what is this thing, this ego, this wanting to be seen, this never-ending hunger to be heard? The moments when I am happiest are when this is
not nagging at me, when it is quiet, when it stops, and the fog clears and all around is pulsing with life. Then I see you and the soft snow falling and breath and life moving.
what is this thing, this ego, this wanting to be seen, this never-ending hunger to be heard? The moments when I am happiest are when this is not nagging at me, when it is quiet, when it stops, and the fog clears and all around is pulsing with life. Then I see you and the soft snow falling and breath and life moving.


Now after two soft boiled eggs and a slice of rye toast with a espresso.  …the snow is still falling, I see it twice, through the glass door at the front of the house and thru the back of the house reflected in a small mirror thru the dreamcatcher..  The concern about the ego has vanished for a while…Does this mean it has taken over or has it been fed and slithered back into it’s cozy cave? I notice that when I try to write in this blog, or anywhere with the idea of writing it down, things get held backand the writing is clumsy.   I think I can only write when I forget that writing is what I am trying to do.  Gotta just do it..let it happen, allow the words to form into the feelings that are within and wanting to be seen.  Sunday morning..


My grandfather, Louie, had long ear lobes
Lohan ears I would see later in my life
not a tall man his oval head shaved
good for circulation he would say
a vest covered with a second vest
his clear face with a deeply creviced chin.
from the Friday evening subway ride
we walk along uneven smooth grey slate sidewalks
to what was Ida and his apartment in Williamsburg
where today an elevated highway goes through
the narrow kitchen window
soft worn fabric pads on wood straight back chairs
the oil clothed kitchen table wedged against one wall
worn cracked pattern uneven linoleum creaking
as aunt Ida, wearing slippers shuffles back and forth.
The smell of chicken soup fills the small apartment
as it simmers uncovered on the old gas stove.
The porcelain sink drain board holding soup bowls
carrots floating along with small circles of fat.
My mother in a stylish grey wool pin-stripe suit
cigarette balanced between her manicured fingers
one leg crossed its grey suede pump pointing
toward the stove and in Aunt Ida’s path.
She is telling some story about something
I am not listening until he stops her mid sentence
asks her to repeat, spell an unknown word
taking a pen from his inside vest pocket
wetting it on his tongue before writing
this magic new word in the corner of the
folded Jewish Daily Forward
his finger running across his lower lip,
chin pointing up eyes closed for a few
quiet seconds all stands still
then he uses his new word in a sentence.

Circus at Madison Square Gardens:

Entering the huge doors,
holding his hand tight in fear of being trampled
smells of sawdust and animals filled my head
plastic cupie dolls covered with glitter
dangling from sticks along with
wooden painted snakes winding around
wild coloured balloons
paper bags with peanuts, cracker jacks and cotton candy.
we walked with crowds of people down a wide staircase
smells getting stronger saw dust thicker under my Mary Janes
we finally stepped into a huge crowded space
thick ropes separating us from elephants
swaying huge trunks up in the air and down again
not able to see what everyone was looking at
he squeezed us to the front
I looked up at a part man part woman,
right down the middle half and half
then a bearded woman
another woman in silky balloon pants and a fancy brassiere
standing near a big opened wooden trunk the mirrored lid
reflecting a big slithering snake
she picked up and draped around her naked waist.

then a man with sticks that he lit with fire
waved around and almost swallowed before
taking up a sword and waving it around
I hid my face in my grandfather’s arm
no, no, look it is good for you to see
looking up at his face, deep lines in his forehead, grey stubble,
I wondered if he really did get such long ear lobes
by lifting weights from them when he was in the circus
the fat lady oozy with red lips
flesh tumbling over the arm of her big chair
midgets wearing hula skirts dancing and playing ukulele
the tallest man in the world a giant
thick black hair and deep-set eyes
spinning a little top onto a long string
standing behind what looked like a cage
leaning on it with his hands to pull himself up
he looked like he hurt I started to cry
I was tired glittering pink woman on swaying trapeze,
hanging by teeth
with arched backs, a foot pointed
meeting a line with sparkling curly hair
all glittery lights flashing over outstretched arms
along the edge of the audience like so many
Christmas decorations
constant movement and noise.
Lions in one ring, jumping through hoops
loud music, and drums
Lights flashing and confetti everywhere
clowns with huge shoes and red noses,
puffy hair and white faces,
one clown alone, sad sweeping the spotlight
until he swept it into a dustpan
then into a bag and it was dark
for a bout a second
Elephants sparkling women riding on them
a little boy dressed like a cartoon stood
playing a piano on turning disc round and round
I didn’t know where the lions went
I didn’t know how the elephants got there
did they walk up the same staircase as we did?
How did they get all this into the middle of the city?
and the show had not yet begun. (more…)

thoughts surfacing

It is just a country?
it is just a chance of birth
somewhere on this planet.
Always been grateful of
the time and place..did not know
any other..
Other times or places felt
full of dangers
We are used to what we live in.
leaving the land of my birth
there is not a connection of place
did my ancestors experience this?
An underlying taste of what is
that place…the red white and blue
the drum beats in assembly
the songs embossed in my mind
the not seeing of other lands
Is it a form of prejudice?
My way or the highway?
Do they really believe they are better?
It is so temporary
so not a part of being here
These differences transparent
the inner light of possibilities
is the only true connection
to all…
thoughts surfacing March 2008

second post

After several months of not being brave enough to post what I just posted…I spent the morning looking through boxes of writing…so far only read the typed pages..there are many books full of handwritten things…I have decided to write this blog which will be the only way I will ever get to put in writing all my various writings so that anyone can read them…At the moment they are not in any orderand I may keep it that way….some were written when I was in a writing group from about 1994..some just written when the thoughts came…Some have no dates so I have no idea when theya re from….and I am not even sure how to put this blog anywhere where it will be seen..Will try..

