I & II I read two cantos from Model Homes

by Wayne Koestenbaum and then “A Poet’s Life” by David Trinidad.

These poems hijack form and make it present, contemporary, immediate. Look how

Wayne puts a plumber and lovers, his mother, porn mags, fashion into terza rima

that lead us along, punch drunk, addicted to real life. And oh how David’s crown

of sonnets breaks our hearts! The students stare blankly; one:

               These are sonnets?

and someone’s cell phone rings with the sound of a human voice pleading:

Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!

                                                                                 After an hour

we head upstairs to hear Linda Gregg, Saskia Hamilton, and Tess Gallagher.

Linda says, I had a husband once named John and we did mushrooms

and John said, “We’re lost but hey don’t worry because when it gets dark I can read

the stars” and I said “I don't know what you’re talking about. We’re not lost.

We’re right here.” And my students, aghast at who knows what,

start passing notes and rustling papers. Tess talks about her cancer

and the ghosts within and Saskia reads poems thick with grief,

some in a cracked guttural tongue I think is Danish.

                                                                                   When I get home

and try to describe the boy in the street Josh says, More people died

in Iraq this month than any other and I remind him that tomorrow morning,

before the new table is due to be delivered, we’re going to Saint Vincent’s

Hospital where Dr. Margano will put the KY-covered wand inside me

and tell us if these past nine weeks have yielded a fetal heartbeat

which will change everything, nothing.

from: Museum of Accidents. Copyright 2009.

 

It's A Garden Party! - Jellicles!

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me - large or small, inside or out - I would love to see them.

Just leave a link to your post in the comments.

Benny & Joon-Bug

I know. I know. These are cats. Yes, this is true. And they are not just cats but indoor cats, and as such, have nothing to do with the garden. This is also true.

(And by the way, they are Jellicles, and what is affectionately known as 'cowts' in this house. Thank you very much.)

But you see, it's like this. The weather has been quite hot, and the garden is looking a bit scruffy right now. I know that means I have been failing in my responsibilities. But I have excuses. (plenty of them)

So, anyone who would like to volunteer for some weeding and deadheading is more than welcome.

The Song of the Jellicles

- T.S.Elliot

Jellicle Cats come out to-night

Jellicle Cats come one come all:

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright -

Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.

Jellicle Cats are black and white,

Jellicle Cats are rather small;

Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,

And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.

Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,

Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;

They like to practise their airs and graces

And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.

Jellicle Cats develop slowly,

Jellicle Cats are not too big;

Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,

They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.

Until the Jellicle Moon appears

They make their toilette and take their repose:

Jellicle Cats wash behind their ears,

Jellicle dry between their toes.

Jellicle Cats are white and black,

Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;

Jellicle Cats jump like a jumping-jack,

Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.

They're quitet enough in the morning hours,

They're quitet enough in the afternoon,

Reserving their terpsichorean powers

To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.

Jellicle Cats are black and white,

Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;

If it happends to be a stormy night

They will practise a caper or two in the hall.

If it happens the sun is shining bright

You would say they had nothing to do at all:

They are resting and saving themselves to be right

For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.

The House of Rest

- Julia Ward Howe

 

I will build a house of rest,

Square the corners every one:

At each angle on his breast

Shall a cherub take the sun;

Rising, risen, sinking, down,

Weaving day’s unequal crown.

In the chambers, light as air,

Shall responsive footsteps fall:

Brother, sister, art thou there?

Hush! we need not jar nor call;

Need not turn to seek the face

Shut in rapture’s hiding-place.

Heavy load and mocking care

Shall from back and bosom part;

Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer,

Patience plan the dome of art.

None shall praise or merit claim,

Not a joy be called by name.

With a free, unmeasured tread

Shall we pace the cloisters through:

Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead;

Rest till Love be born anew.

Weary Thought shall take his time,

Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme.

No reproof shall grieve or chill;

Every sin doth stand confest;

None need murmur, ‘This was ill’:

Therefore do they grant us rest;

Contemplation making whole

Every ruin of the soul.

Pictures shall as softly look

As in distance shows delight;

Slowly shall each saintly book

Turn its pages in our sight;

Not the study’s wealth confuse,

Urging zeal to pale abuse.

Children through the windows peep,

Not reproachful, though our own;

Hushed the parent passion deep,

And the household’s eager tone.

