the OG selfie

 

Grace started it wonderfully.

My hat was bright yellow felt. The dress was a simple rayon A-line with long bell sleeves. Pink, turquoise, and yellow print on white. 

Getting four instant pictures for a dollar was such a deal. The making ready in the usually greasy mirror. Hold your breath...or not. Laughing out loud and spoiling two out of the four. Then standing outside and waiting for the grumbling grind to spit the strip into the slot. Don't put your fingers on it!

The photo booth was in Grand Central Station, NYC. Spring 1967. I was on my way with my portfolio for my first interview at the School of Visual Arts. Alone. I got in. At the time, the school was uncredited. They needed my money.

I remember her well. She had no illusions, no goals, and no expectations. Every day was new and wide open to whatever happened next.

Many years later, I discovered that I had gone to classes right around the corner from where our friend Michelle had lived for several years. We probably passed each other on the sidewalk and nodded, friendly-like. I was never much of a New York City girl. Ever the tourist from the country.

Saved

 

It was a fluke burst of energy that got me to bring all the plants inside before I went away last week. Frosty here this morning.

My motley crew. I draw the line at naming them (as it dawns on her that this is a lie)

The tall, gangly things are a forest of diffenbachia; the scions of the OG plant, Louie, a wedding gift from Donald Theall, one of Jim's bachelor friends who thought he had lost his damn mind.

Two scabrous Christmas cactii who bloom when they are not playing dead.

The center top photo is a descendent of a hoya plant my mother smuggled home from Hawaii in the late 60s. 

A strangely healthy-looking jade plant. Grocery rescue I think.

A tub of black hollyhocks I started from seed this year. Struggling to keep them from getting rust. Kind of plant acne.

The New York Moss is doing nicely. Has me thinking about having fish again. Neither of the boys remember my tall 20 gallon tank in the kitchen with big, black and white angel fish. They were a murderous lot. Each week the smallest fish would disappear until there was only one big bastard left. 

And last but not least, Swedish Ivy, Mr.&Mrs. Wilson (more downstairs) grown from cuttings snipped from the home of the founder of AA, Bill Wilson.  I have celebrity plants. My care is negligible. Much more attention and stuff starts to die.

All this green diddling has me looking forward to some horticultural wizardry next season. Now I will spend an hour at Seed Supreme revelling in the descriptions of their offerings. 

I've been in a funk since I cut the bird. The annual forgetting that rich, brown gravy raises hell with me. Two days in a row. Every year.

Social media is sickening. Well-trodden paths are as much as I can stand. Your place, mine. Little else has any integrity. Taking care of the plants is good. Planning for Spring helps the head. 

Maybe soup for dinner.

And for dessert, a favorite. Reminding me that words can turn worlds. 

"This is not life, Will. This is a stolen season."

Even without the gorgeous visual feast, the music and the writing--the story telling--always rights me.

"No...not the artful postures of love, but love that overthrows life. Unbiddable, ungovernable, like a riot in the heart, and nothing to be done, come ruin or rapture."      

                   by Marc Norman & Tom Stoppard

Leftovers

Heart of Joy

 But, these are fresh.

There are a lot of leftovers because I ate alone. I'm grateful the "bird's done" thing popped in time for Colin to gobble a leg and mashed potatoes before dashing to work. 

Gratitude to myself, because I took the time to clean as I went. Leftovers, which we love, were stowed and the kitchen was nearly spotless.

Regrets? No dessert. I forgot to buy apples.

As relief for the previous entry and the ongoing work of hatching evil, I'm spending the morning restocking the thread store. The sun is just right for pictures. 

I don't shop on Black Friday in person, and this year, not even online. 

For those who do, remember to be good to yourself. You deserve it. 

good intentions

...paved a murderer's garden walk.

I've been working on a story and, to date, have only had a sketchy one-name placeholder for an antagonist and needed to build one from scratch. 

At this point, he's been just a watcher. No spoilers, but he needed to be evil. Deep and wide. I had to make him guilty of something heinous. Several somethings. Give him a taste for it. Amp up the horror to warrant some sublime justice.

The prime crime revealed itself. I jotted down a few notes, shot the scene in my head, and tripped right over a personal phobia to the point that I couldn't go to sleep. Getting it on paper is going to be difficult. 

