GROWING UP THE TAGALONG WAY

Today is my brother's birthday--the Big 8-0h! He was born in Belfast, Ireland on Christmas Day on a Sunday. I heard many stories, and sometimes the same story, from my mother about how she and her best friend, Cassie Main, would take their babies to the park with large black umbrellas. Even then, humor and cheery steadfastness helped my mother through what must have been six years of grim days. Being transferred to Brazil wasn't the idyllic solution one might think. Yes, there was sunshine but there was, also, a larger than average bug kingdom; piranhas, anacondas, horned frogs, scorpions, and dragon iguanas were added to her vocabulary. She joked that St. Patrick drove out the snakes in Ireland by deporting them to Brazil. I'm surprised she didn't acquire an Irish accent given as she was to reciting Irish poetry. She was "daft" for Yeats. "I will arise and go now and go to Innisfree." This image of Innisfree and the cabin was obviously a big influence on me because when the opportunity came decades later, I was overjoyed to have a small cabin built in the Blue Ridge mountains. I didn't have the "nine bean rows" or the "hive for the honeybee" but I certainly had the poetry. My mother's idea of avoiding sibling rivalry was to implant a certain star-struckness in me. I became a regular pint-sized paparazzi. When I learned to walk, I followed my brother as if I were his numero uno disciple. One day I was discovered standing in a corner. Everyone laughed. This was the form his punishment took. My brother had to stand in the corner for drawing on the walls. I hadn't made the connection. I thought standing in the corner was part of some prayer ritual. I did make the connection that "Bobby" came from the land of leprechauns and pots o' gold which seemed much more protective than Brazilian jujitsu. He had the Luck of the Irish. It made a lot of sense to hop on his lucky wagon hitched to his lucky star. Looking back on my life, I know it was the best idea I ever had. 

  My brother has come full circle. He often exhibits in Ireland and when in New York, he wanders around the Big Apple, yes, drawing his glyphyti on walls.


This is the bio on the CENTRE CULTUREL IRLANDAIS   Paris site where he was an Artist in Residence in January of 2011:

Robert Janz Robert Janz’s poetic art is a passionate plea for greater restraint in civilisation’s encroachment on the natural environment. His works explore aspects of motion, change and transience. His project in Paris is ephemeral and out in the streets. He will also use his studio, drawing and erasing on the walls every day, a slow kinetic installation. And here is one from the Irish Museum of Modern Art: Humans were once just one animal kind among others. Now dominant, we rule. The quality of life on this planet is ours to decide. We decide whether any animal or plant has sufficient habitat for meaningful survival. We decide whether any empty spaces remain, empty of our imprint. We decide whether there is any place free of our sound, our smell. We are endowed with evolution's greatest achievement, the creative imagination. Yet squander our energies on obsessive denials, on endless tribal wars,on insatiable greed for power. This waste shapes the planet's future. We are the world we inhabit. We decide all. Nature's us. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As a boy, his favorite carol was "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." Maybe today, in his honor, I should stand in the corner and sing along.

CHRISTMAS 2012

   Living close to where I spent a year of my childhood made me think to post this poem about those days. The Christmas in Tuckahoe where my mother and brother and I stayed while my dad was stationed in the Azores was one of my happiest Christmases. Yes! It snowed. My first snow. In Brazil, my birthplace, snow was only in picture books and December came in summer. I felt I had landed in a picture book. Faeries and elves would surely prance on the top of the chest of drawers dancing a ring around the Nativity set.  I had wanted a doll pram and yes! I received a white wicker doll pram just my size. I was five and I was allowed to, trusted to, walk the pram to the end of the block and back by myself. Such independence! Such responsibility. I walked and walked and dreamed about living in America for the rest of my life. It took awhile.           


        TUCKAHOE

Eureka 2008

Rosalie said it was a Forever Year,
"Because of the way the 8 loops.
   Infinity divinity."
Like a child's train set, I thought.
Tracks, pretend trees, papier-mache blue mountains,
     little figures waiting patiently at the depot,
and the best feature: the light coming through the tunnel.

I've never tired of the light 
 and the quick holding
    of breath at each approach,
       part of a ritual.

Window shopping in the city. 
Della scurrying to find Lionels at Gimbels.
"There isn't a train I wouldn't take
    no matter where it was going,"
  she'd sing-song cheerily.
Her all seasons' quote is especially nostalgic at Christmas,
  as on the first Christmas I clearly remember,
   the train took us from Tuckahoe
      to expansive, wondrous Grand Central.
Snow! Kings! and kneeling camels!

This Forever Year brings olde scenes circling
    in a noisy clickity-clack of memories.
Hurry! Look! The dizzying, dazzling heart-stopping light
  comes this way again.  

...the blessings of seasons and childhood expectations fulfilled

be yours...  

