Where? What? How? Who? When.

Where do I go from here,

anywhere I wish,

I hoped

Seems to be an honest request,

or so I thought,

i hoped

Trouble is, I’m not sure how I got here,

can you hear me,

i hoped

I’m not even sure there is a “you”,

like you’re real,

i hoped

When I open my eyes,

I’ll be awake,


i could only hope


-dld o2.o8.11-


ThiningTen – Take it Away, TuesdayWhere do I go from here? 

The only rule: start your story with the above sentence

P. S. #187

When my brother and I were younger we played games in our room, usually an assortment of made-up things to pass the time, but the feats to see who was stronger or faster, were serious business!. When the weather shed it’s snow and cold, we could be found outside, on the playground. He in the sandbox, playing with matches and fluid to light the barbeque (yes, he was a pyro) and I on the swingset or hot metal slide. There were also those “family” ocassions, when Pachisi or the checkerboard for a game of checkers was brought out of the coat closet for the four of us to battle one on one with the roll of the dice.
I can remember my father telling stories of his youth, which was so very different than ours. He grew up in New York City, Washington Heights to be exact. I thought it was a cool place, but then again, as I child I always fancied the more odd or bohemian and thought those children were lucky to have so much within their reaches, but i quickly learned that the city is no place for childhood, according to my dad.
The one place that I found most interesting was the roof of his apartment building. That is where my father practiced playing the drums. It is actually a great place to play them, for the city’s hum, drummed out, no pun intended, the racket he was surely making.
One of the most unusual uses for the city rooftop, can be found in the buildings that house the schools. Dad didn’t grow up with expanses of land between buildings, so where else were they to put the gymnasium? That’s right, he had gym class on the top floor, which was the roof. A few years after telling us this fact, we saw firsthand what he meant. On a trip to see my parents good friends who lived in Brooklyn, we drove up and down the streets of his old neighborhood. Dad was always pointing up, to show the gargoyles that donned the facade, but we slowed down to a stop, when he pointed up, it was a school, his old stomping ground. Where he dribbled basketballs, learned a proper push up, and played the all-time kids favorite – Dodge Ball.
My brother seemed bothered by this and asked why there was a fence on the roof, and Dad said that they’d lose too many balls if it weren’t there. Of course they would, not to mention that someone may fall off themselves!.

-dld January 24, 2011-

*P. S. #187, Public School #187
ThinkingTen – On Location, Mondays: On the roof

~It Will Take Until April To Read This~


eye weight four this winter sea sun
two show bear nekked trees
in miss teary us gloree
in fraughst’s eye see prizms 
and toughts of whyte glissen
too terning green,
thenne spring whill bee neer
and eye ken find ree sun
knot two ware sleaves!
-dld january 9th, ’11-
for The MUSE is IN Writing Group (prompt):
 I wait for…
My post for WordPress’ postaday2011:
How do you stay entertained when you are snowed in?

Delicate Surgeries

My brain hurts. My cranium has atrophied, and I’m starting to believe that I was never meant to perform delicate, precise surgeries. Some tell me to give it up, that I’m only fooling myself. Others tell me that I’m on a mission and should complete my work. I don’t know who to believe anymore. All I am certain of is the feeling of being clogged, then drained of my senses, only to become numb and unwilling to move on.

It all started three months ago, when I was intent on finding a cure for curling of the pages and those pesky spots which creep in like a fox on a henhouse, leaving only the marks of having been there, yet to relentlessly propagate more hazing reminders of having been there in the first place. It seems that finding my niche with the ephemeral, has me wondering if I aided to the allergies that have entered my head and have left me in such a flat-line with my work.

It was an old book, leather bound and had been stored in the most uncaring conditions – an attic with leaks. Usually glad to get my hands between the binding’s seams, I found that I could not continue past this step. And after visiting physician to allergist to ear, nose and throat specialist and being prescribed one sinus drying-up agent after another, I was starting to rethink my vocation and began looking for a more suitable one that didn’t compromise my sensory judgement.

Deep down inside; however, I knew that my work as a curator of ephemera was important to the history of man. So many times in our histories, have fires and floods and asteroid smashes, inhilitaed the remnants of a society that once was. I couldn’t do it. I could not leave my work, for I was so pleased with myself as I immersed in saving those documents and am so proud to have saved a part of the past, that I didn’t know of another job which would bring worth and scope in being useful.

Yes, my brain hurts, but if that is what needs be, than who am I to take away such contentment. I’ll just keep popping Claritin® every twelve hours to get through.

-dld 12.28.1o


Take it Away, Tuesday: My brain hurts.

The only rule: start your story with the above sentence (write whatever comes to mind; improvise!).

The Best Laid Plans

Patrice was a person who did not like waiting for anyone. It did not matter their reasons for tardiness, it did not matter that their complex lives didn’t always include her, but there she stood, dressed to the Glam with the purse she bought while in Italy and the smart shoes from Greenwich Village, donning her Vera Wang brushed silk day dress with her Foster Grant’s dressing her face. Patrice was just standing in her living room, you know, the one designed by Pierre? She was standing in her living room, waiting in her uptown condominium for the doorman to buzz her.


In the meantime, Chloe was trying to deal with a broken heel as she hailed a cab in the rain down in SoHo. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable ride, but she was doing the best she could, after the heel broke and having broken four of the five nail tips on her left hand. When the traffic came to a halt. It was a sea of red tail lights lining Fifth Avenue as far as she could see between the wiper blades.


After seven minutes of not moving, she told the cabbie to let her out, she would find another cab, but to her dismay, the cabbie said she wouldn’t find one that could get through all of the congestion, that Barnum & Bailey were moving wide-load trucks with equipment for their new show at The Garden.  Miffed, Chloe said, “Fine, but turn the meter off, I’m not paying just to sit here!” The cabbie obliged, but clicked it up four bucks before turning it off.


Meanwhile, looking out her condo window, Patrice started to daydream and her stomach was starting to growl. Simultaneously, Chloe was looking out the window of the cab thinking about the salad she would order when they arrived at the restaurant. Finally, the cab was moving again.


Forty minutes late, Chloe arrived at Patrice’s building, ordered the doorman to ring Patrice, but he just stood there. “Do–you–under–stand–eng–lish?” Chloe belted to him. “Yes ma’am, I can’t call for anyone, because you can’t go up”, was his reply. “Why not? You’re not in charge, who’s in charge here?”, Chloe stomped her feet in that two-year old’s way. “The tenants have known about this for a month and a half, it’s not my problem” the doorman said smugly.


“Well !”, Chloe was irritated more than she wished, for she was wet, hungry and had broken parts and pieces and now she was not allowed upstairs? “No ma’am, not until the men from Otis get here, ya see the elevators are 119 years old and they, they, stopped working. All four of them.” Chloe new this was bad, she’d never get to have lunch in that new Bistro. She must have looked like she had a sad case of the blues, because when she least expected it, the doorman was holding a brown bag he took from the drawer, opened it and offered her half of his bologna sandwich and Chloe… she took it with apprehended appreciation and thanked him.


What about Patrice, you ask? She was so stuck in her designer dream that she took sleeping pills, instead of fiber tablets to hold her over… now she can continue her dream of running into Paul Newman at the Bistro, and the story she’ll get to tell.

-dld 11.15.10


T10 – an elevator