My Mistake

I threw out a handful of black oil sunflower seeds for the towhee. But next time I looked, Guess Who was chomping them up. Have to get a squirrel-proof bird feeder.

***

More than 50 of my poems have won money prizes, and 50-odd more have won honorable mentions or special mentions. A lot of both have been published. I've written poems about at least 50 people I've known, other than myself, and about 40 or so that I didn't know.

Old Age Is So Much Fun

Like when you go to pick something up, and start dropping it and trying to catch it before it hits the ground. And wind up batting it around the room. Sometimes it's not broken, and sometimes it is and then you can throw it away.

I post this picture of Lady Ottoline Morrell, because it's one of the things I've always wanted to paint but didn't have the courage to start. Or the talent to finish. She was too rich, immoral and scandalous, and not pretty, but isn't this a great photograph?

Speaking of broken china, Jed gave me a lovely coffee mug for Mother's Day. I suspect it was on his conscience that he broke one of my blue china mugs, which really didn't bother me a bit. I break something almost every day.

*
 

Impromptu Apple Pie

Hot buttered biscuit tops and bottoms, topped with grated cheddar and applesauce. I ate them too fast to photograph.

NASA Mars Project

*

Hello, Planet Mars:

Led by your twinkling red light,

MAVEN comes in peace.

***

Friday, May 10:

http://www.voanews.com/content/send-your-poems-to-space-maven/1653450.html

Everyone who submits a haiku will have his name on the DVD. Someday, at least my name will be on Mars.

One haiku formula:
Five syllables
Seven syllables
Five syllables
*
A poem by me, composed of 4 haiku, about someone buried at Pleasant Ridge:

I will shelter here,
sharing with these silent friends
nights of black velvet;

Leaves of gold and flame
falling from the autumn skies
will adorn my bed.

Winds of many moods
and melodies will whisper
soft, like a lover,

While I close my eyes,
as petals of petunias
close in the darkness.

Good Eats

Yesterday I had about a peck of fresh vegetables in the refrigerator, so I chopped and piled them all in the big steel skillet, added salad dressing and other stuff, and baked them for about an hour. Then I ate nearly all of it, but had this little platter full for my lunch today.

I'm missing Jeopardy!

For S.D.S.

I think I like the little oxalis flowers best of all. They thrive and survive in the lawn, springing up a few days after they're mowed down with the grass. Every time I look at them, I remember SDS, remember being in the yard at Hammond Camp with all the flowers blooming, the hollyhocks so high I couldn't see the top, and the rump and straw hat of Granny bent over some plant.

***

For S.D.S.

I can remember when

you were so beautiful,

red hair tucked under a

floppy straw hat,

working the magic you

did in the garden to

make the sunflowers grow

tall as a tree.

The cream colored rose with a

blush at the center, bloomed

lushly, its great blossoms

nodding, and you

the same color, with russet curls

straying from under the

straw colored bonnet, seemed

kin to the flowers.

Oh, daffodils, roses, sweet

peas and blue violets, your

sisters or children, come

back every year;

but why should this be, with the

rose blushing, cream colored,

russet framed face of you

vanished and gone?

Blessings

A woodpecker is eating my house.

*

What would I do without the birds, squirrels, chipmunks, stray cats and dogs, Mo, and Gretchen? It would get lonesome around here. But I might get more useful stuff done, if that's important.

I've got to pack a book, then go to the P.O.

Parties, roses, and houses

I'm proud for the old climbing rose, because it puts on such a show. The camera doesn't seem to catch the subtle pink of the blossoms, but it's really pretty. But I'm right ashamed of myself for letting it run wild this way. Years ago, when I first planted the rose and it had grown a lot, I put up a trellis for it to climb on. Of course, before long the wind blew the trellis away, so I put up another one, which suffered the same fate. So what did I do then?

***

Went to India's birthday gathering yesterday, at Ramey's wonderful house up on Hawk Hill, and had a lovely time with sisters and friends. Of course I forgot to take my camera. I call the house wonderful because it reminds me of houses I've seen or read about in books. Arlington. "Our" house on Ponce de Leon in Montgomery. Tara. With flowers all around; that would be China Court. Rambling architecture, with rooms added here and there, seems to recall Howard's End. I long for sweet peas, but at Hawk Hill instead of here.

I like the (for-sale) brown house on King's Forest Drive, partly because it reminds me of Ramey's house and back yard.

