Memoirous

Today, standing at the grill (I work mornings as a breakfast cook, so about 5 a.m.) I had a flash. A memory of someone I love. I say love because even though he is deceased, he isn’t really dead, not really. Sometimes I talk with Fred. In my head, not out loud. Though sometimes I’ve done that while out bicycling. I’ll look around and say, Fred you’d love this. But mostly I flash and think about him. I wonder: are flashes a bit like prayers? My heart reaching out to the universe. Are you there? I miss Fred. I miss talking with Fred. I used to have an office on 8 th floor, down the hall from him. So after working on my writing I’d stop by for a chat, and our conversations covered a multitude of topics, mostly the arts. One blog post I shared years ago had to do with a movie. I tried to tell it to him and he interrupted me, WAIT! I saw that one too!. And, together we finished telling each other the story and which parts we liked the best, and how we related to the main cha

So in about 2 days I leave with my boxed bicycle on an international flight to England, once there I will cycle the length of the island, from top o’Scotland (John of Groates) to Land’s End. JOGLE. Now for the scary part. The last couple weeks leading up to this have been hectic and stressful. I’m not writing for sympathy (I’m probably also suffering from survivor guilt) or to say my circumstances are worse than others. I’m just saying that I really, really need this ride. In January I sat down with myself and did a quick evaluation. What made me happy? Truly happy. Where was my sweet spot? And I wrote down: bicycling. For so many people when they hear what I’m about to embark upon, they laugh and say, that’s not a vacation. The past 12 months have been rough: viz a viz relationships and writing (at the same time my critique group that I relied upon for feedback fell apart). I’ve needed to find the things that bring me back to a center, to a bit of hope. It’s

See blog Anyway here is an update. In May when I was cheated, not given the advertised discount at the register, the manager half-heartedly told me I could come back when stuff was 70% off and ask for a free pair of socks. Okay, like this will never happen. Yesterday I rode past Sports Authority on my bike and saw that, indeed, stuff was down to 80% off. I went in and it was chaos, empty shelves and super long lines, but I found a pair of socks and waited in line and at the register I told the guy my story. I swear he didn’t blink twice. Take ‘em! I had the feeling I could have left with a pair of dumbbells. No one cares. So my faith in humanity is now restored. Now onto news of doping in the world of athletics and the Olympics.

 How many of us have had that feeling, that tickle inside your stomach, that your brakes have failed? Let’s just say as a kid growing up, a lot. I was constantly getting into trouble. Not shoplifting, skipping school, smoking behind the garden shed kind of trouble. More like smoking outside the fireworks factory. I still remember snaking out late at night to go on a motorcycle ride with my friend. He zipped me into a jumpsuit—in case we crashed, he said, I wouldn’t lose the top layer of skin. Good thing, because we came to a sign at the bottom of a steep hill that as we flashed by it—my brain translated the letters: Bridge Out . Go ahead—tell us about the crazy, the craziest of crazy. Flash about the inkling you got before all hell broke loose, before the wheels came off. (The worst part is when your mother/mother/conscience asks: Why? There is no answer.) Right now, write.

Readers of this blog also know that I love (my boy) James Schuyler. He was a master of the Write Right Now. Thus, his National Book Award winner, The Morning of the Poem which is one continuous dream of a morning, of a poem, of life observed. The Award was well-deserved. His work continues to influence writers of today. Today. The world seems scary. There isn’t a lot of solace. So I turn to poetry. Now is the time to immerse ourselves in poetry. To turn away from the world and all it’s turmoil and trauma. I’m not exactly going to put my head in a hole, but rather I want to describe to you another world. One without a ranting and raving orange-haired man. Thank you. The sky eats up the trees The newspaper comes. It has a bellyful of bad news. The sun is not where it was. Nor is the moon. Once so flat, now so round. A man carries papers out of the house. Which makes a small change. I read at night. I take the train and go to the city. Then I come back.

In 2014 I went on a solo trip to Sweden. It didn’t seem like such a big deal to go by myself—more like an adventure. Until the airlines lost my luggage, until I couldn’t explain to the bus driver where I wanted to go, until my credit card stopped working. I could go on and on. Right now I am stressing about my upcoming trip to England, September 1 – 26, where I plan to ride my bike from the top o’Scotland to the bottom of Cornwall, Land’s End. A journey of over 1,000 miles. I can think of an endless stream of things that might go wrong. And, likely will. But as I think back over Sweden and that trip two years ago, I had a fabulous time. The weather was perfect. I managed to meet up with 2 of my friends and have a great time re-connecting. I ate wonderful food, and fell in love with Konditori cozy cafés that sell great pastries and coffee. For the most part people spoke English—why don’t I speak 2 or 3 languages!? And all those problems: the luggage got delivered the

The importance of an epitaph Epitaph a short text honoring a deceased person. Technically it is inscribed on a tombstone or plaque. The essence of writing small. The original 6-word memoir, the ultimate flash. This is an easy task, a flash you can write in your bathing suit sitting on a towel at the beach. Take a second or two to scribble down what you think you might be known for, what you want to leave behind, the last word. Right now write, your own epitaph.

