tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15977639620063381062024-03-18T17:50:56.839-07:00Fiorella PlumFiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.comBlogger5757125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-61799593341221507622024-03-18T17:50:00.000-07:002024-03-18T17:50:13.795-07:00Some Oldies but Goodies<p> EATING FOR ECSTASY WAY BACK WHEN<br /></p><p>Our dogs turned up their noses at the most highly touted animal food, but would happily gulp down every scrap that came off the table.....which led your girl to the inescapable conclusion that what we eat is canine junk food. Meanwhile, she kept on scarfing down fried chicken and french fries, praying that sooner or later someone would discover the medicinal benefits of grease. <br /></p><p>Fiorella has been known to eat potatoes raw. It's genetics: her mother used to munch them... and she also ate her hamburger meat raw. That--shudder--your girl can't bring herself self to do.</p><p>To further confound you, Mom liked her <i>steak</i> well-done, while Fio has always preferred her steak rare.</p><p>As a child, Fio was taught that butter, being a dairy product, was good for her. Then she read about saturated fats and switched to margarine. Then, a couple of years later, she read that she should should toss her margarine and buy butter because of something-or-other else about the fats, but the food police keep changing their minds so much that Fio gave up and ate what she wanted to: Fiorella drinks a lot of milk and has very dense bones with not a trace of osteoporosis--although she does <i>moo</i> a lot and swishes flies with her tail. π</p><p><br /></p><p>How do you know you're all grown up?</p><p> STAGE ONE: teenage supermarket clerks stop hitting on you, </p><p> STAGE TWO: they address you as "Ma'am." </p><p> STAGE THREE: they start hitting on your daughter.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-49732521854752487452024-03-17T16:03:00.000-07:002024-03-17T16:03:29.635-07:00GRUMBLE, GRUNT, GROWL!<p> New problems for Fiorella today: she has to get someone to drive her to the place she gets her blood checked out every week, and also needs to see a doctor about her right kneecap, the one that got injured when she was getting out of bed and slipped on the cords about two weeks back.<br /></p><p>Hooray for Fio! She spent at least three hours in the bathroom and in her bed (after it was made) going through her collection of year-old lipsticks, powder, etc, and winnowed it down to at least one fourth the original size. </p><p>Your girl will admit it. She's very, very down right now. There's no one to talk to and nothing to do...except pet the sweet white cat who has just wandered into Fio's room and will probably wander out to the kitchen food bowl any second.</p><p>WHAT IN THE WORLD CAN FIORELLA DO? Everybody has a must-do but her! <br /></p><p> Fio is scared: She's still getting messages that read "PAYMENT FAILED, REVIEW YOUR SUBSCRIPTION NOW TO KEEP YOUR DATA PROTECTED.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-49677253297337936952024-03-16T18:34:00.000-07:002024-03-16T18:34:26.609-07:00HEALING BIT BY BIT!<p>Fiorella has said it before and will say it a gain: if Trump becomes president, he will continue to be chummy with Putin and allow him to swallow Ukraine. THEN ALASKA!</p><p>In the meantime, let's do what we can keep our country together.</p><p>Changing the story, your girl has torn into her ancient writings to see which ones are usable Yep, she's casting her eye on the bushels of half-finished stories that are stuck in her drawers and above the high ceilings of the windows. YIPPIE! </p><p>Whatever, Fiorella wasn't flushed down the toilet when everything went out of wack like she thought she would. Nor did she lose her purse and card which she almost did. <br /></p><p>See you tomorrow!<br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-58506712009598787692024-03-15T15:23:00.000-07:002024-03-15T15:23:07.038-07:00JOYFUL!<p> Friend Paula, who lives far, far away, called Fio on the phone this morning to make sure your girl was okay, and we had a nice long talk. Thank you, Paula, for caring. πππ<br /></p><p>Are you ready for a couple of poems again? They're probably repeats because Fiorella is still shaken from her fear of losing everything in her computer.</p><p> ALONE</p><p>So many know my name and yet so few</p><p>Know me: I'm more and less than what I seem</p><p>To be, called friend by many people who</p><p> Know me as I know night by chance moonbeam</p><p> Chameleon-like I change my psychic skin</p><p>Depending whom I'm with and what the day</p><p>Unending fitting, never filling in,</p><p>Amending how I look and and what I say--</p><p> Unclothed and mute, inside myself I know</p><p>My soul complete, its multiplicity<br /></p><p>A whole; but outside actorlike I show</p><p>The role I choose, or you assign to me</p><p> And as no one can know my my entity,</p><p> I know no one, but only simile<br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-72612108162928823172024-03-14T18:24:00.000-07:002024-03-14T18:24:55.643-07:00HELLO, HELLO, HELLO! FIO'S COMPUTER IS WORKING AGAIN! <p> Your girl will fill you in on all the news tomorrow...if her son's pugs don't slobber all over her with joyπ<br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-84096109564623571012024-03-07T16:16:00.000-08:002024-03-07T16:16:06.132-08:00<p> </p><p> </p><p>I LOST THE WHOLE STORY OF MY MOTHER'S LIFE, WHICH CAN ONLY MEAN SHE DIDN'T WANT ME TO TELL IT. SEE YOU TOMORROW!<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> When my mother was a girl, she used to paddle a canoe across the lac=ake to visit her friends, She lived on the Portage Lake outside of Akron, and the water was her highway.</p><p> Sometimes a storm would come up and the black clouds would roll across the lake, the angry water swaying her bark. Then she would lean low in the canoe and paddle more strongly because she didn't know how to swim.</p><p> Mother was in enough deep water anyway. As a child, her appearance went against her, A tall girl, she was expected to be as mature as her appearancd, and her dark coloring frightened her mother's people. "Schwartze Augen," her grandmother would say, gesturing against the evil eye/My mother's father was an alcoholic, a man's man, but a woman;s nightmare. The family lived a nomadic life, moving all arond the lakes wherever "Pop could pick up a job for a while. His older brother had died of a burst appendix when he was fourteen. His younger brother was as alcoholic by the time he hit high school. Her mother was bitter.</p><p>My Mother's eighth grade class photograph says it all. Mom, her black hair newly cut inyo a flapper bob, stands curiously apart from the rest of the students--beside them, but tilting her head awaw as if she is looking at the wotld from a different angle.</p><p>School was hher sancturay, She graduated as valedictorian of her hgh school and college ck=lasses. Then she taught for a couple of years and married my father, who did not drink, required at the time, she quit working when she became pregnant. <br /></p><p>Mother didn't like sweet talk. I remember taking her to visit<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><br /><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-55228735881577557602024-03-06T15:13:00.000-08:002024-03-06T15:13:39.469-08:00NOT MUCH TIME TODAY----<p>ALONE</p><p> </p><p>(A POEM FROM 1995)<br /></p><p> </p><p> So many know my name and yet so few</p><p>Know me; I'm more and less than what I seem</p><p>To be, called friend by many people who<br /></p><p>Know me as I know night by chance moonbeam...<br /></p><p> Chameleon-like I change my psychic skin</p><p>Depending whom I'm with and what the day,</p><p>Unending fitting, never fitting in,</p><p>Amending how I look and what I say,</p><p> Unclothed and mute, inside myself I know</p><p>My soul complete, its multiplicity</p><p>A whole; but outside actor-like I show</p><p>The role I choose, or you assign to me</p><p> And as no one can know my entity,</p><p> I know no one, but only simile<br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-22027085141335673072024-03-05T13:44:00.000-08:002024-03-05T13:44:39.658-08:00LOVE ENDURES<p> Another poem from times past--your girl wrote it with her heart and ran it in <i>Suburban Notebook</i>, a sixteen page newspaper she wrote in the 1980s.<br /></p><p> Love Endures</p><p> How long lasts love? Past tomorrow's dawn? <br /></p><p>Past hurt and anger, betrayal, desertion, death?</p><p>This weakness of the heart--will it be strong</p><p>Enough to last the years, yet be weak yet?