Anyway, after this blooming season, I'll get Ricky to chop the Cecile Brunner rose back, and try to control it somehow.

***

Jo-Ree back on the windowsill, cheeping loudly. He's fat as a bear--looks like he gained numerous grams.

Crazy Command Decision

I hereby order myself to be happy for the rest of my days. And nights. Think up ways to make everything fun, the philosophy of Ms. Stubbs who was once my landlord and a sweet friend.

Today I'm going to a birthday party. I'll wear my new pants that fit me, and I shall cut off my hair so that next week I'll be obliged to go to a salon and have some repairs made. Maybe in today's venture I'll bleach out the rest of the color. Of course, it'll wind up yellow and strawlike, but that should be an improvement.

I've made ten blocks of the new quilt, and ordered some angel fabric for a border or something. Isn't that a blast?!!!

I'm tired of being an old grouch. Here I go to de-witch myself.

There's a Burma girl a-settin' . . .

. . .

'Er petticoat was yaller,

And 'er little cap was green,

And 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat,

Just the same as Thebaw's queen;

And I seen 'er first a-smokin'

Of a whackin' white cheroot,

And a-wastin' Christian kisses

On an 'eathen idol's foot,

On an 'eathen idol's foot.

Bloomin' idol made o' mud,

What they called the great gawd Budd!

Plucky lot she cared for idols

When I kissed 'er where she stood!

Oh, the road to Mandalay

Where the flyin' fishes play,

And the dawn comes up like thunder

Out o' China 'crost the bay!

. . .

Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

An' the silence 'ung that 'eavy,

You was arf afraid to speak!
. . .
When you've 'eard the East a-callin',
You won't never 'eed nothin' else!

***

Thank you, Cousin Ruddy, wherever you are.

***

Starting Over

I'm very thankful that the tests I've had this spring turned out negative. On the other hand, having my mind messed up with worrying about them beforehand, has caused me to miss the deadlines for submitting poems to the Alabama Conclave of Writers and the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. These are two major competitions, and the Conclave meeting will be held in Fairhope in July, where I would have loved to go back.

Another large group of writing contests, still open, is given by the Arkansas State Poetry Society. However, they don't list many poetry awards, and most of the ones listed are for special kinds of verse, which I hardly ever attempt. For example, poems with specified numbers of lines, with made-up rhyme schemes, "minute" poems, and so forth. I've done some of those, but they don't amount to anything. When I try to write to someone else's formula, it falls very flat. Maybe it shows skill, but no heart.

When I go online to find the Alabama State Poetry Society fall contests, the latest information on the site is for 2010.

What Scots, Hey?

Three cheers for Macbeth! This I say,

Aware of the villainous way

He slew Duncan and Banquo;

But this much I do know:

It sure made a doggone good play!

Today

I'm cleaning the cook-top, and if that ever gets done, I've got to mail a book.

I was thinking about words that I hate. "Words" would be more like it. I can only think of two that are not obscene, just made up. "Woot" and "meme." People that use them tend to use them at every opportunity. And in the case of "meme," to misuse it, if a question of appropriate use can even be applied. Gad. As if there were not enough words in the languages.

***

I started cleaning the cook-top yesterday, and thought it would be a two-day job. About a dozen pieces have gone through the dishwasher, but it looks like the rest of the matter, studded with nails and screws, will take another day at least.

***

"Away by the river so clear,

the ladies were wending their way;

when Pharaoh's little daughter

stepped down in the water

to bathe in the cool of the day. . . "

***

"There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passionflower at the gate--

She is coming, my dove, my dear!

She is coming, my life, my fate!"

From "Maud" by Lord Tennyson

The passionflower is commonly called maypop. It grows wild, has edible fruit, as well as some medicinal properties.

***

9:00 p.m.: I finished the cooktop. Tomorrow I'll start on the stove hood.

Zero At the Bone

Zero At the Bone

No ties was all that Ruby ever asked,
and all of substance that she ever got.
Money, of course: at random intervals,
she would phone us for money to come home.
She knew, but never said, we owed her that;
she didn't have to say—we knew it, too.
She always kept a nickel for the phone.

She only came home when she was too ill
or too addicted to recuperate
alone in some hole in a foreign wall,
Chicago or Detroit or Yazoo City.
The rent she paid was that she told us tales
of her adventures; a natural story-teller,
she made us laugh till everybody cried.

