So glad...

[izeveryboyin]

That Doreen took me seriously and changed the name of the fireplace. I haven't been on the sight for a bit and just noticed the name change. The highlight of my night, for sure. Thanks D!

--k

[jimboloco]

painting by numbers again

[jimboloco]

glad I am finally growing up

[stilltrucking]

glad I fanally realized it is too late for me.
I am growing down


I can't stop believing it will be okay
One day
but I think this is as good as it is going to get for me
and it ain bad.
so far.
I shold be looking farther down the road than next month
next year
but that is as far as I can see. Just from here to there.

from now to later
Good thing I never had kids.
they probably would have gone barefoot and hungry.

I can't remember your name izzy, I just heard a bob marley song called Kayla, I used to think that was your name. I know your last name is Scott, but I thought I called you Kayla once by mistake and you said you hated that name. Kyla?

oh well
I was eating a baby midget gerkin sweet pickle a couple of weeks ago. I have been buying this brand for years but I never noticed before that there was a picture of a stork on the lid, he was holding a bowl of sweet pickles in one wing and tossing them into his beak with the other wing, and the slogon "cravings satisfied here" was written arond the rim.

keep on writing
please

[jimboloco]

kayla is all grown up now, a mommy,
sorry i tried to seduce her a couple of years ago
it's true, when she said let's get it on,
now I know, like jamming that's all,
and am greatful she didn't reject me after the fact
in fact I learned that I don't like going there anyhow
my filial relationships are supreme
as are my congenial ones
and want Izzy to know that I truly respect her,
she was my only cyber-temptation
and I got over that
so don't want anything like that anymore
except as kidding only
like at work
we tease a lot
the old ladies I work with four of them were taunting me to go with them into an empty room
so I said, "wait. let me go get my pills!"
good for a laugh.

you are pregnant with mirth, amigo texican

[jimboloco]

what was portnoy's complaint anywhoo

[stilltrucking]

good point

[jimboloco]

what?
enough!

[stilltrucking]

Never enough Phillip Roth

The Plot Against America: A Novel: Books: Philip Roth by Philip Roth.
www.amazon.com/Plot-Against-America-Novel/dp/0618509283 - 172k -

[stilltrucking]

or this one

Roth Returns with Life and Death of 'Everyman'

Everyman, the latest novel from author Philip Roth, is a story about aging and illness. It chronicles a man's life -- through his sicknesses and, ultimately, his death. But as Roth tells Robert Siegel, it's also a book about a man trying very hard to stay alive. Its protagonist is a New York ad man, whose ill health and disastrous marriages fill him with regret at the twilight of his life.

The Pulitzer-winning author discusses Everyman, which he describes as a "medical biography," offers his own thoughts on mortality and talks about the writing process.

Excerpt: 'Everyman'
by Philip Roth




Around the grave in the rundown cemetery were a few of his former advertising colleagues from New York, who recalled his energy and originality and told his daughter, Nancy, what a pleasure it had been to work with him. There were also people who'd driven up from Starfish Beach, the residential retirement village at the Jersey Shore where he'd been living since Thanksgiving of 2001 — the elderly to whom only recently he'd been giving art classes. And there were his two sons, Randy and Lonny, middle-aged men from his turbulent first marriage, very much their mother's children, who as a consequence knew little of him that was praiseworthy and much that was beastly and who were present out of duty and nothing more. His older brother, Howie, and his sister-in-law were there, having flown in from California the night before, and there was one of his three ex-wives, the middle one, Nancy's mother, Phoebe, a tall, very thin white-haired woman whose right arm hung limply at her side. When asked by Nancy if she wanted to say anything, Phoebe shyly shook her head but then went ahead to speak in a soft voice, her speech faintly slurred. "It's just so hard to believe. I keep thinking of him swimming the bay — that's all. I just keep seeing him swimming the bay." And then Nancy, who had made her father's funeral arrangements and placed the phone calls to those who'd showed up so that the mourners wouldn't consist of just her mother, herself, and his brother and sister-in-law. There was only one person whose presence hadn't to do with having been invited, a heavyset woman with a pleasant round face and dyed red hair who had simply appeared at the cemetery and introduced herself as Maureen, the private duty nurse who had looked after him following his heart surgery years back. Howie remembered her and went up to kiss her cheek.