</p><p> Love ripens in the lusty sun of youth</p><p>And is consumed, but blossoms ever-sweet</p><p>To be the springtime baby's first-spooned fruit,</p><p>The sustenance of summer, winter's treat</p><p> The Music of the song survives the singer</p><p>And echoes of itself divinity--</p><p>Thus Love and Beauty, Truth and Courage linger</p><p>Long past their actors in eternity--</p><p> How long lasts love? My love is yours</p><p> As long as Love endures, yes, Love endures<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-37535967073823913412024-03-04T17:36:00.000-08:002024-03-04T17:36:42.116-08:00<p> WHAT EVERYONE KNOWS</p><p> I turned right at Billy's pool hall. then left at God's Lighthouse and right again at Kathy's Kwality wigs, then drove down the road through the low water crossing and turned right at the dead end, putting me in the faculty parking lot of Little Whitetail High School where I'll be teaching a duel-credit-college class this fall. The weather is nasty, but I was in luck: an empty space in the first row, near the back door to the school was empty<br /></p><p> I eased into the space, half opened my door, and turned to gather my equipment from the seat beside me--purse, umbrella, satchel of books and first-day hand-outs. <br /></p><p> "Ma'am." What sounds like the voice of God boomed from above my half-open door. Startled, I jerk around, only to have my vision blocked by a large male torso. The head and shoulders were so close that was hard for me to see his face, but his voice continues in slow, measured syllables. "Ma'am, you've parked in my secretary's place. These two spaces are for the principle and the secretary."</p><p> My head bobbed like it was on a string as I look around to see if there was something I missed. </p><p> "There isn't any sign," I protested.</p><p> His voice went deep, "Everyone knows."</p><p> I glanced out of my back window to see where else I might park, but, but I must not have been moving fast enough because the menacing voice addresses me again. "Can I help you, ma'am?"</p><p> "I'm just trying to find out what spaces are available, " I explained. <i>"Oh, God--what other local dignitaries might I offend? Who else had invisible dubs on choice parking spots?</i></p><p> "They are all open," ma'am, the headless voice replied.<br /></p><p> <i> Then why can't I stay where I am, runs through my mind, </i>but instead, I just say "Oh," close my car door, and back out of the parking space. I settle into a nearby spot, and God knows who's parking space it is. <br /></p><p>By the end of the day, there are were two laminated paper signs designating the principle and secretary's parking places hanging from shiny new posts. </p><p>The flip-flap-flapping held up through several perfunctory mild pitter-pats, but the signs finally blow away in a truly magnificent Thanksgiving gale, only to be replaced by metal signs</p><p>"Those signs are totally unnecessary," I told local teacher I'd become friends with. "I'm the only one who didn't know the local custom, and now I know not to park in those two spaces. Beside, I'm not even parked out back today. I couldn't get through the low water crossing so I parked in one of those yellow-striped spaces out front."</p><p>My friend's eyes bugged out in alarm. "Out front? Those spaces are reserved for the coaches and the controller!<br /></p><p>"There aren't any signs," I protested.</p><p>My friend looked at me in horror, "EVERYONE KNOWS!"<br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p>THIS IS A TRUE STORY, BUT SOMEHOW, I'M NOT TELLING IT RIGHT....<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-88095696059799837072024-03-03T18:18:00.000-08:002024-03-03T18:18:22.195-08:00LURCHING ALONG...........<p> Hello, your girl has been working like a dog today in her studio and it hasn't been fun. Fio is trying to get all her written material--pen, pencil, papers, books, etc., and she would really like some help, but it is not to be. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR......</p><p>What the heck! How about Fio feeding you the opening page or two of a romance she has half-written?</p><p> ________________________________________________________________________________ <br /></p><p>__________________________________________________________________________________<br /></p><p> Six years of her life down the drain --Phillipa had never thought tit would come to this. She sat down on a concrete garden bench and wiped a hand on her jeans. Pulling her divorce degree out of its manila envelope, she read it through again, page by page.</p><p> Until the papers arrived yesterday, she'd had a flicker of hope that Evan would return, throw himself at her feet, and beg her to take him back. <i>Not that she would have.