Sunday is almost always depressing. I don’t know why; well, I suppose I do know why today... I am sitting here weeping over spilt boyfriends, having found not only the poem I wrote for Barry, but some of the loveliest of Kirk’s love letters, as I am trying desperately to clean out this room. (Gawd... no matter how many magazines I give away, they seem to keep multiplying.)

I’m also wondering what kind of stomach problem now... having eaten, or should I say ‘et’ as Collie does, two apparently uncooked crumpets -- well, Mike gave them to me, saying, “I don’t have a toaster...” so I naturally figured they had simply to be tossed into the toaster, buttered and eaten, or et. I don’t think so... they did seem a bit mushy and doughy in the middle, but I thought that was perhaps as I had over-buttered them. Well, the butter just kept melting into them... whatever, my stomach is talking to me furiously, so who knows what is next.

To get back to the letters... Kirkie was absolutely the best at love letters. So sweet, so delicious to read of his longings that so much matched mine... me too, me too, we’d say so often. He and Barry were so close in my mind so often... the only two men with whom I’d fallen in love at first sight, although I often told Kirkie that it was actually love at first write. His very first letter was so charming and so sweet that I simply destroyed all the rotten, dirty old men letters and kept only his, although, some time later I did start a correspondence with Don, the ‘religious conservative’. Imagine... those two terrible words, and I actually carried on a very interesting correspondence with him. I think that the only reason Don wrote to me was because he so desperately wanted to be a writer, and perhaps felt writing to me would help... then continued thinking that perhaps he could convert me to both god and conservatism... silly MAN. I often wonder where he actually went after his forced stay in the hot, miserable Southern state he was stuck in while he wrote to me. He mentioned perhaps going to Las Vegas, although I would consider that horrible city even worse than the hot forests of the South Don used to run in to keep in shape. I also wonder what he looked like... I pictured him as a short, dark haired, though pale, guy... slim because of his running, lots of dark chest hair and very strong (rather like Paul at BB/L, whose arms were like wood)... but when dressed looking like so many of the lawyers I knew in Chicago -- very stylish, light English or Italian suits, with those soft, expensive, Italian shoes, always looking quite new, as a lawyer never walks anywhere... he simply calls a cab. But Don’s running shoes always muddy and worn from the constant running through the pine woods of Georgia or Alabama... or some steamy Southern state. Why can’t everyone have distinctive names like Dick Zaunere. I put Don’s name in Google and several came up in Las Vegas. Now there was a man who loved his profession, although I don’t think religious conservatives should be allowed in it. He was a typical GOP member, and I do not trust any of them to be impartial. Ah, well, I guess lawyers are never impartial, they can’t be, they have to work for their clients. I suppose Madoff’s lawyer must try to get him off, knowing all the while the man was a rotter and stealing from everyone. What a profession to get into... I would not last two weeks. Although, I was in advertising for years and years, selling stuff I didn’t care about, until I could lie no more. Rather like a politician -- good god, there are too many jobs that ask that one go against all that one believes in. One wonders if the radio talk show hosts actually believe the downright lies they present. I guess they would have to, but what sad little lives they must live. How unfortunate that so great a country that my ancestors dreamed of, has descended into the filth and slime and become a land of lawyers, liars and theives.

Can any of us walk with our heads high again? At the very least, I have become a lot more tolerant of almost everyone. I do not hate anyone, but, sadly, I do not love anyone, either. Well, outside of the ones one is expected to love... one’s own. I do adore my children and grandchildren, even while being quite detached from all of them. The other sad thing about this once great country: there is a separation. One is not supposed to ‘get old.’ What a sad state, where so many old women have either bright yellow or pure black hair, attempting to regain their youth, and so many men do not know how amusing a wig or ‘comb-over’ looks. Take Donald Trump for example, he of the orange forward comb-over. Can they not see that ‘bald is beautiful?’ Well, not on me... and I do love my purple hair, although a foolish little girl at the hospital the other day said, “Do you always match your hair to your outfit?” I was in all purple that day. I guess I shall have to buy a set of those day-glo wigs they sell for Halloween. Now If I could only figure out how to make my eyelashes and mouth show up in photographs. I have disappearing features in most photos. Of course there is always retouching.....

Sunday... bloody sunday. I start with depression, and end with the same. But I have traveled from lovely letters to a land of slime, liars and thieves. I have a solution -- no one can go to law school for the next five years, then they must level out the number of lawyers left, and admit only so many to law school, keeping the number of working lawers at a very low number each year. Nonsense? Ah, well......................

