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The Church of Hibernation
No less than Confucius says that when you love your job, you never have to work a day in your life. But yesterday as I cleaned my house to prepare for Ruby Intuition readings and film events, a big part of me was clamoring for a field of grass without any electronics or obligations in sight. No less than William Carlos Williams says that, with any lined paper, sometimes it’s best to write the other way.
I muscled through the day anyway, even derived pleasure from it, but by its end my protesting back suggested rest was powerfully in order. I’ve learned, finally: My spine is smartest. So I went to bed early even for me, a permakitten on my feet, a golden tumbler of rye by my side, a thick 19th century novel in my paw.
This morning it is 43 degrees. I am making scrambled eggs with kale and Mr. Curry’s nan and tomato chutney, my new favorite weekend breakfast. I am wearing flannel slippers and a purple apron that arrived by post this week. 
I have a high stack of screeners and books in my office and a gorgeously full larder, thanks to a pal who ferried me to Fairway. I even have a huge jar of Oslo’s Thor coffee beans, the very best for French presses. I am by myself but feel encircled by the kindness of friends on every plane.
I’ll see you kittens in April or on Monday, whichever comes first.
The Church of Color
For a while in my twenties, I only could wear beige, white, and black. I was very sick at the time, and in my long recovery, I couldn’t handle the strain of real color. This, in retrospect, is how I know that I was gravely ill, for color is and always has been very important to me.
My abstinence from color had happened once before. That time, I lost my ability to perceive color all together, and it was that loss, coupled with a harbinger of the symptoms that later capsized me, that forced me to accept that I had to separate from my family of origin. The metaphorical and literal often blur dangerously on the blueprint of my body. I suspect this stems from the lifted veil that I take for granted.
By nature I am highly selective about the colors with which I surround myself. The off-tones of the early 1990s hurt my eyes, for example. Those mustards and greyish purples always seemed so joyless–sanctimonious, even, as if it were not PC to shine. (I never viewed a friend who got married in a brown dress the same way again.) In my mid-teens, I was known as “the green girl,” for I liked to wear as many shades of green as possible. It wasn’t an affectation. The green made me feel hopeful and connected to something bigger than myself. Alice May, my mother’s mother, was the only one who understood. She adored green, which she said was the color of life and love. She had a winter green couch that was my favorite place to read. Continue Reading →