Tuesday, April 26, 2016


Understanding, as I have to now, though still unable to learn how to do the right print after all these years, that I may not be able to write/fully record all the memories I have while I still have them, I am trying to empty my desktop of some of the notes on them that may be of some meaning, if not value.  So I found this old pome, as I used to call them, as that sounded less affected.  It is on a notepad from the Cipriani, the Great hotel(it deserved capitalization,) at least it was when managed by Natale Rusconi, arguably the greatest hotelier in Europe, if not the world, whom I had the privilege to call friend.
     So here it is.

     Free me of Ego
     Free me of Regret
     Teach me to forgive
     What I struggle to forget
     Raise me above
     Foolish earthly cares
     So I fly on a higher plane
     Than do the billionaires.
     Keep me aloft
     Loving, caring, soft
     Hold up my soul
     And make me whole.

I don't know.  It doesn't look as good as it did on that little pad when I still had my Bryn Mawr print going for me.
   I use to sit behind those girls who'd gone to finishing school and prep places where they'd learned to squarely primp on their pads, and wonder if I could ever seem as elegant as they were, albeit Jewish. That I ended up traveling the world, sometimes repping places in it, seemed, and probably was some kind of miracle, a kiss blown to me by the gods or goddesses of exploration, though they likely understood I was better off not attempting to plan what exactly was happening to me.  Just as right now, the little bird, a dove she apparently is, who is sitting on her eggs(two they are now) in my window box, has obviously become more comfortable with my presence, as she has turned so I can see her face, and her eye is toward me, looking, I would have to guess. I would show you but I don't yet know how to send the picture, though I have taken what are obviously a couple of splendid ones, one as she has stepped aside to show me her eggs-- "Look what I've done!" and the new posture today: "See, I can trust you, so I'm looking at you almost directly, instead of simply showing you my tail."
    Am off now to check out what there is of New York that I can access easily, as ambition, longing, exploration seems to be eluding me.  Maybe this will pass as the weather warms.  Living in California has apparently made me slothful.  Or at least less exploratory than I was.
    Or maybe that is just life itself, since I have been lucky enough to live so much of it.
    But on the simple side, the sneakers I bought yesterday were a weighty mistake.  I miss my Adidas.  Is there a poem in that?

    Oh my.  I just remembered.  Today is my Anniversary.  April 26, 1964, I married Don at the Plaza Hotel.  It was a Sunday-- it had to be: my mother was suing my father for child support, for me, and that was the only day he couldn't be served.  I was twenty-nine years old.  

    He owed her for all the years of child support he had been supposed to be paying her, between my twelfth and twenty-first years, which he hadn't done. To let you understand more about my father, he had moved to Arizona because his wife, to whom my mother had introduced him because she'd destroyed her first husband and Helen, Mom, assumed she'd do the same to Lew, my dad. Instead, they moved to Tucson to heal her allergies. 
   Mel Brooks, a good friend in my youth, said "A man moves to Tucson, looks around, says:'Who's the Mayor?  Nobody!  Okay, I'm the Mayor.'" Funny as Mel always was, but not exactly accurate.  Lew might have looked around and become a Republican, because that was the party that could win.  He was never a Republican in Pittsburgh.  But then, in Pittsburgh he was never much of anything.  It was Helen, Mom, who got him a commission in the army during their separation-- she had worked her way up from a secretary to know everybody and got him officered and sent to Asia, Korea, someplace he could send her money from but didn't. That was usually his shortest suit. 

    There was a process server waiting outside the room we got married in at the Plaza, stationed there until it was midnight, when he would be able to hit my dad(I think I can call him)with the subpoena.

I brought the process server a glass of wine from the wedding.  Harry, my father-in-law, had brought us the wine, which he, as a restaurateur got us wholesale, and which might have been his gift, I can't remember.  But he was generous, albeit with a Bronx accent.
    As I remember, everybody had gone home long before midnight, so the summons was never served.  I don't think my father ever paid my mother back.  But then I don't imagine it ended up meaning that much to either of them, and certainly it couldn't now, as they're both long dead.  Selma, my father's second wife, to whom my mother had introduced him, imagining she'd kill him, I would guess, lived to 99.  As Cary Grant, to drop my favorite name, said: "Hate will keep you alive longer than love will."