My aging car Sadie has become permanently fritzy, so I decided to make these last three days a staycation. I’d have minded except the city is absolutely brilliant on holiday weekends, especially ones blessed with such agreeable weather. I wandered, alternately sola and accompanied, through park after park, festival after festival, barbecue after barbecue, reading on lawns, playing with others’ puppies, eavesdropping on benches, drinking wine in backyards, basking in early-morning movies. (3D Max Max in an empty theater; mimosa, bagels and lox smuggled in my purse.) I also got my laundry done, yessir. As I write this, my bedspread is strewn with treasures I collected from three of our five boroughs, and an awful lot of it is gold and lilac and purple and sky blue and turquoise and the deepest of blues. High priestess mermaid colors. Here’s to a really beautiful city summer, full of sirens of every sort.
I keep wanting to write more but the peonies are abloom and I’m so immersed in their big color and fragrance that I don’t have the distance required for narration. A friend says that’s a good thing and I think she’s right. May’s soul time, all-at-once time, let-it-grow time. Chairos not chronos. Reception not reflection. I’m rhapsodically in love with everything, including you. But rather than say more I’ll just go to sleep to rise again with the birds. By my bed are vases of the deepest pink peonies to bathe my dreams. I’ll send you some, via carrier doves and a bedazzled tesseract. Don’t be surprised if you smell fuchsia when you wake.