Astrologically, the heavens right now resemble those of 1969. So why is this the opposite of the Summer of Love? Is everything wicked in our culture–everything rotten that’s been simmering like the worst witch’s stew—coming to a boil so we can recognize it, expel it, brew something better? I incant, I pray, I roll up my sleeves to make it so.
The day after the shootings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, I was riding on a rush hour subway to a Black Lives Matter march to be followed by a screening of the Ghostbusters remake. (An incongruity that underscores how irrelevant I find my work lately.) Around me, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to face, stood the rainbow of New Yorkers that you can find on any MTA subway car at any minute of the day. Everyone looked worn, weary, wary. It wasn’t just me, I was sure of it. If there’s ever been a moment on a New York City subway uninformed by centuries of financial inequities, gender politics, religious wars, and, yes, slavery–and I highly doubt it–this most definitely was not it. Continue Reading →
My heartbreak over Alton Sterling and Philando Castile’s murders means nothing at all. It does not bring these men–all the people of color slayed by officials falsely claiming to enforce the law–back their lives; it does not return them to their families and friends. Once again I find myself–this middle-aged white lady in a boiling-over, messed-up major metropolitan area–at a loss about a country that so fiercely protects its right to bear arms and then slays people of color even when they don’t practice that right. God help them when they do. Drastic measures are the only sensible response. The question is: Which ones? When I was young I marched and whined and boycotted all the time. I still honor these actions (except for the whining) but see that something more is required. If the corruption is 
Now is the time of year when my brain slows to an absolute crawl. I’m trying to write an overdue piece on a topic I adore–a topic I campaigned to cover, for heaven’s sake–and all I can think about is ocean breezes, porch swings, fresh corn, snapdragons, sugar snap peas, glasses of rosé, a book beneath a tree, tan limbs wrapped around my own. If in winter I prefer to hibernate, in summer I only wish to sprawl–Mama Nature is producing such glorious bounty that it seems disrespectful to compete. Yet deadlines loom and, ever the freelancer with a case of the Cassandras, I feel compelled to take all the assignments I can, especially as it’s work I am lucky to do. (Remember your ancestors’ struggles, chants something deep in my blood.) Yes, this concrete jungle boils over; yes, my temper threatens to do the same. But somebody’s gotta buy that premium permakitten food and I’m the only member of my household with opposable thumbs.