And then one day the wind would change and whisper,
“Ruby! Ruby!” and soon she would be gone,
leaving long-distance numbers on odd scraps
of paper, where we might or might not reach her.
Marriage she tried, on more than one occasion,
and once a step-child that she feigned to worship--
all, all abandoned in her frantic flight.

And all that she abandoned grieved for her,
and called and wrote the bogus addresses;
for everybody loved and envied her--
the love was open but the envy secret:
If we could be unchained and free like Ruby,
we'd manage better and enjoy it more,
not hurting those who loved us. So we thought.

And it was guilt that kept us sending money
or going to her rescue now and then.
Sometimes we wouldn't hear from her for years
and feared she might be dead; but then the phone
would ring, and we would send her twice the fare
that she required, hoping she wouldn't waste it,
and fixed the best room in the house for Ruby.

We buried her far from her violator,
and wept because we had let the villain live
and die in prison, instead of loading the shotgun
and blowing the son-of-a-bitch to kingdom come.

By JRC, August 13, 2012

Feast Or Fast

It's a good thing I don't care too much for food. Today I have chicken salad and apple-raisin pie that I made yesterday. Tomorrow I can only have clear liquids, then in the evening a delightful cocktail that is not so clear.

*

I tell you, folks, when this is over, if they let me come home, I'm going to change my way of living. I'm going to cancel my telephone and mail, then lock my doors and crawl under the bed and stay there.

Jacob's Ladder

Don't know why my photos turn out dark. Anyway, the quilt blocks are coming along, and I think the quilt will be nice.

Happy Saturday

Last night Jed and I watched "Lincoln," the Spielberg film with Daniel Day Lewis, after a delicious dinner at Logan's. Earlier in the day, we attended the joint Georgia-Alabama Poetry Societies' meeting in Carrollton. Heard readings of lots of poems, including winners of the student contests. I was happy to see so many poet friends--Jerri, Emily and her daughter, Joe, Virginia, Beth, and others. I won three volumes of poems by the Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Natasha Trethewey, for which I'm so grateful. It was a very full and joyous day.

The Georgia Poetry Society hosted this meeting. The prizes were books instead of money, which I think is a good idea. The prizes I won were for two third places and one first.

The Lincoln film was very good. Daniel Day Lewis is such a fine actor. At first I didn't recognize good old Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens in a curly black wig. Sally Field was a great choice to play Mary Lincoln. I didn't know the actor who played Seward, but I liked his portrayal.

Pardon My Grouse

This bird looks the way I feel. Frazzled. Another month like this, and I'll be just about ready to punch my ticket. Or kick my bucket. Or kick something else.

I know that the exam next Friday will just be the start of all the tests/procedures they'll want to run. That's what I know. What I fear is that I'll wind up in University Hospital, and I'D RATHER DIE HYAH! among the pollen, sick cats, thousands of books, reams of scrap paper, and other paraphernalia of the good life.

*

I have a poem in this anthology, published by the Birmingham Public Library. The book was sent to me by Haruyo Miyagawa, Head of the Arts/Literature/Sports Department.

What's Going On?

I don't know if I really couldn't get to sleep, or if I was just dreaming I wanted a cup of coffee, and I was cold, or I was too warm, or I was hearing noises, or what was going on. But I finally got up at 4:30, fed Mo, and made a big mug of coffee.

One thing on my mind is the start of a poem, or wanting to start one.

Really, the tragic bombing in Boston has shaken me up pretty badly--as it has done to everybody, I know. So what if I lose a night's sleep. We're not guaranteed sleep, or safety. Never were.

If I get through this month with all my faculties intact, maybe I can spend a week or so sleeping or writing the poem, or whatever.

Dinner

Chicken and veggie stew over pasta. Not great, but pretty good.

Look At Oneself

Looking for myself on the internet, I saw me mentioned as a prize-winning poet. How gratifying! I've got to get my poems published, all under one or two covers. That's going to be my goal for this year, at least to get the process started. It'll probably take a year or two, but it's got to be done.

I stumbled across a YouTube feature of Emmy Lou Harris and Robert Duvall singing "I Love To Tell the Story," and put it in my left-column music collection on this blog.

I once day-dreamed of having little replicas of the Beatles, Elvis and others, that one could hear sing anything at any time. I would add Emmy Lou and Robert to this collection. Also, as in my poem, Cat Stevens, Freddie Fender and Otis Redding.

*

Corned beef pasties for my supper.

