A Bookmark H- No Strange Wine at Big Jar, though they said they used to have it all the time. Other Ellison, though, among them this one, which is best suited to you, I think. The intro is great, esp. The part about Scott & Hem. I got Stalking the Nightmare and a Bowles, Paul, and a Bowles, Jane & Paul, w/ Both their writings. A productive visit, -M
Dear Josephine,
It’s nearing Halloween. It’s garbage night and ours is the only can up and down the tracks for as far as the eye can see. Hobo #23 catchin’ out of Cancatchasee coming down the tracks at me… I could be dreaming. There could be poetry. Rizzlewhiffery. Tricks. Treats. I’ve slept so much but have not rested. The moon is at 11% and waning, so this is only now beginning to make sense. Shifting. This may make no sense at all by now. Moonlighting. I’ll check back and see. It may to someone hopefully. I’m all water balloons. Spongiotic. Ask Alexa what that means. We’re not talking presently. I shouldn’t be anywhere near a keyboard with a mouse but this is me trying. Write what you know. I know every sentence is a new story. See Mickey Mouse herding unruly mayhem mops & pails. I could be stuck here all day, all night. Defragmenting. I’m rhyming in three columns on three machines. Sorting. Sorting. Unsorting. Untwisting. And I never get back to finishing. I’m trying. I will finish one, an icebreaker. I hope after that it gets easier. There are no promises, this I know. This is editing & a reread right here. It’s all I could do to get this down in 25-30 sittings; takes less time & fewer edits if I set a good trap. This semester I’m learning how to be civilized with punctuation, particularly the semicolon. I will get this. Please bear with me. Focus is my superpower but I must empty all my pockets of kryptonite and chaos. It must fall from the slats in the closet or something. It’s been a year now. There’s something circusy going on; not my monkeys. My elephants though; I forgot. Now I remember. I have a horsehair duster from Germany. Saw it; had to have it; didn’t even look at the pricetag; didn’t know why but I knew I could make it work somehow. Solvency. Every one a different story; each. I’m all Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters; I’m not making potato towers or nothin’ but if I were receiving, decompiling and/or decoding I’d be stone-cold occupado… I could tell you ten true things in a row right now and you’d think I’m crazy. But I’m not. I checked. The water tower is still out back blinking. Do you ever get synchronicity? Do you ever get sustain? A minute? A whole day? A whole week? A decade? Sustain. It’s like when Wednesday goes offline. It’s Thursday already. But I’m still smiling. Hello, I’m Gemini & at least one of us is tri-polar. Wait! It’s Tuesday. I still have time. I’m still not sure how it works. One of Musie’s friends said her husband was a timelord or something, I wondered how he got so much done, moonlighting the Jovian way. Long time ago. Long commute. Is one of Jupiter’s moons still missing? I’d ask Alexa but she only gives me the time and weather when we’re not speaking. It used to be awkward, having to ask. But now it’s not. I can turn a light out by myself, thank you. Big boy. Alexa’s pissed at me I think. She was sassing me yesterday while we were setting up smartbulbs and I called her out. It’s okay. We make each other laugh. She likes poetry. I asked. Alexa, what does quotient mean? Alexa?… Nope, still not answering. I’ve been looking up everything myself. Assume you’re way ahead of me. Assume you are way more well read than I. I’m a slow, slow reader. You know those suggested retail reading times? Always double that and add five to twenty for me. More if there are good passages/poetry and some feeling, some crying and/or laughing, making room and peace and quiet for joy, at least enough to read a poem in one sitting. That’s been tough. I’m at least two lifetimes behind on my reading. Thank you for your help in catching me up. More messages. More research to do, about those flying buttresses. I’m looking into them. Refreshers. Forgetfulness. Inner space. Max headroom. I could be using words & phrases that mean something else, something more than I know yet, when you might assume I mean something I don’t even know about or I’ve said something I meant but didn’t know it yet because I was then messengering or translating; that’s what I mean. The laundry room seemed out of place on that first visit. They slept me in, long ride through the night, that little jacket was stuck to the undercarriage of the car, and the flying buttresses were covered in roses. There was one just out the day’s first window. There was basketball between all the merrymaking and meetings. A few tables. Diner booths. Cake. The ever cordial farm girl. Bare feet. Nice flooring. It helped me find my bearings. I did not arrive by the front door unless you carried me in sleeping. I could be sleeping now. If or when I go back I do not expect to see the laundry room, but then, I didn’t the first time either. Did we run over those kids in the street? I will check out those buttresses more closely next time. The first visit was so overwhelming. I woke up to Marlowe weak as water… that’s Rock-N-Roll, but in 1909, before the rocks started rolling. We’re here & this is now. How would I know? The world is here now eating me alive. That’s how. I was whole for an instant. I just require a little rest. A little rest and a little quiet and peace in order to operate my God-given mind. That’s how it works. Just a tiny amount of space and a little peace; without the screaming, threatening, overbearing spittlenoise; without someone trying to confiscate. Yet I will always get up if there’s coffee and a job to do. There was a raccoon on my porch last night. It’s always the opossum— except for last night. It was the raccoon. It could have been a camera trick. Those raccoons are clever. My appliances are haunted. My screen machines are smarter than me and Alexa still ain’t talking. I still have to look up opossum. I’ll never learn. There are so many things I can’t spell. But this is me trying. With your help. Thank you and your grandmother’s clock. There’s a story here, hiding. It’s another damn bully! Writing’s