Parsha Pinchas

              “The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters
          is just... transfer their
          father’s share to them.”
                 Numbers 27:7


Daughters of Zelophehad

did it anger you
to ask
for the same rights
a son earned
simply by being male born
did you sit together and wonder what
words to use to claim your father’s share

you asked that your father’s name not be lost
what is your mother’s name
you, the daughters of Zelophedad
Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, Tirzah

The Skeptic

how devastating to be lost
in a place of all consuming doubt
how gray the world must appear
to those who see the world as a place
of shifting sand, how all consuming
to view shadows in place of substance
to refuse to see the rainbow because of the rains
to hear the thunder and not listen for the rustle of grass
to be pricked by the thorn and ignore the bloom
to ignore the daybreak
to walk past the moments of grace

Hot Weather Survival

a plot driven book
a mystery set in a new locale
something philosophical
a book lifting up the spirit
a pad of paper and an ink pen
a never ending glass of ice water
comfortable chairs at the library
walking at 6:45 am
frozen yogurt
and easy dinners
egg sandwiches at local cafes
crossword puzzles
and if it stays hot
with dew points pointing into
oppressive territory
reminding myself of winter

Parsha Balaq

        How goodly are your tents, O Jacob,
        your dwelling places, O Israel!
        Like streams that flow...
               Numbers 24:5-6


The  Lord placed these words--
a  blessing, an ideal vision
 in Balaam's mouth
This is a holy sacred place

But reality lures the people
enticing them to follow idols

Between the two stories,
a space--the crack, the chaos
between possibility
and the shoals of the real world

Red Sox Lose Three Straight

I'm worried about my team-
they falter when you expect
them to soar, to push their way
into first place, to look behind
and see everyone else running
just to keep pace, yes I worry
that we'll settle for almost

The Real Feel is...

it isn't just the temperature
that makes me so hot
it's seeing the real feel
for each hour, the increase
in numbers that adds
to my discomfort
yet i can't tune out that number

Tonight I ate Corn on the Cob

we passed miles of corn fields
with stalks so high
they brushed against the clouds  
tassels that followed the wind  
and leaves holding tight
to husks of corn
when the wind blew the fields
swayed, undulated, became a sea
moving across the landscape

A Dialogue

she talked about the weather how it rained when she hiked down to a waterfall and she took refuge under an overhanging rock which reminded him of how drenched, " like a wet cat," he said when telling her of standing on the deck of a boat surrounded by swells and high waves that washed right over the deck which took her back to the waves that smote the European bound Greek vessel and sent her to her cabin unable to eat anything for two days and then only toast although she did go outside when it calmed down and enjoy rusk biscuit rounds

he said, "i only like crackers that complement cheese and rusk reminds me of something you'd give a teething baby or someone who needs to gum their food."

"you're ageist she said." but he warmed to the idea of cheese and crackers and shared with her his favorite cheese-- gourmandise with kirsch with a Raincoast Crisp cracker, " you're also a snob," she said before telling him of her favorite snack of chips and hummus, "ordinary" he said

she told him that she always wanted to be extraordinary and do something that was special, but she couldn't pinpoint her particular skill, she described herself as plebeian, a conformist who wished to be someone who wasn't afraid of taking up unpopular causes, a banner carrier instead of someone who walked behind the leaders which prompted him to tell her about the time in high school he led a revolt against the cafeteria food

of course that led her wondering if there would be a revolt by the people if the person they didn't want to win won the election which led him to pontificate on the democratic system being strong enough to contain people and she countered with the ugly mood in the country

he recounted other times in the history of the country when divisive forces held sway yet the country didn't break apart despite bending seriously to one pole and she said that the pulse of the people frightened her

and he said the only thing that really frightened him was being in a cave crawling on his stomach and believing himself to be lost and she countered with a story of hitchhiking and a man taking her and her friend Mona away from where he said he was going, stopping, opening the door and saying " i have a daughter and i wouldn't want her hitchhiking. now either get out and start walking or get back in and I'll take you where you want to go." and she continued we got back in and he drove us to a bus stop

people, he said, are scary and he looked at his watch--she noted that it was late and she needed to get going so she said goodbye and left to walk home and feed her two cats while he opened up his daily diary and wrote about his day

jogged four miles in the a.m., my new running shoes chaffed my heel a bit, went to the library and picked up three books, read a mystery for an hour--i think i know who killed the train conductor, ate a non-fat plain Greek yogurt followed by a Cortland sliced  apple, saw a new exhibit of drawings at the Curbside Gallery, perhaps  I'll enter their next show, met daphne at the juice bar, had pomegranate juice, she drank kale juice... good conversation

