ISBN 978-0-8041-3663-1
Thanks to Blogging for Books, I just finished, A Spy Among Friends – Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal.
Certainly a good read, one which incredulity spikes about every other page. Kim Philby was known as one of the greatest spies in the 20th Century. Ben Macintyre has written a suspenseful novel, and he has based tremendous psychological insight into personal papers and never-before-seen intelligence files.
I normally am not a reader of spies or World War II. Anyone who wants an intricate view of the range of events and plans and depth of intrigue occurring during World War II will not be disappointed.
It is a prodigious book, clear to follow, except for this reader who at times was boggled by the duplicity of so many spies, and who trusted whom. Basically, Kim Philby was a product of good schooling, elite circles, exclusive clubs. Sprinkle long night of drink and carousing and the cavorting wiles of spies, albeit, against or for, whatever country, and the book becomes a page turner.
Kim Philby was unknown to anyone close to him and duplicitous to all. Many were fooled by his being a double spy for England and the USSSR.
This reader lived in Russia, really Ukraine and Belarus for a 3 year period with some trips back to the states. We were there really with the concept of peace and promotion of a different concept of the oneness of humanity. We were ordinary citizens meeting the rank and file in the society, a society encased in shame. The people were grief stricken that they had been so deluded. Communist changed into business suits, the mafia kept on keeping on, and yet the society opened up.
The intricacies of the spy trade command a horrific attention. So much intrigue; so much mathematical callousness as far as ordinary people were concerned. Philby caused 100s to die, but he remained very British, very club oriented, very alcoholic. None of his wives really knew him. They thought they did. His children adored him. How would they know? He does come across in this view as a father who cared, but what a price he pays.
I ended my horrified reading wondering was it total power, just being ahead of the game, any game, and why not two competing powerful nations. How could he be so deluded by Communism, and Stalin? The egos and delusions of spy networks and the crumbling times we all live in.
At any rate, it was a compelling read, but shocking. My questions remain. Was Philby a sociopath? What compelled him? Such blind allegiance. What really motivated him?
As an aside, I’ve been watching Manhattan on PBS and the same power hungry intrigues are revealed as the story of the atom bomb unfolds. Obsession, ego and power – oh dear.
Once again, thanks Blogging for Books! great way to spread the word about good reads!
A Life Apart – L. Y. Marlow 
A Life Apart
L. Y. Mar
This is a historical novel dealing with race, World War II, specifically Pearl Harbor, relationships of the black and white kind, and a love story. The title A Life Apart implies to the reader more than one meaning. The author is indeed a , and as she takes us deeper and deeper into the novel, complexities of other families, life of African-Americans, how they differ, and a coming to love. It’s gentle, and it’s a story about love, about skin color privilege and hatred, and human beings caught on the corners or jagged edges of history’s transitions. I’m from Boston, and went to secretarial school in Roxbury. I was born a little before World War II, and grew up in the suburbs of Boston. I was oblivious to racial prejudice until I came to California in 1992, discovered the Baha’i Faith and the concept of the oneness of humankind.This book is important. There are no strident notes or harsh retaliations to the way whites treated our fellow African-Americans (grievously, beyond measure), and the author writes about these times, which are exceedingly important. If we are to know and love each other, and realize skin color is an illusion, we have to know of our insides, our hurts, our triumphs, frailties and joys. A Life Apart is a compelling story, and it works on many levels. I definitely recommend it. I read this book because I signed up for Blogging for Books, a worthy adventure in itself. Otherwise I might have missed A Life Apart. My life is enriched because of reading this. I think readers will hear more from L. Y. Marlow. She is also author of Color Me Butterfly, which I intend to track down as soon as I finish this review. Kudos to this writer! Thanks again Blogging for Books!
China Dolls by Lisa See
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I am a fan of Lisa See, and I read a lot about China, particularly in narrative form. She is a story teller and keeps the reader close to the page, hesitant to put her books down. I revered her Mom also, Carolyn See – what a family of writers.
I loved the detail, the history of the time, the breaking away from tradition and the courage of the three women. Highly recommend this book!
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13547180-brain-on-fire” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness” border=”0″ src=”http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1353173297m/13547180.jpg” /></a><a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13547180-brain-on-fire”>Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness</a> by <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5778057.Susannah_Cahalan”>Susannah Cahalan</a><br/> My rating: <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/450391922″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
<br/><br/> <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
Reader: Janine, a wonderful member of our verbally weird and adventurous, skilled, blabby CHPercolatorCoffeehouseforWriters – suggested a prompt overusing adjectives. Here’s my take:
Muffy Kincaid, that lustrous blonde with just a wee bald spot on the top of her head, revealing a dot, a splot, a mere quiver of pink flesh, under which spot, a brain whirred, as if agile and liquid,
and our Muffy conjured up ways to attract Alfred to her yoga class, in which she would point her long, long, long, long, limber, limber, limber legs and elegantly formed, mushroom like in its splendor big toe to the dappled white ceiling which was in tiles if you want to know, and they were becoming loose,
as Harry Raymond, a swish of a guy, who stood on head in his irritable, Terrible Tempered Tommy Bangs moments of anger, sweating, frustration, brought on by glaring at the cellular, no – not cellular — oh why had our Tommy Bangs, histrionic hero of the Yoga Loaf, on the top floor of a bakery, a hot, hot, hot floor, why could he not, indeed, could not find fame, and then our little mischievous Muffy, with a nickname of misky tisky, conjured again, under that pink spot of the brain,
having listened carefully, her spike-like cilia open to Harry Raymond’s needs and desires, thought, “Why I can kill 2 birds with one stone,” and thought Alfred twisted and twined his “Hi I’m from the Maine Woods,” thick lumber-like legs, would come and discover the lascivious twists and turns of
Dear Muffy, who not only thought under that pink spot on her head, but lusted, yes, our audacious mild mannered heroine Muffy admitted to lust,
and if she could entice Alfred into a yoga studio, surely Alfred would receive a memorable metaphoric epiphany and envision, using his yet to be developed connecting skills under his skull, yes our Alfred, had a skull, but opposites attract, pink spots vs. skull and
Alfred from Maine would visualize throwing Muffy into the clover and violating her in the vilest way, all the while, thinking, this all started because I left my man cave, my man ways and went to Yoga, and Harry Raymond, that insipid white crow of a man, actually had some tricks up his sleeve with which to twitch and turn and perhaps thrust (oh dear an inflammatory thought) and so I would end this earnestly written tale with the motto,
“Yes the Muffies of the world, can conjure, and the Harry Raymonds of the world, will live to see another economically assured day, in this time when men of reptilian brain, and smaller anatomy down there, trot and scheme behind the crooked corridors of power.
