Writing Blogs

But The People Are Green

Her Circle, April 30, 2012

I am sitting at my desk, staring at two green people. A beautiful fresh-spring-grass colored green. There is a woman and a man. The woman plays the violin with her head and neck arched to the right. Behind her is a black baby-grand piano with white major and black minor keys. Sitting at the bench vigorously playing, the man’s head and neck are also arched to the right. The violinist has long red streaked orange hair. The man’s hair is black. The background of the painting is divided into three panels. The foreground is brown with shades of black; the middle is bright, egg-yolk yellow with streaks of brown. And the top of the canvas is royal blue with three dark blue oblong shapes. Within the yellow band are what looks like nine orange lollipops with red stems and red circles painted in their centers. They could be stage lights or the audience. More…

Listen. Write. Listen

Her Circle, April 16, 2012

I am sitting at my favorite corner table in Pucci’s Restaurant on the shore of the Cape Cod Bay in Provincetown. The window is open. From my seat, I see the tide coming in. The stink of wet seaweed is in the air. I listen to the water. It is July, and over thirty years ago and I’m here to make myself into a writer. It’s late afternoon, close to 5:30, and the tables are empty except for me. The sun is out and everyone (but me) is at the beach. I like it this way. I’m early so I can set the scene. My scene. At my table. I can see the entire dining room from where I sit. More…

The Loss of Words and Dead End Streets

Her Circle, January 23, 2012

My father Marvin and I have something in common and it’s not our genes. Both of us take Ambien. Only I take it to fall asleep and he takes it to stay awake. Marvin has aphasia. He forgets words due to a series of small strokes, and has a hard time speaking in complete sentences or even getting a single word out. I am a writer and my currency is language. Without words, I am nothing. Without words, Marvin can’t communicate. Marvin used to have a robust vocabulary. He could argue and swing a verb at you like a bolt of lightning in a black sky. He can’t do that anymore. I see the pain in his brown eyes, and the aggravation in his hands when he can’t say what he wants to. Often he slams a fist on the table when he is unable to speak. My father is not violent. He is eighty-six years old and frustrated. More…