Connections

The author, Robert Benson, in his book about writing, quoted from Doris Grumbach's book Fifty Days of Solitude.

I went to the library and borrowed Grumbach's book--not because I imagined myself spending days in solitude, but because I loved her book The Ladies-a lesbian tale of a long term relationship.

Years ago I copied down this line from the book, "We'll live together as married persons do. We'll live and love as they do. Love has no sex, my dearest...You belong to me, I am yours."

In the mid- eighties we visited Wayward Books, a bookstore her partner Sybil Pike opened up in Sargentville, Maine.  Sybil  busy with a customer who lived in Maine and collected semi-rare books, informed us that Doris was away.

Odd about connections. Memories unlocked. New paths.

On Writing a Book

It's your story to tell, but you don't know where to start. It's fiction with roots in lives you know, but where to begin. You need to keep moving back in time until the story has a natural trajectory.  Then you unravel the words, like a skein of yarn, pushing to understand the way each character moves forward. But plot doesn't move in a straight line-- it stutters, stops, proceeds with caution, then runs ahead. Taking command. Shouting for the writer to follow.

Agreeing to follow is a risk.

One Sentence

Parsha Chukat

        Then came the children of Israel, 
        even the whole congregation, into the desert of Zin
         ...and the people abode in Kadesh; 
         and Miriam died there and was buried there.
                       Numbers 20:1

One sentence, "and Miriam died there
and was buried there"--

This was Miriam who saved Moses
Miriam who led the people with song,
who sang of God's wonders
who sang and danced with joy
as the people left the land of bondage

No one mourned

Just one sentence
--and was buried there
No one mourned

The people complained about their thirst
and forgot Miriam

May I Disagree

This is a most uncivil time. Why don't we hand out boxing gloves along with punching bags. I recently made an innocuous comment about how I thought that abstaining from voting for a candidate essentially meant handing a vote to the competing candidate.

One person responded to me with a three hundred word diatribe. If you answer the words can go on and on.

I wonder how many people develop a bad case of indigestion from reading too many comments? It's best to--either not respond or to abstain from social media--until the election is over.

Why not use this time to read Proust or finally read Ulysses in its entirety.

Maybe it's Only a Dream

It happened because I started to fall asleep. My finger, poised over the delete arrow--descended. When I opened my eyes- mere seconds-- everything written was gone. Letter by letter, word for word, sentence by sentence-- all gone into that space highway in the sky.

Perhaps it's just as well. I had three long and convoluted paragraphs complaining about the demonizing of Hillary Clinton, the negativity, and the hate that is brandished around like a saber cutting down whatever is in its path.

Perhaps it's best to read a mystery--Then do everything possible to make sure that hate and ignorance and bigotry aren't our marching robots, our banner.

The Hot Summer

It's hot, sticky, close
and I  monitor
the thermometer plastered
on the glass door
I wait for the red mark
to descend
I check the extended
forecast, read the real feel
numbers and the dew point
It's not over according to the pundits
Next week more sultry weather
with dew points in the oppressive range.

Let Me Hear the Word

words spin
as I observe
the minister acting
out scripture
I yearn
for plain words

At 8:32

Our internet remained mute. Not responsive. On vacation, away. Not on.

A Comcast representative said, "We're experiencing some difficulty in your area. You'll have service at 8:32." I do like certainty, specifics, and blessed assurance.

What was missed? Checking out Facebook and finding out that ten people shared articles, an equal number posted photographs taken on vacation, a few posted photos of children or grandchildren doing adorable things . Let me not forget the posted recipes. And then there are the artful photos, sketches from my online group,and complaints about the heat, global warming, and the lack of water.