Stevenleocampbell.wordpress.com-Thank you Steven!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He gave out Reader Appreciation Awards to 7 people – My blog was one of them!
I Googled the award today, looking for the bright sunflower, and didn’t find its source. So Reader, this is what I think it is. We bloggers, who run across out computer keys at night when the earth sleeps, play word games in the velvet ether of the night, toss out sorrows, hug happiness, create metaphoric mountains and potholes, and all the while race towards the world and each other in a prepublishing, I’m going to publish this tomorrow on WordPress! We all fall into this category. We who blog. Those who read blogs. Both, all, none, many.
The rules of the Reader Appreciation Award:
1. Include the award logo somewhere in your blog – check center photo above. Ta da!!
2. Answer 10 questions (listed below) for fun if you want to.
3. Nominate 6 or 10 to 12 blogs you enjoy
4. Provide the links to these blogs and let them know they’ve been nominated
5. Provide a link to the blogger(s) who nominated you —- http://stevenleocampbell.wordpress.com
10 Questions and my answers for the Reader Appreciation Award
1. What is your favorite color?
The color of the current book I am reading, or the wine colored cover of Gleanings, Baha’i Writings.
2. What is your favorite animal – no need for me to answer; everyone who reads this post will roar back. Pug Dogs.
3. What is your favorite non-alcoholic drink?
Lemonade, don’t drink Alcohol
4. Facebook or Twitter
FB, my home away from home, the entrace to the train station called my life!
5. Favorite patterns?
Pattern of oneness and connectedness in relations throughout the globe.
6. Do you prefer getting or giving presents?
Giving, giving.
7. Favorite number?
Nine (9)
8. Favorite day of the week?
Wednesday
9. Favorite flower?
Purple Iris
10. What is your passion?
Giving people opportunities to discover and/or develop their voice – teaching creative writing.
My 8 nominations for the Reader Appreciation Award:
http://normanpickles.blogspot.com/ – Pugs, pugs, and more pugs. Enchanting when the heart is orphaned and one’s physical space not allowed this type of 4 legged package of entitlement.
http://pagesforsmallwages.wordpress.com/ Gwendolyn McIntyre – perceptions on writing, life, things that go bump, keep the writer going!
http://www.bahaithought.com Phillipe Copeland is author of the blog, “Baha’i Thought” which offers commentary on issues of religion, society, and culture based on the teachings of the Baha’i Faith.
http://mrslittlejeans.blogspot.com/, mrslittlejeans is a scientist and offers enchanting views of her two felines, photographs of same, and a sharing of mystic perceptions.
http://writingasasacredpath.blogspot.com/ Jill Jepson – I have her book, the back cover of which reads in part, “Discover the Soul of Writing,” writing medications, prompts, rituals, exercises all drawn from traditions of Buddhist monks, Navajo storytellers, and much more.
.http://www.studiomorran.com/ Studio Morran, dogs, crafts, art, visual whimsy!
http://gerrygwilson.com/about/ A published writer, writing teacher of note, an encourager to all
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/ prolific poet, enchantress with words …
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/ metaphors and smiles – enchanting poetry-Hannah Gosselin
http://swthink.blogspot.com/ so whatcha think – Brooke Ryter – a book, an impact, soon to be revealed – check it out.
http://arachnoidcystsupport.blogspot.com 
Maria McCutchen has written a book, It’s All in Your Head, and I think her story should be widely read. I’ll show image. I got my book at Alibris, an online bookstore, which sometimes has prices less than Amazon. At any price, this is an important book.
http://lublenok.blogspot.com/ Leonid’s World is the name of his blog. We met him inMinsk when we gave English Club sessions. He’s fascinating, innovative, and dear, and he speaks of past history and his family.
Love and best wishes to all.
Wednesday Mel posted a blog by me, and I was the guest blogger. Today and a few days ago, this blog went out with Mel as my guest blogger. http://melwalshjones.wordpress.com/tag/guest-blog/
Reader, junior learner here. Baby Lois Lane. Blogger in apprentice is reblogging this very same post, because I get the feeling, people think I, esther, aka sorrygnat, wrote this blog of Mel’s. Hmmm I wish. Mel is an accomplished writer, and yes we are bookends this week and yes, she’s from Boston, and yes, she teaches writing, but her influence is much broader than mine. I bow to her good writing. So, here t’is, so Mel gets the credit.!
P.S. we all met on the I Am Not Bob April Challenge, a generous and life changing encounter with writers.
Mel Jones is a native Bostonian. She grew up on the Irish Riviera –The South Shore.
As a child, she spent many hours sitting in trees reading books and writing poems. She had her own newspaper column at fifteen and was determined that she would be the next Shakespeare or Tolkien. She was educated at The College of William and Mary, Virginia Commonwealth University, and Antioch University, Los Angeles. She holds degrees in History, English, Rhetoric, Literature, and Creative Writing (Nonfiction). Yes, she is overeducated.
She has done extensive genealogical research both for her own family tree and professionally
Mel edited a now defunct literary journal, The Sylvan Echo. She’s taught children from kindergarten through college in a variety of public and private settings. She currently teaches College-level Composition. Mel is the founder of The Midlothian Writers’ Workshop. She offers a variety of services for writers, including retreats.
Publications include, a book of poetry, Between the Lines (2005), and essays in The William & Mary Gallery, Sherwood Forest,and online at Little Seal and r.k.vr.y. She recently had an epiphany, if she sent her work out more, she would be published more. She’s working on that. She maintains a sometimes snarky blog, Mel’s Madness, which is more Erma Bombeck than William Shakespeare. Mel lives and writes on a small leisure farm west of Richmond, Virginia with her partner, parrots, and progeny.
Country Sunday Drive.
This morning I had to run to the store. Now for those of you who live in the real world that entails a 1/2 mile, maybe a mile’s drive. But not here. It’s eight miles to the local grocery store (national chains like Food Lion or Kroger are longer drives).
I pulled out of my driveway—watching carefully—because I live in a curve. My up-the-hill-neighbors apparently forgot that at some point last night; their cute little blue rag-top was sprawled in the ditch in front of their house. It took out the little green phone box. I knew my internet would be down. City folks! They moved here because they wanted “life in the county.” That’s what they told me in the one conversation we had over the old rusted barbed wire fence that separates our two properties. I’ll bet they have had more country than they can stand at this point. At least that’s how it looked as I drove by the stranded car.
I briefly wondered if they had swerved to avoid some sort of animal. I did that once. I slammed on the brakes when a rabbit hopped out in front of me. It was the first country lesson that I learned: do not slam on your breaks on a dirt road. Bad things happen. The rabbit hopped away, fine.