COMING INTO GLAD TIDINGS

I am the workshop attendee type. It's the doing that attracts me. I've been in peace groups, centering prayer circles, writing huddles,  six week singing courses, and painting clay pots for Advent bazaars gatherings. Consequently, when a message came in to mark my calendar for an event at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church, an affirming, inclusive sort of place with a Moravian star hanging high in the rafter over the altar, I did so mark my calendar. A man who had known Fr. Thomas Keating led us on this particular day. Fr. Thomas Keating is revered by Roman Catholics for his  books on contemplative practices. I first came across him in Roanoke, Virginia where a friend had some of his meditations. I borrowed Open Mind Open Heart and began calling her up to recite a page on her answering machine which she appreciated. Such a pleasant way for me to feel useful!

The session began with a song composed by the Monks of Western Priory and then we were introduced to a woman from Epiphany Episcopal Church who would lead us in art explorations. There were pastel boxes provided and paper. In the background, soft sacred music played. The highlight was to make a mandala keeping in mind the themes of hope, love, joy, and peace. In the center of our drawings would be the light. She spoke about the whole--light and shadow. She said to pick a color which spoke to us or we could use all the colors. Mine surprised me--oh! the inner depths we have we didn't know about! I titled my mandala Tree of Living with the subheading, Street art of a soaring spirit. The pastels made the strokes delicate, free and I chose green, the color of hope and environmental stewardship. I was done so quickly, she asked me quietly if I would like to do another. I said no. I figured I had had my say. The other participants used the entire forty minutes and all the colors. Their mandalas were beautiful and individual, a true revelation of their personalities. We explained in the closing minutes what had been important to us. I had to leave before the end and was sorry but I had an appointment. Curiously, I thought I would come up with a poem about the beauty of silence or doing but it wasn't the case. Perhaps my heart had been set free with the green lines let loose in my mandela. I have written a Christmas poem every year since I was sixteen. They vary greatly in topic and form. I'm glad that this year's reflects my mood. It's haiku for simplicity and peace/love/joy/hope pops up in its attitude:

Winter is coming!

Red birds sing in snowy boughs

on holiday cards.  

IN THE ARCHIVES

It seems strange to me that my e-mails are archived. Doesn't that sound as though I have been writing for fifty years? At any rate, I decided to look at a couple to see what I wrote back when. I thought I'd post this one for starting December as Eureka, CA seemed like Christmas year round. Even in summer, it has a crisp goodwill sort of feel to it. Coincidentally, this message was written on 12/12. Back when, of course.

" On Tuesday, I boarded the Amtrak bus in Martinez and sat across the aisle from a woman who radiated sadness despite her red velour sweatsuit.After an hour or so I asked if I could borrow her book since she wasn't reading it. It was about how to help people in grief. Ordinarily I read very slowly but I finished the book by the time we arrived in Ukiah for our lunch break. I asked her name (it was Usha) and if she were traveling as far as Eureka and she said, yes, she was visiting her son-in-law who manages the Rodeway Inn. Then she burst into tears saying her daughter had died suddenly of a quick illnesss 15 days previous at age 26. I had just read the book but didn't know what to say. What a shock. I said a few things of no value whatsoever and then recommended page 137 in her book and she said she was going to read it right then. We were quiet for the rest of the trip. The Rodeway Inn is not far from me so on Friday, I stopped for a small living tree at Target and went over to give it to her. The person working at the desk was Devora which turned out to be a name she took up when there were too many Deborahs. It's Hebrew for Deborah. She said she had lived on the same street as Usha in Stockton before moving here and we talked about Usha's daughter.

On Saturday, I walked to the co-op. There was a tired but brave bell ringer. I asked him to sing something. He balked but croaked out two lines of  "I'll Fly Away." I said, "That's a great start!" and went in. I browsed a long time and when I came out, he had a big smile on his face and sang the complete verses of, "Because He Lives." He asked me if I knew it. I said, "Indeed!" He exclaimed, "You're a Christian!" Well yes,  of a Quakery kind. 

Today was mildly blustery and I saw hopelesness on the street and Dog was not in his yard but I was uplifted by having met Usha and the Bell Ringer."

My writing hasn't changed much, has it? 