I was blissfully unaware of any horrendous events, politics, opinion pieces, negativity, and long term weather forecasts.

I didn't break out into a feverish sweat, feel disconnected, or pine for the clutter of Facebook, of Instagram, of What's App. It will all come back at 8:32-- along with its distractions and time eaters. It will come unannounced and demand my time--

Parsha Korach

         "You have gone too far! All
          the congregation are holy,
          every one of them, and the
          Lord is among them."
                       Numbers 16:3

A rebellion against Moses,
against Aaron, against
the status quo. Korah
took on Moses with angry
words, without listening,
with his ego, with his temper
This was not a dialogue.

Nice, France

          A white truck plowed into a crowd
          celebrating Bastille Day in Nice, France
          Not content with the truck's carnage
          a gunman splayed fifty shots into the scene

It only took twenty-one minutes
for the news bulletin to appear,
twenty-one minutes for cell phone
videos to show-up on my screen
It probably took less than twenty-one
minutes, but that's when I looked
at my screen, that's when I said--
no, not again, no, these people
didn't do anything-- they loved,
people loved them--they dreamt

Eighty-four  died, more wounded
Our news stations will send people
to cover the story, we'll offer our prayers
we'll tighten security, our government will
offer condolences, we'll fly the flag at half- mast
in solidarity-- we've done this before, we know the script

There aren't enough tears or words
to offer condolences, to sooth
the families, to fill the blanks
of lives cut short, of dreams
unfulfilled, of words left
unsaid, of lives cut
short by hate

On a Hot Summer Day

When we arrived at the seventh hole and the temperature was in the high eighties and the humidity kept climbing my golf club grew heavier. Instead of a jaunty walk I plodded along. The golf ball's dimensions changed. My hat felt like an encumbrance-- a wet band around my head.

When I hit the ball instead of following a flight pattern, I watched it dribble onto the fairway. Ungainly.

The sun was in relentless pursuit. My balls never landed in the shade-- instead they sought bright sunlit patches of green. Drawn to my ball I became a reluctant follower.

By the ninth hole my water was tepid and my heel chafed against my golf shoe. My glove adhered to my left hand as if permanently affixed.

Such are the toils and travails of a high handicapper in golf.

The Third Man. 1949

Espionage
Noir lighting

Post-war Vienna
shot in black and white
with Dutch angles, shadows
superimposed on other shadows
against a backdrop of haunting
melodies strummed on a zither

Expressionism

Please Pick Up Your Phone

 Check your phone before saying hello

Do you recognize the name or number

showing up as a digital footprint 

Don't say hello to strangers, to folks

asking for money, or to people you 

don't want to speak to

Make believe you're  not home--

on vacation, unavailable, let them

leave a message, the reason for a call

We all do it, we screen out people

 

Ever Notice How We're Riding a Carousel

ever notice how one news story

pushes another story away

as if we can only carry

one tragedy at a time

like our hands so full

so burdened we move 

on and hope that

another shooting doesn't

happen while the ink is still wet

This Week

not enough tears
nor enough sighs, nor enough
saying we need to do better
if we don't look in the mirror
and count the times we didn't
speak up, the times we walked
away, the times we let things
go, or thought that liberal words
and church prayers and reading
books about oppression, or signing
petitions was enough, well it isn't
enough as long as we close our
doors, live comfortably, enjoy
what we see advertised, eat and dine
where we want on what we want,
graduate from good schools with
up to date books, keep our children
occupied with music classes, athletic
camps, dance, art, and whatever else
they want, send them out to play
without thinking they may not come home
We need to do more than listen
to the television and wonder why
black folks get killed for not looking
like white folks and shake our heads
when some folks just go shooting
at the police--we need to do more
This is our problem, our failure
and we can't wait until the furor
burns itself out and go on as usual
Prayer always needs feet..

In the Not So Real World

Write a story and control the script
Decide on the plot and move along
with enough twists and conflicts
to keep them turning the page
I know sometimes a character moves
and takes off on another track
but you hold the reins and the universe
follows your words, buckles under
to your revisions, your ending

On a Hot Day

I threaded my skate key on a shoelace and wore it around my neck. Whenever I put on my metal skates, tightened the clamps that attached to my tie shoes, and buckled the straps, I felt like flying. I wore sidewalk skates with ball bearing wheels that screeched across cement.