One above, divine and true,

Makes us children like to you.

Measured bread shall build us up

At the hospitable board;

In Contentment’s golden cup

Is the guileless liquor poured.

May the beggar pledge the king

In that spirit gathering,

Oh! my house is far away;

Yet it sometimes shuts me in.

Imperfection mars each day

While the perfect works begin.

In the house of labor best

Can I build the house of rest.

from: She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. Copyright 1997. 

 

The House of the Sun

- Donald (Grady) Davidson

“The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased.”

The doorways of the Sun were closed;

    Its muted bells gave forth no sound.

But while the windy prophets dozed

    A child a little crevice found.

He pulled with one small straining hand;

    The massy door moved willingly.

And he has wakened all the band

    Of singers—they rise eagerly.

Let now again the hinges move

    In sweetly clanging melody;

Unseat the dark blind from the groove;

    Unleash the struggling harmony.

The golden doors are opening

    To ancient sounds of loveliness;

The Sons of Light are issuing,

    Winged with their antique mightiness.

Who can sing the House of the Sun?

    Who shall frame its dreadful art?

His childhood never must be done!

    And he must have a wondering heart!

Burn all the manuscripts of shame!

    Break every lute of brazen string!

Utter, O living tongues, the flame!

    Up, Dust, into the Sun, and sing!

from: The Fugitive, Copyright 1922. 

 

Quote of the Day

If you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.

- Roald Dahl

Ah! Sun-flower

- William Blake

 

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,

Who countest the steps of the Sun:

Seeking after that sweet golden clime

Where the travellers journey is done. 

Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: 

Arise from their graves and aspire, 

Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Truly

It's A Garden Party! - Lantana & Lady Bugs

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me - large or small, inside or out - I would love to see them.

Just leave a link to your post in the comments.

Lantana!

In a red, orange, and yellow combination . . . and in bright yellow!

Look, a helpful little friend on the Cape Honeysuckle.

A small speckled visitor
Wearing a crimson cape
Brighter than a cherry
Smaller than a grape
A polka-dotted someone
Walking on my wall
A black-hooded lady
In a scarlet shawl.
 

- Joan Walsh Anglund

On the Death of Anne Bronte

 - Charlotte Brontë

There’s little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I’ve lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.

Calmly to watch the failing breath,
Wishing each sigh might be the last;
Longing to see the shade of death
O’er those belovèd features cast.

The cloud, the stillness that must part
The darling of my life from me;
And then to thank God from my heart,
To thank Him well and fervently;

Although I knew that we had lost
The hope and glory of our life;
And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
Must bear alone the weary strife.

An Inescapable Truth . . .

 
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: 



any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

- John Donne

How Many More?

No parent should have to bury a child ...

                                                                                                                                  - Stephen Adly Guirgis

Our Hearts Are Broken Once Again . . .

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

I Have No Words . . .

It's A Garden Party! - Plums!

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me - large or small, inside or out - I would love to see them.

Just leave a link to your post in the comments.

You may or may not remember last year's drama with the neighbor's sprinkler system.

Well, when it started leaking ... and continued leaking ... as I complained to the neighbors, their landlord, the city, passers by - pretty much any one who would listen, with no results - and it ended up killing my Pomegranate Tree and the large Plum Tree.

The smaller Plum Tree had had a rough beginning. It was a sickly, end of season clearance, that I felt sorry for. After it had finally established itself and started growing some kids broke the top of it off.  The plucky little thing kept coming back and only needed a bit of judicial pruning to set it right.

Its second summer it gave us one beautiful, delicious Plum. Last year our harvest was a whopping seven Plums. And this year . . . well, see for yourself. This is the first batch. There will be a second this year as well.

Is there any more fitting poem than:

This Is Just To Say

- William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Another Planet

- Dunya Mikhail

 

Kareem James Abu-Zeid

I have a special ticket

to another planet

beyond this Earth.

A comfortable world, and beautiful:

a world without much smoke,

not too hot

and not too cold.

The creatures

are gentler there,

and the governments

have no secrets.

The police are nonexistent:

there are no problems

and no fights.

And the schools

don’t exhaust their students

with too much work

for history has yet to start

and there’s no geography

and no other languages.

And even better:

the war

has left its “r” behind

and turned into love,

so the weapons sleep

beneath the dust,

and the planes pass by

without shelling the cities,

and the boats

look like smiles

on the water.

