writings.htm

I've posted in a few of my prose writings, in no particular order,
and you can also click on the UNDERLINED LINKS on the next few lines to see more pages.
ABOUT WRITING -- I am learning again how to write, and it's odd to say it, that I may be a poet, but at least I am when I'm writing poetry, and I am learning that the poet is by his nature a greatly courageous person, unafraid to show his vulnerable self, and unafraid, nay compelled, to expose what he sees. I hope I won't let you down -- ms

I've lived inside these pages. -- a piece of my life, of my heart, of my sappy soul, are here.

SOME OF MY EARLY WORKS
WRITING INSPIRED BY FIRE ISLAND
From Fire Island With Love - a diary
Musings on my Birthday 2003
On Couples when one is HIV poz and one ain't

The Blizzard Of 2003 – Blondie’s Adventures
A Horse and Her Driver – A New York Moment
Princess Pamela and her Restaurant -- Early Soul
Some of my Travels

Jimmy's Story -- First chapters of my novel
Macroscope -- another chapter

Joey's Story -- A San Francisco Memoir

My First Truffle – Restaurant Pic
Chef Bocuse and Veal Kidneys
Foie Gras and Champagne – My First Time
The Market at Chalon -sur-Saone
Moulin de Mougins, Verge – Death By Garlic
Chinatown New York 3 am -- The Real Thing
Dungeness Crabs – you can find anything here
The Naked Cook -- the morning after
Cinco de Mayo -- family food at our restaurant
Denim Dan -- a hot story about chilies
Dennis Meyer -- when my closest friend died

Restaurant

I have lived with DOGS and CATSfor most of my life, some stories about them appear here
A farewell to our cat, Iris
Nihzee's first ride on The Long Island Railroad as a Seeing Eye Dog
Journals from my TRAVELS will appear on this page, also food and dining.
INSIDE ME here are some more personal memoirs:
A Eulogy for a friend
Christmas 73
HOLIDAYS
MORE TRAVELS to Tuscany, where I learned to make pasta by hand
A Christmas Eve in Pennsylvania
Return to Fire Island - a memoir after Tuscany

Here are a few of my earlier pieces, written at Fire Island
Scroll down here for a sampling.

AFTER AN ECLIPSE ONE MORNING
Fire Island Pines, 1996

We run easily on the cool wet beach, the sand is hard.
it's 6am. A boy and his dog.
Lulu and me,
(yeah! I know...
but I like the way it sounds)
The island gave us an eclipse last night
it was awesome, makes me humble. Who could sleep!
Life here with nature is so beautiful.
we’re so happy to be on this beach today
it’s blissful, I am out of breath, exhilarated
feels great -- to be able to run.
I who was almost dead last year.
It’s so easy to tell how full of joy the dog is.
She doesn’t need words, and I shouldn’t need words
to let GOD know how grateful I am. – HE just knows.
Just to be there, together, skirting the waves,
Her excitement is infectious.
I can’t imagine a happier moment.
Heaven is right here -- right now.

We walk up to the harbor
as the boats arrive with workers to begin their day.
silently they pull in from their trip
from across the bay,

today it is smooth, misty-gray. There is morning fog.
they emerge soundless out of the mist.
Rising up like some ghostlike, majestic sea creatures.
Viking ships lined up, side by side.
You can barely hear the purrrrr of the engines
until they enter the sleepy harbor.
There is no hint of what’s to come
from this quiet invasion.

The work day begins as usual on this island resort,
some give it a bad rap -- I see it differently.
but these folks are apart from that –
they are the drones,
They have my respect, admiration,
they work hard.
they live on the mainland,
Every morning they arrive by boat;
the bosses bring the workers to the jobs,
and ferry them back across the water each evening.

There's many hellos, friendly and business mixed,
the huddle before the game,
the needed bits of networking,
business connections, everyone is busy.
soon they will all disperse among the woods,
to finish jobs promised the day before yesterday.

Tie up the boats, get serious,
line up the troops,
grab the last swig of unwarm coffee
from the paper cup, bought at some
friendly coffee shop before leaving the other side,

John is feeding dried corn to a huge buck -
eating out of his hand!
"I want his horns" he says
"He's beautiful"
Will you kill him?
Nope, the horns fall off
and grow back every year.
Oh! Great!
Well, then,
then I want a set for me!