"At Break of dawn...

there is no sunrise... when your lover has gone..." and the damned weather has gone along with me for this miserable week, too. We're going into what they laughingly call 'winter' here in S.F. It just means that we get snivily, drisily dark days when you can stay inside and cry and nobody notices... and you can turn over at sunrise and finally go to sleep and nobody misses you 'cause who goes out in this weather anyway. Well, at least I guess that it means that I have finally come to and realized that after nine years of what I thought of as a 'forever friendship/love' has ended by my being dumped in an email. I still find it hard to figure out how he could spend at least eight years telling me and writing me about how much he loved me and then could suddenly write an email saying he didn't. He couldn't even call me... after I had sent him a phone card when he was in a mess and had no phone he could call me on. So much for love and romance... this is the last time I want to have anything to do with it. I love guys, but I want no more love affairs. What am I saying... at my age I doubt that I will ever have a chance at one again. Love doesn't run out, but I guess that time does. And to think that nine years ago I wasn't looking for love or romance... I was just looking for a writing partner. Well, we did write some interesting poetry together, but that was the extent of it, and now, in my depression, I am having trouble writing my name, let alone any stories. What am I saying again: I wrote a 3-day novel in which he figured prominently, got beaten up and wound up being brushed off, while I turned my sights to another nutty guy. Oh no... it was only fiction, but it felt good to have him beaten up.

One of my problems is that music is a big thing in my life... and certain songs bring K back and are hard to listen to. I love Lee Wiley and some of her songs were so much a part of "us"... like "Any Time, Any Day, Anywhere" which brings him back to me so quickly. And I find myself mooning around the house singing all the terrible old 'when your lover has gone' songs. I had forgotten how many of them there are, and a sweet program on KALW took the time to remind me of ALL of them. At least they serve to remind you that you are not the only person to suffer... there must be thousands... millions... billions... beating their heads against the wall and saying, "Why me? Why me?" And yet... they eventually stop crying and get back to work or play, or something like a normal life... so I guess I will also. But right now, just let me cry and get it out of my system. You don't even have to sympathize -- just tell me to shut up and go away... it might even help me to learn to say goodbye gracefully.

"But I NEED it!"

The quote above is from Mark, aged from around four up... Elvira and I have a great little comedy act going using those words. I told her about Mark, usually the perfect child, when he really wanted something, his cry was 'But I NEED it!" The answer, of course, is "NO, you WANT it!" or the actual truth. So my cry these days goes out to unhearing and uncaring ears... "Damn, I NEED it." Silly me, I am suffering from a lack of give-and-take that I have had for nine long years with that miserable deserter, Kirk. I got used to getting a daily letter full of love and understanding and bright, intelligent conversation about likes and dislikes, interesting tidbits about everything...always something one could get one's teeth into and answer in much the same way it was given, and give back something with which to do the same. God...does that make any sense at all, even to me? What was the charm...perhaps just two crazy minds full of trivia...but always written with love and good humour. And then, as my life continued on in much the same easy, even manner, his completely fell apart and I guess he simply fell back on the whole pack of people he had supported all the years in the past, who never gave a damn about him, but still needed him for support. I didn't need him for support physically, but, oh, my mind, heart and head sure did and I guess always will. He was one of a kind -- sweet, gentle, so bright, and a someone who could have finished my sentences for me. I loved his long, strong arms around me, yes, but I loved the words that flowed from that capacious brain down through those long fingers into the computer even more. He was my brick, my Lancelot, my lover, my friend, and the reality that he is gone is almost beyond comprehension. So, is it any wonder that I say, I NEED it and mean I WANT it back...or even a pale copy might be nice......sure.


Cri-men-ettly (what is that from?...where did I learn it?) Barry and Kirk can't be the only people on this earth with whom I can have a mind-meld, can they? When we were together, we never shut up...the conversation was fast and furious....well so was the sex....but it was the constant "me too, me too, me too," that was the most fascinating. To be able to finish the last half of a favorite quotation, to the recognition of a poetry style...to...to I suppose just knowing that the 'other' KNEW what you were talking about. Granted, I shall never see another Barry race across the room, thrown himself at my feet, kiss my hand and say, "Hi, I'm Barry, who are you?" At my age, the poor guy coouldn't get up off the floor again... but there MUST be more than two others in this huge population who know what I am talking about. Maybe not, maybe I have worn out my welcome. However, once I get past the novel writing contest, perhaps I shall try another 'personals ad.' God I hate even the sound of that! But this time, maybe to someone FAR, FAR away...just to write to...never to get in the least involved with...never to 'get hurt' you mean, don't you? Yeah!