I totaled the car.
Anyway, I made my way up my windy road without incident. I stopped at the red light that annoys the locals so badly, Damned city folk! Who needs lights? All anyone’s gotta do is look both ways! That’s what the old folks said. It was a big deal when they put that light in; the county has six traffic lights now. Down right depressing.
I picked up the things I needed and started my trek back.
Now one would think this too would be uneventful. Au contraire. Once I turned at the traffic light back onto the road that leads home I had to stop to let the groundhog pass. I sighed. Then I had to stop and let the Sunday riders on their quarter horses pass, and then there were deer. I watched as two hawks swooped into a field for breakfast. They were successful. I was beginning to think, aaahhhh, were it not for the traffic light, this could be heaven.
But then I came around the curve. And there he was. A Black Angus bull in the road. In the road my poor little Mercury Sable was driving on. I was sure my car would lose a battle with him. I was sure I would just piss him off. And then I would have to get out of my car and face him. What was I to do? There was no cell service on that part of the road, not that I would know who to call about a bull in the road anyway.
I confess, my first thought when I saw the massive blackness in the road was that perhaps it was, I dunno, not real. It was a shadow or something. Maybe this one was of those flashbacks I had been warned about. But then, he snorted at me, just like in the cartoons with his flared nostrils steaming.
I slammed on my brakes. Thankfully this road was paved.
I have lived here for twenty years, but I have never encountered a raging bull in the road before. I’ve seen them in fields – safely behind electrified fences. I’ve seen farmers scurrying away—running for their lives. Once I even watched as the county deputies were chased out of a field. They were tracking a runaway. A bull snorted at them while he pawed the ground. They ran: deputies and blood hounds. The Bull treed the runaway, who was grateful when the farmer brought feed for his herd. One has little recourse with a bull.
I beeped my horn.
He snorted. Round one to the bull.
I inched forward.
So did he. Round two to the bull.
By now there were three or four vehicles stopped in each direction. No one wanted to play chicken with a bull. Several young men in fancy pick-ups were collectively shaking in their boots in the northbound lane.
Then, just as we were all beginning to feel a little bit desperate there in the morning sun, a little old man in a woody-style station wagon came along, got out of his car and hollered at the bull, “Get the hell off of the road! I’m a-gonna be late for church God damn it!” He took off his hat and swished it at said bull. Then punched him in the nose.
The bull skulked away. Round three to the old man.
My neighbor’s car was still in the ditch and my other neighbor’s pigs were scouting it out—they were inside the car and nosing around in the front seat. Pigs are curious animals. The neighbor should have put the windows up. Maybe the bull had been in the road when my neighbors were coming home last night and they too thought he couldn’t be real. I don’t know. But it would be less than a month before that farmhouse came up for rent again.
l a n g u a g e a f t e r t h e 1 0 0 y e a r w a r
The Nouns were in control in the neighborhood of Verbiage.
Adjectives were forced to end their 100 Year War.
This war was known as the Great War of Planet Earth in the Days of Rhetoric Only.
Verbiage, like a fireplace bellows of yesteryear,
had simply exhausted its wheeze and could no longer
control the Nation.
Politicians would no longer be described adjectively.
Thus, our President could be described by the Press as, “A 
man whose eyes narrowed when a syllabic word entered the
toy store of his mind; a man whose Rubber Ducky drowned
when his bath water became higher than what is necessary for
the average leader; or, a man who could bob eternally on the
Ocean of Platitude.”
This leader called up his country’s Reserve Marines again.
These Marines were sent to a land which resembled a cannon
to which they would become fodder. They would obey their
mission, climb into these cannons, and be shot out over the
land of buildings which no longer resembled buildings.
Naught would be seen but structures of rubble which resembled
cookies crumbled in the hand of a monster as tall as the
sky.
The Congress would not be allowed to use descriptions
which included the much abused adjective. This caused some
consternation, for our Congress knew of the paucity of adverbs
when running for election. The Congress member
would no longer be able to crawl into that vat of adjectives
filled with words guaranteed to portray an individual Congress
person righteously and puffily. These adjectives, I might
add, are thrown carelessly into this vat, like screen plays in
Los Angeles, like potato chips in a Lays truck which had escaped
from their Bag Containers.
The Nouns issued an edict: “Stick to the Facts, Jack.
Straight Facts for a Straight Land,” a land which had lived adjectivally
and splendiferously for too long, thereby wreaking
an ecological knowledge gap of a very long five years. Politicians
had appeared on the NewsHour program with Jim
Lehrer, and on what used to be Peter Jennings’s NewsHour,
and on Tim Russert, to reveal Sunday after Sunday (or was it
Monday after Monday?) narrow gamboling minds and nuances
of the political dance. These very same politicians verbally
trolled linguistically along to thinly expand titles such as
“Theatre of Operation,” “War Games” and, last but not least,
the most abused noun in the world, Democracy—Democracy
became a gutted, slutty word, misused and stretched like
hardened taffy in a candy machine after the summer crowd
had gone home.
A rape of the Nouns had occurred. What choice did the
Nouns have but to take over the Nation? They cried out,
“Aack, aack, aack! No more.”
And so as this tale is difficultly told, but blessed for its attempts,
all the while failing in adverbial splendor, time will tell how language
controlled its environment so that facts and integrity might emerge again
children of the world forget that “Truthfulness is the foundation
of all human virtues” (Ruhi Book 1 – Reflections on the Life of the Spirit)
Five weeks ago I had a steady Sorry Gnat blog following of about 7 people. People know me a bit around the City of Pasadena. A few months ago my Irish Mug was on the cover of Pasadena Weekly, 
because I teach writing at the Women’s Room in Pasadena, a workshop for volunteers, homeless women, and women in transition.
I also teach a couple of other writing workshops in the Pasadena- mainly at the La Pintoresca Branch, and conduct a small one, for donation only, in the basement of Ten Thousand Villages, the most fantastic and aesthetically snappy fair trade store, located on Lake and California.
I felt stagnated by my inadequacies with my blog. I had a major friend who has helped me a lot. The fabulous Mizz V – shrunk my SorryGnat banner, twiddled and twaddled comments and headings appropriately, but she got a job, and I ordered 10-12 books from the library on Blogging.
I need to stretch I thought. This is how I get creative thoughts. They nudge me or pop up when my nose is halfway down my first cup of coffee in the morning. Along came #@MNINB, and I was a hashtag apprentice, a Linkedin Babe, a Twitter type of gal. I’m already on FB with people from around the world. It helps to travel and live in other countries.
A few weeks ago someone sent The Versatile Blogger 
award, and I have still to figure out how to affix it to a margin type area so it hangs out in the neighborhoods of facts and figures about this writer who’s up there in age, but has the writing voice of a 35-year old.