Clern is up, chatting with a neighbor.
Mom’s already at her post,
always there...
the rock on that sand bar.
Lulu and me - we’re just observers,
wanting to be a part of it,
looking for our place here in this morning gathering,
It’s our home too.

Eulogy
it shows how I used my island to heal myself.
or at least to try.

Sunday, Sept 22, 1996 -- I am speechless with pain.
I just left Dennis' memorial. I arrived late,
after the eulogizing was finished,
I had thought that there wasn't going to be any of that,
and I had hoped
that I might have been able
to speak a few words,
but since I went late
(obviously avoiding something)
there wasn't a chance to do
anything more than
be there for the people
who were left behind.
Imagine me shy about speaking in front of people.

You know the film cliché
where you see the street?
deserted.
not a single sign of life
Not a bird,
not a dog, or a cat, or a person...
and that sole garbage can
is blowing around in the wind?
Nothing,
you get it? Nothing,
That's how I felt.
I was so angry, My friend was gone.
my rage was blocking everything.

Even tears couldn’t come.

Could I have changed it?
Given more comfort?
Been a better friend?

So I drew myself toward the part of my world
where there is life. Celebrating Dennis.
I needed the living,
that's why I was home at 71 Bay walk
listening to the distant surf from my bed.
the deafening crickets,
the birds, screaming,
the wind howling and the leaves in my trees,
ceaseless angry noise!
All sounding my own mute frustration.
I am screaming -- You just can’t hear it.

This weekend, barring a hurricane,
I shall take Lulu to the beach
and spend the day relaxing
and making some plans.

Autumn 1995 - I'M HOME -

I'm home. my island home, my sacred place...
Here to be closer to my God, to my thoughts...
my friends... to my own self.
The island is really at its most beautiful now,
autumn is beginning to settle in;
I can smell it in the air,
see it as I drive thru Sayville,
old houses being restored,
gourds, pumpkins,
shabby, carefully made scarecrows,
fragrant intoxicating apples at the
farm stand.
the sky light is less red,
more blue,
whites appear more brilliant,

signs in my old warm house
of visits from friends who've left their marks
and kindnesses... mementos of happy weekends,
great wine, good food, good conversations...

and the creatures are being busy
getting ready for the lean time to come.
My house's spiders are painstakingly
preparing for their winter sleep...
it's fun to watch them spinning -
so industrious,
especially when I'm working
on feeling so relaxed

and yet I also know that I
too
have to be making plans for the winter
... The Black Sheep, you know...
But now, there's the Pines beach...
and the warm-ish ocean surf
and oceanfront walks at dawn with Lulu.

A long walk with Stan & Zeke, dinner...
Coffee with my family of friends at the meat-market
before they open for business.
The smiles from the sweet folks at the pantry,
Mark, Eric, Laurie, Sue, Rich,
Lulu, my best friend, and me
sitting together at the Pines harbor,
sharing one of Clayton's fresh-baked
blueberry muffins,
and seeing who's still out
after the season starts winding down.

Everyone who works here seems more relaxed,
like the big event has been run;
and they can just kick back
and have some fun
on that beautiful sandbar.
After all, they've earned it,
it's they who make the place what it is -
not
the summer people,
I'm home here, and happy.

LATE SEPTEMBER

Late September.
Have you noticed how fast
the summer passed?
it seem'd we'd have it longer
so much making ready,
anticipation.
now the house is quiet...
no one comes out.
distant walkers alone on an empty beach
and the evening sky.
how red it is!
how like the fires of hell,
deep blacks,
dangerous cold reds
awful harbinger of lonesome winter
of fierce, biting winds
cold wet slush
black two week old ice in the gutter
the warmth of a friend
the cold out there,
and we inside.

ESSENCE
SCENTS

It had rained the night before, and the September morning island air was warmish and still moisture laden, the woods were starting to drop a few leaves. The rain had done that; they were all over the ground, and trees had fallen over, and the ground was damp. The air was laden with fresh forest smells, lush sweetness of rotting vegetation, and as I walked along the boardwalk to the beach that monday morning I was glad I had decided to remain on the island. I'd almost left for the city the night before, but I never could leave this place.