THE GREAT UNLEARNING

Everything I learned in kindergarten, I have had to unlearn. For instance, Columbus was not the first to land on our fair continent. In fact, continents are a relatively new concept geologically speaking. I am not a descendant of Adam's rib, which may account for my small bones and witches don't roam with their wicked black cats ready to eat my gizzards. I'm thinking maybe I don't even have gizzards. However, enough is enough. The latest unlearning has brought on a fierce (Irish/Apache?) rebellion. Mr. Infallible Pope Benny has declared there were no angels at Jesus' birth. The Jehovah's Witnesses told me the same thing back in '72; I declined such heresy then, too. Let me remind said Pope that infallible popes of the past committed some horrifically fallible atrocities and he'd better not mess with my angels. My numerous poems, drawings, accounts, and encounters stay.I will not give up singing, "O Little Town of Bethlehem" or calling on my helpers to leave a small sign in front of me to lead me on. I remember nights with a candle burning beside a nativity set when I wondered if the next bullet would signal my last moments on Planet Earth. Just because the pope has been checking his Fact Checker is irrelevant to me. In war weary countries, people need to believe in goodness. In places of famine and drought, people need to believe in manna. For me, the humility of God coming to us as a baby in a manger of straw bringing with Him the message that peace works is a spectacular, radical, unheard of miracle mystery. The truth must be told! Some stories are more important than supposed accuracy. Imagination trumps all.Wonder is the midwife of belief and experience confirms it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

...may angels rock you gently in their

soft wings and heal your misgivings...

Drawing credit: Henry Hobbs

NOW LET US ALL BE THANKFUL

I used to rhyme but haven't lately;

by lately I mean forty years.

