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Oy, Christmas Tree

January 2, 2016 in Cat Lady Matters, Essays, Spirit Matters, Weather Matters

I’m still sick and it’s maddening. I’m aware that whining about a holiday malaise betrays my Ninth Rule of Order but I waited a full day before announcing my frustration, and rationalize that this post may grant someone the comfort of solidarity.

I ducked out this morning to do errands and grossed everyone out the minute I heaved my sorry ass onto the sidewalk. I came home to realize even permakitten Grace was put off by her roommate, which, on general principle, annoyed me: I clean her shit, for heaven’s sake. I may be on the mend but am stuck in that deeply irritating stage in which you feel better but sound and look far, far worse. With my rattling cough and mucus-laden speech, I am 2016’s Typhoid Mary, and am super not into it. Send Calgon and comics from where ever you are. Kisses if you can spare them.

In other news, I hated my Christmas tree this year. It had charm, don’t get me wrong. Stubby and lumpy, it was a real Charlie Brownstone, and the price was on point. I almost bought it from the corner deli on the way home from Christmas Eve services but the dudes were still asking 45 clams, so I waited until that 70-degree Christmas morning, when they agreed to deliver it up to my third-floor walk-up for twenty bucks. They even threw in the stand for free. Continue Reading →

‘Autumnal Allergies,’ a One-Act Play

November 20, 2015 in City Matters, Weather Matters

Curtain rises on a subway tableau. A blond woman is sitting, quietly immersed in her book. She looks up, sneezes. An older man to her right wishes her “gesundheit.” Before she can thank him, she sneezes 20 more times in quick succession. Passengers offer her tissues; she waves them off as she continues to sneeze. Finally, she bellows, “Fuuuuuuck me” and everyone scurries away. Auto-repeat until audience also leaves. (This play is dedicated to the memory of my healthy sinuses.)

The Church of Hibernation

November 8, 2015 in Cat Lady Matters, Church Matters, Quoth the Raving, Weather Matters

No less than Confucius says that when you love your job, you never have to work a day in your life. But yesterday as I cleaned my house to prepare for Ruby Intuition readings and film events, a big part of me was clamoring for a field of grass without any electronics or obligations in sight. No less than William Carlos Williams says that, with any lined paper, sometimes it’s best to write the other way.

I muscled through the day anyway, even derived pleasure from it, but by its end my protesting back suggested rest was powerfully in order. I’ve learned, finally: My spine is smartest. So I went to bed early even for me, a permakitten on my feet, a golden tumbler of rye by my side, a thick 19th century novel in my paw.

This morning it is 43 degrees. I am making scrambled eggs with kale and Mr. Curry’s​ nan and tomato chutney, my new favorite weekend breakfast. I am wearing flannel slippers and a purple apron that arrived by post this week. I have a high stack of screeners and books in my office and a gorgeously full larder, thanks to a pal who ferried me to Fairway​. I even have a huge jar of Oslo’s Thor coffee beans, the very best for French presses. I am by myself but feel encircled by the kindness of friends on every plane.

I’ll see you kittens in April or on Monday, whichever comes first.

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