Universal Studios StarWay
Daily Booth
Hollywood Hills, CA
Just got home. Out too late. Gonna be a rough morning later.
Daily Booth
Hollywood Hills, CA
You know how sometimes you think you're on track and everything's hunky dory but then you look around and realize that maybe you're not.
That's what tomorrow is for, right?
Music Swims Back to Me
Music Swims Back to Me
by Anne Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
To Thomas Moore
(Lord Byron)
To Thomas Moore
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is in1 the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh to those who
love me,
And a smile to those who
hate;
And, whatever sky's above
me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Tho2 the ocean roar around
me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Tho3 a desert should surround
me,
It hath springs that may
be won.
Were't the last drop in
the well,
As I gasped4 upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be -peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!
1 Bryon used “on”
2 & 3 Byron used “Though”
4 Byron used “gasp'd”
Summer 1955
Still hanging with my sisters. The greaser reunion rages on!
Kathy and Beth from the summer of 1955.
Yup. They're OLD!!!
When We Two Parted
When We Two Parted
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
Lad April
Lad April
April is no lady;
April is a boy,
Wearing torn green trousers
Made of corduroy!
Whistling thru the woodland
Cheerily he goes,
Nothing but the brown dust
covering his toes.
Lad, he cuts a sling shot
Out of tough green wood,
Shoots at all the squirrels
In the neighborhood.
Clambers in the treetops,
Swings across the air,
Never hurts a robin
or a bluebird there.
April goes a-fishing
with a small green rod,
No one else goes with him-
Only, maybe, God.
Kathryn Wood -
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
I'm hanging out with Beth and Kathy at Grauman's Chinese Theater right now.
Or maybe exploring Madame Tussaud's.
Beth's never seen the Walk of Fame.
More on all that soon.
Any way you slice it,
the Greaser Reunion is in full swing
and I am hanging out with my sisters.
Can't seem to get my mind off of you
Back here at home there's nothin' to do
Now that I'm away
I wish I'd stayed
Tomorrow's a day of mine
That you won't be in
When you looked at me
I should've run
But I thought it was just for fun
I see I was wrong
And I'm not so strong
I should've known all along
That time would tell
A week without you
Thought I'd forget
Two weeks without you and I
Still haven't gotten over you yet
Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone
Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone
A week without you
Thought I'd forget
Two weeks without you and I
Still haven't gotten over you yet
Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone
Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone
Vacation
All I ever wanted
Vacation
Had to get away
Vacation
Meant to be spent alone
The Walrus and the Carpenter
The Walrus and the Carpenter
by Lewis Carroll
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
Something to Think About
Something to Think About
“Ah!” sighed the World, as he
turned in bed
With a pillow of cloud for
his poor old head
And lowered the roller
shade of Night
And blew out a star that
shone too bright–
“The year is gone with his
toil and strife,
The storm and surge of the
tide of life.
The crazy brawl of the
human breed,
And I’ll rest at last – for
it’s rest I need!”
Down came an elf through the
moonlight pale
From the Milky Way
on a comet’s tail;1
He turned up the lamps
that were burning low
And prodded the World
with a small pink toe.
“Get up!” he cried, “That’s
enough for you!
There’s a heap of things for
a World to do!
“There are wounds to bind,
there’s a map to fix,
There’s a beautiful tangle
of politics,
There are towns to build
there are wheels to
start
There’s a load of crowns
for the junkman’s cart
There’s an ancient fraud in
a
brand new dress,
There are lovely riddles for
men to guess,
There are dreams to dream
There are heights to climb,
And you can’t lie there and
waste your2
time!”
So the World rose up
with a plaintive groan,
Stubbing his toe on a
tumbled throne,
To round the Sun on his
wonted track -
The deep-grooved trail of the
Zodiac,
That way of sorrows and
joys
and aches,
Of noble efforts and fool
mistakes.
But it’s good for the poor
old World, at that;
For a drowsy Planet gets
much too fat.
-
Arthur Guiterman:
A Ballad-Maker’s Pack
New Year,
1919
by Arthur Guiterman
from A Ballad-Maker’s Pack
1 Gramma
left out this stanza between “comet’s tail” and “He turned up”:
His
traveling-bag, in letters clean
Was
marked, “A.D. Nineteen-nineteen.”
2 Guiterman used “my”.
Black Notebook
There’s a small black three-ring notebook Mom kept in one of the cardboard drawers that used to be in Granpa’s basement. When Granpa died Mom brought everything from his house in Denver to our house in San Diego. The cardboard drawers, his digital alarm clock, all the books from the shelves, even an unopened bottle of Canada Dry Club Soda. Everything means everything. There were lamps and vases and sheets and towels and the killer rug , the one that would slip and slide on the hardwood floor sending me skating across the room where Gramma’s hospital bed had been. The rug would fling me into the writing desk on the far wall.
That desk is where the notebook had been until Mom brought it to San Diego and stashed in the cardboard drawer with the crinkly edged black and white photos and the tiny metal cars from an ancient board game and a shaving mug with a stag on the side. I was allowed to take out the photos and the cars and even the mug if I wanted to, but what I loved was the notebook. It smelled old and the yellowed pages were covered in fancy writing. I tried to copy the writing. My left-handed penmanship was improved over the days when all of my J’s were backward but it still wasn’t very good. Gramma had a funny way of making capital N’s that look like the pi sign: two sticks with a hat. Her capital M’s were three sticks with a hat. I’d never seen anything like it.
This wasn’t Gramma’s diary. There were no intimate details scrawled in black ink across these pages. Those pages, if they ever existed, were long gone. The pages of this notebook are filled with poetry. Not her poetry, nothing she’d written herself, no grand window into her soul. This was where she’d copied the works of William Shakespeare and Rupert Brooke, some in part, some in full. She also transcribed a poem by Lydia A Coonley. Ever heard of her? Yeah, me neither. Coonley was a suffragette who published Under the Pines and Other Verses in 1895, her only book. Gramma liked one of them enough to copy it into her notebook. One obscure poem from all the things she read. All these years later I have to wonder how they came together.
This is what I see in my mind’s eye:
Gramma pulled out a chair from the dining table and dragged it over to the writing desk where she’d already lit the wick in the oil lamp and set out her pen and inkwell. Heavy curtains have been drawn, not against prying eyes but the November chill. The inkwell is a glass jar wrapped in leather with a metal lid. The pen is bright black. It has no clip so it rests between the inkwell and the notebook so it won’t roll onto the floor. Under the notebook is a copy of Kipling’s The Years Between that Gramma borrowed from a neighbor. She wants to copy “The Son’s of Martha” but it’s cold and the desk is too far from the fire. Her fingers could get numb before she finishes so she’s chosen one stanza. She arranges a cushion that has been embroidered with violets and sits down opening the book to the page she has marked with a lavender ribbon.
This is how I imagine the black notebook came to be filled. Odds and ends from borrowed books and clippings from magazines reproduced in her hand between these covers.
Maybe it is a window into my mother’s mother. These were things she collected for herself, not to share with others. This black notebook made the journey from Grand Junction to Los Angeles back to Denver. Gramma saved it for at least fifty years until she died in 1977. Granpa never moved it and when he died in 1984 Mom brought it back to California.
Mom gave it to me several years ago along with some recipes and letters and other odds and ends. So now I’m left with these papers to piece together who Gramma was, not through the stories and photos and memories of others, but with what has been left for me to discover on my own.