A bit of free verse said it all

and saved my soul frustration's tears.

~~~

When my dad retired from the Foreign Service, he let loose his Inner Writer. He and my mother settled in various locations (sand-in-the-shoes-Foreign-Service-syndrome). In one of these places which my mother called, "This is my last move," he started a small newspaper. The circulation was intended for the folks in Green Valley, Arizona, a senior citizen haven for retirees who no longer wished to shovel snow. He said he wanted to have the opportunity to write a column nobody would censor. Each column would begin with a light verse to put the readers in a good mood because the meat of the column would be a rant against or for (Reagan, Udall) sufficiently caliente to draw the citizens from their slumber. One Lt. Colonel was so drawn he came after my dad with a shotgun. My mother, having experienced riots in Jerusalem, Caracas, and Cali, wondered why he couldn't simply print the verse and skip the column. She was wary and weary of contemplating an early death. I was given some space for a poem which she greatly appreciated as the poems were an attempt to add beauty to the world. She thought I lived in the Land of Da Nile as her view was that you could name any country and it would be going to the dogs. Having observed several of these countries, I concluded she was the most cheerful cynic one might encounter. I am neither cynic nor an inhabitant of the Land of Da Nile but I catch myself echoing her words. This might be a result of biblical training. No, not from church. From my mother, since she was prone to quoting Scripture. She said it was a paradox that an atheist can quote all she wants whereas a religious person is the victim of complaints if he or she even suggests that the meek will inherit the earth. A college friend wrote a few years ago that he and his wife had retired to Green Valley. The paper my dad sold (yes, it wasn't the last move) had prospered beyond anything he had envisioned. I looked it up and there was nothing recognizable except the photo on the banner of the mountains in the distance. The circulation is enormous but only the name remains of his work. No caliente in this news. I often wonder what my dad would have done with the Internet. I can see him copying and pasting and checking his copyright manual and having a conversation with Chris Hedges. Two peas in a pod. I am grateful for those days even though I was gone, living in San Francisco. Perhaps they gave me the incentive or the genes to be writing my "column." My mother would be relieved that I still prefer to add beauty to the world and, like her, still believe the meek will inherit the earth. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

...blessings to you on this Thanksgiving week

and remember not only the pilgrims feasting; 

remember also Pine Ridge...  

A WORD OR TWO BEFORE YOU GO

  "Soft you, a word or two before you go.

I have done the state some service,

and they know't--No more of that I pray you,

in your letters...speak of me as I am."

********

 Westport Country Playhouse

Westport, Connecticut

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 The buses had started running again after Superstorm Sandy had come through in one big tizzy fit, fussed at us because of the way we have treated the planet. I couldn't blame her even though I was stunned by the photos of the damage. All that strewn furniture, clothes, boardwalks, cars; there was even a rollercoaster adrift in the ocean! I was on the crowded Select (fewer stops) 2nd Avenue bus going down to 34th Street for an appointment with an oral surgeon. Standing in front of me was a woman with a cap which read, "A word or two before you go" across the back. Shakespeare! Well, I had to know what that was about. She turned to show me the front. It said Westport Country Playhouse. I said, "Oh, I was there in 1958 on a drama trip from college!" She began telling me the history of the playhouse and how it looks now. We enjoyed talking about theater and election day to the point where when she got off the bus she waved with a friendly, "See you at the Playhouse!"

 Voting had been chaotic at the E. 67th polling station as there was an influx of voters from Staten Island where the flooding had caused havoc and power outages. Future politicians showed up in the form of public school youngsters  selling baked goods.They were regular experts at Mike Check, excited and hopeful. Eavesdropping on conversations, I felt it seemed people were actually waking up to the words climate change. With a Nor'easter predicted to be coming on the heels of Sandy, it was easy to understand that this would be the new trending topic. Go Green Party! Go Justice Party! Get with it Democratic Party!

 

Garden City, New York

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Rockaway Peninsula, New York

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A bright note from my brother's festive exhibit at Orchard Windows Gallery was cheering:

Show I was in curated by Dino Eli, who is part gypsie, presiding over the candles. Everyone else had flashlights in each others eyes. Walking back to Tribeca at 9:30 very wooooky, nothing moving except whirling winds and the occasional police comet streaking by.

There was snow in Central Park on November 8th.

I cringe at the thought of what would have happened had Sandy, the sub-tropical cyclone, been a Category 5 hurricane.   I feel I should have told her, "A word or two before you go. I for one will do the best I can to take care of our exquisite Earth home. I don't need any more warnings!" Spread those words, my lovely friends. 

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF HOBBITS

When I was writing to my Carolina friend Lucille in 2008, we spent a lot of time on names such as names we gave houses, cars, and names we gave ourselves. I had an old pen name she liked--Zeppha which I said meant Dreamer of Dreams. If one is Irish, one can make up things like that. She decided she wanted to be Honor, an old name from the nineteenth century she had found. I don't recall if it came out of a family tree or a historical figure. I changed her entry in the Address Book and for many months she remained Honor. Honor was replaced, though, after she read a Billy Collins poem she thought a classic. She decided to be Billie Lu and stayed Billie Lu even up to the last e-mail she wrote to me in August. As to houses, I called my California apartment The Little Red Schoolhouse because of its boxy shape and color. She called her basement Undercroft. However, when she invited me to come live there she handed the naming to me and told me to make something magical of the whole house. I leaned toward calling the basement, The Shire by Bolin Creek; the first floor would be Middle Earth; and the upper floor would be the Blue Mountains; the small patio area would be the Bag End garden.  She agreed. When my lease was up in the Little Red Schoolhouse, the movers came (coincidentally home based in  North Carolina) and I closed the door forever. Yes, some things really are forever. I repeated to myself a line from The Lord of the Rings, "Let the journey begin."