</i> Jonathon had gone by the wayside as soon as she had found out that he'd married her to further his career--but it would have been nice to be the kicker rather that the kickee.</p><p> She stuffed the papers back in the envelope...... </p><p> Damn! She may not have loved him, but she had become, well, accustomed to living in this venerable old house on Austin Avenue, even though it was too far too big for the two of them. Just the way she had become accustomed to spending most of her day away from the big house, either teaching at her small-town community college or attending faculty get-togethers at the big-city university where Evan chaired the philosophy department, thanks to her uncle Barney being dean of liberal arts</p><p> And now Evan had dumped her. Their home had a FOR SALE sign out front, and her social life consisted of chatting with the landlady of Kinkaid House, the bed and breakfast that she's moved into when Evan had announced he was filing for divorce.</p><p> She looked up at the canopy of trees over her head. At least she still had a place to retreat to when she waned to be alone. There was something comforting about sitting under these grand old oaks. They'd survived hard times, and she could too.LURCHING</p><p><i>Reading through this story plot again, Fio doesn't think she'll use it. Oh well--onward and upward!</i><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-36751382605096706222024-03-02T12:09:00.000-08:002024-03-02T12:19:22.256-08:00POETIC REPEATS BECAUSE FIO CAN'T FIND THE POEMS SHE'S LOOKING FOR<p> FIO SEEMS TO BE LOSING HER POSTS, BUT LET'S TRY AGAIN :</p><p>Depression</p><p> I pull it round me like a cloak of null,</p><p>This numbing void, this fine despair of mine,<br /></p><p>This somber blanker folded thrice to dull</p><p>The knife-sharp edges of my dark decline--</p><p> I need a nothingness, a time of naught,</p><p>A comfort place, an anesthetic buffer<br /></p><p>To suffocate my sense, my every thought</p><p>For if I do not feel, I cannot suffer--</p><p> For if I do not try, I cannot fail</p><p>And if I do not care, I'll haven pain,<br /></p><p>And if I do not trust, then no betrayal</p><p>Can pierce my unprotected heart again,</p><p> And if I do not hope, then no defeat</p><p> Can mortify me in this sweet retreat<br /></p><p>_____________________________________</p><p><br /></p><p> Suicide</p><p>Ah, Dorothy, your choice was much too rash--</p><p>There are other options I could recommend</p><p>Than poison, razors, nooses, guns, or gas</p><p>To bring about a graceful, private end--</p><p> The suffocation of the spirit's one,</p><p>On shallow breaths, hope is inclined to smother--</p><p>An assault on the heart can get it done</p><p>The strangulation of the soul's another--</p><p> Or you still could walk about, though dead--</p><p>A lumbering, slack-jawed zombie, hollow-eyed--</p><p>You'd grin and bow and nod your foolish head</p><p>With no one guessing you're a suicide</p><p> Don't think that, knowing, any would be grieved--</p><p> My own experience is, they'd be relieved <br /></p><p> _____________________________________________<br /></p><p>Marionette</p><p>Dress the corpse in red and bright</p><p>And paint her pretty face,</p><p>Tie lines onto her hands and feet</p><p>And make her dance in place </p><p><br /></p><p>If you hold her jaw just so</p><p>And pull it with a string,</p><p>Supply a voice and words and tune-- </p><p>Why, she can even sing</p><p><br /></p><p>Then you can whistle and applaud</p><p>Her every sight and sound</p><p>Because she is the most alive</p><p>Of any corpse around<br /></p><p>___________________________<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-20618560757225437172024-02-28T17:23:00.000-08:002024-02-28T17:23:03.584-08:00<p> <br /></p><p>I'm drunk on the wine of glory</p><p>I'm red-nosed and wobbly and gay---</p><p>So what if I die tomorrow?</p><p>At least I have lived for today!