So, back to the drawing board. But this time, I am really getting busy and practicing my craft, so to speak, for the big 3-Day Novel Writing Contest. I have three 'ideas' this year, which is more than ever before, as in previous years I simply started writing, not even knowing where I might be going. Had to scrap a whole half day of stuff one year...dumb idea. I've been gearing up by writing little stories for my book about Jessie (mother), who was a great source of stories and I am finally getting them down on paper (well, 'on computer'), a good way to get the old mind going. Wrote three last night late, and will write more tonight. I find that I write best after around 3 pm. However, I shall get plenty of sleep and manage to eat real meals during the 3-Day, I always do, and can still get well over 100 pages of writing done. I do wish I could remember some dreams right now, as they can be my best source for fiction. I tend to dream movies in full color, and often with known 'stars.' I used one of my dreams for a 3-Day novel, and I thought it was pretty good...but lacked the swearing they seem to love. Those Canadians... you never know. And I always found them a bit stiff. Not in their writing, I guess.

Time for dinner. I had best get with it. I shall make myself a nice little potato salad with LOTS of celery (still loaded with that) and some purple onion. Someone put a bowl of cut onion in my fridge, without a cover! Yuk! I do hope everything doesn't smell of onion now. Retraining will be in order this next week! My foot is still killing me to walk on, but I must get used to it, if not over it, as I cannot just sit here with it 'up.' Onward and upward.....ah, well......

Neglecting again...

Here it is April...that overdone month...April in Paris....Oh to be in England, now that April's there ...and on and on. But I shall never forget getting on the BOAC plane at Ohare in the snow and slush and looking down as we went into Gatwick at the green everywhere on April 1...then gazing out as we took the tube into the City at all the green lawns and gardens before we rushed into the tunnel. London even smelled like Spring that year, and was so beautiful to see again that I cried...but then, I'm one of those weepers...sad, happy, whenever. Sometimes I'm not even sure.....

Ah, and I at last beginning to find and join websites that might help me in my writing...that are in some way related at least. I joined Twitter, although I have no reason why and my only 'followers' are people who are selling something or themselves (as in Tony Robbins and other similar types). I did find Mark Bittman at the nytimes.com website...I LOVE that man. I am going to make crackers ....he taught me how. He cooks like I do...combining all sorts of things he has in the fridge....well, maybe he doesn't and just puts his there, but that is what I do. I just pulled a piece of frozen salmon out of my freezer, opened up the aluminium, added a sliced up small onion, some herbs scronged from neighbor's gardens, a bit of soy sauce, some Maggie sauce and some wine, wrapped it back up and put in the oven, while on the stove I was cooking some fresh noodles and carrot slices given to me yesterday. Put them both into a big wide, flattish bowl, so the sauce blended into the noodles and congratulated me on the great meal, just as Mark Bittman does. As my old nursemaid Mary Phykos used to say: "Mine gott, how I can cook!" We old types in this building are so lucky, we are constantly given all sorts of food.

Well, to get back to the topic....I found another great blogging area that seems to be for creative people. I was led there by a dear little girl who is a new knitter and making sox has her knitting feverishly. I am on the writing site WEbook, but a couple of days ago I found another interesting writing site...eScribe. There is not enough time in the day now, as I am looking madlly at the knitting sites, beading sites, writing sites.....and on and on, and no time to actually DO anything. ...and I really must make something for the grandchildren, who are going to have birthdays very soon.....all three of them. I shall have to work very hard and get something done. I promised Bella that I would make her a beautiful purple sweater, and I MUST do it. Then I have to make something for the other two, or they will be upset with me.

Of course, I am also in sort of a state of depression, as my guy has disappeared once again, without a word, of course. I realize that he is going through hell....lost job, lost savings that were in his 401k,,,,lost house, as court must have been on the big lawyer's side...but he should know that I don't care if he is penniless...I love him, not his STUFF! I guess guys never realize that.

I also found a free place to look for new friends (mine are dying off or disappearing fast) that is called 'plentyoffish'....so I put a bio in for fun. Actually, I have been trying for YEARS to find a writing partner.....or even someone who could write and perform music for my poetry....or one who could illustrate my books.....which is really something I should be doing for myself, but I am getting so lazy....and writing all alone is often such a chore. I shouldn't say that, as I sometimes feel that someone is writing through me, as it comes out so fast and furiously when I sit down and start to write. I've had no trouble writing the 3-day novels for Labour Day....although I am no good at throwing in f**k you....or other lovely phrases every page or two. I seem to be able to write a whole novel without swearing at all.....I guess that is boring to the younger generation, but I don't really write for them.....hell, I write for me. There....a swear word in my blog!

And with that I shall end this one, and perhaps get down to work for a change. Ah, well...........