Packing up to head back to New York City this morning from Northern Massachusetts, where I’ve been perched for the last while–researching, reading, witching, listening. I love my chosen home, I really do, but today I feel so sad about hurtling back into the hustle-bustle of cement, of chatter, of Primary, of what Lou Reed once described as “Oh, oh, my, and who really cares.” April weather is blowing up everywhere, and I’m hoping that upon my arrival I’ll gladly step back into that parade, even slather on some lipstick again. But in the early hours of today, I just feel blue about surrendering the voluptuous quiet, the unadulterated green and yellow of spring outside a city. Someday, I hope, I’ll be such an evolved being that I can carry that within me wherever I go. Today I just wish for one more day to drink my coffee in the sun of an empty field.
Permakitten Grace is my favorite. Lately I can’t pretend otherwise. With this onslaught of single-digit temperatures, we’ve spent an inordinate amount of time snuggling and watching old movies together; Little Miss prefers MGM musicals, and I prefer anyone encased in fur this time of year. Really, she’s the only being I wish to live with, and I find the experience so damn enjoyable that I don’t mind sharing the bed with her, though I detest sleeping with any other living being. It’s not that she doesn’t have her foibles. I keep a long list of what pleases her: hugs, making the bed, flopping, snooping, radiators, catnip, windows, dragging her toys around, rumpling up rugs, Ruby Intuition readings, slow blinks from in-the-know humans, squeaking, holding hands, older cats, sock drawers, chicken soup, string, Ella Fitzgerald and Aretha Franklin, compliments (especially on social media; I swear she can tell), my voice. But my list of what scares her is equally long: hugs, making the bed, feet, male voices, snow, bed-making, staying home without me, traveling with me, paper bags, kittens, doorbells, laundry drying racks, trashcans, whiskey, the refrigerator, dish-washing, the clink of silverware, the hissing of steam pipes, bathtubs, fresh air, children, my ex-lovers, our downstairs neighbors, curtains, static, off-key singing (she hides when a certain friend warbles along with records), sudden movements, loud noises, her own shadow. Continue Reading →
I was so very sorry to hear of Alan Rickman’s death. I interviewed him almost exactly five years ago at BAM, and and once I broke past his notoriously icy exterior found him a total charmer–erudite, kind, and clever. This photo was taken right after I asked him to strike some male model poses for the audience since he wasn’t letting them take impromptu photos. (Not kidding.) Afterward, we shared a whiskey, and he talked with such love and respect about literature, theater, and the importance of mentoring and true bohemias. A real artist, through and through.
Packing up to head back to New York City this morning from Northern Massachusetts, where I’ve been perched for the last while–researching, reading, witching, listening. I love my chosen home, I really do, but today I feel so sad about hurtling back into the hustle-bustle of cement, of chatter, of Primary, of what Lou Reed once described as “Oh, oh, my, and who really cares.” April weather is blowing up everywhere, and I’m hoping that upon my arrival I’ll gladly step back into that parade, even slather on some lipstick again. But in the early hours of today, I just feel blue about surrendering the voluptuous quiet, the unadulterated green and yellow of spring outside a city. Someday, I hope, I’ll be such an evolved being that I can carry that within me wherever I go. Today I just wish for one more day to drink my coffee in the sun of an empty field.
Permakitten Grace is my favorite. Lately I can’t pretend otherwise. With this onslaught of single-digit temperatures, we’ve spent an inordinate amount of time snuggling and watching old movies together; Little Miss prefers MGM musicals, and I prefer anyone encased in fur this time of year. Really, she’s the only being I wish to live with, and I find the experience so damn enjoyable that I don’t mind sharing the bed with her, though I detest sleeping with any other living being. It’s not that she doesn’t have her foibles. I keep a long list of what pleases her: hugs, making the bed, flopping, snooping, radiators, catnip, windows, dragging her toys around, rumpling up rugs, Ruby Intuition readings, slow blinks from in-the-know humans, squeaking, holding hands, older cats, sock drawers, chicken soup, string, Ella Fitzgerald and Aretha Franklin, compliments (especially on social media; I swear she can tell), my voice. But my list of what scares her is equally long: hugs, making the bed, feet, male voices, snow, bed-making, staying home without me, traveling with me, paper bags, kittens, doorbells, laundry drying racks, trashcans, whiskey, the refrigerator, dish-washing, the clink of silverware, the hissing of steam pipes, bathtubs, fresh air, children, my ex-lovers, our downstairs neighbors, curtains, static, off-key singing (she hides when a certain friend warbles along with records), sudden movements, loud noises, her own shadow. Continue Reading →
I was so very sorry to hear of Alan Rickman’s death. I interviewed him almost exactly five years ago at BAM, and and once I broke past his notoriously icy exterior found him a total charmer–erudite, kind, and clever. This photo was taken right after I asked him to strike some male model poses for the audience since he wasn’t letting them take impromptu photos. (Not kidding.) Afterward, we shared a whiskey, and he talked with such love and respect about literature, theater, and the importance of mentoring and true bohemias. A real artist, through and through.