Nancy told everyone, "I can begin by saying something to you about this cemetery, because I've discovered that my father's grandfather, my great-grandfather, is not only buried in the original few acres alongside my great-grandmother but was one of its founders in 1888. The association that first financed and erected the cemetery was composed of the burial societies of Jewish benevolent organizations and congregations scattered across Union and Essex counties. My great-grandfather owned and ran a boarding house in Elizabeth that catered especially to newly arrived immigrants, and he was concerned with their well-being as more than a mere landlord. That's why he was among the original members who purchased the open field that was here and who themselves graded and landscaped it, and why he served as the first cemetery chairman. He was relatively young then but in his full vigor, and it's his name alone that is signed to the document specifying that the cemetery was for — burying deceased members in accordance with Jewish law and ritual.' As is all too obvious, the maintenance of individual plots and of the fencing and the gates is no longer what it should be. Things have rotted and toppled over, the gates are rusted, the locks are gone, there's been vandalism. By now the place has become the butt end of the airport and what you're hearing from a few miles away is the steady din of the New Jersey Turnpike. Of course I thought first of the truly beautiful places where my father might be buried, the places where he and my mother used to swim together when they were young, and the places where he loved to swim at the shore. Yet despite the fact that looking around at the deterioration here breaks my heart — as it probably does yours, and perhaps even makes you wonder why we're assembled on grounds so badly scarred by time — I wanted him to lie close to those who loved him and from whom he descended. My father loved his parents and he should be near them. I didn't want him to be somewhere alone." She was silent for a moment to collect herself. A gentle-faced woman in her mid-thirties, plainly pretty as her mother had been, she looked all at once in no way authoritative or even brave but like a ten-year-old overwhelmed. Turning toward the coffin, she picked up a clod of dirt and, before dropping it onto the lid, said lightly, with the air still of a bewildered young girl, "Well, this is how it turns out. There's nothing more we can do, Dad." Then she remembered his own stoical maxim from decades back and began to cry.

"There's no remaking reality," she told him. "Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes."

The next to throw dirt onto the lid of the coffin was Howie, who'd been the object of his worship when they were children and in return had always treated him with gentleness and affection, patiently teaching him to ride a bike and to swim and to play all the sports in which Howie himself excelled. It still appeared as if he could run a football through the middle of the line, and he was seventy-seven years old. He'd never been hospitalized for anything and, though a sibling bred of the same stock, had remained triumphantly healthy all his life.

His voice was husky with emotion when he whispered to his wife, "My kid brother. It makes no sense." Then he too addressed everyone. "Let's see if I can do it. Now let's get to this guy. About my brother... " He paused to compose his thoughts so that he could speak sensibly. His way of talking and the pleasant pitch of his voice were so like his brother's that Phoebe began to cry, and, quickly, Nancy took her by the arm. "His last few years," he said, gazing toward the grave, "he had health problems, and there was also loneliness — no less a problem. We spoke on the phone whenever we could, though near the end of his life he cut himself off from me for reasons that were never clear. From the time he was in high school he had an irresistible urge to paint, and after he retired from advertising, where he'd made a considerable success first as an art director and then when he was promoted to be a creative director — after a life in advertising he painted practically every day of every year that was left to him. We can say of him what has doubtless been said by their loved ones about nearly everyone who is buried here: he should have lived longer. He should have indeed." Here, after a moment's silence, the resigned look of gloom on his face gave way to a sorrowful smile. "When I started high school and had team practice in the afternoons, he took over the errands that I used to run for my father after school. He loved being only nine years old and carrying the diamonds in an envelope in his jacket pocket onto the bus to Newark, where the setter and the sizer and the polisher and the watch repairman our father used each sat in a cubbyhole of his own, tucked away on Frelinghuysen Avenue. Those trips gave that kid enormous pleasure. I think watching these artisans doing their lonely work in those tight little places gave him the idea for using his hands to make art. I think looking at the facets of the diamonds through my father's jewelry loupe is something else that fostered his desire to make art." A laugh suddenly got the upper hand with Howie, a little flurry of relief from his task, and he said, "I was the conventional brother. In me diamonds fostered a desire to make money."

