Yesterday I had a nightmare that I was forced to consume one of those Starbuck unicorn drinky thingies, as my youngest goddaughter calls them. I woke feeling sick, and not just because the combination of neon food coloring, glitter dust, cream, white sugar, and mango and mocha syrups would put me in all kinds of hospitals. That wrongheaded beverage represents everything toxic and fake in our dystopia right now—especially in our reality TV White house.
Officially, Venus retrograde is over but we’re in its shadow until May 18, which means we’re still wearing Venus Retrograde goggles. Our aesthetics are off, diplomacy is impaired, love connections are misfiring, and bank balances are at an all-time low. It doesn’t help that, with Mercury retrograding in bratty Aries, checks are getting lost in the mail and airlines are throwing cosmic temper tantrums. We even have a Retrograde President—a unicorn drinky thingie president*, if you want to get technical about it. Continue Reading →
It was the newly renovated Quad Cinema, and I’d scored a ticket because I was presenting the Emily Dickinson film, “A Quiet Passion,” to a cinema club later in the week. Normally I would not be spending such a beautiful afternoon indoors, but I’d had a terrible writing morning—the sort that robs one of all confidence and joy—and I was keen to get out of my house, neighborhood, and head, in that order.
The new Quad seemed a lot like the old Quad, down to ticketing confusion and the long, skinny screening rooms with tiny screens, but the seats were more comfortable and the film, a stately swoon. I settled into the story that had begun 20 minutes before my arrival, and tried to block everything out.
Dickinson was bright and glaring in her strong tempers, with the knit brow and bitten lip of a nineteenth-century woman heeding too many wrong lessons. She and her kin bickered against the austere backdrop of their Amherst estate, and I sat back against red cushions and exhaled in pleasure. This was not the New England of so many films-forbidding and confined to a palette of greys and more greys. This was the New England I long for 25 years after emigrating to New York: amused and amusing, with bursts of colors so extravagant that there’s no point in competing with your own person. Continue Reading →
The best part of April is its explosion of color after winter’s black-and-white hegemony: reds, pinks, yellows, oranges, yellows, and greens. So many greens. This year, with hateful extremists running—ahem, ruining—the show, the metaphor offered by spring’s rainbow feels especially resonant. I’ve written about this before but it bears repeating with the new season: As a psychic, color is the most important part of every day. I often know the color before I know the story, and hue is the most important element of any outfit or space. Truly, I am so grateful for all the color each person radiates, for it is integral to our greatest gift: that we are each part of everything.
Pic: Brooklyn Botanical Garden