This week, of which Monday seems a 100 years ago, 2 of the #MNINB recommended me for a Liebster because for the month of April MNINB challenge a goodly amount of writers scattered from Massachusetts to Malta (not really) connected, with a spirit of oepn welcome and we cheer each other on.
So thank you to Susan Craig, http://bysusancraig.wordpress.com/ . She’s a scientist with a background in neurobiology, and studied effect of Alzheimer’s disease proteins on brain cells for over 10 years. She currently teaches college biology. Her favorite thing to do is write books about strong, smart women and men who love and appreciate them. Her blog reveals true stories, science material, fiction, inspiration, and you name it. Lucky us. Lucky me, I subscribe to her blog.
And also, another blogger nominated me during the same week of 100 years:
Thank you Kristi Carver, http://kristicarver.blogspot.com/2012/05/ Kristi is a writer, small business owner, and Registered Nurse. My twin was a Registered Nurse, and believe you me, I felt safe with her in my life. Thanks Kristi. When you visit her blog, you fall into a heavenly photo of a lake in Colorado, and all tension slips away. Colorado beauty, plus aspiring author, who is a blueberry fanatic, wine enthusiast, and constant reader, and a memoir addict. Be still my heart.
Now, I pay it forward and nominate up to 5 blogs with less than 200 followers, and let these nominees know they’ve come under the Liebster shadow by leaving a comment on on of their posts. I added the Liebster image, so I’m okay ont hat.
My nominees are:
http://kofeart.wordpress.com/category/doodles/ – what can I say? When the world gets too lurchy, self-absorb, insane, I click on Kofeart’s site and her art enchants me. I hope you like it too!
http://blackwatertown.wordpress.com/ I don’t know if he has 1,000 followers, but he was one of my original 7 devotees, and he’s special in my blogger’s heart; funny, current, aware, and enchanting.
The blog & the book – are by Paul Waters from Northern Ireland, writes, makes radio & telly shows, blogs and footer about with social media. Get in touch if you’d like me to do it for you, either here or at paulwaters99 at hotmail.com . It’s not a kangaroo, it’s a horse’s head, which might be from The Godfather. The pith helmet however, definitely used to sit on the head of Spike Milligan.
http://krpooler.com/feed/ (Memoir Writers Blog)I need all the information on Memoirs. I don’t know if she’s widely blogged, so I added her, because I learn from people like this blogger.
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/10/god-of-cake.html – okay, okay, the blog is about depression – but to a writer, artist, or whatever creative type, depression is a fantastic topic, and I am sure she heals herself by her work. Her images are enchanting. I adore her post. What can I say, check it out!
http://swpulley.wordpress.com/ – Artist, writer, traveler, whimsy, E.B.-White-wit goes outer space, early member of CHPercolatorcoffeehouseforwriters.com, incredible friend, encourager, and lives next town over. His Uneasy Rider posts are terrific. He’s the reason why I write better than I used to after my first book, and why I published (he helped-bless his saintly soul) You Carry the Heavy Stuff, and is just all in all an enchanting wit and fried of both myself and Bill and so many others.
So that’s it. Now they check out The Liebster Award, and sally forth. Gratitude to all who labor! Smile.
Reader, may I call you reader. This is a response to my blog of yesterday about being an old gal with a 35-year-old voice. You see that blog had its genesis in CHPercolatorCoffeeHouseforWriters – a yahoo site. My friend Steve encouraged me. Steve is responsible for my latest book You Carry the Heavy Stuff, and ChPercolator. It’s free; we only encourage, never criticize, check it out.
Keith is a funny writer, and any email or comments from him make me yuck and chortle. Steve and I even drove down to Disneyland area, Anaheim area, to visit Keith and his wife, who were in from New Jersey. Keith also wrote a blurb on the back of Carry Heavy Stuff, and this is his response to my blog of yesterday, soon to be yesteryear:
I underlined Bob sounds like an inspiration person because it was so deadpan. Yes, I roll on floors over stuff like this.
Re: SUB: Dingbat and stuff
Is that at all related to being a dingbat?
Are frabjous and frabulous synonyms?
If I had a canary I would let it perch on my shoulders.
Bob sounds like an inspirational person.
My mother-in-law and you could climb mountains together.
What, what, oh what ever happened to the cardboard pug?
Jessica wouldn’t be that fictional writer/sleuth who murdered all those people and then hypnotized someone else into confessing to the crime? It’s just too much of a coincidence that she lives in a tiny hamlet in Maine with the highest murder rate in the world when she’s home and someone gets murdered wherever she travels. If that’s the same Jessica I would exercise caution.
A friend, Al, who is in advertising, said to me one day over coffee at Peets in California, “You need to have a blog,” and so because of that casual remark and my faith in his techy wisdom. I commenced walking over rocks and pebbles of techy knowledge, and a blog was born.
September 5, 2006, Sorry-Gnat enters hyperspace life letting those who are interested know that in the Baha’i Writings one can go on the path of transformation and be a sorry gnat and become a giant eagle.
“I’ve just had lunch at Tuohey’s Restaurant in Alhambra and had dinner there last night. No I’m not trying to be giant like an eagle physically. I’ve ruminated a good deal about stuff to put into this blog: poetry? pug dogs? notes about books? human rights? racial justice: schlepping, Esther, don’t forget schlepping. I have a lot to learn on this blog, and will consult with my techy friends as to how, what, why, when! I’m reading The Earth is Flat, Thomas Friedman, excellent. Very good writer. We just saw Jessica, our granddaughter, at an early soccer practice. She’s almost 7-going into first grade, and all the little girls are not aggressive players at all, but very cute.
Today, April 5, 2012.
Well Jessica is 12 now, and has an equanimity about her and kindness to all that I adore. My family was like a Rorschach test, and I used to wonder what it’s like if my kid had the soul of an accountant. He didn’t, and that’s okay, but Jessica, my granddaughter’s mom, leans to that side: stable, and a tremendous educator with regards to child rearing.
Okay, I do blogs, and at times in my life the only themes seem to be pug dogs or spirituality, and for a while pug dogs were winning. Of late, it’s books, and maybe a while or so about my adequacy level down by my ankle bones, blogging wise-the techy side. I’ve avoided Twitter. Facebook? Boys and girls, I’ve got FB down; I have friends all over the globe. The good thing about moving 17 different times in 25 years is you meet a lot of people.