Then he resumed where he'd left off, looking through the large sunny window of their boyhood years. "Our father took a small ad in the Elizabeth Journal once a month. During the holiday season, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, he took the ad once a week. 'Trade in your old watch for a new one.' All these old watches that he accumulated — most of them beyond repair — were dumped in a drawer in the back of the store. My little brother could sit there for hours, spinning the hands and listening to the watches tick, if they still did, and studying what each face and what each case looked like. That's what made that boy tick. A hundred, two hundred trade-in watches, the entire drawerful probably worth no more than ten bucks, but to his budding artist's eye, that backroom watch drawer was a treasure chest. He used to take them and wear them — he always had a watch that was out of that drawer. One of the ones that worked. And the ones he tried to make work, whose looks he liked, he'd fiddle around with but to no avail — generally he'd only make them worse. Still, that was the beginning of his using his hands to perform meticulous tasks. My father always had two girls just out of high school, in their late teens or early twenties, helping him behind the counter in the store. Nice, sweet Elizabeth girls, well-mannered, clean-cut girls, always Christian, mainly Irish Catholic, whose fathers and brothers and uncles worked for Singer Sewing Machine or for the biscuit company or down at the port. He figured nice Christian girls would make the customers feel more at home. If asked to, the girls would try on the jewelry for the customers, model it for them, and if we were lucky, the women would wind up buying. As my father told us, when a pretty young woman wears a piece of jewelry, other women think that when they wear the piece of jewelry they'll look like that too. The guys off the docks at the port who came in looking for engagement rings and wedding rings for their girlfriends would sometimes have the temerity to take the salesgirl's hand in order to examine the stone up close."

"My brother liked to be around the girls too, and that was long before he could even begin to understand what it was he was enjoying so much. He would help the girls empty the window and the showcases at the end of the day. He'd do anything at all to help them. They'd empty the windows and cases of everything but the cheapest stuff, and just before closing time this little kid would open the big safe in the backroom with the combination my father had entrusted to him. I'd done all these jobs before him, including getting as close as I could to the girls, especially to two blond sisters named Harriet and May. Over the years there was Harriet, May, Annmarie, Jean, there was Myra, Mary, Patty, there was Kathleen and Corine, and every one of them took a shine to that kid. Corine, the great beauty, would sit at the workbench in the backroom in early November and she and my kid brother would address the catalogues the store printed up and sent to all the customers for the holiday buying season, when my father was open six nights a week and everybody worked like a dog. If you gave my brother a box of envelopes, he could count them faster than anybody because his fingers were so dexterous and because he counted the envelopes by fives. I'd look in and, sure enough, that's what he'd be doing — showing off with the envelopes for Corine. How that boy loved doing everything that went along with being the jeweler's reliable son! That was our father's favorite accolade — 'reliable.' Over the years our father sold wedding rings to Elizabeth's Irish and Germans and Slovaks and Italians and Poles, most of them young working-class stiffs. Half the time, after he'd made the sale, we'd be invited, the whole family, to the wedding. People liked him — he had a sense of humor and he kept his prices low and he extended credit to everyone, so we'd go — first to the church, then on to the noisy festivities. There was the Depression, there was the war, but there were also the weddings, there were our salesgirls, there were the trips to Newark on the bus with hundreds of dollars' worth of diamonds stashed away in envelopes in the pockets of our mackinaws. On the outside of each envelope were the instructions for the setter or the sizer written by our father. There was the five-foot-high Mosley safe slotted for all the jewelry trays that we carefully put away every night and removed every morning... and all of this constituted the core of my brother's life as a good little boy."

