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.Write what you know. Do what you like. Try to be a good person. Hold the door open for the person behind you, even if he isn’t there. Make crust. Hem your pants. Floss. Kick ass. Write thank you notes. Drink eight glasses a day. Hands at ten and two. What you were, who you are, the perfect child. Can you write what you don’t know? Can you know yourself through writing?
What do you know?
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Betsy Lerner 
I can’t write what I don’t know, but I can come to know many things.
I know me like the back of my hand.
Looking now, at the back of my hand — actually both, I have two — I’m wondering if those are age spots under all that hair. Could be dirt.
Age spots on mine, too, particularly on my write. Don’t much care for them, but it’s either grow old or die. I think I’ll grow old as long as I can, and save the dying for last.
Prufrock Rap
i grow old
i grow old
i shall wear my trousers rolled
do i dare to eat a peach?
i shall walk along the beach
i have heard the mermaids singing
each for each
each for each
i do not think they sing for me
i do not think they sing for me
i know they don’t
i know they don’t
i know that they don’t sing for me
I should have been a pair of ragged claws…
I have a shirt, if you go to this link you can see one like it.
Make the photos big, and read the text that runs along the bottom of the shirt. It’s a little corrupted, but aren’t we all?
https://www.ebay.com.au/itm/Mambo-Loud-Shirt-medium-orange-black-green-short-sleeve-Smells-Like-Victory-/112657941174?rmvSB=true&nma=true&si=CN5dJx%252Fs1D3QeYExguobxi1IzcY%253D&orig_cvip=true&rt=nc&_trksid=p2047675.l2557
I don’t know anything. So if I want to write, it has to be about stuff I don’t know.
I’d like to say, I know myself when I write. But, I change everyday. I guess, I only know myself a day at a time.
I’m a know-it-all who knows a lot but never enough. Me? Because I write about me, I write about about many.
I know.
I mean, I really DO know. At least I think I do.
I’ve been thinking about my comment for the last hour and all I know is that the older I get the less I know about stuff. And what is disconcerting is that I don’t care about what I don’t know. Do I really want to fill my head up with stuff which will crowd out the stuff I have to know like, what time is it, where am I and what is my name and SS#.
Unfortunately the one thing I always know is my weight (within a pound or two) and that, my friends I find kind of sad.
I know to be generous with what a writer intends, when editing someone’s work. I know that the evil men do lives on in the ones they hurt, as if it was yesterday. I know my daughter will live forever in my heart, after she passes away this spring from hundreds of unforgiving goddamn tumors. I know my other daughters will need me, so I must stay here and finish the work. I know that cleaning sunflower seeds, from plants I grew for hungry winter birds, is the only thing that gives me peace right now. I know I am a great writer in a world full of great writers and there is no limit to how great any of us can become, because writing has the open sky above it, and humans are beautiful, terrible creatures full of wonder and ability. I know sadness and joy are transitory, clouds in the sky, and compassion is forever.
Your compassion and pain touches me, friend.
“Can you write what you don’t know?”
No. You must in some way know it, even if your knowledge is fanciful.
“Can you know yourself through writing?”
Only if you pay attention.
“What do you know?”
I know I believe I often speak and write truth. I believe I know I may be wrong.
“Can you write what you don’t know?” Well I sure think so…because I just wrote a story where the setting is a cotton farm and I don’t know a doggone thing about cotton farming.
“Can you know yourself through writing?” I think we already know ourselves, but through writing, we show others who we are.
“What do you know?” Common sense rules.
I don’t know too much. And the longer I live, the less I seem to know. Maybe I used to know more. Maybe there is more to know these days.
But this much I do believe: writing is discovery, whether it’s about oneself or about others, about any one thing, or many things.
I know there’s a memorial service today for a wonderful, giving person who fought a long battle against cancer. Even during her final months she fought hard to keep a local food pantry going, the biggest issue being a place to distribute the food because, in essence, no one really liked gentlemen and women of questionable character coming near their property. Barb saw only the good in people and no matter how down on your luck you were, no matter the harm you’d done, you should still get Velvetta cheese, spaghetti and peanut butter. She established and volunteered for the pantry for years, a Christian in the purest sense of the word. When she could no longer run it, she passed the torch to a lowlife she believed in. He tried, but I know he had demons of his own and a misappropriation of funds soon followed and the food pantry no longer has a place to call home. Not long ago he was arrested for harassment and obstruction of breathing. I know Barb was sad the pantry was gone and I know she forgave the greedy scumbag who didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
I know there’re too many more people like him and the ones like Barbara are fading fast.
I like to write about people I’ve known, to recognize the joy they’ve spread but also, all too often, about the ones who’ve wrecked havoc on the landscape of my psyche.
Occasionally they’re one and the same.
Love this, MikeD. Thank you for reminding us of the ordinary, un-sanctified, human saints among us.
Thank you, Greg. Yes, Barb was one of the good ones.
What do you mean by obstruction of breathing? That sounds like fatal minimizing. Was that an official charge?
I know — that’s how it’s written in the police reports printed in the newspaper. My guess is the asshole tried to strangle someone he was mad at.
I know that I know that I know. The rest is nebulous; and, not as important.
Thanks for your blog. Blessed Holidays.
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AVE MARIA! Keep The Faith. As Kerouac Said: “I. . . Being Catholic. . . Believe In Order, Tenderness & Piety.” Q: “What About Your Buddhist Writings?” JK: “I Was Always A Lay Jesuit!”
what do i know:
that nothing exists except this moment
that the stories i write in my mind are reality; not as it was, as it is and will be
that a song can carry me back to a small lumber town, trains flashing by, like voices
that i am no longer longer young; it doesn’t matter
that a reckoning is coming
rea
To willingly embody what used to seem like a ridiculous cliche, I know I don’t know. Which has a pleasant sense of knowing to it. Which could be I no longer need to grasp for identity, at 53, or I have firmly grasped that last straw. I don’t know. The conversation is fun now and no longer painful. I know that. Not to be an ass but it’s 9 and 3 now because of airbags. I know I don’t know the meaning of life. I know I don’t know if I’ve ever been right, or if I’ve ever been all that wrong. I don’t know how I’m going to live out the rest of my life but I’m getting tired of looking back so I’m going to stop that. I know I hope even though I say I don’t, or atleast I don’t mention it as a serious emotion. Ah, to know. The essence of human existence. Gotta love it. God has a grand sense of humour.