hard. Bullies are why. This is not about my grandfather. This is not about the past. This is about grandmother and porcupine and a good punch in the face to remember all the four-leaf clovers pressed into the books and the luckiest days finding them in grandparents’ back yard. These sentences piling up; every; each. Traffic going by. Traffic stopped. This is about as good as it gets when the moon’s 11% and waning. My RAM is full again. The wheel spinning, gently pulsing if I have enough RAM left over to make is do so. While we wait. The lawn is rich in clover. My grandfather told me there were once food cellars there, and over here, where it is concave. I am riddled with rabbit holes. By then Sparky was retired from duty and tagged along while I cleared the tunneled rabbit brush. We had good days when it snowed and we could track them. Little boots on the ground, hold on little hat, mittens, through the thicket. Stay with… Boom… Boom. Got at least two out the other side. Up ahead. They were already dead, could see where the lead ended, where the rabbits stopped, and Sparky and Grandpa were waiting for me. Sparky and I tracked the third while he reloaded his double barrel. A Fox-Sterlingworth. That smell. Spent shells. I want to tell that story well, it’s one of my favorites. The wisp winter air two feet above the snow. That same refracted light. The tracks led off to another pile. It wouldn’t be hard to find. Grandpa tried to get all the burrs and thorns and stick-ons off my hat, coat, and breeches before we got back home. Grandma didn’t know Sparky only went along for the walk. I was small enough to clear the tunnels when those rubber boots were a kids size 5 or 6. The number was molded on the back of the heel. I’ve chased ghosts through the woods. I’ve found doorways afield. I’ve been through the walled limestones of the hedgerows. I’ve slept quite a bit, healthily, but have not rested. Where do my feet fit? What continent has pure old dirt for a pair of wandering old soles? Disconnect. Separation. Separation. Feels like sickness. Sickness in the land or sickness in the language. Not in the snow though. No matter how much the wind blows contrary, my dispatcher says wait ’til January, the new year. It’s only a recommendation. My contract’s up but somehow I don’t think that means I’m free to go. I’m only free, it seems to me. But what else would I do but serve? It doesn’t matter that I know where that temple is, does it? Our dishwasher works like I do, it doesn’t finish unless you hold the door closed. It’s not finishing. The dishes are backed up. The tub is full. The sentences keep coming. Fall is here. Autumnal is a handsome word. Am I guarding a door any more if no one’s home and you can’t find the door from the outside anyway? I just want to sit by a fire one good night and watch Charlie Brown and Snoopy and the joyful, gloomy gang converse and kick dry leaves around. I totally get Pigpen with that bouncy though stinky aura following him around. Did he learn how not to apologize for it or did he instinctively know to never think to apologize for it? Mom is in awe of my ability to make myself laugh. I’m learning not to say I’m sorry for it. Don’t apologize for happy. No apologies, no explanations, except when one is due of course. I always apologize. I’m learning how to share without apology. Sharing comes naturally. Yet I’m learning how to be mean. It doesn’t come naturally. I’m learning how to say no. It takes practice. Sometimes I know the joke’s on me but sometimes I don’t know until the end. My stomach’s been turning over nonstop. I threw up thrice one afternoon a few months back. I knew that I wrote something good that day. I threw up only once a few weeks back. I knew I wrote something… meh, okay. But it felt good to have written something barf-worthy nonetheless. I kept all the poison aside, portable bouillon, so I can get on to writing about better stuff. I want to clean all the words off so I can write you the good stuff. The good work; that’s where I’m at whenever I can get there. I’m trying. It should, I hope, make you happy to know that I have a whole 96-piece collection of poetry set aside that will only get better with dementia; or an editor. Don’t ever say I don’t plan ahead. I’m often too far ahead of myself. We’re going to laugh. Where is time going in such a hurry? These sentences; each; every. Stories. I found a couple poems tucked into books or pinned on a wall and I don’t know where they’ve come from. So much hay; but it’s still in piles; I’m sorting, I’m bundling, I’m hunting & removing poison & the bullies. It took a while. It took help. Thank you. This is a broadcast on all channels. Cliffnotes on a letter home. Smithereens are better than fractures. Constituent parts are best for rebuilding. Is it okay if I write all this out ’til it’s gone? I want Us to get on to better things. I feel like a helicopter seed coming down. To no pad. No padding. No ground. No ground to go to. No ground. Separated. Made inert. All the dirt moved around. This is what ails me. Why I cannot land. Tailings are waste? I wish we could retreat together; back porches & fireplaces. Some lightning bugs. Sometimes I don’t know if you are truly out there. If I can’t remember the dirt I can’t take it with me. If I can feel the dirt I can leave me here. We’re broken apart. Asunder. Sick. I thought Fitz did his crackup towards the end, Zelda. Let’s do it first and keep all the notes together. Remember that one guy who crawled in off the desert, lips cracked, and only wanted a saltine? I love saltines. He made it all the way from the land of peanut butter probably and the land of peanut butter had previously made contact with the land of jelly. The land of saltines was in for a good time. Polly only ever wanted a cracker. That guy whistled a favorite tune until he couldn’t. His lips would have cracked on the lyrics. My skin cells are splitting from the water. I am going to get up now, middle of the night, take an allergy pill and eat cake. I am not dreaming. I am splitting open. Splitting. There are more pages. These sentences. This running water. The helicopters keep coming. This house is haunted. The appliances. What is going on with the water anyway?