If I Had a (Yellow) Hammer

A big old flicker (yellowhammer) tried to join the towhee on the window sill, but both of them flew away before I could get a picture. The woodpecker hammered awhile somewhere and then stopped. I've seen a flicker around here before; someday I may be able to photograph it.

Weird Dream

I drifted off to sleep thinking about flowers and wishing my rock-hard lot would grow them. Thinking I might sell this house and buy Jared's flower-surrounded yellow house. It has a storage house out back, that looks like a little cabin, where I could put all the junk that clutters my house.

Anyway, I had drifted off to sleep, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A cannon-shot, or something. Dreamed I got up and went into the kitchen. There was a hole in the ceiling, from which rainwater was dripping neatly into a hole in the floor. I thought, Oh no, whatever it is probably made a hole in my car--forgetting that my car was parked under the dining room, not the kitchen.

I went down to the basement, and saw that the water was dripping into a plastic bin, in which was the culprit--a round  quartz or silica rock about half the size of my fist. It was scaly-looking, like a lump of English Cheddar cheese, only prettier.

*

Today I aim to cut out the rest of the pieces for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. What's left of today.

Apis

Yesterday I saw several honey bees. I don't know if they're blooming weeds, or if the grass puts out blossoms, but the whole front yard was covered with tiny blue and yellow flowers, with a few dark pinks that looked like little sweet-peas.

I guess those precious little flowers, plus the leafing-out of the trees, account for the layers of yellow pollen on everything.

I've got all the colored pieces cut out for my Jacob's Ladder quilt. Just need to cut out the white, and start sewing it all together. I think this is the first time I've ever gone about making a quilt by cutting out all the pieces beforehand. But I'm working with mainly scraps, and wanted to make sure I had enough of everything before I start sewing. It'll be a mini- or lap-quilt, about 42x54 inches. Unless I decide to put borders around it. Nah.

Anyway, I was happy to see the honey bees. At least they're not yet extinct around here.

Tenants?

Now both towhees are on the window sill. I think they're probably nesting in the hedge bush outside these office windows. Or maybe he's just showing her this strange glass wall that whistles when he pecks on it.

Old Red-Eye Returns

I proclaim the rufous-sided towhee (Jo-Ree) as my official house bird. He's back on my window sill, pecking at the glass when I whistle to him. Jed was here Thursday night and yesterday morning, and the bird frequented the guest-room window.

*

I missed Joe W.'s book signing in Leeds today, because I didn't wake up until one o'clock, and by the time I'd brewed and drunk three cups of coffee, it was too late. He'll have another one soon in Odenville, and I'll try to make that one.

**

The first picture is from Wikipedia. The second photo is the one I took last year through the dirty window.

Wishful Thinking

*

**

***

"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. . ."

The poet John Keats, whose parents died when he was a child, was heir to two small fortunes. However, his adult life was spent in grinding poverty. He borrowed money from friends, just to be able to live. He died of tuberculosis at age 25, probably contracted while caring for his brother who died of the disease.

After his mother died, Keats lived with his grandmother, who appointed two men to be his guardians and mentors. At least one of these men knew that two of Keats's deceased relatives had left him substantial amounts of money, to be available when he reached the age of 21. However, the guardian(s) never told him, or anyone close to him, of the bequests, and no inquiries were made about the money.

He was the greatest of the late Romantic poets, achieving that stature in writing poetry for approximately five years, and dying at the youngest age of them all. Shelley lived to age 30 and Byron to 36.

Keats wrote, "Oh, for ten years!" to write down all that was in his mind, but he only got five.

It's amazing to contemplate how prolific these poets were, in spite of various hardships, troubles, and short lives. Byron wrote book-length poems, and several plays in verse. Shelley is regarded by many as the greatest poet, but in my opinion his works are marred by archaic language and a certain distance between the poet and the emotions that the works should evoke.

Many of Byron's poems are marred, of course, by facileness, flippancy and haste.

Good Days

Jed came over Thursday afternoon, and we played Dixit at Susan's until everyone got tired from eating too much cake. On Friday afternoon, we attended the funeral service for a good school friend, Paul B., and met up with lots of people we hadn't seen in a long time.

When I got back home, I remarked to Jed that I hoped my funeral would be as happy as Paul's was. His sister-in-law "entertained" with a eulogy that was full of Paul's virtues, foibles and funny sayings, as well as a few nostaligic tears for the loss of his good company.