Some are fantasy some are from my childhood..

1994 Voyage Once upon a time there was a little girl.  She sat inside herself and looked out.  It was as if she were a ship on an ocean voyage.  Her eyes peering out the port holes.  Her ship being carried in different directions, through tumultuous storms and quiet calms of stillness.  She never knew what would be next.  Something inside wished that someday she might have some say as to the direction the voyage might take.  In the meantime, since she was so young and small and her voice so far away down inside,m so afraid to say NO! or I WANT! or I NEED! OR EVEN; Please help me!

She loved swings, and would swing as high as she could and would stretch her arms and her back straight and let her head fall way back watching as the world moved upside down and made her feel dizzy and wonderful feeling.

Standing on line in the school yard at PS.91, waiting for the bell to ring, she and her friend Angelina both examining their bitten fingernails.  Angelina bit hers even more and said that her aunt told her that under the nails was a poison and if you bit too close it could kill you.  She looked at Angelina telling her this story, she looked from inside peering out her port holes, and thought. that was stupid because if it were true I would be dead. Just another adult lie to get her to stop biting her nails, anyway why would my body be poison that could kill me?  Does Angelina really believe her aunt? Not knowing what to say she made a funny smile and looked up at the sky.  Slowly her eyes moved from the ground to the building, up up and over the brick wall, up the three stories of long windows up up up her gaze travelling toward the edge of the roof.  The dark brick building against the bright sky.  The sky so blue with big white clouds.  The clouds were moving fast, and suddenly she could feel the earth moving.  She was on a planet, and it was turning, she could feel the edge of the building moving towards her., she kept her gaze and stood steady using the gravity to keep her in place.  Heart beating wildly in her chest, she knew now a miracle had happened.  The bell rang, everyone filed into the opened door.  Keeping this secret for herself, for later, for when people would understand.  So many years to go, so much time in this place.  She watched in school, she looked out from inside, never wanting to participate.  It all looked so fake.  They learned something, read something, figured something out, took a test but never understood what it was for.  She was sure she could not do it, and was not sure she wanted to.  Carried along thinking and drawing and making things.  She had friends but still kept inside looking out.  Distant from their reality. Why? Why do they do things that way? Do you have to? Is there a rule? Who made the rules?

Turning into a rebellious teenager.’I can wear what I want to’ were her words to her mother, ‘who said I can’t wear jeans into Manhattan?” I can wear what I want anywhere anytime.” God never said I had to dress up to impress someone else! ‘ Her voice was waking up, the voyage maybe becoming her own. But the pain, her mother acted like she would die everytime she found something that felt like it could be hers. LEAVE ME ALONE was her cry.as her eyes cried hot tears and could did not want to look out anymore.  The voyage had been long, she is not a little girl anymore. She goes on little voyages, slowly looks out the port holes through a camera. It can be wonderful s and allows her to be still inside.  In a place where she can feel the miracle of the world turning.  So the life voyage, the external physical voyage that she believed she had some say in, was still a ship at sea with no captain, no chart, no knowledge of the stars to guide her.  The wind blowing from every direction brought a possibility for an inner voyage.  It could have taken any direction but somehow even with the creative energy it always had its feet on the ground with the help of grade three in the school yard waiting for the bell to ring. It was not that she wanted to be alone it is that she is alone, and it has taken a lifetime to see that reality.  To see that she needs others to learn how to be here alive now in whatever direction the voyage takes on.

to begin

I began writing this blog two days ago, while sick in bed with a  never ending cough. I really did not and do not know where to begin.  I have written many things for myself over the years:
The first things I wrote were when I was a teenager…small poems on small cards, full of the pain of the tortures of falling in love with the wrong people. Then I began writing some macabre type stories, murders hidden in unused subway stations, and strange cat stories mostly influenced by Poe and listening to a mid night radio show (the radio under my pillow) called a Voice in the Night. I remember the readers name being Sidney Gross or Grass, there were sound effects along with the stories, from both Poe and Guy de Maupassant..  I was also a Vampire by the time I was 16 or so.  That is I dressed in black, had a lavender colour pressed powder make up made up for me at Charles of the Ritz dyed my hair jet black, no lipstick but lots of eye makeup…I used to tell people I was from Transylvania and absolutely loved Halloween when I flew around the building we lived in opened the big glass and caste iron front doors to let kids come in for trick or treat…the grand lobby with its black and white marble and terrazzo brass inlaid  floors, old magic carpets under two huge marble topped tables one on each side of the lobby mirroring each other and the black marble staircases with always glowing brass banisters that led up to the elevators.  The perfect mid-evil lobby for a young Vampire to hang out in.

But I am wondering off..and need a focus to write this..Should it be about my life? or ideas? philosophies? life’s work? dreams?  I think all of these encompass my life but who would want to read about this life?  The bigger question is why?  Why do I even want to write about it. I lived it and am still living it.  We each have our own lives, and I guess wanting other to know more about us is an ego driven desire, or an explanation for how come I am who I am now? I don’t know if I even have the courage to allow anyone to read this.  What am I afraid of? Jump in…I should just jump into that turning rope,
and keep my feet moving, jump in, jump in…don’t even edit this one just do it! 2014