When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.Do you ever have one of those days when you mistake your life for a short story? When every detail is telling, every person a character, every snippet of conversation a witty quip? Do you see yourself leaving the deli after flirting with the counter man? Do you see the gumsplat and grit in the sidewalk as a constellation of stars. Is that you saying hey to Pat, the weather, the weekend, the holiday. Are those the trains pulling in or pulling out? Did a stranger leave or come to town? Are the best days ahead or behind? Do not look at yourself in a mirror.
What am I talking about?
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Betsy Lerner 
It is just a heightened awareness of everything around you- an ultra keen sense of what is happening in a moment when events are brought into acute sharpness.
Bathsheba🤔
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Ah, so that was YOU lurking along the periphery: intuiting my inner turmoil while listening to my confident tones; watching my never-ending drama fest where fact so desperately wants to be fiction; perhaps, you saw me cry? Next time, wave. We could share notes.
sounds like you’re talking about just another every day, average, outer body experience.
“What am I talking about?”
About looking at the world through the mind of a poet, perhaps.
Being a writer
Gumsplat and grit constellations. I like that.
Back when I was a child and understood some things and didn’t know jackshit about many others, I’d awaken sometimes in the middle of the night and review all that had happened in my life and see it as a dream, while the dreams (and nightmares) were my life. Which was real? Both?
My days are filled with plans and responsibilities that keep me grounded, but occasionally I still have nights like that.
Happy you’re still having those nights Mike. You rock! (and also roll, and float and dream and be) ((which helps me smile))
Thanks, Harry. There’s something about being awake when everyone is asleep and trying to hear to what the night air, full of all those dreams, has to say.
Also — I’ve been at kind of a crossroads lately and somehow you reminded me to rock and roll; I’m getting older but, yeah, I still like to plug in and get loud. Thanks, man.
Oh Betsy Lerner, you are spinning the lovely dreams of poetry that keep me coming back here.
You’re distancing yourself from truth.
Eyes open, asking questions, you are reading the room.
The dangerous place. The tempting insanity that moves within clarity. The place we must sometimes go, to move and breathe and sigh within, leaving safety nets and ropes and tropes (not hopes) always without. The real place, where ghosts are solid truths.
When I think I’m working, I don’t get those days, only go through motions. Yet no real (Real) work happens without such days and moments. Thanks Betsy for this reminder. (Tomorrow, I float)
“Do you ever have one of those days when you mistake your life for a short story?”
Mistake? It ain’t no mistake. It’s why I’m here.
“When every detail is telling, every person a character, every snippet of conversation a witty quip?”
Well … usually there’s a need for editing.
“Do you see yourself leaving the deli after flirting with the counter man?”
Not specifically, but, mutatis mutandis, I see similar scenes.
“Do you see the gumsplat and grit in the sidewalk as a constellation of stars.”
No. It’s the crud on the sidewalk. This is Chicago.
“Is that you saying hey to Pat, the weather, the weekend, the holiday.”
Could be. Looks a lot like me.
“Are those the trains pulling in or pulling out?”
The trains! They’re pulling in and out! (Fucking trains.)
“Did a stranger leave or come to town?”
Yes.
“Are the best days ahead or behind?”
I’ll need money before I can answer that.
“Do not look at yourself in a mirror.”
Okay. Thank you.
“What am I talking about?”
Yes, although not nearly as eloquently as you. And I wish I was just as in touch with my own life.
Setting sail?