When we were young, there was fear and worry, desire and envy, but we got older. If you wait, everyone gets tired and the glittery gifts people carry will mostly be tossed aside just so they can cross the finish line.–Amy Bloom
Tuesday melancholy and lovely both. I’m home on a blue velvet chaise next to an open window. Permakitten draped across my legs, a glass of something amber by my side, the day’s bad news a fading beat. Since the sun dropped, I’ve been reading Bloom’s take on Eleanor Roosevelt’s lover Lorena “Hick” Hickok, listening to the rain and Sarah Vaughn’s At Mister Kelly’s with equal concentration. Outside people clatter for shelter, yowl and laugh, their desires quickly quenched. But yearning fills this quiet room. Pretty much what I figured middle age would be if I stayed in New York. The week is young, anyway.