 The Shire was magical, indeed. We had a routine. I slipped out in the morning to catch the free bus to town. I came back in time to tell Billie Lu the stories I had experienced. At four o'clock, I rode the exercise bike (which I called the Wonderous Horse) through the Blue Mountains. At five, I took my early supper to sit on Stephanie's loveseat and watch something--a telenovela, Abrazame Muy Fuerte, or a tape of one of the entire Wagner Ring cycle featuring James Morris. Billie Lu took her turn telling me her stories such as those about growing up in an antique shop, living in Japan, taking her children to the Soviet Union where she got in a cab with a famous conductor. At six o'clock, I retired to my reclusive existence in the fabulous Shire where the moon rose through the dark woods with the light reflecting on the tumbling creek water. I read books I could later describe. She was ailing and not up to reading long books but she enjoyed Carolyn Meyer's Young Adult book, The True Adventures of Charley Darwin. When chance found me commuting to the city of New York, she said she missed our cultural get-togethers. But I read all the Kristin Lavansdatter books which she encouraged me to and the Dave Cunane mysteries. (Cunane was her mother's Irish family name. As I recall it means rabbit).  I mailed reviews. The Poldark saga was a favorite of ours. Lucille had named a cat after the heroine, Demelza. I felt some quick step of synchronicity when the actress who played Demelza died the same season as Lucille. I picture them somewhere now with one of her teapots discussing poetry and cookbooks, surrounded by rabbits. I'm glad they have cookbooks together. I was never one for cookbooks and was happy that Stephanie filled a role I couldn't possibly: watching edgy TV shows. No I haven't seen the Sopranos or Mad Men or the one about the teacher with crystal meth. 

Lucille had a lot of challenges in her life and dealt with them deliberately. I came across a quote by an author she liked which reminds me of her daily: 

"So might we fail to see the real sadness that lies behind

the acts of others; so might we look at one of our

fellowmen going about his business and not know

of the sorrow that he is feeling, the effort that

he is making, the things that he has lost."

~~Alexander McCall Smith

I must go down to The Shire this week and start the closing up. It is a shock to end this chapter which turned a house into a whimsical land of great beauty and marvel. I mourn the loss of Lucille's bright intelligence, her hopefulness but am grateful for such a journal of memories, a regular Sam Gamgee's sketchbook of travels.

A DOG BY ANY NAME IS STILL REX

Lillie

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quality I like best about dogs is their trusting nature. Strolling past the Barking Dog Luncheonette on York Avenue, they will be found lying patiently while their owners have the breakfast special. There is an understanding that food and drink in the bowls marked Fido are the next stop in the day's program. Late in the night at some point the reassuring sound of a leash clicking onto a collar means a constitutional is nigh. The City That Never Sleeps could be renamed Dog Heaven. I haven't checked but I can well imagine Bark Place open 24 hours. I first became interested in the why's of dog names when I met Vanna. She belonged to a former Canadian mountie. I asked, "You don't mean Vanna White?" He laughed, "Yes! She of  'Give Me a Vowel' fame on Wheel of Fortune." A big black dog named White. I began to wonder about other names. Interestingly, I knew most of the dog names but few of their people's names. They all had stories.

Lillie--after Lillie Langtry (often spelled Lily in the U.S.) the beauty who hobnobbed with royalty. As you can see from the photo above, royalty is right up our East 64th Street Lillie's alley. 

Jack--who has his own Facebook page where he proudly professes his political and religious views. Rachel, his lovely personal photographer, of course, is God.

Rosie--who originally was supposed to be Ellie May but when chosen by a West Virginian, was instantly changed to Rosie because of her sweet personality.

Louie--not "Louie, Louie" the song (nor a tip o' the hat to Satchmo). Louie has a similar history to Rosie's. "I don't know. When I saw him, he just looked like a Louie."

Laser--the light, not the operation.

Lion--who barrels ahead on his wee front legs while his hind legs stay encased in a handicap cart, sort of like a dog wheelchair. King of leprechaun dogs.

Gina (Lollobrigida), Ossie (Osbourne), and Bella--this small trio is a walked by a dog walker with two dogs of her own: Bonnie (Scottish for pretty) and Eli. These two were rescued dogs who kept their names. The walker said she particularly liked Bonnie's name because, "She is anything but bonnie."

Pocket--who got a preemie start. He  was so small he fit in a pocket. 

Prince--"Not king?" I asked. "No. He's little so he's The Little Prince."One of my favorite books!

Bogart--an Old(e) English Sheepdog who looks more sheep than dog. What a coat! His predecessor was named Humphrey. 

Look! There's Sheba and Shelby, Luke (I'm guessing Luke Skywalker)and Pageant (after the high-fashion runway event). These cheerful, hopeful dogs know nothing of war or food stamps or gender intolerance. If they come down with a human disease such as leukemia, they trust all concerned will release them from misery mercifully.


I can hear the debaters chafing at the bit, "What about guard dogs and vicious dogs? They don't trust anyone." Oh, but they do! A guard dog trusts that he or she will keep evil away from those they protect. Most vicious dogs are basically guarders; they don't turn vicious on their own unless they have rabies or have been treated criminally. These will not be seen on excursions past Furry Paws. 