I inhaled deeply as I could, it wasn't enough; I was frustrated. my inept lungs were incapable of bringing that universe of sweet freshness inside me. I kept trying, as though I could take it all in somehow. (I am trying to paint this moment with words, I won't succeed.)

I adore the wilderness of the Island, and want to describe it to you. About wilderness, as this island place is, untamed, beyond man's limitations, existing without the need for man to comprehend it, created by forces larger and we are. savage power of creation, reminding me of my place here, to observe, to appreciate, like a fawn. here transiently.

He sits there on the mid-September beach, light breezy it is, the surf’s up, the water’s warm, there’s a dog, his best and faithful silent companion, and he’s leaning against a log, writing, what ever he feels he must. He has his special writing book, it’s supposed to be profound, but there’s that sky -- what a show of clouds -- and the water, that light reflected from those clouds, and the beach, and those breezes! It had rained again last night and he adores rain so very much. The reason to be there is to do some thinking and some writing, but it’s impossible – you see there is so much beauty all around him that he finds it vain to create any of his own in such a setting. So again, he sighs, lays back and lets nature take over. How did Walden ever get written! Writings to say that I can’t write.

All those supposed-to-be-important thoughts, those wanna-be-great revelations about life, things he wanted to share, they all evaporate -- no words now, only the overwhelming beauty of nature all around him, and he is without words, understanding that perhaps this moment of saturation is indeed the only message, and that it can never be written.

THE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING - 1996
a letter to my best friend Stephen M.
Hi.
Took the car, Lulu,
and Sunday afternoon
off
and drove to the island.
I thought you would have enjoyed it.
it was beautiful,
sort of bleak,
but in a wonderful Fire Island way. took a 2pm
boat, which stopped at the grove first. a surprising number of
people were there. you know, the hard liners... like me. (smirk)
Lulu is an incredible companion, she loves taking excursions. We
hate being apart. (do dogs have healing powers?) It was
nowhere as cold as one might have expected, but I was bundled.
My house has a great heater. Wish I had gotten to the beach,
but time didn't allow. I managed to say a gentle goodbye to my
wonderful house, finally, after so many almost-goodbyes, but I
know I have to be here in the city for the rest of the winter... I
wasn't sad this time, just melancholy - it's a beautiful thing to
know that I was putting it to bed, like a friend, and that I would
be there, as early as the weather would allow, this spring.
I took the benches inside, trimmed the herbs on the
upstairs deck, and I took whatever edible produce there was and
threw it outside for the deer. I took my toaster back to the city,
and switched off the heater pilot. Finality. and so head off to
the ferry for the 4:45. By then it was getting really cold, the
damp was getting to me, and the light was going. I was happy to
be leaving, that was a good feeling too. I enjoyed the crowd on
the boat. we were all going home, but we had shared thta time
on the island. our island.
I know you like it best "in the season", I hope one day you
will come to love it at times like this as well. It restored me to
get away for even those few hours. I was amazed at how
rejuvinating it was.
When I was a kid, I usually hated Sunday afternoons in the
early winter, dark, solemn, cold, lonely. My parents used to load
all of us into the car back in New Bedford and take Sunday drives,
I always felt a special blue depression on those darkening-much-
too-early afternoons. (does keith's ring a bell?)
I drove back to the city in the early evening, the radio was
playing rock oldies from 1963, and I felt so rejuvinated and ready
for work. Old rock'n'roll, my adolescent themes. Even my eyes
didn't bother me that night, sometimes they appear to be okay.
Even with the drive, the driving in the dark, (my eyes are getting
a bit better, and I can be careful and do it when not tired. I was
sooo up! I was relaxed, happy, and confident. I needed that.

It was wonderful speaking with you from the car phone while I was driving in that rain,
thanks for putting up with me, again, as usual.

One of my early gigs as a chef had me working for a Breton named Pierre,
who lived to fish and hunt, and did one or the other every single Tuesday.
He offered me the chance to join him, which I did, as often as I could.