Now, even the Spirits fear him.

The series "The Crown" should be bottled and sold as a cure for insomnia. I longed for bourbon but made do with turgid TV.

 

the men at work

        

 

Away

but keeping an eye on things 

 

end it with laughter

With pictures, it's hard to tell a sunrise from a sunset. At this moment, I'm focusing on the time that passes between them. 

Yesterday marked eleven years since Jimmy died. With this hopeful sunrise taken by my son at work, I did not want to choose the option of melancholy. Reflection on all the good that came from being with him was what I needed.

 

The day promised to be clear and warm. I got some sucky admin stuff done early (never mind shopping for cheaper car insurance, just pay the damn bill...for now). There was food in the fridge, new books from the library, and Thriftbooks, and all cats were present and accounted for. A huge personal grievance resolved itself. 

Much to be grateful for. 

I sat outside in the weakening sunshine and worked on the book for almost two hours and never once cared that the lawn needed attention. 

After dark, Colin put the Saturday Night Live movie on TV for me. I haven't laughed (and cried) over a movie in many years. I imagine its appeal will be limited to the lucky ones who experienced the show

when it was "Live, from New York!" or younger cinephiles like my son who appreciated how well the movie was written and cast. How well it reflected the original show. 

Watching (the first season return from hiatus) SNL together was one of the first sort-of date-type things my husband and I did together.  We made it a sacrament. 

The movie brought it all joyfully back and the slice of pizza was delicious communion. 

 

A twist of blue

 

how will we know one another, sister?

a twist of color in our hair?

how will we find one another?

what's the code? 

mismatched earrings or socks?

~o~

were you afraid?

uninformed? 

lied to?

coerced? threatened? 

did he hold your baby in one arm and your toddler's hand in the other as he stood behind you in the voting booth? 

did you think you didn't matter?

were you stupid in your arrogance?

were you looking to please some long-dead daddy who paid you the wrong kind of attention or none at all?

or did you just not care enough to bother?

~o~

none of the reasons matter anymore. 

murderers tattoo blue tears on their faces.

look for a ribbon in her hair. 

Life, condensed

 

All summer, nothing. 

They waited until now to cheer me up. Makes me kind of sad that there's nothing I can do to protect them come first frost. The Swedish Ivy needs to have a haircut and be brought inside. More tiny world gardening today. Focusing on what I can control is helpful. 

And no matter what's going on in the world, there are those waiting for the magic morning word "Eatzees!"

Breakfast of Champions for me. Leftover Publix sandwich from yesterday. Juice just begging for vodka (Cheers, Poppy!) and a very ugly mug of coffee because it holds the most.

.

My toe feels mostly healed. I still tape it up before going out. Stupid since I hurt it barefooted in my own bedroom. Still need to buy a hollow pool noodle (thanks for the idea, Jake) to cut and fit around the steel legs of the bed. 

I've started this embroidery directly on a Levi's vest, size medium. It will be for sale eventually. 

Small worlds.

 Somehow, I have the notion that moss is indestructible.  Now, I'm hoping I haven't murdered it with neglect. Forgotten in its plastic bag for a week and then tucked around some seriously depleted dirt on a diffenbachia that I plan to repot. Stopgap stuff.

I plucked the moss from the woods on the mountain behind our family home in North Salem, NY. I've always thought of the house I grew up in--a modest pre-fab ranch--in relationship to the small lake it crouched beside. My brother was more in tune with the hills behind the house. I knew every cove and fishing spot of the water and never went up the hill that might be a mountain. Who measures these things?

    A very mysterious place, this mountain. We climbed hunting trails in a seemingly invincible golf cart on steroids. It inspired confidence that it didn't seem to notice the weight of two good-sized adults.

Alien meteorite unless someone tells me otherwise.

The Kubota could drag its own weight over obstacles and out of ditches in slow motion. We stopped to inspect some out-of-place boulders, some with carved initials and dates. One of the things I love about New England is that it's old as dirt.

And the elders left a lot of ambiguous information.

Strange things in the middle of nowhere. And now, hitchhiker. If he doesn't leave on his own, I will evict him so he can winter someplace appropriate.