Jack

The dogs I have met on my Out and Abouts know "New York city is a great place to visit"  but disagree with the rest of the famous phrase. They certainly want to live here. 

An Altering and Illuminating Day

gr

graffiti and photo credit: Robert Janz\
location: Broadway and Reade, Manhattan

Tuesday has been my favorite day since childhood so it was natural I picked Tuesdays for volunteering at the Rever Road branch of the Durham County Public Library in Durham, North Carolina. The children's section was my specialty. In June of 2001, the extra bonus was I could tell all about my discoveries in Easy Readers by e-mail. I had been encouraged to learn computer for grief therapy's sake. The advice was providential because in September of the same year, my Indigo Mac sustained me. You see, on 9/11 I had started sorting the Young Adults series when the head librarian came and asked me in her soft Southern drawl, "Is your brother in New York City?" She knew my brother was often in Ireland and Germany for art exhibits but when he was at home, home was NYC. From Duane Street, he liked a morning walk past the Twin Towers. I answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact he is." She took my hand and speaking gently said, "There has been a disaster. Stop your work. Come back on Friday. See if you can reach your brother." I couldn't register what she was saying at first. I told her my brother would want me to stay put, possibly providing calm for the people in the library, being useful. When I returned to my apartment, there were lots of e-mails but nothing from my brother. A friend at Research Triangle Park was horrified. "Do you know how close Duane Street is??" He thought I might be in shock but  I wrote back. "I'm not worried. My brother and I have a soul-deep connection. I would feel it if he has been harmed." That didn't go over well with the engineering science mind and at the end of the day he wanted to know what the latest was. I wrote, "No latest yet." I shifted my worries to what the catastrophe would do to our already xenophobic nation. I was right to worry. Not In Our Name was eclipsed by Operation Iraqi. CODEPINK's brave little band demonstrating in front of Dianne Feinstein's office in San Francisco was trampled by airport security, flag pins on lapels, and assorted superficial show-your-patriotism outward symbolic gestures indicating the sudden polarization of the "United" States. Instead of judicial measures, we chose the surreal solutions of revenge (on those not involved) and a vociferous escalation of knee-jerk reactions. America the Beautiful became America the Locked Down Don't Want to Hear It. 

Sure enough. When I heard from my RC brother (the family referred to him as our Roving Correspondent) he was shaken but fine. When He came to Raleigh for a show, he was the same "Roberto" looking good. No cough, cracking wise. Tuesday remains my lucky day. Despite wars and rumors of wars, floods, earthquakes, and doomsday dates on the calendar, my brother is out on the streets in his festive scarecrow way, graffiti-ing his optimistic message; my enduring starving artist bro' has grown wiser, younger, recognizable still as the hero of my youth.

WRITERS' BLOCK

This post is a result of sad news. A man in the next building died. I had spoken to him briefly over the years and seen him often resting on planters or at the bus stop. I nicknamed him, "The Donald of East 64th" because he was the living opposite of, "The Donald (Palace) Trump." Neighbor Donald was a portly, scruffy, kindly mathematician with a daughter in Greece. I would see him slowly puffing his way to the library where he worked for a couple of hours on a laptop. I always meant to ask what he was doing. And there it is--the guilt. I always meant to. The last time I chatted with him, he told me about a book he and his daughter were writing, Interrogation Chaos. He described it in a heartfelt storyteller's rush of facts and drew me in with the plotlines. He hoped it would be published at the end of the month. About two weeks later, I had started out for an appointment when I saw him sitting on his front steps. I had the choice of taking a few minutes to exchange a friendly word and inquire after the book. I chose, instead, to hurry off. I always meant to tell him about my blobs. He would have enjoyed the brevity and his friends in Greece could have had glimpses of his 'hood. He never knew I was a writer, a different sort of writer but still...a writer. We could have had a Writers Conference. I have been thinking of the other writers in this very building: a poet, a translator, a playwright, a researcher pulling all nighters, a contributor to peer-reviewed journals. Are there more? Probably. The lesson I've learned from The Donald of East 64th is one I learned as a child when war deaths were a daily topic at dinner. If you have something to say, say it now. Don't let any words fall into the I always meant to category. I had forgotten that lesson; it had been overlaid by optimism and, "There's plenty of time" thinking.

I have Deborah Ruddell's Today at the Bluebird Cafe standing next to my Dell. The cover has an exuberant tree full of exotic birds which reflects my calling this place, "The Treehouse." The book will be a memorial and a reminder that today may be all we have. Say it now.  

GOOD PRESS, BAD PRESS

There has been a lot of bad press concerning the NYPD over the past year. The reaction at the Empire State Building, the wanton destruction of 3,000 book from the People's Library at Zucotti Park, the disproportionate Stop & Frisk, and the hate posts on Facebook have not cast the department in a favorable light. However, my own experience has been good, especially in the everyday encounters with Civilian Traffic Agents (traffic cops). During morning rush hours, I've seen some musical varieties that would make Leonard Bernstein proud:

Ms. Salsa--she dances while directing the cars coming off the 59th Street bridge and when I say dancing I mean a full body high octane routine.
Mr. Wrist Action--he holds his arm straight up as though he were the Statue of Liberty. His fingers twirl to indicate speed and location. Is it an optical illusion or can he, like owls, rotate 360 degrees?
Mrs. Yeller--she's a cheerleader who never had her 15 minutes of fame and is making up for that lost ambition.