</p><p> </p><p>Dad drank milk and Mom drank tea</p><p>At least as far as I could see<br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-64941926892004641862024-02-28T16:46:00.000-08:002024-02-28T17:23:51.789-08:00Remember this poem? It's my mantra<p> This is a poem your girl wrote about four years back. It has a Christmas tinge to it, but there's a lot more to it ponder on:</p><p> Flying High </p><p> I cannot write a merry poem this year</p><p>Too much has happened lately in my life--</p><p>Uprooted from a home that I held dear</p><p>And now a widow, not a wife</p><p> Change is not my forte, my opinions few </p><p>A clock cannot run backwards, nor can I,</p><p>Thus I must gird myself and start anew</p><p>To see how high my warming kite can fly</p><p> Too late, they say--your day is almost done<br /></p><p>Pull down your kite and rest yourself a while--</p><p>Go take a break from shining in the sun</p><p>Enjoy yourself before your final mile</p><p> And as they lecture, I slip quiet by</p><p>And launch my kite into the eager sky<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-10435870220963181582024-02-27T13:13:00.000-08:002024-02-27T13:13:46.367-08:00CONFESSION!<p> Fiorella doesn't feel good, even though she's taken all her pills. She's depressed, of course--it's hard to please everyone. Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to hide herself in a closet and close the door, which is why she hides away in her room so often.</p><p>Well, Fio's great plan to save all her used pill bottles and bestow them on Walgreen fell through: the store wouldn't accept them, which surprised Fiorella. Sure, they would have had to the boil the bottles, but wouldn't it would have cost less to wash the bottles than buy knew ones?</p><p>Now is the time that your girl really needs a friend. Son and family are preparing for a week-long family getaway and Fiorella is not invited. Does she smell that bad? Ah, if only Husband hadn't died......</p><p>It's hard for Fio to believe that from when she was in the fourth grade, she used to do jigsaw puzzles for enjoyment. Your girl still has some puzzles that friends sent her when she was sick a while back, but those puzzles don't have the lure that older ones did....or maybe it's that with two cats and two dogs in the house, there's not enough room to spread puzzles out.</p><p>Fiorella has been trying to clean up her studio room, which is hard because it contains everything from paints to cut-outs to brushes to overflowing shelves to a closet over stuffed full of sewing materials. A desk/ shelf is bursting out all over with even more parafernalia. And then there is a long table in the middle of the room and sets of three big metal shelves on the side of the room across from the parafernalia area. Have you had enough? Yep, there's more. It's a wonder that your girl can even get through the door!<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-53433634137563781512024-02-26T18:28:00.000-08:002024-02-27T10:33:03.957-08:00<p> There are so many things in my life that I hold secret about regarding my marriage, my my family, and myself.</p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-13801841900422973072024-02-26T18:27:00.000-08:002024-02-27T15:33:51.854-08:00THE BANANAMOBILE and a bit more<br /><p> Has Fiorella told you that she used to sing and write music? Yep, your girl was born multi-talented, but unfortunately, those talents have been lost through the years. Hmmm, maybe she can pick one out, and rev herself up again. (Or maybe not. Her dancing wasn't that great anyway.)</p><p>By the way, there have about ten romance novels wants to finish off, but she only got two published, and she doesn't know if romance is popular any more....plus, there's the transportation problem.</p><p>The good news is that Son K, who lives up north, has asked Fiorella for Grandpa's cane. Fio really doesn't know how to transport it, but Son L has said he'll help Fio out. </p><p>CHANGE OF SUBJECT: It looks like the wild cat that daughter-in-law-adopted may have to move on. He's already taken a swap at Fiorella and the dogs. <br /></p><p>Confession: it worries Fio that the families' inherited land is so far away from where they actually live.<br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-7619082616578439542024-02-25T15:18:00.000-08:002024-02-25T15:19:34.013-08:00ALL ABOUT ME<p> Once again, Fio is working on her salon/studio/study/ trying to get her paints and papers in order, and at the same, hang worthy paintings and post worthy poems, short stories, and whatever. She'll probably stick in some photos too, if she can figure how put them on <i>FaceBook.</i></p><p>It was nice to visit with the members of the local family tree today, but your girl hopes that sometime all of us will gather together again. π</p><p>Senior son has asked me to mail Austin Grandpa's cane to him for remembrance, which Fiorella will do, but she's symyd about how to wrap the dang thing....and to wrap it. <br /></p><p>Yes, Fio is a clothes horse. She's wearing a gray and white shirt, gray slacks, gray shoes, silver earrings, and a silver watch. BEAT THAT!