The wonderful ones

The composer who made me smile the first time I heard his voice, and has made me feel at home every time he's sat down at the dinner table.

The Irish playwright who can make me laugh with a sentence -- or a word.

The painter who said: You speak your mind. I love that about you.

The poet who drove us to town, saving my sanity and allowing me to buy veggie chips.

The British composer who said I blame you, laughing, when we both stayed later than expected at the dance party.

The poet who, like me, missed her husband.

The documentary filmmaker with down-to-earth eyes and a fascinating project.

The video artist who provided an accessible entry to amazing work.

I am so glad to have met them all.

Missing

I've been sitting on my screened porch listening to gunfire in the woods all afternoon.

I am missing.

A heart, an arm, a leg, a kidney. Hell, a nostril.

I am missing what I need.

I am not whole here.

I am crying.

I miss you.

Lunch Poem No. 17

Raymundo thinks I should leave early.
"Who'll notice?" he husks
in his doggy-smoker tones.

He throws one of his wooly charges
the eye
and the creature retreats.

Like that.

Not a word.

"You gotta be like that," he says.
"Tell them who's boss."

He forgets we're both caged.

Today's writing

I gripped my tray table on the flight over, eyed every dark-skinned man who seemed capable of doing more than sneezing. Not on my flight, you fuck. No you don’t.

In the days after the attacks, I tried to hunker as close to home as possible. At one point I had to take the subway into San Francisco for a job interview. Waiting for the train back to the East Bay, I saw a man in a turban checking his cell phone. A bomb, I thought, and he’s bringing it aboard. The train arrived. He stepped on. I remained on the platform.

I didn’t tell anyone. I knew what I was feeling would be considered wrong, prejudiced, jumping to conclusions. I also knew the depth to which it was felt, and how I didn’t want to have to defend myself.

I wondered how many people stayed behind on that platform with me.

Paul McCartney, "Baby I'm Amazed"

Maybe I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you pulled me out of time
And hung me on a line

Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you
Baby I'm a man maybe I'm a lonely man
Who's in the middle of something
That he doesn't really understand

Baby I'm a man and maybe you're the only woman
Who could ever help me
Baby won't you help me understand,

Baby I'm a man, maybe I'm a lonely man
Who's in the middle of something
That he doesn't really understand

Baby I'm a man and maybe you're the only woman
Who could ever help me
Baby won't you help me understand, oohhh

Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you
Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song
Right me when I'm wrong
Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you

Oh maybe I'm amazed.
Maybe I'm amazed.
Yeah, yeah yeah.
Yeah, Maybe I'm amazed.
I'm amazed, with you.
Oo-oo. Oo-oo.

Baking a book

I saw Joyce Maynard read from "Labor Day" today at Toadstool Books. She wrote it at this time last year -- right here at MacDowell in Kirby Studio. It was written in two weeks. Two weeks!

Joyce is an avid pie-maker, and she said: "It's all about the crust. Anyone can do filling." When I asked her how that metaphor translates to writing, she said: "Don't overhandle the dough."

Good to remember.

Today