Temperatures cool, winds pick up. The doves huddle on the fire escape, permakitten creeps closer by my side. Coming up from intuition sessions I’m so wild-eyed and ravenous. Rice goes in the cooker, mushrooms and asparagus get chopped. We roast a chicken Bitman-style: sea-salted, thymed and magic-oiled, stuffed with olives, garlic, lemon, and chili peppers, cast-ironed at high, high heat. Eyebrow cocked, ogle the big sunset (too soon, too soon), then Astaire’s restless gams, Wilder’s Daddy Long Legs. Caron on the satin screen, Hermine on the horizon, summer in the rear-view mirror. Rueful, real: red wine for all.
It’s the third time it’s happened so now it qualifies as an official pattern: I return from a rural vacation only to discover that somewhere in between my car and apartment I’ve lost my headphones. In addition to being expensive, this a rueful reminder that only in the city are headphones essential gear–vital to my survival and sanity as I move through the honking, hollering, general mayhem. On the plus side: my June dove neighbor, Sweet Baby Blue, was awaiting me on the fire escape when I woke today, as smooth and serene as ever, and newly grown up. A fine ambassador to my reentry, indeed. Nature is everywhere, I guess. It’s just that in NYC we’re too inundated with human nature.
I am coming downstate tomorrow and am not yet willing to be conversant on the following topics: Trump, Olympics, Pokemon, Stranger Things, Kimye, #AllLivesMatter, the freaking heat, flying cockroaches, movies, gluten, the decline of NYC, more Trump. For weeks I haven’t worn a bra, haven’t honked my horn or bit my cuticles, haven’t made small talk. I have only eaten food from local farms, fallen asleep to crickets rather than honking cars, read musty paperbacks, combed yard sales and thrift stores, bicycled down quiet green roads, listened to old records, drunk rosé on a screened-in porch, talked to animals, and taken long tromps in the woods rather than gritting my teeth through prissy gym classes. I’ve got my color back. Heck, I’ve got my sense of humor back. So why am I returning to the alleged grid? Why, to see you, my pretties.
Temperatures cool, winds pick up. The doves huddle on the fire escape, permakitten creeps closer by my side. Coming up from intuition sessions I’m so wild-eyed and ravenous. Rice goes in the cooker, mushrooms and asparagus get chopped. We roast a chicken Bitman-style: sea-salted, thymed and magic-oiled, stuffed with olives, garlic, lemon, and chili peppers, cast-ironed at high, high heat. Eyebrow cocked, ogle the big sunset (too soon, too soon), then Astaire’s restless gams, Wilder’s Daddy Long Legs. Caron on the satin screen, Hermine on the horizon, summer in the rear-view mirror. Rueful, real: red wine for all.
It’s the third time it’s happened so now it qualifies as an official pattern: I return from a rural vacation only to discover that somewhere in between my car and apartment I’ve lost my headphones. In addition to being expensive, this a rueful reminder that only in the city are headphones essential gear–vital to my survival and sanity as I move through the honking, hollering, general mayhem. On the plus side: my June dove neighbor, Sweet Baby Blue, was awaiting me on the fire escape when I woke today, as smooth and serene as ever, and newly grown up. A fine ambassador to my reentry, indeed. Nature is everywhere, I guess. It’s just that in NYC we’re too inundated with human nature.
I am coming downstate tomorrow and am not yet willing to be conversant on the following topics: Trump, Olympics, Pokemon, Stranger Things, Kimye, #AllLivesMatter, the freaking heat, flying cockroaches, movies, gluten, the decline of NYC, more Trump. For weeks I haven’t worn a bra, haven’t honked my horn or bit my cuticles, haven’t made small talk. I have only eaten food from local farms, fallen asleep to crickets rather than honking cars, read musty paperbacks, combed yard sales and thrift stores, bicycled down quiet green roads, listened to old records, drunk rosé on a screened-in porch, talked to animals, and taken long tromps in the woods rather than gritting my teeth through prissy gym classes. I’ve got my color back. Heck, I’ve got my sense of humor back. So why am I returning to the alleged grid? Why, to see you, my pretties.