</p><p>Fiorella was looking through some of my papers from when she was a teacher and found Benjamin L, who, long ago, had complained to her boss for turning him out of her class because he had missed three days in a row, as per your girl's syllabus. Benjamin called Fio a "f...ing bitch and reported all to her superior. </p><p>By that time, she felt a little sympathetic to B and tried to talk to hm, but he evaded Fio, and when Fiorella did finally get in touch with him, he became arrogant. Everything went deeper and deeper, with B even saying my superiors had reinstated him, but a quick call to my boss (who had been following the show), said this wasn't true. </p><p> Actually, if B had apologized, Fiorella probably would have given him another chance-- if he cleaned up his act, but such was not to be. Poor kid--Fio wonders where he is now.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p>sa<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-44301884507484369912024-02-24T17:41:00.000-08:002024-02-24T17:43:11.749-08:00SOUR GRAPES<p>π TAKING A DAY OFF! <br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-14514962659414812452024-02-23T10:04:00.000-08:002024-02-23T12:05:59.863-08:00More Poetry and a Warning<p>My nose-- I must tidy up my garden</p><p>It blows and blows And plant new flower beds</p><p>All the livelong day-- I must water all the roses<br /></p><p>I sniffle and snort And trim the privet hedge<br /></p><p>At least a quart<br /></p><p>And that is all I'll say I must cover all the marks of<br /></p><p>_______________________________ Intruders in the night</p><p>Lordy, Lordy, it's almost noon I must rake the footprints smooth in</p><p>So I'll be having lunchtime soon, My garden of delight <br /></p><p>Then go out to the grocery store <br /></p><p>To buy myself a basket more I must bury all the old dreams<br /></p><p>_________________________________ And hide them from my view<br /></p><p>_________________________________ When I clear the time of trespass</p><p>(Ukraine will fall into Putin's bloody hands Then I can plant anew<br /></p><p> if Trump is re-elected and we'll end up with </p><p>World War Three) <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-64295076524055108402024-02-22T13:05:00.000-08:002024-02-22T13:05:41.793-08:00JUST KEEP CHUGGIN' ALONG......<p> Fio doesn't feel too good today, and it's probably her own fault: she spilled the plastic basket that she keeps her throng of pills in and may have gotten some of the cuties mixed up with others, although the only really dangerous one, Warfarin, has a red line on it and stayed safe. Never the less, your girl is gritting her teeth and praying.....</p><p>Fiorella got tired of Television's<i> Murder, She Wrote </i>some time ago, but she still can't find anything else to put herself to sleep with. Maybe she'll have to go back to some of her other oldies, like xxxxxxxxxxx. <i>GOOD GRIEF!</i> Aren't there any good left-over shows available any more!? </p><p>Hold Fio back! She accidentally dug out her cache of jigsaw puzzles and started poking around in them, which is deadly for her! She couldn't resist them as a child and wasted way too much time on them as an adult so she's going to put them away again.........<i>.maybe π<br /></i></p><p> Another one of your girl's mystical poems...</p><p> </p><p> L' envoi to "Blind"</p><p> In the theater of the mind</p><p> The unremitting reels unwind, <br /></p><p> Horrors ceaselessly replay,</p><p> Obscuring now for yesterday</p><p><br /></p><p> In the theater of the mind, <br /></p><p> Eyes that see too much go blind<br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><i> Remember, the Ukraine will fall into Putin's hands if Trump wins the election--hello, WORLD WAR THREE!</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-41549657990790201032024-02-21T15:31:00.000-08:002024-02-21T15:31:22.755-08:00TEACHING JOYS<p> Fiorella came upon some ancient teacher evaluation papers as she was going through memories of her past life and she couldn't help dropping a few sweet tears as she went along. For instance:</p><p><i><b>What did you like most about the course, or find most worthwhile:</b></i></p><p>"The instructor's sense of humor. The course not only taught "me to critically analyze day to day situations, but it also taught me orienting skills. Before I began this class, I had never written a paper. I now have the confidence and the skills to write a paper. As I continue to write, I know my writing will improve thanks to the good foundation that I was taught."