Series Info

OK.

I’ve decided that Sunday Eye Candy is going to be biweekly. I’ll post an entry this Sunday; then start on the new schedule.

I have a few writers lined up for the WHY DO I WRITE series; however, I am going to keep my lips sealed. I think people will enjoy the writers who are going to participate– I know I am looking forward to their responses.

I am working on adding a new series to the blog that will operate along the lines as WHY DO I WRITE, but it is going to be for elected officials. I’ve sent an invite to Senator David Shafer and Representative Jill Chambers. Hopefully, I’ll have a response from them within the next week or two.

Over and out!

"Dead Girls" by Kim Addonizio

DEAD GIRLS

show up often in the movies, facedown
in the weeds beside the highway.
Kids find them by the river, or in the woods,

under leaves, one pink-nailed hand thrust up.
Detectives stand over them in studio apartments
or lift their photos off pianos

in the houses they almost grew up in.
A dead girl can kick a movie into gear
better than a saloon brawl, better

than a factory explosion, just
by lying there. Anyone can play her,
any child off the street

can be hog-tied and dumped from a van
or strangled blue in a kitchen, a bathroom,
an alley, a school. That’s the beauty

of a dead girl. Even a plain one
who feels worthless
as a clod of dirt, broken

by the sorrow of gazing all day
at a fashion magazine,
can be made whole, redeemed

by what she finally can’t help being,
the center of attention, the special,
desirable, dead, dead girl.

~ Kim Addonizio
from what is this thing called love

Finally!

The laptop is finally fixed, and I hope it will remain operational. Life has been a bitch since it hasn’t been easy to use the internet or access documents. As long as the laptop cooperates I will be able to restart the Sunday Eye Candy series.

Limp Wrist #2 will go live toward the end of September. The second issue will feature an interview with the divine Denise Duhamel and work by Kurt Brown, Nick Carbo, Ellen Bass, Karen Chase, Khadijah Queen, and more. I’m excited about the second issue, and the third issue, which will go live Jan 09, is starting to take a nice shape.

The only stable part of my life life right now seems to be work and writing two to four poems a week. I meet with a fellow every couple of weeks; we chit-chat then move into critiquing work. Yesterday, we met and did our thing. She was able to help me put some “finishing” touches on three poems.

Well, off to do some reorganization as my new filing cabinet is calling my name.

Estelle Getty, You’ll Be Missed


7/25/23 – 7/22/08

Chris sent me a text message this afternoon informing that Estelle Getty had passed away this morning, and I can’t lie– I teared up for a moment at work. Hey, if you truly know me, you know I’m a sentimental kind of guy. Part of that is probably my life has been a little bit of an emotional roller coaster lately; however, it is a bit deeper that.

Four or five years ago, maybe more, I saw Lifetime’s Intimate Portrait on Estelle Getty, and I will never part of her story. According to the show Estelle befriended one of the actors from the Torch Song Trilogy, and when this actor was hospitalized because of his battle with HIV, Estelle visited him routinely. Each time she visited him she took him chicken noodle soup because she said chicken noodle soup could cure anything. Also, I’ll never forget Rosie O’Donnell’s comments on Estelle– she said Estelle was amazing supporter of assuring awareness of the HIV/AIDS plight and fundraising to find a cure. O’Donnell said Estelle was at every fundraiser for a cure that she every attended, even if Estelle had to be in a wheelchair… sunshine or rain, well or sick, she was on board for the cause. Her comes the sentimental guy within– I’m a sucker for people who even when they are down, they still fight for the better good of others. And well, add in the fact that it is a sassy granny doing who is a compassionate activist and I am won over even more.

Here’s a quote from one of Estelle’s sons: “She was loved throughout the world in six continents, and if they loved sitcoms in Antarctica she would have been loved on seven continents.” Click here to read the article on MSNBC’s site, which is where I pulled the quote.

Enjoy some of Estelle’s sassy lines as Sophia:
Dorothy: Well Blanche is certainly taking her sister’s novel better than I would. I would kill my sister Gloria if she ever wrote about my sex life.
Sophia: You would kill your sister over a pamphlet?

Sophia: Blanche, a terrible thing has happened to you. But when life does something like this, there are a couple of things you got to remember. You got your health, right?
Blanche: Yeah.
Sophia: You can still walk, can’t you?
Blanche: That’s true.
Sophia:
Great, go get me a glass of water.

Stan: Hello, Sophia, you’re looking younger every day.
Sophia: Hi, Stan, and that’s a beautiful toupee you’re wearing. Great, now we’re both liars.

Rose: Sophia, why are you in such a bad mood?
Sophia: Excuse me, Rose, but I haven’t had sex in 15 years and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

Sharing Something That Has Been on My Mind– Random Fact Time

Despite the lofty claim that “all men are created equal,” equality has never been an American birthright. In 1882 Congress suspended Chinese immigration on the assumption that the Chinese were an inferior people. Calvin Coolidge in 1923 asked Congress for a permanent ban on Chinese immigration, saying that people “who do not want to be partakers of the American spirit ought not to settle in America.” Not until 1965 was discrimination against the Chinese and other Asians effectively eliminated from U.S. immigration laws.
~ taken from The American Democracy, 6th Edition

"Little End Ode" by Sharon Olds

Little End Ode

When I told my mother the joke–the new kid
at college, who asked where the library’s at,
and the sophomore who said, “At Yale, we do not
end our sentences with prepositions,”
whereupon the frosh said, “Oh,
I beg your pardon, where’s the library
at, asshole,” she shrieked with delight.
“‘Asshole,'” she murmured fondly. She’s become
so fresh, rinsed with sweetness, as if she is
music, the strings especially high and bright.
She says it and sighs with contentment, as if she has
finally talked back to her own mother.
Or maybe it is the closest she has come,
for a while, to the rich, animal life
she lived with her second husband–now
I can see that of course she touched him everywhere,
as lovers do. She touched me there,
you know, courteously, with oil
like myrrh; soon after she had given me life
she gave me pleasure, which gave her pleasure,
maybe it felt to her fingertip like the
complex, clean knot of her Firegirls
tie-clasp. She seems, these days, like a very
human goddess. I do not want her
to die. This feels like a new not-want,
a shalt-not-want not-want. As soon as I
dared, around fifty, I called her, to myself,
the A-word. And yet, now, if she goes,
when she goes, to me it is like the departure of a
whole small species of singing bird from the earth.

~ Sharon Olds
borrowed from APR