        I'm not allowed to skate in the street, nor cross streets. We head toward the  Grand Concourse, pass two long alleyways, and my doctor's building. At the place where the street turns, we turn and head back down the block.
         The street slopes and after pushing off, I gain speed. Buildings blur and the   sound of my skates muffles my voice. I'm not brave enough to turn the corner and skate down the hill to the Jerome overhead subway.

Skating the three long blocks down to the overhead subway conveyed upon all successful skaters a seal of respect. No one in elementary school attempted those hills-- which we compared to the roller coaster at Coney Island. After a boy I didn't know broke both arms and one leg the rite of passage changed to an alleyway.

     

Hot and Humid

When the heat creeps up on you and you think that your knees will buckle if you stand for another minute, when it takes hours for you to rejuvenate, when you select a long narrative driven book, when you pine for a cool spot in the shade, when all you think about is an ice decaf, when you want to run under the sprinkler until drenched, perhaps you're getting older.

I remember hiking in 94 degree temperature-- my mantra, " I love to feel the sweat trickling down my back." I remember when I only read esoteric books during the summer. I recall sitting outside a coffee house on ninety-five degree days and writing. I recall thinking it a badge of honor to rarely turn on the air conditioner.

Perhaps I'm getting soft. Perhaps I'm a victim of climate change. Perhaps I'm admitting vulnerability in the face of hot and humid days.                                    

My List Grows

I've discovered a treasure for book lovers-- A Reader's Book of Days. Each day brings more trivia-- some gossip and some stories that end up in biographies. At the beginning of each month Tom Nisslet, the author, suggests books for reading during the month.

Crime and Punishment seems too heavy for summer reading, but The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard, sounds fascinating. It's about two intrepid scientists who set out on a scientific expedition "across the Ross Ice Shelf in the darkness of the Antarctic July."

Five more books are suggested and I'm set on finding one of the books in a local library.

And I found out that on this very day in 1925 Edith Wharton  had tea with F.Scott Fitzgerald who was thirty-four years her junior and "most likely was drunk."

Parsha Shelach

              So they brought to the Israelites
              an unfavorable report of the land
               that they had spied out.
                       Numbers 13:32

And the Israelites wanted
to stay just where they were--
even meandering held comfort
They knew the rhythms of their
comings and goings
To leave, to trust, to venture
beyond, might mean places
that chafed, discomfort,
a new set of risks

We, too, avoid taking chances
afraid of a misstep
and skittish about success

Coming Home

Everything is put away

The wash waits for tomorrow 

I'm not ready to replace the aroma

of lobster or wash away the sound of the 

ocean breathing embedded in my clothes

The rhythm, the sibilant rush of waves 

clings to me and I'm unwilling to let it fade

Packing, Unpacking, and Packing Again

Why is it that when packing to return home the space in the car shrinks? Nothing fits compactly and bags of dirty wash take up too much space. The golf bags refuse to accept their allotted  space. And the pillows will never squash down enough to allow the driver to see beyond a cooler and a large bag of encapsulated goose down feathers.

Once again I remind myself of all the superfluous items I packed, didn't use, and will take back home. Unfortunately my resolve melts when packing.

As I look around the room I'm discouraged. Too many uncategorized items hang about. Where will they go? I have a twenty-five year old rucksack. I'll fill it with all the odds and ends. Is it worth taking home all those pamphlets I've collected?

On the positive side. I will not be taking home two books I read. I'll leave them here. One a well written espionage book by Allen Furst, the other an absurd mystery by Preston & Childs. The mystery requires nothing save the capacity to turn the pages. It is a perfect rock sitting book. Every summer I read one in their series. Everyone needs a goal. Someday I shall complete the series. The question lingers-- is that an accomplishment?

Now I must shower, dry the plastic shower cap, dry the shower flip tops, and add more items to the dirty wash. And yes it's all worth it.

I Remember

narratives can open, expand to include
possibilities and probabilities,
changed endings and rewritings
until the last sentence