Sure I grieved over leaving some, but I tell you, I’ve met incredible people and to this day I never cease to wonder. Today we had lunch at Farideh’s and we had Tadiq, golden crusted flat slabs of potato under Basmati rice. Oink. We had wild salmon, vegetables even turnip. Then we had dessert served on creamy white china and looked like a vibrant water color: blueberries, peachy colored mango, and a scoop of vanilla soy ice cream. I’m so slogged with fatigue and memories of good food, my brain turns to sludge. Later I hooked up with Jean a new person in our Baha’i community.
She’s new to Pasadena, and hasn’t been in the States for 10 years. She has lived in India, and I can’t remember the name of her city; small – 5 million, but she’s traveled all over. Did I mention she’s blind and gets around by cane. We’ve hung out before. She’s done everything; social worker, worked in radio stations, done voice over, teaches ESL, works via the computer. No dust on her heels! It gave me just another chance to marvel.
Tomorrow, I’m off at a little before noon to a Christian church up the Street on Lake, in Altadena/Pasadena area, where the Ecumenical Council is observing Good Friday. I remember Good Friday when I was Catholic, sitting in the silence of the church, the religious figures draped in purple silk, and I remember a day before, called Holy Thursday, when Liz, my twin, and her best friend Jannie Cleary, walked and visited the 7 Catholic churches, a tradition we participated in only once. When we got home that day my sister Meb (Mary Ellen Bradley) was hanging her head out of the bath room window on the second floor, showing a newly bleached blonde.
We were three sisters; close in many ways, and yet Meb would die of alcoholism, as my mother did. They were terrific. They both played classical music, and I can’t not stop when I hear Chopin’s polonaise in something Minor. My mom died when we were 17, and my sister died when I was living in Dnepropetrovsk. She was the size of a twig, ravished by emphysema and years of alcoholism which I think she kicked towards the end. She had once survived on the streets for five years.
So back to homeless women. I’ve done two things in my life influenced by these two women so close to my heart. My mom had Latvian Babushkas come to our little house on Wren Street, tuck into the small kitchen with the red checkered oilcloth table covering, and she’d teach them English for free. They talked of their husbands, “lost behind the Iron Curtain,” and I’d visualize a large iron shower curtain stretched across a vast empty land.
Years later, in 1990, I traveled to Siberia with Bill, my husband. I wrote a book Without A Net: A Sojourn in Russia, which tells about Meb, Russia,Ukraine, and all. People like it. I often thought my mother’s selfless act of reaching out had reverberations into the future, when I, her daughter, very much her daughter, went into Slavic countries for service only.
That said, we’ve lived in Pasadena for 11 years, and it’s the longest we’ve ever lived anywhere. Bill is 77 and I am 73, and first we house sat in a gorgeous condo for 3 years and then found this pool house, and we can afford the rent they charge which is not high. I’ve survived open heart surgery, having the surgeons write the whole business off for free, and I’ve had a lot of trips to Cardiology at Kaiser, bleeding out, stuff like that, but now I thrive. I’m like a Russian doll that tips over and bounces back. Someone said to me the other day, “You have a strong life force,” and I do. I feel life gets better and better for women as they age. I am no longer moth-holed by self-doubt and scalding inner words of rebuke. I’m me now, and I sort of glow at times, at least when I’m teaching writing, meeting friends for coffee and always stretching to do more.
poetry of women from women's room - fund raiser flyer
A few years ago I gave a goodly amount of writing workshops-method, process, and did so for free at the local library branch of La Pintoresca in Northwest Pasadena. The Women’s Room a group formed and created by members who were connected to an Ecumenical Council realized women in Pasadena, either homeless or in transition, had nowhere to go. This is a day refuge, but oh what a refuge. Showers, laundry, good food, make up suggestions now and then are available, and oh, my writing class. Long story short, a room above the food pantry of Friends in Deed was created, like a small living room, dusty peach walls, art with symbols of 3 poppies, art on the wall, small kitchen and on Tuesdays 1-3 I teach writing. Everyone is welcome, the volunteers and the guests (homeless/in transition) and it is truly solidified in love and community. The bonds are strong.
We were asked to have something for tomorrow’s program at this Church. I wrote a poem on forgiveness. I’ll publish it later. Then I had the women do a group poem, each writing 2 lines.
They’ve performed before; different women, different voices, and at first they were terrified. But after they had the guts to get up behind a microphone and say their piece, their pieces, they were and are proud. You can’t take that away from anyone. Above is a poem written by Chris Annick which graced our first fundraiser flyer.
I always say to them before they read, “Own this. Own your voice,” and by golly they do. So with that, I didn’t expect this to be such a rattle on blog, but here you go, and that’s the facts Jack.
"The Orphan Master's Son is a riveting portrait of a world heretofore hidden from view: a North Korea rife with hunger, corruption and casual cruelty..."
The Orphan Master’s Son is a major book; a major read. It is epic; almost an oratorio, notes of which float over incredible deprivation, struggle, and an exceedingly oppressive society. . I could not put it down. Someone once asked, “Why do you read such books as this? My answer for that day as “If we believe mankind is one, i.e., we are one people, one planet, and we know of peoples’ horrendous suffering,” then we cannot be silent. I must speak about it even if only in a book review.
This novel pulls from the reader gasps of horror, Adam Johnson’s novel relentlessly pursues a systolic drive to the center of the North Korean world whose outer shell is constructed of a rigid totalitarianism, and whose inner core reveals an absolute and moribund corruption. Its core is rotten. Yet, slivers of nobility, slivers of courage from different individuals emerge.
One critic said, “This is not the real North Korea.” Perhaps not. However, books are appearing on the landscape, one of which is the Aquariums of Pyongyang verify an appalling state of society, and a nightmarish existence in North Korea’s prison camps, and also in the general society. We live on a planet where forces of light and darkness lick each others shadows. If we cannot speak for the silent ones, what can we do?
I feel an awe regarding Adam Johnson’s novel . I believe this novel goes far beyond Pulitzer awards. It is through fiction such as this that truth shines.
Adam Johnson teaches creative writing at Stanford University. His fiction has appeared in Esquire, The Paris Review, Harper’s, Tin House, Granta, and Playboy, as well as The Best american Short Stories. His other works include Emporium, a short story collection, and the novel Parasites Like Us.
