About my blog. I have tried to keep to a schedule, but not well. My hope is always to post on Tuesday and Thursday, but lately it's been one or the other. Or catching up with Thursday over the weekend. The blog is a melange -- stories about people from the book or others how accomplish or have accomplished much in later life; poetry; neuroscience and aging, and dance and the brain. I would like to write more essayistically, but time really hasn't permitted me to do that. I've mostly fallen back on reporting, more or less. Another goal for the blog is to do more original interviews on it. Alas, while on deadline on the book I'm ghosting, I've been lucky to find the time to do anything.
Now, I'm off tomorrow to take my mother to the hospital for a battery replacement in her pacemaker. We don't expect any problems. She's tough stuff.
I happened to remember the name of my first portable computer. It was called Kaypro.
Take a look at this streamlined baby:
http://oldcomputers.net/kayproii.htmlAnd speaking of 1955, here's a poem I wrote about my mother and her relationship with her vacuum cleaner, circa 1955:
VACUUM (1955)
You were the vehicle of her obsession
to rid our house of dirt,
if not disease,
a gray, urn-shaped, chrome-grilled fish,
a stove-enamel bottom feeder
which inhaled us clean.
I come to you, icon, dust grave,
employed by love until you seemed
almost a lover,
angel of hygiene reposing on rounded rail sleds,
Lurelle Guild’s Model XXX
Electrolux,
whose name, richer than Royal, Kirby or Hoover
(though Eureka had its claim),
was scripted
in post-war aluminum over nail-polish red,
implying something feverish,
sexual.
She slid you out— electric, streamlined,
bullet shaped— and unfurled
your cloth hose,
placed it in the slant nose hole
until clips clicked on curled
metal lips.
O ardent machine
that burned to suction rugs
through sculpted snout!
Your motor grew hot and ionized the air while she wielded the long wand,
probing every crease and crevice,
every spot.
Still I smell the air after you had stopped, after the loud hum
cut out and left our limbs tingling
in aftershock.
Smiling, satisfied, she emptied the small sac.
Nothing rare: green cat’s eye,
nugget of snot,
black bobby pin that held her hair in a tight brown bun,
but mostly cotton-candy ash of dead
compacted cells,
sloughed-off selves which day after day confettied
down for your immaculate bride,
vacuuming away.
---
Enjoy! - Bruce