Yes, let's.

Frog must-needs jump out of throat,

floss, drink more tea, throw even more t-shirts very far away,

photograph my horses, (speaking of...) trim Buttercups mane, trim my mane,

find the perfect light-weight-yet-alpine-worthy turtleneck-that doesn't choke, or itch, or shrink,

buy walnuts, practice map reading, pack my harmonica, learn to play harmonica,

learn to tie proper nautical knots, bring snorkle (just in case),

find a ride to JFK, learn contentment, call Grandma...

001

My niece called me long distance.

"this morning, and after, and after,

I took a bath, and after, and after,

and she was sitting in the front, and I was sitting in the back, and also, and after.

It's not that long really, until you come here, you know.."

And if I weren't already half out the door, now I'm really dreaming.

Merry Morning

Age well

There is a lot of grace to be learned from older women. The particular way they spoon sugar into their morning cup, the gentle grip of their palms on the railing as they take their time to descend the stair, the perfect, bold jewelry that takes them from breakfast through bedtime. It's been a treat to have my Grandma in town, to find her throughout the house reading Verne and mystery novels, to shadow her as she sets the table for lunch, collar firmly pressed, knives facing in. Her annual visits always inspire better posture and made-beds, this year is no different. I still muss her hair because I love to see her giggle and push away from me, but the last year has made a fine woman even more delicate, pearl studs and all.

Painted chandelier, porcelain Bulldog, wicker rocker near the fire;

My bedroom breathes long, sighing exhales of me. Few other spaces are as sacred and intimate as a bedroom, mine: a perfect recluse for an over-extended cancerian. I am grateful for the weekend's song, calling me into this space, to stay put, to listen. A pastel bazaar, warmly lit and blanket clad for a restless, dreaming crab.

In the mood to watch this and drink this . Rain on, Friday.

An exercise

It is time to purge.

Black garbage bags, one by, to be filled with reminders, dinosaurs from the tee shirt epoch and a century of otr dresses with a densely printed floral motif.

Match boxes, toe-torn socks, photographs, the books on my shelf that I have and will never read, souvenirs, scraps of paper with impressive, pungent one-line wisdoms, my training bras: all scooped up, however gracefully and put into the powdered black bag.

An exercise.

Zookeeper, Zookeeper!!

Meet my beautiful family.

Yaakov

Miriam

Jonathan

A nephew, niece and brother. All: pure gold.

Text for Nothing

Stop motion film adaptation of Samuel Beckett's Text for Nothing

featuring: Harry White and

"Goodbye Storyteller (for Fred Myrow)"

written and performed by Brad Mehldau on Live in Marciac