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10964693-the-marriage-plot” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”The Marriage Plot” border=”0″ src=”http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1328736940m/10964693.jpg” /></a><a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10964693-the-marriage-plot”>The Marriage Plot</a> by <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1467.Jeffrey_Eugenides”>Jeffrey Eugenides</a><br/> My rating: <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/286125314″>3 of 5 stars
What did I not think! Tatting on the head of a pin. Truth is somewhere. Shades of Frank Lentriccia’s Lit Crit class in the 1980s, rolling around with words like mimesis, blah. another professor, equally dishing out words which bounced off my dense forehead, used to utter the word “Hegel,” and each time he did so, his heels would rise from the floor and he’d be on tiptoe – up on the Heg, down on the el. Alternate universes, this one of words beginning and ending, and what the hey-ego and the turn of good phrases, but characters empty. In one sense, it reflects ennui and delusions of the sad. It fits in to the 1980’s when I studied this stuff and thought this is like a Papal Hierarchy, and the Cardinals, wearing red silk and satin of course, are strutting as literary critics. i believe in the concept of literary theory, and the best book on that subject was the Purpose of Physical Being, John Hatcher, but I started this book last night. Back to the 80s; but credit is due to the author. However, how could so many applaud a book for such a narrow audience? Overdone emptiness, and i am being casual with my descriptions, perhaps not specific enough. I would give it a 3 because the author is exceedingly intelligent, highly literate, but I could not finish it.
http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
Siobhan Fallon writes well, eloquently and her prose and content are straight arrows to the heart. I don’t know how many books have been written from her point of view, but these stories, with exceedingly diverse points of view, points of view that bring you inside the characters’ soul, are just in time for the rest of the world to view.
Fort Hood. Women Left Behind. Heart in throat kind of stuff. Factual insights into life at Fort Hood. She brings the sound of loneliness and waiting to the page in a visual way. Agony, waiting, lives upended, lives united. These are the stories this reader feels everyone should read. What a tribute to all who serve and all who wait.
It is just fantastic to see a new writer emerge. Mudbound was Pasadena’s One Author One Read book, and now first week of November I believe she’s going to speak, not at Vroman’s, too small but at Cal Tech. Kudos to Hillary Jordan!
The Barbarian Nurseries: A Novel by Héctor Tobar
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Delicious, fantastic, delicate, strong prose, and author nails a view of life from combinations of views. A Mexican immigrant maid and a clueless, but well meaning family, said family totally unaware of the lives around them, or for that matter, each other.
His writing is fantastic. A profound book which needs to be inhaled by all. I inhaled it, yes I did. I am now going to look for Hector Tobar’s other books – Translation Nation and the Tattooed Soldier. Mr. Tobar is a writer for the Los Angeles Times, is a Pulitzer prize willing journalist and a novelist. Writers would “kill” for his phrases – Barbarian Nurseries is a must read!
July 21, 2011
CHPerc prompts
“Today should be my wedding day,” said Annie Mae Clare McDougall Habersham as they moved her out of her trailer park, because newspapers in the back entry way were stacked to the ceiling, and I, her 70ish, low on the ish cousin, shirttail cousin at that, was the only lone female within my clan brave enough to enter the sagging trailer on a hot July day, humidity up to sweat and think “Hell,” and to prepare to breathe through the mouth, avoiding unwarranted odors from the decaying tin can of a trailer, collapsing before my very eyes.
I squeeze sideways, even though people call me skinny, I still have to squeeze sideways to make it through the newspaper filled back entryway, which is book marked on the opposite side by those familiar yellow National Geographic’s that people saved thinking, these will be a treasure later.
That’s what it’s all about, saving, hoarding, hoping something for nothing, later, in the dusty future where a ship will come in, a lottery ticket will pay off, Google will reward the younger in our generation for some unknown embryo of an idea, to be planted in everyone’s need section of their brain. We have all become like raw open throated baby birds I think as my nose begins to reject a sour odor, and I move towards what once was an elegantly curved mahogany and soft light green velvet couch, said couch, looking like a Keinholtz replica, with stuffing coming out of its chest instead of Keinholtz’s original piece which portrayed squirrels nesting on a rotted-out breast, to a horrified crowd at the LA Museum on Mid-Wilshire in the mid 60s.
“Today should be my wedding day,” thrums against my brain, quiet cloud like thoughts, pure fluffy white, floating over chaos of broken lamps, hidden treasures of pearl handle knives and a peer or pier mirror tall, tilted against a wall in the corner, ornate gold frame, from floor to ceiling, this mirror abandoned before it was sold to make a lot of money for Annie’s future abundance.
Annie, Annie, Annie. If I were she, I would have changed my last name. What a curse to be named “Habersham,” so Dickensian in its doom, its curse of the unmarried, a curse which makes no sense in these days at the turn of a new century, the 2000s. We don’t worry about being married, not married. We worry about food, prices, greed, and think of the Wall Street Boys bowling with our brains and hearts, and totally removed from what’s really happening here on Hensworth Street in Lake Forest Park.
We are a long way from the real world, and my purpose here is to make sense and get Annie out of her mess. She doesn’t think mess. Annie’s brain is back in the day in 1938 when her to-be husband was cavorting on the sands of Cape Cod, as he ran along side the ocean. He had just turned his head to shout to Annie, a good looking 20 year old with long chestnut hair, long legs, an arched nose, and the moment was truly golden. Golden except for the fact he didn’t see the giant horseshoe crab in front of him and he fell and its long tail pierced his heart.
He was a bleeder, and he didn’t make it through the night. Annie was devastated and simply not right for the rest of her life.
So here I am now, the only practical one in the family whose tree goes back to Habersham and Dickens, and I am here to muck out, and get her into a rest home, and sooth the community association who is afraid that rats are cavorting all over the trailer park.
I see her, slumped over in an old tattered maroon (they don’t use that color any more) Morris chair which is spotted and its wooden slatted frame is scarred from dog scratches. Her dog Pip sits whimpering at her side. Small, runty dog, small slivered woman, and the day we move this shattered bone and mind of an old lady, unnoticed except for the horror of her hoarding, I think, that’s it. She’s the next subject of my next book.
And then, I pull out my cell phone, dial, “We Clean Up Anything,” pick up Pip, who gives a feeble pug cough, tell Annie, “We’ll have you under 800 thread count sheets by tonight,” and call my husband who will drive her to the hospital, and think, “It’s all grist for the mill.”
Did I mention the LA Times had just printed a photo of an old cane chair on top of a junk pile, with its bottom part threaded out, reminiscent of the Pope’s Chair, verifying he was a guy, as mentioned in that lovely book Pope Joan?
Truth is so delightful when turned into fiction. Writer’s block is over.
Girls with Pink Lipstock
(from Miss Halloran, You Carry the Heavy Stuff, p. 53)
By Susan Zucker – June 6, 2011
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They have their beach towels and bathing suits.
They have money for their lunches.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They wait in front of the house on Clifton Avenue.
It is the most central, after all.
They wait for that one mom to drive them to the beach.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
They have arrived at the beach and the ocean is tame.
It is low tide and they spread their blanket and move as one to the sea.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together.
After getting wet they will dry in the sun.
They will apply their pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, and clump together as one.