Howie's eyes rested on the coffin again. "And now what?" he asked. "I think this had better be all there is. Going on and on, remembering still more... but why not remember? What's another gallon of tears between family and friends? When our father died my brother asked me if I minded if he took our father's watch. It was a Hamilton, made in Lancaster, P-A, and according to the expert, the boss, the best watch this country ever produced. Whenever he sold one, our father never failed to assure the customer that he'd made no mistake. — See, I wear one myself. A very, very highly respected watch, the Hamilton. To my mind,' he'd say, — the premier American-made watch, bar none.' Seventy-nine fifty, if I remember correctly. Everything for sale in those days had to end in fifty. Hamilton had a great reputation. It was a classy watch, my dad did love his, and when my brother said he'd like to own it, I couldn't have been happier. He could have taken the jeweler's loupe and our father's diamond carrying case. That was the worn old leather case that he would always carry with him in his coat pocket whenever he went to do business outside the store: with the tweezers in it, and the tiny screwdrivers and the little ring of sizers that gauge the size of a round stone and the folded white papers for holding the loose diamonds. The beautiful, cherished little things he worked with, which he held in his hands and next to his heart, yet we decided to bury the loupe and the case and all its contents in his grave. He always kept the loupe in one pocket and his cigarettes in the other, so we stuck the loupe inside his shroud. I remember my brother saying, — By all rights we should put it in his eye.' That's what grief can do to you. That's how thrown we were. We didn't know what else to do. Rightly or wrongly, there didn't seem to us anything but that to do. Because they were not just his — they were him... To finish up about the Hamilton, my father's old Hamilton with the crown that you would turn to wind it every morning and that you would pull out on its stem to turn to move the hands... except while he was in swimming, my brother wore it day and night. He took it off for good only forty-eight hours ago. He handed it to the nurse to lock away for safekeeping while he was having the surgery that killed him. In the car on the way to the cemetery this morning, my niece Nancy showed me that she'd put a new notch in the band and now it's she who's wearing the Hamilton to tell time by."

Then came the sons, men in their late forties and looking, with their glossy black hair and their eloquent dark eyes and the sensual fullness of their wide, identical mouths, just like their father (and like their uncle) at their age. Handsome men beginning to grow beefy and seemingly as closely linked with each other as they'd been irreconcilably alienated from the dead father. The younger, Lonny, stepped up to the grave first. But once he'd taken a clod of dirt in his hand, his entire body began to tremble and quake, and it looked as though he were on the edge of violently regurgitating. He was overcome with a feeling for his father that wasn't antagonism but that his antagonism denied him the means to release. When he opened his mouth, nothing emerged except a series of grotesque gasps, making it appear likely that whatever had him in its grip would never be finished with him. He was in so desperate a state that Randy, the older, more decisive son, the scolding son, came instantly to his rescue. He took the clod of dirt from the hand of the younger one and tossed it onto the casket for both of them. And he readily met with success when he went to speak. "Sleep easy, Pop," Randy said, but any note of tenderness, grief, love, or loss was terrifyingly absent from his voice.

The last to approach the coffin was the private duty nurse, Maureen, a battler from the look of her and no stranger to either life or death. When, with a smile, she let the dirt slip slowly across her curled palm and out the side of her hand onto the coffin, the gesture looked like the prelude to a carnal act. Clearly this was a man to whom she'd once given much thought.

That was the end. No special point had been made. Did they all say what they had to say? No, they didn't, and of course they did. Up and down the state that day, there'd been five hundred funerals like his, routine, ordinary, and except for the thirty wayward seconds furnished by the sons — and Howie's resurrecting with such painstaking precision the world as it innocently existed before the invention of death, life perpetual in their father-created Eden, a paradise just fifteen feet wide by forty feet deep disguised as an old-style jewelry store — no more or less interesting than any of the others. But then it's the commonness that's most wrenching, the registering once more of the fact of death that overwhelms everything.

In a matter of minutes, everybody had walked away — wearily and tearfully walked away from our species' least favorite activity — and he was left behind. Of course, as when anyone dies, though many were grief-stricken, others remained unperturbed, or found themselves relieved, or, for reasons good or bad, were genuinely pleased.

From Everyman by Philip Roth. Copyright (c) 2006 by Philip Roth. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

[jimboloco]

at my grandmother's funeral reception,
my Aggie plantation owner uncle-in-law kept bugging me,
"what do you think about the Vietnam War?"
I kept telling him I didn't want to talk about it, when, finally, I did, and said,
"They'd have been better off if we'd just left them alone."
at which point my other uncle-in-law, a George Wallace loving trucker yelled at me from behind my back,
"I've got more sense in one cell on my ass than you have in your whole body!"
I mutterred "war wimps!" and sulked right there in front of everyone.
Yes indeed.