</p><p>"Instructor was entertaining and informative."</p>" I really enjoyed the way Dr. (FIORELLA) took time for whoever needed her help. She not only helped me, but she encouraged me to continue with my education. She probably didn't realize the encouragement she gave the whole class."<p>"Dr. Fiorella is a good teacher. Very enthusiastic every class meeting. She made class fun."</p><p>"Dr. Fiorella way of teaching made the class keep our attention. Was funny and not boring."</p><p> ET CETERA, ET CETERA </p><p><i>They warm my heartπ ππ</i><br /></p><p> ________________________________________________________________________<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-45981798190205554852024-02-20T19:37:00.000-08:002024-02-20T19:37:48.721-08:00DREAMING AHEAD<p> Fiorella is cleaning up her "salon" piece by piece so she can discover herself again. Maybe she'll even write another book or two or get all of her poetry published. Then there are the short stories and the drawings and paintings...... but you've heard all this before. Of course, her deepest desires are a friend she could talk walk and talk with--and a big, happy dog to cuddle with.</p><p>How strange: your girl was born toward the end of WW2, and now, those many years later, we may be facing another another World War if Trump/Putin gets elected again. Think about it. Remember that he had several telephone sweet talks with Putin just after he (Trump)was elected.8</p><p>************************************************************************************* <br /></p><p>Here's one of Fio's short stories you might enjoy. It's called "Endor."</p><p> As they did every new moon, the three elderly sisters met at Starbucks, reserved a table by depositing their dear mother's cookbook on it, and walked up to the counter to place their orders. In the few seconds it took for the barista to turn to the back of the store and instruct her co-worker to ad extra whipped cream and Glinda's hot chocolate and Irene's latte, an athletically built young man pushed Nelda aside and put in his own order. </p><p>"Gimme the biggest cup of Dark Roast that you have and make it snappy! I've got places to go and people to see!"</p><p>Irene gave him a darkling look. "Sir, perhaps you didn't realize it, but you cut in line. Our sister was next."</p><p>"Too bad." The athletic young man shrugged and checked out the room for a table.</p><p>The three women exchanged hard-eyed glances, but knew better than to make a scene in public. Picking up their drinks, they turned to walk back to their table, then saw that the athletically-built young man had claimed it for himself. Glinda bristled with anger. "Sir, you're sitting at our table! That is our dear mother's cookbook."</p><p>The athletic young man glared at her. 'Find another table, Granny, and take your crazy book with you! Damn thing tried to bite me!"</p><p>A table opened up and the three sisters sat down together, put their mother's book of recipes in the center of the table, then sipped their beverages, watching the athletic young man the whole time. When he left without cleaning up the table, Glinda swooped down like a night owl sighting its prey, slipped his cup into a plastic bag, and stowed it in her purse. </p><p>Then, their faces grim, the three women drove over to Nelda's, consulted Mother's recipes, set the iron pot to boiling with the standard ingredients, smiled at each other, and tossed in the cup that the athletic young man had used.</p><p>Eye of newt and toe of frog work so much better with fresh DNA in the mix.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-59194661101202568382024-02-19T12:31:00.000-08:002024-02-19T12:31:23.441-08:00Long, Long, Ago<p> Fio is wondering......are romance books still popular? You know the type she means--good-girl sex with a happy ending--two of which your girl got published before her roof fell down on her. </p><p> Of course, looking at her stories now, she would have done a lot of things differently, but she's just found a sackful of halfway finished romances and mayhap she could get into the game again. Of course, her membership has lapsed and she 's lost touch with every writer she has ever knew due to Covid and her lack of transportation, but we'll see, we'll see......