Susan Zucker attends my writing workshop, “The Courage to Write,” held Monday nights at Ten Thousand Villages store, a fair trade store and a visual poem in surroundings. Susan is a writer and a friend. She grabbed a line from my latest book, You Carry the Heavy Stuff, opened to an essay on Miss Halloran, and girls coming of age theme and took the line, “Girls with pink lipstick, shocking pink lipstick, clump together,” and wrote her own take – I loved it, still do; hooray Susan.
CHPercolator coffee house for writers at Yahoo has a group of global, local, “hi I’m from New Jersey,” or in the case of this writer, Pasadena, and a good friend, a town nearby, Temple city. It was my week to supply daily prompts. We all respond, well if we have time, are in town, whatever. You catch my drift.
So I think one of the questions I asked taken from a fantastic book Soul Pancake, was “What are the 5 questions you don’t have answers for?” something like that. Are you with me?
These are responses:
1. Where did God come from?
> >
> > > No one knows for sure but I don’t think it was New Jersey. God did create
humans (On the evolution vs. creationism argument I feel that they’re pretty
much cause and effect; in other words, evolution was the mechanism for creation
– I know I’m in for big trouble now) and a land area that humans call New
Jersey, so in an indirect way, God also created New Jersey. Of this much I am
certain.
> >
> > > 2. What was before the universe?
> >
> > > It’s hard to draw a definitive picture, but I think we can safely rule out
pepperoni pizza as being around back then.
> >
> > > 3. Is there life out there?
> >
> > > Oh yes! Just this morning I was driving to Hackensack where I work and
some life form in an SUV was blocking the entrance to a breakfast nook that I
frequent some of the time.
> >
> > > 4. Who built the pyramids and how?
> >
> > > My grandfather, Stasiu, never actually took credit, but I do know that he
made his own wine and according to legend it was so bad that no one would drink
it except him and he drank every last drop. So I reckon that there was nothing
he couldn’t do when he set his mind to it.
> >
> > > 5. Where did the Mayans really go?
> >
> > There were no Mayans. The whole thing, the pyramids, the ancient scrolls
depicting the end of the world in 2012 and even the eyewitness reports of
Spanish invaders was an elaborate hoax. The Mayan urban legend was born from a
cloud of ennui that circled the globe after the explosion of the volcano
Krakatoa in 1883. People just didn’t know what to do with themselves. Lizzy
Borden found herself a pastime but others decided to construct a paper mache
civilization. It was something like the movie, “Blazing Saddles,” where Sheriff
Bart, the Waco Kid and Mongo build a faux “Rock Ridge” in order to lure the bad
guys into a trap. Leonardo da Vinci apparently drew up the plans which later
fell into the hands of Nostradamus and the whole thing just kind of took off by
itself. Another theory is that Lee Harvey Oswald did it.
> >
> > Kathryn, I hope that these insights will be of value to you.
> >
> > — In CHPercolator@yahoogroups.com, ChikPMcGee@ wrote:
> > >
> > > I actually have some free time and I have enjoyed reading all the
submissions even though I haven’t commented on any of them. The prompt that
caught my eye today was the one about 5 questions I hate not having the answered
to. Here’s my list:
> > >
> > > 1. Where did God come from?
> > >
> > > 2. What was before the universe?
> > >
> > > 3. Is there life out there?
> > >
> > > 4. Who built the pyramids and how?
> > >
> > > 5. Where did the Mayans really go?
> > >
> > > As you can see I think too much, LOL.
> > >
> > > Kathryn
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
Mudbound by Hillary Jordan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I just reread it as I suggested our book group do so too. Also one librarian wants me to be part of a discussion (an honor); this is a fantastic book; the themes, the authenticity, her writing is fabulous and I was so deeply immersed in this book; wonderful; i wish Hillary Jordan tremendous sucess!
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Forces of Our Time: The Dynamics of Light and Darkness” border=”0″ src=”http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51SRUk8vHbL._SX106_.jpg” /></a><a href=”Forces” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time”>Forces”>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8098685-forces-of-our-time”>Forces of Our Time: The Dynamics of Light and Darkness</a> by <a href=”Hooper” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2975096.Hooper_C_Dunbar”>Hooper”>http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2975096.Hooper_C_Dunbar”>Hooper C. Dunbar</a><br/>
My rating: <a href=”5″ _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/133887663″>5″>http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/133887663″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
This book is exceedingly profound. It speaks in highly readable and gracious prose, of the condition of the world today, and the dramatic changes taking place. He addresses the visible deterioration in so many fundamental processes and instittions (financial, political and climage change and energy, and social fabric of society. He gives his readers an enlivening clear upsurge in knowledge, reflects concern for human rights and speaks of gtechnologies that bring people together. From the back of the book, “These energies are spiritual in nature and result from Mr. Dunbar’s membership and deep commitment to the Baha’i Faith and its founder, Baha’u’llah (a title meaning the Glory of God). Mr. Dunbar shows how processes creating a new divine civilization have arisen, are arising, and he also speaks of the negative forces which have arisen to resist this divine purpose. He examines the character of the spiritual forces as set out in the writings of the Guardian of the Faith, and the first part of the book considers the terms, ‘force,’ ‘energy’ and ‘power.’ The second part of the book comprises a selection of quotations drawn from the writings of Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Baha’i Cause and many are published within this volume for the first time and arrnage chronologically so readers may consider the ideas in their original context.
<br/>
<br/>5 stars doesn’t do it, but that as high as the rating would go.
<br/><br/>
<a href=”View” _mce_href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View”>http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7840064-mentor” style=”float: left; padding-right: 20px”><img alt=”Mentor” border=”0″ src=”http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1273513481m/7840064.jpg” /></a><a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7840064-mentor”>Mentor</a> by <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/297212.Tom_Grimes”>Tom Grimes</a><br/>
My rating: <a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/121643444″>5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />
Oh Oh, Oh! I liked this book so much! No, make it loved the book. I got a Borders’ gift card and hotfooted down the street. This book called out to me, and the writing is superb. Tom Grimes takes the reader down the path of working in construction, to waiter, to this, to that; and his writing career unfolds. He meets Frank Conroy, and this book is valuable for writing, but also the writing process and the struggle and the joy, and I felt as if I were folded within the words and became one with the page. I couldn’t put it down. Insightful, dear, honest, revealing, educational, terrific.
<br/><br/>
<a href=”http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2785181-esther-bradley-detally”>View all my reviews</a>
Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
The Man From Saigon by Marti Leimbach
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Incredibly well written, gripping, mesmerizing, literary, fantastic; i guess that means I liked the book. Superb writing, difficult subject, and wonderful point of view – woman journalist is protagonist. At any rate a friend in book club recommended it, and we are glad she did. We fell in love with the book!