All things

are peaceful

and kind

on the other planet

beyond this Earth.

But still I hesitate

to go alone.

 

from: The Iraqi Nights. Copyright 2013. 

 

Everything That I Am . . .

Quote of the Day

A book is a dream that you hold in your hand.

                                                                                       - Neil Gaiman

Blueberries

- James Lasdun

 

I’m talking to you old man.

Listen to me as you step inside this garden

to fill a breakfast bowl with blueberries

ripened on the bushes I’m planting now,

twenty years back from where you’re standing.

It’s strictly a long-term project—first year

pull off the blossoms before they open,

second year let them flower, watch the bees

bobbing in every bonnet,

but don’t touch the fruit till year three,

and then only sample a handful or two . . .

Old man I’m doing this for you!

You know what they say about blueberries:

blood-cleansing, mood-lifting memory-boosters;

every bush a little fountain of youth

sparkling with flavonoids, anthocyanin . . .

I’ve spent all summer clearing brush

sawing locust poles for the frames,

digging in mounds of pine needles, bales of peat moss—

I thought I’d do it while I still could.

You can do something for me in turn:

think about the things an old man should;

things I’ve shied away from, last things.

Care about them only don’t care too

(you’ll know better than I do what I mean

or what I couldn’t say, but meant).

Reconcile, forgive, repent,

but don’t go soft on me; keep the faith,

our infidels’ implicit vow:

“not the hereafter but the here and now  . . . ”

Weigh your heart against the feather of truth

as the Egyptians did, and purge its sin,

but for your own sake, not your soul’s.

And since the only certain

eternity’s the one that stretches backward,

look for it here inside this garden:

Blueray, Bluecrop, Bluetta, Hardy Blue;

little fat droplets of transubstantiate sky,

each in its yeast-misted wineskin, chilled in dew.

This was your labor, these are the fruits thereof.

Fill up your bowl old man and bring them in.

from: Bluestone. Copyright 2015. 

 

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Truth

It's A Garden Party - Bird Baths & Bountiful Beds

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me - large or small, inside or out - I would love to see them.

Just leave a link to your post in the comments.

My little make shift Bird Bath has settled in with the happy Cape Honeysuckle filling in all around it.

It actually looks like I will have to move the bird bath out a bit by the end of the year.

The choice is to move the bird bath out or cut the Cape Honeysuckle back, and I don't want to cut.






After seeing how happy this plant is this year, I have decided to let the bed go as wild as it wants.

I will, however, have to move both the Fortnight Lily (not pictured) and the Agave further from the exuberant Cape Honeysuckle.

The Agave, as you can see, is incognito, but quite healthy and growing well.

Four Birds

- Howard Moss

“Wake to the sun,” the rooster croaked,

First bird of the day. The world, light-flecked,

Chiselled its lineaments into form.

Where was all that fine light coming from?

“Trance at the wonder,” the second sang.

Whose five dry notes urged the ongoing

Afternoon on. “Why wake and stir?”

It asked. And asked. There was no answer.

“Live through the muddle.” That from the next one.

Not very helpful. It looked like rain,

Or fog in the offing. Twilight. Then

It sang again from an oak or pine.

Silence. How I waited for the fourth!

Time was a negative dipped into its bath,

The dark a fixative that slowly made

For every windowpane its window shade.

No messages arrived. No music bared

The soul for its penitence. Up the stairs

No hint of a footfall. The night passed.

“Croak by your hand,” said the crow at last.

from: New Selected Poems. Copyright 1985.

Solomon Grundy

- Alice Oswald

 

Born on Monday and a tiny

world-containing grain of light

passed through each eye like heaven through a needle.

And on Tuesday

he screamed for a small ear in which to hide.

He rolled on Wednesday, rolled his whole body

full of immense salt spaces, slowly

from one horizon to the other.

And on Thursday, trembling, crippled,

broke beyond his given strength and crawled.

And on Friday he stood upright.

And on Saturday he tested a footstep

and the sky came down and alit on his shoulder

full of various languages in which one bird doesn’t answer to another.

And on Sunday he dreamed he was flying

and his mind grew gold watching the moon

and he began to sing to the brink of speaking

 

from: Spacecraft Voyager 1. Copyright 2007.