Then Friday evening we gathered at Susan's again for "game night," and Jed went back to Atlanta early this afternoon.

Susan "loaned" me her bin of orange fabrics, some of which I hope to pair up with some old blue cloth to make a quilt.

*

Part of the excitement at Susan's house involved Jesse's cats and Susie's dogs. There are only two of each, but it seemed like a houseful. Lots of fun.

Ultrasound--Nothing

They couldn't even find what they thought they saw before.

Resolution

This is my Easter egg arrangement from several years ago. The china cross was a gift from my daughter, who also crocheted the little flower doily. This year, and for some time past, I haven't been able to make much of a creative effort in any direction. The dollhouses have gone to ruin, the leaf quilt remains unfinished, the books are unpublished, the dwelling-house is a wreck. I've bought Easter egg dye, but until Monday evening, I had forgotten that this is Holy Week.

The chief reason for the stalled creativity is my conscientiousness in following doctors' orders.

Every six months, for years, I have had a medical checkup, and the time in between checkups is occupied by running back and forth getting manual, biologic and electronic tests for ailments that so far have been nonexistent. Increasingly, as I get older, all this preys on my mind until I can't get anything done. Always without fail, there is at least one appointment for a test hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. The name or image of The Kirklin Clinic in my mind's eye has a sign that says "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here." Because of course someday one of the tests, if I keep on getting them, will be my ticket to Pleasant Ridge.

At present I have two of these expert analyses almost immediately in front of me, one tomorrow and one in April. That's all I can think about. That, and worse.

As I approach my eightieth year, I think I deserve a little peace of mind. If these two tests turn out benign or inconclusive, they're going to be my last, at least for some time to come. And I will refuse to have more than one physical exam per year. Enough of anything is enough. In the future, if I feel seriously ill, I'll call 911 and let nature take its course.

*
All that is not to mention being a little bit afraid to drive on the highways.

Mackintosh

If you accept the scorn of many critics for the works of Somerset Maugham, you may never read him, and thus may miss some of the sharpest character studies in literature. I can only think of Dostoevsky as a writer who so completely involves the reader in his characters' senses and emotions.

The short story "Mackintosh" is one of the most powerful character studies I've ever read. You start out sympathizing with the lanky, fastidious Scotsman and resenting the fat, obscene old Irishman. At first you wonder which one is Billy Budd and which is Claggart. Before the story is over, you have switched sympathies once or twice, and wind up with horror and at last a grim satisfaction.

I've read Maugham's novel The Razor's Edge enough times to wear out your average paperback book, and I never tire of it. Some of his other novels may be more perfect and concise in composition, but the story! The story is the thing, and very few writers have matched his story-telling.

I guess I was born to be an appreciator of stories, rather than a story-teller with any sort of competence.

"...Evil is unspectacular and always human,
And shares our bed and eats at our own table,
And we are introduced to Goodness every day. . .
He has a name like Billy and is almost perfect
But wears a stammer like a decoration.
And every time they meet the same thing has to happen;
It is the Evil that is helpless like a lover
And has to pick a quarrel and succeeds,
And both are openly destroyed before our eyes."
--W.H. Auden, from "Herman Melville"

Sun and sand

This little perfume bottle stopper is a pale mauve color. It reminds me of what Mama used to do when we lived on the mountain. She'd take empty fruit jars or jelly glasses, lay them on the sand in the sunshine, and they would turn mauve or pink. The longer they stayed in the sun, the deeper the color would be.

Sun and sand remind me of this, not of the beach. The only good memory I have of a beach is watching the little brown pelicans in St. Petersburg, FL, and it was cloudy that day I went.

Squirrel Tails and Robin Tales

My squirrels' tails are outlined in white, and their underbellies are white also. Some time ago, Pat had an albino squirrel at her house. What I wouldn't give to see one of those!

This morning, waiting for the coffee water to boil, I glanced out the kitchen window and saw movement in the puddles under the trees. As I watched, the "movement" came close enough for me to see that it was a robin having a really good time, splashing in the puddle.
*
Our theme for the poetry meeting Monday night is "Re-". Re- anything. Thinking about it, I was reminded of an old (pre-1978) poem of mine, which I re-named "Rekindle."

Fire in the veins I had, a glow
of youth and poetry, and yearning
for adventure; far to go
I had, on dancing feet that knew no roots,
but I had seven-league boots,
I thought, to make the journey.