CHEF - for Pierre:
I used to hunt critters
small animals, rabbits
game birds, pheasants
and fish too.
upstate in Brewster and Amenia -
it was beautiful.
cold early-winter mornings
we'd leave the still dark metropolis,
gray silhouettes of the city towers behind us,
my Brêton friends Pierre and Yves
braconniers - poachers...
and Nihiz, my faithful companion dog...

paté sandwiches on french bread
hard boiled eggs, pickles, beers
toting a browning .20 gauge
a killer, silently stalking.
tall brown grass hiding us
crunchy virgin ice-snow breaking
beneath my camel-skin boots
revealing wet brown mud.
razor cold air in my lungs
feeling so very alive

it was primal, I was my ancestor
homosapiens seeking his food.
and I have killed animals,
to eat them.
but I don't do it anymore
turns out,
I'm really a lousy shot
and I can't cause pain
any longer.

I recall with revulsion how I felt
when I had the limp, warm
body in my hands,
firing too many shots to be sure it
felt no pain. no clean kill.
you know, it taught me to
appreciate the value of life
made me a better cook,

food is real, not a plastic-wrapped
something on a shelf
each animal I cooked
was a life. God given.
it deserved my utmost respect.
my highest skill.

A CREEK SOMEWHERE`
fishing in a creek
before dawn
grey mists above the quiet shussshing flow
silent , ceaseless.
hypnotic, strong against my body
I'm chest deep in a pair of waders
feeling the constant rhythm of the water
pushing, caressing me.
aware now of an unseen
underwater rock
as the water's touch varies
of a narrowing in the bank
even sense the pressure of a fish nearby,
I was a fish,
I understood how they sense
not with eyes,
but thru the water
surrounding them
and there was the bottom
some stones, some mud, then sand
all different
there is so much to a creek.
oh. I am here to fish. shit, do I have to?
that means catching, killing, cleaning, and eating.
bam! a trout on the line. I pull it in too easily
no fight. no thrill.
now what? my first trout.
Pierre: "why not have it stuffed?"
great! a souvenir, a memory of the stream
it's on the wall.
but my body remembers the creek.

HOW TO WRITE - TWO LETTERS TO FRIENDS WHO ASKED ME ABOUT WRITING
Jorge --
Sweet man, you wish to write about "Jesus wept"?
just make a beginning.
Writing is always difficult at first,
(what isn't!)
but the beauty of it is
that it resides within each of us,
and all we have to do is
gently speak to the rock.
like Moses.
Sit down, turn on the PC,
close your eyes
and let Jesus flow into your thoughts,
he's already there, you gave birth to the thought.
Let the idea of his weeping be inside you.
I know you can do that.
you were beautiful enough to conceive the subject.
you can write it.
Then begin anywhere.
doesn’t matter what or where,
once it starts to flow,
you will give it shape.

Noni,
My writing,
effortless. you call it effortless.
and you ask how.
well, once you begin,
once you start to put your thoughts down
and to be unafraid to share them with people you love
and trust, then, where's the effort?

You can be awkward at first,
it’s okay, there are no rules to follow
that's the beauty of it;
you can't fuck it up.

I often start somewhere and realize
that I've begun at the middle.
so I have to go back and paste on a beginning
and then, the ends, like Beethoven's,
never want to stop coming.
He had so much to say,
so many thoughts, all wonderful.
How I would love to have been able
to have a conversation with him,
his music, so many ideas, all there,
in one mind,
and he had to decide how to string them out,
so they reach the artist, and the listener
at the right moments. So we could understand.
No doubt we’d be shouting, at one another,
you know he was deaf.
Can you imagine? And such beautiful music!

so I write it all down, everything.
I can always delete it.
walk away a while
then come back.
and do a bit of polishing up.
editing.
it never emerges in one complete bubble
a thought is a different shape
than a line on a page.
I need to work on it, I can be so windy...
it’s okay, I trust myself, it will never be just perfect
it’s only for me, anyway.

one thing I do is read my "things" out loud
(I never know what to call them)
and see how they SOUND to me.
that helps, since my goal is to say something to
someone, it has to sound spoken, not written
like myself.

My friend Jorge asked me a similar question
just this rainy April morning,
both your sweet letters.
and I tried to tell him... something.
- he wants to write something beginning
with "Jesus wept"
what a beautiful concept!
have you any ideas for me to share with him?

he is a truly beautiful man,
I really can't wait to see what he does.
Silly, he wonders about his grammar,
as if beauty needed grammar.

I'm looking forward to seeing you and your father
at The Black Sheep week after next,
the new spring menu, more poetry,
is under continuous construction!
keep writing!
Love, Michael

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