The Little Engine

Caffeine often subsitutes art

I could be saving money and saving pounds just by watching a few good actors rehearse a show.

Poetry readings do the same.

Thanks for the high.

My grad class ends this Saturday! Yay! I don't start classes again until the Fall....and I'll be one of those annoying busy people, yet I'll still be making time to see a ton of theatre and writing poems like it's my second job. I'm taking three classes. Am I nuts? If I can't get financial aid, commit me, please.

Must finish paper tomorrow. I think I can...I think I can....I think I can....oh little engine is sooooo slow.

My Grandmother is a Painter

My mother, brother and I (and my dad - before my parents divorced about 8 or 9 years ago) would often travel in car to Maryland to visit my grandparents right after Christmas Day - only staying for that inbetween time. We didn't stick around for New Years Eve much. We visited other times, but the holiday season was a big deal.

So, my grandmother has this painting...I'm not sure when she painted it...or when I noticed it. It's a painting of her and my grandfather in a horse drawn sleigh. They are gliding across a snowy winter landscape. She would put it downstairs in her foyer, right around Christmas time....at least I think so. I never noticed it until this one visit, so I assumed she moved it downstairs because it was a seasonal picture. My grandmother has always had her paintings all around her home (and this house is pretty big).

I remember staring at it a few years ago and laughing a little.

My grandfather always struggled with diabetes and my mother would be on his case with that tough love grip. In the painting, she holding the reigns and the most prevalent color in the painting was a deep red. A red blanket covered her and my grandfather while my grandmother held red reigns. I remember asking my grandmother about the painting. I actually told her it was very interesting that she was the one holding on to those reigns. She didn't quite understand. I said something like, "You're the one in control of the relationship". She smirked and nodded and said she had never thought of it that way.

Now my grandmother is holding on tighter than ever before. I think of her a lot lately. See, my grandfather isn't doing so well. A few months ago had cancer - mellanoma (sp??), had it removed, but because he's aged quite a lot in past few years, they decided not to go through with treatment. The cancer spread. My grandfather had a stroke. Two tumors were found in his brain. Only in his brain. One of those tumors caused the stroke. My grandfather can't speak and is often unreactive. He had surgery. It was successful. The tumors were removed and he is cancer-free. Cancer-free and not the same person he was, wants to be, or will ever be again. One moment they think he's coherant, the next they are not sure if there is a sign of Martha's beloved Henry, of my mother's father, or of my grandfather. My mom was speaking to him and she cried. He began to cry to. She thought this was a sign. Is empathy the same as understanding? I started to wonder.

My mom was visiting her parents, taking care of her mom, visiting her father for about two weeks. When my mom left, my grandmother felt very alone. I never realized because she has always seemed so independant, so in control, so strong, that she has never been alone in her whole life. Henry and Martha, my grandparents, have known each other since they were 13 years old. They are best friends - as thick and thin as it seems. They now want to put my grandfather in a nursing home. He's just not recovering at the pace that the doctors anticipated.

"Can you help me figure out what to do by myself?" my grandmother asked my mom over the phone.

"Paint. Take a class." my mom says....then, she had a thought, "I'll be your student. Teach me how to paint this summer." she says.

I could pick up a paintbrush too.

My grandmother uses a lot of watercolors, but I have an oil painting of hers....sometimes it's good to try a new medium.

Cut Flower Series 1

Okay...so I've wanted to write poems or mini-short prose-stories about my dating experiences...I'm not sure if this is technically a poem...because it reads a little like a short short mini story...anyway, it's late and I should be in bed to function for the kiddies tomorrow, BUT you should know...I think this is the beginning of a series of poems about dates and the 20-something dating experience....something like that. Good night. Let me know what you think....I know you will ;) 

 “I’d like To Think Everyone is Worthy, not Always Compatible, But Worthy”, He Said We wore coats and scarves and wooly hats when we met on the corner of 57th and 7th. You took me to your favorite place. You convinced me that a margarita wasn’t a girly drink because we were in a Mexican restaurant. I was just curious. I said I’ve been here before, and you played disappointed. I suppose we both truly value good impressions, but we were both presently distracted by what we were struggling to find. You had said you hated the phone. I understood. You were quiet and breathy when we spoke. You talked about spoiling your dog and your love for fiction. I heard her panting in the background, jealous for our lack of conversation. When our margaritas arrived, I wished I had asked for salt, just to have an excuse to play with the rim of my glass. Instead, I stared at your hair and wondered how much gel you used. You noticed. It’s not over crowded and the conversation is nice. You talk about coming of age, your frat boy days, the band you played in, the overweight ex who once was skinny, and how you moved to a foreign country to teach children. You had cut your hair, got rid of your piercings and changed your life. You did most of the talking. I excuse myself to the bathroom - one room in a small hallway between the kitchen and the dining area. I wait for the door to unlock. I peek at you sitting and waiting, not even taking out your cell phone – not even to pretend to check a message that isn’t really there. Something I would have done. I return. We talk, you talk some more. It’s much too cold to think of leaving. So he said, he didn’t want this night to end... We shivered our way to a Starbucks. He bought me chai. He showed off his iPod. We listened to music. Most of it I hated or didn't understand, but I nodded and smiled. He hugged me on the subway platform. I kissed him lightly on the cheek. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He told me later he wished he had kissed me like he wanted to. Next time, he said. “Next time I’ll try that kissing thing”. He made me smile even though next time never came...