Frank O’Hara, Poet Among Painters, Marjorie Perloff 1998, University of Chicago Press, with a new introduction O’Hara was about intense friendships. Actually he was about many things: art, dance, classical music, travel, gay theater, movies. He was about the exclamation point. It is the singular fingerprint of his work. How many of us grew up, in school being told the exclamation point was to be used rarely, in instances of the extreme. Indeed, I once sneaked a peek (okay, I was spying)at a roommate’s diary, a girl I didn’t like and liked even less when I saw the page covered in exclamation points. She was as shallow as I suspected, is what I told myself. The (exclamation) point is she probably was, exclamation points aside. So I planned to be careful, judicious, barely rising above a whisper. Early Jane Hertenstein work does not display an ounce of exuberance. Then I discovered Frank O’Hara, and the fun began. I could be playful, fey, charming, bantering a

DeKooning’s Bicycle: Artists and Writers in the Hamptons Robert Long, 2005, Farrar, Straus and Giroux Group Shot, John Jonas Gruen (Back row): Robert Rauschenberg, Jasper Johns, Roland Pease (Middle row): Grace Hartigan, Stephen Rivers, Larry Rivers, Herbert Machiz, Tibor de Nagy, John Myers (Front row): Mary Abbott, Sondra Lee, Maxine Groffsky, Jane Freilicher, Joe Hazan Is a fun little read that puts you there—because who can actually afford the Hamptons in the summer?! Maybe it once was in the 1950s when artists and writers were moving there. Larry Rivers: he first thing I did in Southampton, Fairfield accompanying me, was rent from a Mr. Ralph Conklin a two-story eight-room house for $85 a month at 111 Toylsome Lane, down at the end of a long, muddy driveway. Alongside the house, fortunately, was a weathered no-doors, no-windows shed with enough space to carry on my life as an artist. There were trees all around and above the house, and one small lawn boxe

The Woodshop Joan Didion spent the night in the same room as her work when it was almost finished. Don DeLillo kept a picture of Borges close by. Where, and how, do you do your work? CutBank Literary Journal is looking for photos of writers’ workspaces, and some thoughts about their practice. Take a few moments to respond to the following: Where do you do your work? What do you keep on your desk? What's your view like? What do you eat/drink while you work? Do you have any superstitions about your work? Share a recent line/sentence written in this space. Then, along with your responses, send us a well-lit, high-resolution photo of your workspace. [Note: Please keep files smaller than 1MB.] Submissions should also include your name, e-mail address, a brief bio, and a link to your website. Please email your submissions  and use “Woodshop” as your subject. Right now write: a brief flash about your workplace--where you create.

Watching the Olympics last night with a roomful of people (one stops by, then another, then another until we are all talking over the announcers), got me wondering: How has the sport of women’s gymnastics at the Olympics changed through the years? Take a look at this video compiled from the 1936 Olympics. It looks like they’re going in slow motion. They are seen walking on the beam, another move is sitting on it, TOUCHING it with their hands. Virtually everything in the video would be a MAJOR deduction today. The uneven bars—it’s painful to watch, the athlete sort of lowers herself from the top to the lower, then STOPS. None of those two and half double-twist layouts. Truthfully the routines remind me of those videos of seniors doing exercises in their wheelchairs, moves merely to keep their arthritics hands and torso flexible. Fast forward to 2016 Rio. Can you imagine the gymnast of 1936 watching Simone Biles? One: the outfits. The athlete of 1936 is w

Here is a list of places to submit your flashes of nostalgia (gleaned from Cathy's Comps and Calls ) 1st Sep Poetry, fiction and more on the theme of Nostalgia. PAYING http://subterrain.ca/about/35/sub-terrain-writer-s-guidelines Also these: 15th Aug Flash fiction on the theme of triskadekaphobia and/or – philia: a fear of or fondness for the number 13. PAYING  http://www.lvwonline.org/ Who knew!

At this blog I frequently quote from the New York School of Poets (which wasn’t a school at all— see Freeze Frame: How to Write Flash Fiction) . Frank O’Hara was born in 1926 and died July 25, 1966, on Fire Island (NY) from a freakish dune buggy accident. He was a true Millennial. Just fifty years before the technology. If O’Hara were alive today he’d be tweeting and Instagramming, and Tumblr-ing and posting all over Facebook. He’d be one for the Snapchat. Frank O’Hara was a conduit for his friends. He was constantly reaching out to people. It sounds shallow to say he was the life of the party, and truthfully I’ve never read that in print, but he brought people together. He also had his snappish, snippy side where he could cut friends off. He collected people. Bu sending them letters, poems, telegrams. I could easily see him writing for Tin House or Barrelhouse , or a gossip column for AWP. He had a sense of humor and a sardonic wit. A hedonist, maybe. Running head