We’re at the point where the American dystopia is so real and so raw that it’s as if this country’s core uglinesss is erupting inside my guts–which of course it is, me being the literal Crapicorn that I am.
Really, it is living inside all of us.
White supremacy is and always has been terrorism. Not recognizing this means you have blinded yourself because it suits you. Because you think your part is greater than the whole. And because—g-d help us—it is the American way. Continue Reading →
I did Ruby Intuition sessions all weekend, wrote essays Monday and Tuesday, and wrote and delivered a film lecture for the delightful Huntington cinema club out on Long Island last night. Today is my Saturday morning, and I woke feeling a little decadence was in order. So I put on platforms and a skinny black sheath, arranged my newly blue-blond hair in a big upsweep, and ducked downstairs to the cafe next door—-only to repair back to bed with a silver tray bearing an Americano, freshly peeled figs, and a prosciutto-arugula sandwich. Here I will read and read and read, stopping only to doze or admire a certain permakitten or watch the doves outside my window. I will read until I feel like writing again. This is the midlife, midsummer glamour I promised myself as an unhappy child, and I never forget to be grateful. Gratitude is the ultimate glamour, don’t you know.
People ask me what I do when I get up so early (between 5 and 5:30 most days). They assume I am doing something earnest—meditating or writing or channeling my spirit guides. The truth is sometimes I do those things, but rarely before my coffee. Mostly in the wee hours I luxuriate in secret time, found time—a quiet unpunctuated by beeps and whistles and honks. The barely blue hours are when I feel the glamour of solitude most keenly: flowers cut like I like them, bulletin boards scrawled with my big ideas, feet and permakitten propped on the table, fingers painted an unlikely yellow, coffee cup resting without a coaster, and absolutely no media or people blaring. (My house growing up was quite loud.) I may be 46, but inside me a 6-year-old is crowing with great glee and satisfaction: IT’S MY HOUSE AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.