[jimboloco]

Thanks for the story
the writing style so clear
and makes me wonder
why do some people stop growing
and fade away
like the old cemetary
a metaphor for lost youth and curdled dreams

my estrangement from the above couple the same
terrible insults from the lady
a rejection outright from the man
cause i protested the war back from vietnam
and became a wayward bum
and even worse,
came back to their old home town
for healing
an intruder on the run
and buried them both
and left again

i remember bumping my grandfather's coffin
and watched him move
and later that afternoon,
saw a breeze blow the curtains of a room in his old house
where i napped

two years later
i remember my grandmother trying to say something to me
sick in her hospital bed
i blocked it with a downward frown
instead make a copy of a mary cassatt's mother and babe
in brilliant pastel
and placed it on the wall at the foot of her nursing home bed
where she later died
to show her the love that real mom's gave their kids
and real grandmothers as well
and that i was more than an insult

but she had one more for me
at her funeral reception

""I've got more sense in one cell on my ass than you have in your whole body!"

so I called them war wimps
and blessed them with a frown.

Some day I'll go back to the old cemetary in Louisiana
where my name is on a tombstone
like Van Gogh's older brother Vincent
my dear young dad
telling me that cremation iis better
cause i can't go home again
so onward thru th cloud of unknowing
with compassion

[jimboloco]

thich nhat hanh suggets
smiling at my grandmother when she was five years old
hey grandma
you were five once
smiling at your inner child
peace
hey grandpa
you were a little boy
smiling at your inner child
peace

[stilltrucking]

Everybody called him Happy
You know I can not think of one partner I ran with who was not a veteran of some war. He was Korea and VIetnam, probably someone you might not get along with because he was a lifer. But he was a good man. Battery exploded in his face one day while we had been working on the truck. He started hollering for a medic, I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a puddle in the parking lot and started throwing water on his face. Then ran to a fire station blocks away. We talked about politics never had an arguement, never a harsh word. He was pretty much just happy to be alive. He was an orphan too.
his favorite expression was
"they treated me like a red headed orphan"

I remember the first time I read the story. The loved the part about meeting those friends of your name sake, serendipity. Not to get into debates about theology, but it makes me wonder.

I lost my dad about five or six. Not as in died but as in cut off in fear. I felt like an orphan for years.

The last time I remember feeling any love towards him was when he came and got me from Hebrew school that first day because I was crying hysterical that I wanted to go home. Had such a grip on his leg he had to stagger out to the car with me holding on. Cold stone atheist, but he called himself a Jew.

Last time I was in Baltimore his tombstone was leaning pretty bad, they said it was from the trucks on Holabird ave.

Homeboy paid extra for perpetual care of the Grave. I would like to check back in a few eons and see how it is doing.

I would like to make sure HOmeboy got his money's worth.

Broke into my burrial fund, 23 dollars and dimes. Needed it to tide me over to another pay check

My mother right about me, I am a ner do well and I am honest to a fault.
My brother jitterbug is kind to a fault she used to say.

Perezoso interesting writer. I probably read almost everything he has posted here and a few other places.
He had some morbid fascination with my dead mother's anus. It used to bother me but I got over it.

You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks
http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/11242 ... My%20Folks


inFreindship
jt

I have commited murder in my heart
and blessed are those who have not seen
eyelidness
a young man too

can you forgive him that?

gone fishing

just plain gone
too much clarity
I can't get high no more
just me and my shadow
up and down
all around
just me
level
on the level
grandpa was a carpenter
he sewed pants
put a striped patch on checkered pants
but he sewed so well
nobody minded.

[jimboloco]

well i never really forgave my grandparents
nor for that matter my mom and stepdad
not good at forgiving
instead learning to be present with whatever arises
per ram dass
my tape
anyhow
shit
gonna go see my mom in a couple of weeks
first time in two years
just following the breath
creative complaints indeed
good to give a young person a clue
about essential worth
yoda said to do or not to do
or something like that
there is no try
may the farce be with you
in fartship