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Lovely, lovely writing; References Alzheimer’s as “brain plaques and fibrillary tangles,” “strands caught in knots.” Her style is wonderfully literary, yet compelling about sisters, mother, and grandmother’s return to China for a trip; and relationships and lives so differently lived. Philosophical observations keenly observed, choices of women, foward pull and backward pull, one’s place within the generations and the society. Wonderful read.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
A page turner regarding dog and man; the dearness of it, the struggle, and good for me to read of a pit bull in friendly terms. wonderful read!
Wow, what a weekend. Saturday went to a Cluster Reflection Meeting in Altadena, held in the loveliest of homes; very user friendly to large crowds. Great people, great conversation, basically we Baha’is encourage each other to contribute to humanity’s well being; and that plays out into children’s classes, devotionals, etc. We don’t do this to “make Baha’is,” but just to contribute to the ongoing advancement of the society and the individual, which includes us totally.
Devotionals are usually with lots of writings from other Faith Traditions, music, and then conversation about concepts. we had so many diverse points of view last night at a friends and the food then was luscious. different people who didn’t know each other found they had a lot in common. It was sort of a 6 degrees of separation type of thing.
Today we heard Judge Dorothy Nelson come and give a report; she was our delegate to the Baha’i National Convention. again, such an atmosphere of love and knowledge in the room. Wonderful. Also had great book club meeting; we discussed The Man From Saigon and I can’t remember author’s name. The writing was superb! We all brought something to eat, had brunch, tremendous conversation and divergent views about the book. Everyone liked it; but our points of view naturally differ because of our different lifestyles.
I don’t have a lot to say, but think despite all the heaviness in the world, and the utter crippling acts of some, there are many hearts and souls who work for the well-being of humanity, from all ranks, religions, traditions, and this weekend, there was evidence of this. We truly are one! Have a good week everyone!
My friend Pili Pili Saka who is on my blog roll is prolific. There’s a sort of cool breeze to his thoughts, his prose, and I find myself admiring his mind a great deal. He wrote about Salvation, and I had been at a discussion regarding that same term last night; not the literal, cause hackles on the neck arise, type of discussion, and then he discussed north and south, and in this case Africa, calling to my mind the different young authors of incredible talent I have written, one of whom wrote about Biafra – north and south, and then finally the tennis balls Pili Pili speaks of call to mind a piece I wrote after my twin’s passing. So I offer it here:
Lobbing
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
i sorrow for a twinging tooth
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
a back tooth like an old couch waiting for Goodwill
sorrow was two weeks ago standing in front of
my twin’s coffin, she in her blue bridal dress of old
me, alive, sorrowing for the little girl on a tricycle
sorrowing for her life of dripping Rorschach ink
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
sorrow has gone up like a balloon on a helium sortie
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
thwatting away epic events tumbling through and around
the people on the earth’s stage
order, thwats, pops, bops, all metronome-like
in their reassurance, the steadied beat of routine
comfort, sorrow, joy, laughter, anger, all runs together
wimbledon plays, bop, pop, british accents
The women are writing, well and diversely, and we all love those Tuesday afternoons when we gather in the warmth of fellowship and write crazily, spinningly, seriously, and most important, freely.
http://pilipilisakasakadiaries.wordpress.com
read this dear ones and weep – but with stomping feet and yahoos to the sky. this is a fabulous blog. pilipilisakas’s writng is like butter on a hot black skillet. mmmmm hmmmmmm!
okay back to me. I’ts only almost noon and i’m still at the Pewter replying to blogs, email, facebook.
Today, this morning, old shirt, blinking eyes, fingers that run across the keyboard like the sound of French poodles in a hurry clicking their toes towards food bowls, these are my electric hours. Life is electric and i’ll list a few things at the end so you catch my drift. Drift dear reader; drift is important.
Today is exhaustion day big time. Was surprised. Went to cardio guy yesterday; and he’s now Bill’s Cardio guy too; very funny, dry wit, sardonic. While Bill was getting his blood pressure taken (read abnormally high) (read, situational) I was standing in the hallway, and I felt as if I were going to pass out. I never feel that way there. we were more nervous of Bill’s test results than we realized.
He’s got a hardening aortic valve, but doesn’t have to have surgery, like I did and he won’t. I lived and that’s good depending on who is saying it. smile.
They’ll watch him, and give him ultrasound in 6 months.
A friend writes, “Can they soften the valve”?
We both felt as if a steamroller decided not to bury us in mud! Wow.
Big, I guess one could say.
So day in honor of big,I’ll laundry list the “bigs” in my life.
Bill’s heart not too bad or heart valve
Reading pilisaka’s blog
Watching on You Tube _Devotional – Baha’i
Finding out the red light, third one in on the blinking model if you really want to know, is the result of perhaps a patchy connection to be replaced easily by trip to Best or Radio Shack.
Fireside (Baha’i chats) at Nelson’s last night. Steve and Juliana Licata and their two heavenly sons; music, entertainment; incredible talk
Meeting a new person; a muscian who heard of Baha’is on the net and from his spiritual leader who said, “Go.”
My walking an hour a day – El Moleno, a nice hill if you like puffing, but the way back a treat.
Friends, Mizz V helping me become lickietier and splickietier on the net.
Friends, Son, Daughter in Laws, Grandkids
The Women’s Room in Pasadena where homeless women have respite and the writing class I lead on Tuesday afternoons where the moments expand to tears and riotous laughter.
good writing.
Enemies of the People, Kati Marton, a great read (for Pasadena book club)
Waiting to read a wonderful book published in early 1900s on Muhammad, clear, insightful.
Gleanings. Baha’u’llah’s writings at the top. Always.
10 books waiting, some study, some fun, all fascinating.
Physical exhaustion, but a day of forced rest.
all of these are big in my young life, and now if I run into a pug today, walking his or her snorty self, i’ll know it’s a wondrous life.
from John Amir-Abbassi,
September 9, 2006
Gratitude streams forth from hands
Words sprinkled across a page
Love flowing across a bridgeGod and I
Dancing
Side to side
At times close
At times far
But always connectedThrough hands
Outstretched
Beseeching
Needful and IndebtedMy Master, I bow to you
I dance to the song that you compose
I move to the tempo that you orchestrateDo with me what you will
In this dance, I do not lead
Here’s something from Thomas Merton
Identify Me
“If you want to identify me, ask me not where I live, or what I like to eat, or how I comb my hair, but ask me what I am living for, in detail, and ask me what I think is keeping me from living fully for the things I want to live for. Between those two answers you can determine the identity of any person.”
Thomas Merton, from the Man in the Sycamore Tree