</p><p> Okay, Fiorella will admit it: maybe jumping into romance writing again would get her some friends with generous transportation. In the meantime, your girl will try to gather together all of her half-written pages.</p><p><i>Wahoo!</i> Fio just found a page from when she was teaching, which reads as follows:</p><p> Call roll</p><p> Pass out daily test</p><p> Test today--class activity</p><p> Read "Thanatopsis" </p><p> (a) foot</p><p> (b) meter</p><p> (c) rhyme scheme</p><p> (d) meaning<br /></p><p> Read bio of Emily aloud, read four poems aloud #241, #341, #712, 986. <br /></p><p> Class activity--divide into four groups, explain to class</p><p> I pt--foot</p><p> I pt--meter</p><p> I--rhyme scheme<br /></p><p> 5 points--meaning</p><p> 2 points-- presentation</p><p><br /></p><p>ANYONE RECOGNIZE THE STILE?<br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-21274604659598557852024-02-18T17:42:00.000-08:002024-02-18T17:42:35.693-08:00REACHING FOR THE STARS<p> Once Fiorella gets settled in more, she'll get some nice plastic surgery for her aging face like she did a while back after Husband died. Stupidly, she backed out half way back then, but this time, she'll take the whole trip. Maybe she can get her drooping upper arms and belly tightened up too. (Or maybe she won't do anything at but smile bigger.)</p><p>What has erupted all the above? Obviously your girl is tackling the multitudes of half-finished stories and tableware that she brought over to the "new house." WOW! Fio is certainly prolific, if nothing else--but her mother's tableware is as dear to her, as it was to her mother.<br /></p><p>Her sewing and designs are also important to her, but they are still deep down in hinterland, as are her lovely colored rugs, a couple of which she used as the background of some of her full length paintings.</p><p>Fio cannot help but wonder if eyelid surgery is a gateway drug--in the distance, she hears the siren song of a total face lift. <i>Hmmmmm........in words, Fiorella is getting restless and wants to join the world again. She's tired of her major outings being (1) to get blood tests and (2) to walk the outgoing mail to the box up the street.</i></p><p><i>YOUR GIRL WANTS TO HAVE FRIENDS, TO GO OUT TO EAT FROM TIME TO TIME, TO BE ACTIVE IN THE COMMUNITY, TO BE ABLE TO USE HER ART, WRITING, AND MUSICAL TALENTS AGAIN! PLEASE HELP HER!<br /></i></p><p><i> <br /></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i> <br /></i></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597763962006338106.post-18757291605978612052024-02-17T14:25:00.000-08:002024-02-17T14:25:35.634-08:00The Remains<p> What a wonderful visit we had with Fiorella's nephew A, his charming wife, and their two sweet children, who live a long way from us in Main, and your girl hopes there will be more visits in the future. It was amazing and wonderful how sweetly the locals (Son's first grade daughter, Daughter's baby son) welcomed their cousins (two and five) whom they were meeting for the first time.</p><p>It's surprisingly cold in Texas now, and there are rumors that the worst is yet to come, like maybe the kind of weather that tried to foze your girl to death about four years ago. <i>Remember? When the only warmth she had was her Mastiff, Sonja, who has since entered dog heaven with a crown on her head?</i></p><p><i> </i>Fiorella has been having an itch to gather her brushes and start painting again. Watch out, world! </p><p> ___________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>I'd like to burn a building down<br /></p><p>Or shoot someone from the tower</p><p>To make them know that I'm alive</p><p>For just one hour--oh, just an hour!<br /></p><p> _______________________________</p><p>"The tower" is a reference <br /></p><p> to a twisted family tragedy<br /></p><p>___________________________________<br /></p><p> If I had eyes and you had eyes and I had eyes<br /></p><p>And we could see ahead what lies</p><p> I'd close my eyes</p><p>And kiss your lovely lips</p><p>__________________________________</p><p>I stirred my coffee with a peacock feather</p><p>And on the the washer lit five golden candles</p><p>And drained the flowing blood from my heart finger</p><p>To paint the kitchen ceiling scarlet red<br /></p><p> ______________________________________</p><p><br /></p>Fiorella Plumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08086627052950612282noreply@blogger.com0