The New Guy--ramrod straight, he has a piercing whistle which can probably be heard to the Bronx. There is no leeway in his composition book.

I have not seen anyone become angry or impatient or act ill-treated. These are those "who play well with others." My mother was expressive in her speech. The city was teeming. The heat was beastly. She would have not used party as a verb. Whatever the occasion, it was described in the Irish way, grand.

On a beastly hot day in the teeming city, it was grand to watch the NYPD traffic division conduct its orchestra of motor vehicles; suren' 'twas a party, indeed.  

AT THE TICK TOCK

The Tick Tock Diner is located on the ground floor of the New Yorker Hotel, a venerable favorite once hosting the very elite. It fell into  decline in the '70's and closed to be re-opened by the Moonies, then later resold. Now it is once again a magnet but this time serving as a handy destination for those disembarking at Penn Station diagonally across the street. It's likely I went there for pancakes when my mother and I joined Aunt Stella in 1944 on her lunch hour from the Holiday Book Shop. Every time I watch an episode of the hilarious British show, Black Books, I think of cheerful Mrs. Holiday, elegant in a Noo Yawk way. Perhaps she, too, tried the pancakes with us. There is a mural inside boasting of comfort food with a '50's gas station scene. I like the eager tourist atmosphere. I have learned, and forgotten, eight different languages' version of "Have a nice day." My 34th Street jaunt includes Joey's Discount around the corner where temptation is mighty as I wear symbolic jewelry. For instance, at this very moment on my wrist:

a peace friendship band
a Hunger Site bracelet made from recycled magazines
a Starbuck's jobs for impoverished communities in the U.S. wristlet
shell art given to me spontaneously at the Port Authority Greyhound hub
Henry beads

Joey's is the ideal place to pick up a little somethin' symbolic. Remember my post about the library and the elderly woman I called PHwF? Pink Hat with Flower. Well, "By Jove!" as my dad used to say, I found a ring comprised of a woman in a pink hat with flower for a dollar.  I felt guilty thinking about the person in a sweatshop in Asia turning out hundreds of dollar rings but guilt can always be rationalized away. I decided it was triply symbolic:
1.  honoring PHwF
2.  remembering those who work in sweatshops
3.  grieving over the loss of jobs by corporations moving overseas, such a the Payday candy bar factory featured in a Michael Moore documentary. 

The Tick Tock serves breakfast all day; theirs is a 24 hour day. I heard there are some 20 varieties of omelettes. Grits is a side dish! If you enjoy listening to eight different languages at once, I recommend it. Can you guess? Yes. I am drafting The Little Apple's Guide to the Big Apple's Boroughs and Orchards. 

THE POKE-ALONG TOURIST'S GUIDE

Artwork by Linda Baldock

Perth, Western Australia

I started reading the freebie newspapers because they were, well...free. How could I pass up such a deal? They did contain local interest articles about which I like to stay current such as teachers' evaluations, Bloomberg's bans, Stop & Frisk, and fracking. I'm not averse to the latest on RPatz, pitcher/author Dickey, and Zarkania, either. However, the main attraction is the horoscopes. I cross reference by reading the amNewYork first and then the Metro. I enjoy being the Poke-Along Tourist seeing the city with fresh eyes Monday through Friday. Every tourist should have his or her day outlined by the horoscopes. 

"A good story is a wonderful gift.

Shared dreams keep you close."

This one was a keeper so I cut it out to put in my Lokta plant-Fair Trade notebook where I am pressing small flowers from Cozy Corner on 2nd Avenue. Usually, the advice runs to, "Don't scatter your forces," as if I were a bundle of energy. I'm skeptical at times since I was born south of the Equator where all the stars are upside down, but isn't this typical of Gemini, making even the constellations festive? At any rate I thought "a good story" was a sign to return to regular blobbing.  

Among my P-ATourist activities is giving one minute "travel calls" on the Little Phone (NY's special cell offer for the low in income). Ordinarily, I pick a busy street to make a Sounds of the City call, one of several categories, though I particularly like sending sounds of the tunes on the Delacorte clock in Central Park. Recently, I was on the ground floor of a ritzy office building housing the Open Space Institute and chanced upon a trio (violin, guitar, flute). Pachelbel! This past week's categories:

Overheard-- "I mean, California was beautiful, wonderful, but the people! They are so laid back!!!!"

Favorite tees-- "IT'S ALL GEEK TO ME" "LOVE PEACE HELLO KITTY

Breaking News--you know that one. 

My daughter surprised me with a message telling me I'll feel right at home on my annual autumnal visit. Her Sounds of the City were the clanging of cranes and construction outside the University of North Carolina Hospitals. She said Chapel Hill is my Other Borough, New York City being divided into five boroughs. That's right! I will be Amtrakking NYP(Penn)-->DNC(no, not the Democratic Party. DNC is the code for Durham, North Carolina). It's just a little further than the Wednesdays trek to Little Italy in the Bronx. Plenty of time to contemplate the zodiac, My Daily Guidance Counselor and learning from Linda how to draw the ideal self-portrait.

58th on a Sunny Day

  Ten minutes early to the library. 






If this had been a Tuesday or 