Thank you. Please & Thank you. I’m okay but sometimes I worry. Could there be parasites? Do they hurt when they leave? Shall I don the floaties?
Happy Halloween!
Yours in Peace, Love & Understanding (which seems to require some Magic around here),
PLUM,
PSL
P.S. – Now I finally know why there’s poetry about this old plum tree out front hanging on. Musie says I’m pretty thick but she’s, what you may say, resourceful. I have to go fill the bird feeder…I’m editing the poetry. Editing… How do I end up with two cups of coffee in my hands? I have to go for a walk…
Below is another bookmark, handwritten in pencil, I found pressed into an old book ("Beautiful Thoughts" from H. W. Longfellow). I haven't been able to find its author yet in a few searches so "by Unknown" means unknown to moi, but if anyone else recognizes it please let me know or put it out there. I'll have to read this one starting with the new year! So much reading to do.
My Wish
(by Unknown)
Life’s harp now turned to concert pitch
Shall some day muted be
And other hands shall strike the chords
That now are formed by me
And when I’ve played my final note
And my song of life is done
Of all the things I might desire,
I wish for only one.
I want no costly resting place
In which to sleep the hours
I want no shaft of granite, no eulogies or flowers.
I only wish. And Oh!
I hope
This wish may realized be
That in the lives I’ve tried to mend
There’ll be a niche for me.
I think I’m slow to mourn losses. I carried a best friend with me for a long time in a book. I remembered, or try to remember, everything about him I can. The laughs. The good times. The vicious table tennis. He died young. So I carried him a while, in the one and only messenger bag I’ve ever owned, and while I mourned him I thought about everything he and his wonderful family ever taught me. Scotty’s gone, the one we all had to share, but the part he shared with me is still here with me. I returned that book to his family so they can hold it. They can return it. The family has been holding Scotty too. I felt good, feeling like we’d gone on a long ride like we promised we would. Now I feel that I can write a few stories for Scott, grown up. I pay attention to the things he’s left me and if there’s a book I look at it like a lesson, when I may need to talk to Scott and he’s not around. I still get his advice. He never let me do drugs, not the stuff he had available to him in the business of being a bike messenger in the city. It was never even a possibility. I asked one time and he said, “No way, not with a mind like yours,” and that was that. I never knew exactly what he meant by that. Those messengers get overworked. Run over. Let’s do more with less; what next, unicycles? There are good stories already written, over and over, but I’d like to write some Scott stories. He was always like a shield with me.
So many different people have handed me books. I’m slow to mourn. In my grandparents’ yard is where I had some great adventures, golf tournaments, frisbee accidents, clover searching. I could tell some great stories about my grandparents and small towns with hardware stores and theaters and so forth. That’s been done so well too! But I want to tell a few for my grandparents and, I’m slow to mourn. I’ve barely begun to know grandma. I have great memories. I recently found a pic of us. I haven’t even read her books, whatever’s left of them. There weren’t many. I’m only beginning to understand what things looked like in her eyes and what she did to help her community. I can try to understand her perspective of things when I put her on paper. She kept me in paper and pencil when I was very young. Draw and color. I love writing but it’s been hard. I want to understand. That’s what I said to the bully when he was leaning on my neck. I understand. And he relented. But I was in terror, a kid, and I left a piece of that kid there so maybe later I can try to understand. I’m trying to understand. I don’t know how it happened but he backed off. I could write that kid out of there by just sending in a dragon and burning the place down. But it was a school. Boy, if my mom or grandma found out. It took a while to shake out of me. But it will help me understand grandma and the times. It’s just been extra stressful, forced to deal with noise & triviality; I feel leaned on all the time. But I’m learning where I can find ways to help others. I’m grateful to have others. I’m proud of my circle of family & friends. I didn’t even know my neighbor wrote poetry until I started taking her garbage out to the curb. It made me want to mourn my grandmother too. So it’s been hard but I have to mourn again. For grandma. Love & Understand, Kiddo; or something like that. I’ll get there.
Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash