I had so many plans for this weekend–I was coming off a few weeks of nonstop work and had heard temperatures were going to be mild (my favorite roving-around-the-city weather). Instead, I climbed into a caftan, pulled Gracie on my lap, and have been reading by an open window for two days straight with nonverbal jazz by cats like Dizzy and Monk pouring out of my speakers. I began Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, David Lipsky’s book of interviews with David Foster Wallace, an author I only find fascinating for his hold over well-educated white men (who, of course, mostly comprise the literary establishment) and Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo (“I had no systematic way of learning but proceeded like a quilt maker”), and finished The Arsonist, Sue Miller’s latest novel (too polite, too drifting), and The Light of the World, Elizabeth Alexander’s memoir about her deceased husband (so emotionally and artistically devastating that I’ll be living in it for years). I haven’t answered a text; I haven’t looked at a screen. The only times I’ve come up for air have been to eat or drink something, and I’ve mostly ordered in. I’d be remorseful about this lost weekend except for how terrifically human I feel again. Part of June’s charm is how little it asks of us.
Things I know about permakitten Grace after being totally housebound the last two days. 1. She drags her three toys with her all over the house like a kid with her favorite stuffed animals. 2. She is deathly afraid of the sound of opening seltzer bottles. Carbonation is rather scary, I guess. 3. The reiki certification class that I took her to paid off. (The instructor said we could bring our pets.) She’s been doing paws-on healing all day by laying her tiny tiger limbs solemnly upon my inflamed back, reikitty style, and could teach Rademenes a thing or two. 4. Whenever she’s not attending to her invalid roomie, she’s stationed by the window, snooping on our neighbors who are snooping on everyone else. God, she’s such a Rosman girl.
I love everyone who works at my local library branch so much that I’m constantly repressing the urge to hug them. (I started a film club that meets there bimonthly; come next Saturday!) Ditto for my sixtysomething dry-cleaner, who tenderly reinforces the buttons on my coats while her husband glowers from his corner. Ditto for the espresso jerks and Muppet critics at my local coffee shop, who wake me up as much as those Americanos do. Ditto for the sweetly serious Fairway cashiers, who slip me so many coupons that I can afford tulips and freesia with my fish and kale. Ditto for the gas attendant who calls me Amish Lady because I do my errands in floor-length polka-dotted nightgowns that I consider too pretty to only wear at home.
This afternoon I have been spring cleaning—laundering everything (even the curtains), changing my duvet cover, emptying out drawers and cupboards and the refrigerator, scrubbing out the microwave and the oven, organizing my closets. I even toted to Housing Works great bags of clothes I’ll never wear again, either because I’m no longer so willowy or because of stains and holes I’d been ignoring. Crisp and clean, that’s Spring 2015. It’s such a neat little poem that it rhymes, a fact I’m admiring with permakitten Grace as we watch the world waltz by our window and I sip a fancy drink with many juices. No sugar, thank you; just so much love.