Thursday, I would have been late but Monday hours at the 58th Street branch dovetail with the 67th. That's the nature of library cut-backs, although recent news alerts have the funds restored. There is a nicely designed waiting area outside with planters and benches so I sat in the only available space next to two middle-aged women who had a very elderly woman in a wheelchair with them. I will call the latter Pink Hat with Flower (PHwF). They were turned away from me intent on their conversation. One of the women was holding PHwF's hand which I thought an affectionate gesture till I realized it was to keep PHwF from waving at people. Eventually, PHwF managed to snatch her hand loose to wave at me. Her daughter, I'm presuming, was embarrassed and apologized. Why? I asked what PHwF's name was which reluctantly was answered by, "Christine." "That's my name! She is not only friendly but psychic." Daughter told Mother, "That's her name, too." PHwF marveled. I felt a challenge coming on because Daughter had been decidedly standoffish, private about her problems, not enjoying her task of caregiving. I took a guess and plunged into a couple of stories. One was about the days when I visited what we called a Rest Home. I spoke every afternoon to someone who could only shout, "No!" I'd ask her various questions. "Do you like the color blue?" "No!" "Do you like dresses?" "No!" The nurse said this patient looked forward to my visits. How could she tell? One day I whispered, "Do you like ice cream?" A pause. "Yes!" It was the only yes I received but we all considered it a breakthrough. Another time, I told my captive audience, I was telling a story to a friend who was serving lunch to her mother who had Alzheimer's. I noticed that she seemed focused on my teeth. Suddenly she burst out with, "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard!" She had not spoken in two years. 

The library opened; I rose to leave.  I would have liked to stay as Daughter was looking more and more relieved but I had errands to run. I said, "Goodbye, Christine!" She waved heartily. She was allowed to wave. Sometimes it pays to be early.

THERE IS A REASON FOR EVERYTHING

I thought I was the last straggler coming down the stairs from the Roosevelt Island tram because, usually, I am. I like to have one last look towards the tidal strait, an aerial view so to speak. However, today there was someone behind me. I heard a voice calling, "Miss! Miss!" Surely it couldn't be about me I thought but I turned just the same in case I had dropped something. A woman I had noticed and admired on the tram said, "There's a butterfly on your back!" I had liked her simply cut hair (so free and unconcerned) and the fact that she had a missing tooth right where I would wish a missing tooth. Why will no dentist allow me the pleasure of taking out a tooth?? I have so many! The news of the butterfly was as extraordinary to her as it was to me. "He's a monarch!" "I wish I could see it. Him," I replied. She told me to stay still and she would flick gently so he would fly away and then I could, which is what happened. She said she had never seen this before, a butterfly like an "angel on the shoulder." She looked puzzled as though wondering what my secret was. I blurted, "In all of Manhattan, I guess he landed on Calm City." She giggled, "Yes! Yes! You are Calm City!" Then she dashed off. It was one of Life's magical moments which I would have missed if I had hurried to catch the previous tram instead of stopping to talk to a sari-dressed tourist who asked where the indoor/outdoor pool on Roosevelt Island was. I didn't even know there was a pool on Roosevelt Island. I lingered the seven minutes for the "Tram Approaching" sign while talking the consequence of which was the butterfly. Living near the "Feelin' Groovy" bridge is perfect metaphorically. "Slow down. You move too fast. Gotta make the morning last." I had slowed down; not moved too fast; made the morning last; and, thus, a butterfly became past of my future.

THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE

i

   It was a day for Enumerating Delights in Central Park. Some people call this Counting Your Blessings but I'm not good at higher math.

    I like to pick a bench by its 3"X2" plaque. I chose an "In Loving Memory" type which had an unusual addition: a tiny etching labelled, "The End of the Trail," the famous Fraser artwork of a Cherokee bent over a weary horse. The man could easily be Lakota or Sioux but, naturally, I think of him as Apache, a tip of the hat to my ancestry. From my bench, I watched the sketch artists for lessons because I have often wondered if I could have a specialty spot for drawing children, angel wings attached as iridescent as abalone shells. I would at the same time enjoy listening. Children's speech is a magical journey of new definitions and emphasis. A four-year old once informed me her mother was very very very very busy reading THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE. How meaningful to change "purpose" to "porpoise." How free and exuberant. A parade of pint-size Zoo Camp 2012-ers marched past  in an orderly file. I thought about their futures. Would any of them ever go to the Amazon River and see the frog as small as a dime whose poison can "take down ten men." (Information courtesy of Ann Patchett's novel, THE STATE OF WONDER). This bit of contemplation reminded me of when I was two and my family was on home leave from Brazil to visit my grandmother in Oklahoma. I told my mother to tell her mother that I only spoke Orcacheese. 

   The Delacorte clock struck eleven. It was time to pack up my library book, THE PASSION OF ARTEMESIA, and eagerly mull the next porpoise or two in my life of many porpoises. Abrigado, Central Park. 

Goodbye, Spring

2ND AVENUE MEDITATION GROUP

Diligently she works here

long hours, speaking not only

a different language from

the city norm

but also a continent away

from this Chinese family run business.

On her days off she sits in the

customer chair closest to the

open window

watching the tram, a sky gondola,

drift back and forth across 

the tidal strait as her clothes

wash/spin.

We could talk, she and I, but

something in her pose

asks not to be intruded upon.

I smile (in case I'm wrong) and

fish out my crossword puzzles.

I feel like designing one myself:

5 across ten spaces

"quiet world for restoration"

l a u n d r o m a t

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Tucked in a Notebook

It's the day before Father's Day and I chanced upon on old poem in a notebook. Behold! a Father's Day poem from 1984. Serendipity!

FOR FATHER ON HIS DAY

She said she was the daughter

of the Bishop of Ormsby.

Three times she said it,

the kind of remark

which could have been irritating

to the listener, I supposed.

The reactions could run

from resentment, "Who

does she think she is?" to

disinterest, "So what?"

But in her glowing reminder I caught

a note of such admiration and concern,

I understood a sudden kinship.

I knew exactly how she felt.

I have been guilty of the same effusiveness.

When giving my opinion, creed, or cause,

how often has that enthusiastic pride

surfaced!

Has there been a day when I did not

at some point gratefully blurt,

"Well, my father always said..."?

I am glad to report

there has not.