In glittering caverns, fingertip-
deep in rhyme,
I walked north, south
and upside down
where verses dripped,
honeyed verb and noun,
into my mouth
like water and lime.

Talents glinting like new gold
here, there and anywhere
I flung, largesse
strewn with a careless air
as if the mine were bottomless,
when I was young and bold.

Art in the hands I had,
lacked only time, that fled
and vanished faster
than hands could write of pain or laughter.

Then, gold and fire and water meeting
years back there or hours ago,
I learned what any fool should know--
that art as well as time was fleeting.
*
I have submitted/entered this poem all over the United States, and nobody has ever appreciated it. I personally think it's one of my best efforts. Somebody did publish it in a "chapbook." The original title was "Over My Shoulder."
*
(Mar. 30) I added this final stanza before the Monday night meeting:

But underneath the ashy coals
of time remains a spark--
O gleam, light up the dark!
Reshine the tarnished gold;
rekindle those young fires of old,
before the journey's close!

Who's There?

Early this morning I was sawing them off, when I heard someone outside call, "Hey, J.D.!" I pulled the blind in and looked out, but couldn't see anybody. I got up, went and looked at the glass door, then to the kitchen window to see if there was a car in the drive or out front. Nobody human, nothing mechanical.

Of course, I'm not J.D., but it's close enough. And of course it could have been someone across the street, but it sounded like right outside my window.

Today--tomorrow, actually--is the deadline for mailing poems to the ASPS contests. I've been trying to revise the "Je reviens" poem, but no luck. Guess I'll send it as it is. Also have to do something else today, but I forget what.

Could I be getting old?

Sing Out

In my maturity, I'm experiencing a return of the slight dyslexia I enjoyed as a child. On my blog, I saw "sign out" and thought it said "sing out," so I've been singing a little tune for some time now.

In grammar school, there was a little girl named Agnes in one of our readers, and I called her "Ay-genes." The first time I encountered the word "expenditures," I called it "expidentures." And of course, for a long time, "remuneration" was "renumeration."
*
Sister Susan just brought me a DVD of 'The Magic Of Belle Isle" to watch. It was a great effort on her part, and I 'preciate it no end.

Are ye right there, Michael?

You may talk of Columbus a-sailin'

Across the Atlantical sea. . .

*

*

*
Sore Ears

It's a good story, but would be much better without the music. If you can call it music. Today, PBS showed Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Phantom Of the Opera," a 2011 performance at the Royal Albert. A minor (or off-) key, shrieking nightmare. A gruelling, harrowing three and a half hours of cacophony. The only reason I watched it was because it was there.

Seriously, over the years I have suffered through several other performances of "Phantom Of the Opera," trying to recapture some of the magic I found in the 1990 miniseries starring Charles Dance, Toni Polo and Burt Lancaster, produced by Tony Richardson. But none of them were quite as distressing as Webber's.

In fact, one production (starring Claude Raines) was pretty good. Quieter.

So now I've seen/heard enough of the thing to convince me that the 1990 one was the only one I liked.

Almost Ready

Mo has stopped scratching. I've had my eye on this sofa for a long time, and it's still available. It's my style. Shipping is free. Time's a-wasting. We're burning daylight.
*
It also comes in reconstituted leather, but I think I like the fabric better.

Chicken and dumplings all day

Today I made the best C&D I've ever eaten, almost from scratch, but added a can of cream of celery soup. Man! The only improvement would be if I could make the dumplings thin and sort of tough, like Granny S. used to make them. My dumplings are too fluffy, but they taste good.

*

I've got an old set of the complete short stories of W. Somerset Maugham. His introduction to Volume I East and West is as good a lesson in short story-writing as you can get. In my opinion.

A couple of days ago, I realized that I can write anything I want to, any way I want to do it. Life has taught me that none of it will be published, in the old sense, anyway, so I can do anything I like. Not for posterity, but for myself. Lytton Strachey said he didn't write for posterity; "What has posterity ever done for me?" he added. For myself, posterity has done a great deal, but I don't have to write for them. I'll do it my way, by gum. As Uncle John used to say.

Pastie For Breakfast

I made some corned beef pasties and put them in the refrigerator, and they're so good for breakfast. Except when you warm them in the microwave, they get sort of limp and soggy. One day last week, I cooked a Granny Smith apple and made a couple of the little biscuit pies with that. If this keeps up, I may get fat again. My body mass index is 27, which is still a little high, so I guess I need to lose a few more pounds, really.