Archive | City Matters

Missive 334,245 from the Cat Lady Frontlines

Overfamiliars

I just slogged home from dance class, so busted that I couldn’t believe I had to mount two flights of stairs to my bachelor’s pad, let alone take a shower, brush my teeth–you know, TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS. When I walked in, permakitten Grace was crouched on my dresser, all owl-eyed, staring at a mouse sitting pretty in the middle of my rug. I’ve trained her to stop buddy-buddying with mice–she used to be like, MA! FINALLY YOU FOUND ME A FRIEND!–but she still can’t bring herself to hurt them. So this picture is of the two of us not killing the mouse–me because I’m too tired, she because HOW COULD I POSSIBLY THINK SHE WAS A KILLAH. (And, yes, Grace has a Boston accent. Obviously.)

New Year, Jew Year

Time Is A River Without Banks–Marc Chagall

Today is Rosh Hoshanah, which any New Yorker worth their Kosher salt knows is the Jewish new year.

Gd knows my Italian-American Muppet critics were all over it this morning. Shana tova, kid! they crowed as I slid into the coffee shop for my Americano.

This, after I ushered in the the first morning of 5780 from East River Park, the best sunrise spot in the whole city. Though it was cloudy, Lady Sun was trying her damndest to arrive in a blaze of glory. The results were muted but lovely, as were all the New Yorkers running, walking, biking, tai-chi-ing by the water’s edge. A special glint everywhere.

The glint of rebirth.

In my head there are so many different new years. The new year of every cosmology, and the new year of every individual, which is how I view birthdays. Mine falls on January 19, which I consider magnificent not only because it is Dolly Parton and Cindy Sherman’s birthday but because it grants me a clutch of get-away-free days after the Christian Calendar new year, otherwise known as the phony birthday of Jesus. Continue Reading →

The Straight Dirt of Dreams

The ultimate 20th century trickster (Mata Hari).

The unconscious is a powerful thing, everyone knows that. Or at least everyone who doesn’t get tripped up by their own shoelace. But sometimes I forget how much smarter my unconscious is than my regular self.

Also how much more of a trickster.

Certainly when it comes to my romantic life, my unconscious bests my conscious (and conscience) every time. I can ignore what the tarot is trying to tell me–or, worse, respin it to match my most piteous impulses. I can ignore my friends’ two cents. But for me wish fulfillment is only a fancy of the waking mind. I’ve yet to bullshit myself while dreaming.

My dreams always tell me when beaus are stepping out.
My dreams never fool me about who is attractive or attracted to me.
My dreams are harsh but o lord I can trust them.

There are men and women I broke up with decades ago whom I still bed in dreams. Sometimes sexual chemistry has an extraordinary shelf life. Other times it does not. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy