New York Cheesecake

2003-10-27T22:32:00.000-05:00

The Past Is Another State

One of the things I love about New York City is all the authors. There are readings going on every night of the year. When I first moved here I was very assiduous about looking for announcements and going to readings. I went to hear P.D. James at the now defunct Endicott bookstore, and attended the panel discussion in the Time-Life auditorium for the release of the New American Library's Raymond Chandler series. At the old West Side Shakespeare & Co. I bought D. an autographed copy of Patti Smith's book about Robert Mapplethorpe in the afterlife. And most of all I sauntered over to the Barnes & Noble on Broadway to listen to Anna Quindlen and Joyce Carol Oates and any number of wonderful writers who appeared there. Then they opened the bigger, glitzier B & N down by Lincoln Center, and all the "name" authors went down there. I stopped watching so closely for the announcements, so it was a miracle last week that I happened to see the notice for Joan Didion at my own neighborhood book shop.

Since the gubernatorial recall, I have been overwhelmed by the realization that I am no longer a Californian. People would ask me my opinion and I had no idea what the real issues were, just the sickening realization that there was no way to stop Schwarzenegger from being elected. So I found myself enchanted by reviews of Didion's new book, Where I Was From, in which she reexamines her own California mythology through the lens of her mother's death. I can't actually talk about the book, since I have not read it yet, but I went to see her tonight, right there on Broadway, and my heart opened wide as she read.

She read about her mother, her daughter, her own arrival in New York, and the lines in the sand drawn by those who came first to the Promised Land. She included what is surely the most quoted passage from the book, in which she is driving from Monterey to Berkeley with her mother in 1992, and her mother cannot recognize the suburbanized landscape of the Central Coast. "California had become, she said then, 'all San Jose.'"

As she read, it seemed she spun time through her fingers, winding up fat bobbins of Cal in the 1950s and Colorado Air Forces bases during World War II. So many of my ideas about these places come, of course from her books about them. Her words are layered on my own impressions so that whenever I drive through the serpentine interchanges of downtown L.A. I always imagine Maria Wyeth of Play It As It Lays cracking her hard-boiled egg on the steering wheel of her Corvette. When I had my first migraine at the age of 33, I immediately recognized it from her impassively detailed descriptions of the throbbing aura that she got through by reciting Pound's line, "Petals on a wet, black bough" until she had crossed the Carquinez Straits.

Her description tonight of her Charter Day speech of 1992 sent me back in my mind to her Charter Day speech of 1980, when she was named Cal's Alumna of the Year. I remembered climbing up the steps of the Greek Theater with Tom, wearing my madras shirtwaist and squinting down into the afternoon sun at the dais, though it was Didion who wore enormous sunglasses throughout her speech. Tom loved Joan Didion, loved her love of California, and we studied and discussed The White Album and A Book of Common Prayer, and on that day we drank her in, communing in our nativity, all golden Blues under the thin spring sunshine.

She gave the same physical impression tonight, a tiny woman with fine, chin-length hair and oversized horn rims, her bony arm overwhelmed by a strap watch that slid halfway to her elbow. She had on a fluffy black sweater, a yellow flowered skirt, and enormous furry boots against the rainy night. But her voice was strong and clear, perhaps protected by her usual flatness of affect. She spoke of deeply intimate things, of her mother's illness and family photographs and the telegram that announced she had won Vogue magazine's Prix de Paris, yet she remained a bit apart, reading about them, not speaking them directly to us.

But for me, it was dizzying. All those layers of California are now far in the past. Both she and I are living in New York, though she proudly notes she still carries a California driver's license. She's peeling away the layers of the place I thought I knew best, and showing me how little I know it anymore, and how many of the things I think I remember are colored by what others have said and written about them. After she finished speaking, I was too stunned to join the crush of autograph seekers. I wandered to a dark corner behind the greeting card section to simply breathe deeply and absorb all I had heard her say, much as I had to sit quietly for half an hour after the Wayne Thiebaud retrospective at the Whitney.

California is haunting me lately, but maybe, in the words of another displaced not-quite-native daughter, "There is no there there."

2003-10-14T23:51:00.000-04:00

Gurus

The Fly Guy appeared last night. I had made myself put him out of my mind because he was supposed to be going to earth at a Thai monastery for the next six months. I was absurdly happy to see his IM.

The whole going to a monastery thing seemed like a really good idea after all the stuff that had been going on this spring and summer. Following his unspecified activities for "our side" during the "war" this spring, he had been invited to take some contracts for some of the reconstruction folks out there in the Middle East. After a bunch of tense conferences in London, he decided not to "dance with the devil," as he put it. But back in Mombassa, he was not getting a lot of work, so he started poking around for other sources of income. This climaxed, in midsummer, with him and a crew of four crash landing somewhere near the Congo border on what he finally admitted was a hunt for a rumored cache left behind by murdered ivory smugglers. (Wouldn't it be easier to just fly drugs at this point?) After junking the plane, they ended up walking for something over three weeks before they got to a big enough road to hitch-hike back to Mombassa.

I think he finally found something that convinced him this is not a good way to live.

Since the Fly Guy is all about extremes, his response to this was equally extreme. He found a teacher he liked, and around the middle of August he decided to turn the business over to a second-in-command and go to Thailand to be a monk. I actually thought this was a great idea.

I have a really strange connection with the Fly Guy. I have known him online about two years now. He has such an oddly disconnected life that his conversation is very essentialist. It goes from "Hi, how are you?" to complicated koans in about three minutes. Of course a lot of this is the spurious intimacy of disembodied Web communications, but I feel oddly aware of him on a psychic level most of the time. He disappears for weeks and months, but I usually know when he is about to turn up. Throughout the "war," I had a persistant mental image of him in a bubble of white light. It becames one of my principle meditations on the war, since making it personal helped me focus on the people actually doing it, and redirected my thoughts toward them and away from my anger at the people in Washington.

But since he went away, it's like the link has been broken. Partly, I worked at making myself think about other things. If his purpose really is self-transformation, I should have no expectation of being part of his life when he comes back. Heck, if he truly empties his mind the way he is supposed to, he shouldn't even remember my screenname or even his AIM password. But partly I think I relaxed my sense of vigil. I told him this, saying that I trusted somebody else was taking care of him. He said "Yeah, me for a change."

So there he was in some town he did not know how to spell, getting up at 4:30 am to walk up and down the hill, chanting, and to sit for two hours every day, and to unplug from daily life. He said he started out taking notes, but the master tore them up. He said the big message was to stop trying to plan things. That was how he far he got in 34 days, when the telegram reached him. He was proud, he said, that it was six days old when it finally found him. It called him back to England to renogiate a lease and sign papers.

"So," I asked, attempting neutral language, "Do you think you'll go back?"

"I intend to go back," he said.

I liked that nuance.

I keep intending to do more spiritual work, and I keep getting side tracked. I did go see the Dalai Lama last month, and found that very energizing. He did not say much of anything specific, but it was exciting to see him in person, something I will remember for a long time. As much as anything, it was a magical day in the sun with a crowd of peaceful people gathered for a common purpose. That sort of thing gives me hope.

I have also signed up for a retreat with the Cathedral congregation next month at Holy Cross Monastery up on the Hudson. I went last year and loved the crackling cold and the chanted psalms and the way it created inner space for me. The unexpected thing for me was how much I loved the bells. Not just the sound of them, but the hourly ringing that signalled time changes, like school bells. People usually depict bells as being a negative, controlling influences, symbols of regimented life. For me they were strangely freeing. I spend so much of my life keeping track of time, making sure I catch a bus or get to a meeting, that I always know what time it is, always have a little clock ticking in the back of my head. But having the bells made me free of that. Free as a school child who just immerses herself in her activity until the bell tells her it is time to do the next thing.

So these are the things I am intending to build on: hope, inner space, and freedom from time. I am really hoping I can make some progress on this without having to go to Thailand.

2003-10-03T06:33:00.000-04:00

Good Vibrations

After two weeks or so with a nasty cold, I am feeling disgustingly chipper and upbeat. Reveling in positive feelings of good health, I am also enjoying my renewed sense of creativity and effectiveness. Yesterday I was in a phone conference about a bunch of problems with an art program and we were exchanging ideas and proposing solutions and working our way through all the issues. I was happy to see my team members implementing the skils I taught them. Suddenly I felt suffused with a real joy about working and I really, really wanted to hold hands with everybody.

Which, of course, I did not do! Because even if they had all agreed, I could not have explained to anybody else why were were playing ring-around-the rosie with the speaker phone. But I still feel glowy and renewed about my job.

2003-09-28T08:57:00.000-04:00

Half Life

On September 25, 1991, Tom stepped out onto the tenth-floor balcony and looked at the moonlight on the Hollywood Hills. Then he climbed up onto the railing and let himself fall to his death.

It's been twelve years since that night, the night that has become my own dividing line between Before and After. And now he has been dead as long as were friends. Twelve years on either side.

In the twelve years we had together, we experienced so many amazing things, so many places and ideas and personal changes. In the twelve years since, he still seems so immediate to me sometimes. I still think of him everyday, just in the back of my mind sort of way that I carry around permanent parts of my life, like the blue wallpaper of my childhood bedroom or the opening notes of Saint Stephen, loaded in the top drawer of my general memory. Sometimes I think of him specifically, like when I listen to music that he loved, or when I see something I think he would have liked. Other times, he's just there in my head, part of my processing mechanism along with other friends and family who shaped my thoughts.

But now I realize that for a full half of our time together, he has been a ghost. He's still 33 years old. There are so many things now that I have experienced that he knows nothing about. I guess the biggest one is that he will never know what it's like to bury his dearest friend. To look at him in the mortuary, blanket pulled up over his broken body, hair combed wrong by the mortician's assistant. He'll never have to choose an urn, or discuss with his mother what to write on the memorial plaque. He'll never have to go through his meticulous address list and call and write to everyone there, and he won't have to plan a service and invite them all to come. He won't have to sit between his bewildered mother and his grim Aunt Mary while the people who came all the way from Boston sniffle through Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. I knew it was too long, and I knew it was his favorite. It was the first audio CD I ever purchased.

And that is the sort of thing that amazes when I look back. The obvious changes are technological. Tom never owned a CD or a CD player. Never had a cell phone or sent an email message. He died two years before Mosaic came out. He never saw the Internet.

And he would have loved all that stuff.

I guess he could have had a CD player, probably would have bought one before I finally did. They were around in 1991, but he was only a year out of law school, still cautiously creating a home after the years of student frugality.

He used computers at work a bit. I'd been interested in them for a long time, but he never showed much curiosity about how they worked. But he was a 90-wpm touch typist, and he loved the way he could spit out information and then pass it on to someone else to prettify. He liked to claim he was a luddite, but he was always seduced by elegant industrial design. While he would have smiled at the "Kawai" factor of my perky white iBook, I can see him with a wafer-thin Vaio, dark and James Bond-y.

I think the last big "invention" he embraced was his cordless telephone. He used to walk around his underfurnished apartment with it, or take it onto the balcony while he talked, describing the blazing LA sunset and the lights twinkling on as the city darkened. He would have loved the culture of cell phones, of instant connections and messages and last-minute plans. He would have loved another opportunity to own a small, sleek, elegantly shiny toy.

Another device Tom came to like more than I did was TV. As he got ill, he began to watch it a lot. I'd try to phone him in the hospital and he would put me off until after McNeil-Lehrer. I wasn't a TV watcher then, so I don't know what other shows he followed, but I can imagine the ones he missed that he would have loved. I'm sure he would have obsessed over 90210, and probably Dawson's Creek and all the other teenage dramas of the 1990s. Think of it, all those years, from Brenda and Brandon's arrival in BH to David and Donna's wedding, and he missed it all. And Must-See TV. Perhaps he watched Seinfeld when it first began, back when Jerry had a mullet and wore white sneakers. But he never heard of Friends or Frasier.

And he never could have dreamed of Will and Grace. A show about a gay man and a straight woman who mean everything to each other. A show about, well, us. I rather think he wouldn't have liked it -- too broad, too obvious. I often think that about it myself. But when I watched it tonight, I thought about all the changes that have happened in the world since Tom left it. The Internet Bubble, Dubya, September 11th, the second Gulf War.... But the thing that seems the most unlikely is to see people like us as the subject of a prime time network show.

I never knew what to call our relationship. I still don't. But I know it was real, and so important to both of us. Twelve years ago, I would never have envisioned myself in the place I'm at now. I'm afraid to even try to imagine where I will be twelve years in the future. But I've realized one thing. Tom's ghost will be coming along for the ride.

2003-09-11T06:32:00.000-04:00

Two Years

Waking up to it

Just yesterday, I was commenting on how much less aware I have been of the September 11 anniversary this year. Last year I took the day off and spent most of it at the Cathedral. I wore a white dress, and listened to the reading of the names, sitting in the shadowy choir stall as I watched the sun move across the colored apse windows. Today I'm going to work, though I have planned to go to a church service this evening.

I've been a bit disgusted at the way it's already been absorbed into the culture. My Franklin Planner has it listed as "Patriot's Day." It makes me feel a little ashamed of how we have debased other once-solemn holidays, particularly Memorial Day. I suppose someday this could be enshrined by the Monday-holiday law as the perfect vacation week, incorporating the Labor Day break into a 12-day string.

When I woke up this morning, I had been having survival dreams, of sleeping in a cave and huddling close to the others and our gear to battle the chill and keep out of sight. This is not a typical sort of dream imagery for me at all, and I was puzzled by it until I stumbled out of bed and flipped on the news. Oh yeah. Something in my reptile brain still remembers.

Work day

I was really nervous about being overcome by a wave of bogus jingoism when I went out today. I prepared myself by pinning a "Peace is Patriotic" badge to the lapel of my suit jacket. Our young assistant was the only one to comment on it (positively!), but I feel better for keeping my sentiments visible and public.

I think a lot of people have taken the day off. I left extra time for the subway, but it was less crowded than usual. Freeway traffic out to Big Publishing Company was heavy, though, so we missed the corporate Moment of Silence. They had scheduled it for 8:46, when the first plane hit. Other people seemed to have chosen the fall of the first tower. Funny how even something everyone agrees on can be expressed so differently. Of course, 8:46 is the cynical corporate choice; most people are still milling around with their coffee then, if they have arrived at all. Respect without loss of productivity.

I have a secret memorial at work. It's a copy of the New York Times from September 11, 2001, the last newspaper published before the attacks. I don't usually buy the paper, but I had purchased it that morning, for reasons now forgotten. It lies intact, folded at the bottom of my coat closet. I don't really look at it most days, but it comforts me to know it is there. It's a snapshot of the Before of the After.

The conversations today have been just as secret. Nobody really wants to bring it up. I did not go to the cafeteria today. I think I will just continue to lay low. I keep checking in at ThreeWay Action. The community feeling there is just what I was looking for two years ago, and it is still sustaining me today.

Night time

I went up to the service at the Cathedral. Very solemn, very non-denominational. The focus was on the musicians: organ, piano, cello, flute, medieval harp, and three singers. I enjoyed the moody cello meditations and the duets with the harp and the flute and the Enya-type Celtic warbling, but the singing was the kind I hate the most. There was a medley of Angels Watchin' Over Me and Amazing Grace that were so vibrato-ridden and drawn out I kept losing my place just listening. These are wonderfully rhythmic songs that were stretched and beaten and abused until they were unrecognizable. The good part about that, actually, was that my grumpiness about the music kept me from feeling overwhelmed emotionally.

I saved that part for the prayers. The clergy were all off to one side, taking turns reading prayers for different aspects of society. I can't even remember all of them, but the sounds of the familiar voices and cadences were very soothing. There were readings, too, and some traditional hymns for us to all join in on. The general theme was kind of "City of God" and "New Jerusalem." It seemed very appropriate to focus on the future and rebuiliding at this point. There was plenty of acknowledgment of loss, but grief was not the sole focus.

I had a very good cry.

There were not really many people there who were Cathedral regulars. I had imagined that I would run into someone I knew and probably go out to dinner, but there wasn't really anybody doing that. I decided to walk home down Amsterdam Avenue and enjoy the warm night, and feel the city around me. There were knots of people outside some other churches, as well as gatherings around bars and restaurants.

At the Happy Warrior playground, there was group of men in a pick-up Mariachi band. Their music soared and blended the way I had wished Amazing Grace had. It was so lovely to hear their spontaneous music on the warm night air. This is the best of New York. On the one hand, we have the resources for experimental performances like the ones at the Cathedral tonight. On the other, the amateur musicians gather in a public playground where anybody can hear them practice. So many opportunities for community.

I know the city turned on the Towers of Light tonight, but I could not see them from uptown. Just the same, my walk made me feel reinvigorated about the strength of memory and renewal right here in the city.

2003-08-15T15:14:00.000-04:00

Blackout

6:30 pm

Reporting live from New York City. I just walked three miles to get home -- thank goodness that I did not go to work in NJ today. So far, people are being very cooperative and friendly. There are just about no D batteries left in the city, but I think everything will be mellow until they start running out of bottled water. Cell service was spotty, and everywhere people were staring in disbelief at their useless phones, then queuing for the pay phones on every corner.

No trains are running, either the subway or the suburban commuter lines. I walked past Penn Station, and the huge, block-long steps in front of the main post office looked like bleachers with all the stranded commuters sitting there. From about 42nd to the mid 50s, Eighth Avenue was closed to cars and sweaty people were walking and talking along. I was riding a bus for a while, but then the driver announced that they were told to stop service because of the danger of running when the traffic lights were out. Some police were directing traffic at really big intersections, but I think they are focusing on bigger concerns. In midtown, the Guardian Angels were doing traffic duty, and some other volunteers were trying to wave cars through.

Sounds of sirens and helicopters in midtown. Uptown much quieter, I walked through the park where it was cooler and rather cheerful. Now in my neighborhood, people are starting to settle in for the night. Neighbors are checking on each other and sharing batteries and candles. The hardware store had a long line out front as people waited to buy supplies. I made a street deal to trade C batteries for Ds to run my boom box. I can hear somebody strumming a guitar next door, singing "Wish You Were Here."

The pizza places with their gas ovens are doing a huge business, and the bakery cafe has taken over the sidewalk tables to sell food out on the street. Here on the Upper West Side, it is all about getting settled. Down in midtown, it was more survivalist, with people clamoring for cold water and one small shop doing a huge business selling sneakers for people who realized they must walk home.

So far, this is not looking too bad. I hope it doesn't rain tonight.

11:30 pm

The neighborhood is still pretty quiet, though there are still sirens every so often. I sent out some email reports and talked to mom on the phone. I figure she is the person that people will check in with. I took a few pictures but mostly it is too dark to register anything except when the fire trucks return to the firehouse on my block. The mayor is on the radio saying (sensibly for once) "Treat it like a snow day."

Carol called up and invited me to come down and have some beer with her and another neighbor, Pam. She braved my stair well with a tiny mag light to come fetch me after walking down ten flights of her own. My own block had quite a lot of beer drinking going on already -- people are really partying here. Around the corner on Columbus things were quieter, with fewer people on the stoops but more walking around. The best invention I spotted was the wine glass-as-lantern. With a votive candle in the bowl, the stem remains cool enough to hold comfortably while the candle is shielded from the wind.

There were flares up at the bigger intersections, and some buses seemed to be running, especially the crosstown. Nice that people did not have to walk through the park when it was so very dark.

Pam met us back at Carol's stoop. Her building is bigger and fancier than mine, and the neighbors outside were a good deal quieter. We went across the street to sit on the benches by the museum. It was much cooler under the trees. Carol had a six pack, and Pam had brought crackers, cheese, apples, and a little cutting board and knife. We had a nice midnight snack while we chatted with the dog-walkers passing by. The most amazing thing was seeing all the stars from the middle of New York City. Even though the moon was nearly full, we could pick out constellations from the street. Beautiful.

Carol and Pam walked me back to my building. I usually feel like I am safe once I get into my own lobby, but I think Carol's street smarts won out. Even with my flashlight, it was creepy in the pitch-dark stair well, and I was glad they waited in the lobby until I called down to them that I had made it to my front door. The door to the roof was open, and I could here music and laughter up there, but I just bolted my door, listened to a little more radio news, and got ready to sleep on the couch where it was cooler.

2:00 am

Hard to sleep. The couch is narrow and lumpy and it's very hot with no fan, though there is a bit of a breeze. Mostly, though, I have woken up because I can hear the party upstairs getting really wild. There is a rhythmic chant, complete with clapping, that seems to get faster and louder and then die off in a big cheer. I keep telling myself that it is just people chugging beer. As the chanting gets wilder, I keep visualizing the closing scenes of Last Exit to Brooklyn but I will the image out of my mind. Eventually my brain manages to substitute a more benign picture along the lines of Cher's Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves, which is enough to placate me a little. The street below now seems completely empty, so the partying must be up on a nearby roof. I realize that this is exactly the sort of edgy behavior that the police are too busy to worry about. It is probably nothing, but it seems on the verge of spinning out of control. I find myself wondering if this makes me an old fogey. Ten years ago, would I have gone up to find the party?

The main thing I am worried about is the potential for fire. All these people using candles seems like a recipe for danger. I have put my well stocked purse right next to the front door, along with a bag containing a set of clean clothes and some basic toiletries. I'm not sure where I would go if something did happen, but it makes me feel better to have some sort of plan.

6:00 am

The first thing I see upon waking is the green light blinking on the VCR. Power is back. The radio says that subways are still out until afternoon, though, and continues with the snow day analogy. Still deeply groggy, I stumble back to my bedroom and lie back down in front of the fan that is now whizzing merrily beside the bed.

Hurrah for civilization.

2003-08-10T18:12:00.000-04:00

Summer Fun

Last weekend I went to Boston. I saw a lot of good people and I ate a lot of good food. I even took some good pictures, but I haven't put them together yet. Consider this a coming attraction.

Friday I went out to Ringwood to see Amy and Ed. Their twin boys are now 3 1/2, and their little girl is just 1. The triple stroller is quite an impressive site when loaded for bear. They are all a lot of fun, and as usual, Amy served wonderful homemade goodies. She sent me home with a jar of bread and butter pickles that I am holding off on opening, because I'm afraid I'll want to eat them all. Amy and also went out and had dinner with KK. Her garden is even more amazing than I expected, well organized but still very informal. Big focus on fragrant flowers. She made us a delicious dinner of filet mignon and parmesan spinach patties, then made tea from freshly picked lemon verbena. I think I should visit more often out there.

Today was a joint birthday tea at Brit Central in Greenwich Village, aka Tea and Sympathy. The sandwiches were homey and delicious, and the scones were properly small, the better to slather with the clotted cream. I found the cakes a bit too big and bland, which means they are probably very authentic. But next time I will just get the sandwiches and order a slice of the walnut cake I could see on the counter behind me. I had a black tea with rose petals that set off the rich food nicely. The decor is intensely cozy and funky. Pictures here.

I think this place is a find. If nothing else, I will have to return when the weather is cooler to stock up on Flake bars at the gift shop next door. If I had bought them today, they would have turned to mush in the heat, not a flake left in the makeup. A good excuse to go back.

2003-08-01T10:30:00.000-04:00

Mimmy

The follow-up to Macworld:

I bought a new iBook 900! It arrived this week. It is tiny and white and shiny and adorable. I have named it Mimmy, after the twin sister of Hello Kitty. As soon as I took it out of the box, I knew the name would have to come from the worlds of Barbie or Sanrio. There is something Japanese about all the whiteness (even the keyboard and the cords), but naming it "Kitty" would have been much too Anne Frank. So Kitty's twin is now my computer.

Right now, I am struggling through the setup. It always takes me a while to get my preferences established, but this time it's especially daunting since this is my first time using OSX. I have found out they are giving a class at work, so I will sign up for that and see what I can see. So far, I am really glad I am doing this at home first. If I were trying to migrate and work at the same time, I would be tearing my hair.

I still think it's going to be great once I set everything up. Already, Three Way Action is running a lot better in the new browser.

Welcome, Mimmy. I think we are going to be great friends.

2003-07-17T23:17:00.000-04:00

Not What It Used to Be

Macworld. A magic word for a magic world, once upon a time. I remember going to the early shows at the Moscone center, with the BMUG zanies in their tie--dye shirts and long conversations with the PageMaker rep about why no desktop software could do imposition.

Then I started going to the AAS each January, and missed the SF show for a few years. The early days in NJ, I attended rabidly, so psyched for a day in the city. It was a big show then, in the mid-90s, full of buzz and gimmes. I felt like I was doing my job right when the Adobe rep tried to hide when she saw me coming. Yeah, I am an exigent user. I know what I need my products to do for me, and I know my suggested enhancements would make things work better for everybody.

Then I got involved with The Big Author. The crazy man who never met a deadline he couldn't break. The Big Author whose Big Books were always screaming into final production in July, for distribution in August. Year after year, I watched my colleagues traipse off in subsidized transport for expense account lunches on their big trek into New York. Hell, I would cost the company nothing to stroll down to the convention center, a pleasant walk or prepaid bus ride from my home, not like these folks who quake and fret about taking the ferry, never mind the PATH. They'd come back laden with trinkets -- mouse pads, stress balls, note books, slinkies, T-shirts -- while I was bleary-eyed from 18-hour days of formatting.

This year it's different. Big Author is truly out of my life. I have felt like I was on vacation all summer long, just handling a normal workload. Big Author's minions are moping around the office, trying to get taxi vouchers so they can work until midnight. While I blithely skipped off to the Macworld Expo for the first time in a good five years.

It was so.... small.

Of course, most of it's the Internet bust. People just aren't floating on the waves of money that fueled the old shows. Attendance seemed paltry, and most of the non-exhibitors were locals. The exhibitors that were there were on austerity programs, too. My total haul of gimmes consists of one book, two pens, one T-shirt, a packet of computer screen wipes, and a couple of temporary tattoos.

And yet, I felt so good there. These are My People. And they didn't seem edgy or down, they seemed committed. What I saw was a mature market. Not hoopla, but people who were serious about the tools they use everyday. Not pie in the sky, but work. Not hazy pitches for niche inventions, but detailed specs for focused products.

In a way, it's sad to lose the energy of the little mom 'n' pop software startups, people who figured out a clever way to do a certain thing, and came to the fair to see what they could sell. Yet that vibe was still flowing from the big turnout of user groups, and a few grassroots vendors like Tekserve, whose booth had a circus freak show theme, including carnival games.

It's behaving like a mature marketplace. A productive environment with standards in mind. The dust has settled, and now we can get stuff done. I kinda like this.

2003-06-29T23:41:00.000-04:00

The Pride Ride

Today was the Gay Pride Parade, and all weekend New York has been filled with revelers from around the US. The mood seems especially giddy in light of the recent Supreme Court ruling, not to mention the simple explosion of good feelings now that the weather has finally warmed up. So it was no big surprise to get caught in one of those late-night traffic jams trying to enter the Lincoln Tunnel around 11 pm on a Saturday. It was a lovely clear night, and from the Helix, I had a fantastic view of midtown, with the Chrysler Building and the Empire State glowing brilliantly. The traffic jam also gave me a chance to examine in detail the wonderfully absurd vehicle in the next lane, possibly the gayest vehicle I have ever seen in my life. Hence, The Pride Ride.

The car in question was a Cadillac Escalade, the absurd-looking luxury version of a Chevy Suburban. This one was especially ridiculous, as it had a miniature truck bed, maybe five feet long, tacked on behind the four-door cab. It was riding high and shiny, with lots of glistening chrome. The wheels were especially shiny, formed into some sort of chunky monster spokes that shimmered in the harsh roadside lighting. Tinted windows, Jersey plates. But what made the look was the paint job. The entire car was painted white, and then stenciled with the Louis Vuitton logo in rainbow colors. It was meticulous, flowing seamlessly over door frames, fenders, even the gas cap. This is the new Vuitton Murakami pattern that apparently has a two-year waiting list, unless you tell them you are a stylist for Oprah. Of course I expect it to be available on Canal Street by now, but I didn't think I would be seeing it on Route 3 so soon.

I can just imagine this monstrosity at the post-parade party, with the tailgate open on a tissu-de-Provence cloth stacked with canapes and a cooler full of Margaritas. Ride with Pride.

2003-06-23T15:11:00.000-04:00

The Coast is Clear

Home today, working some more on the Closet of Doom. At last it is a sunny day, and clear, without haze. I went out for lunch at the diner, ham and Swiss omelette and iced tea. Then I stepped into the little washroom there and I was smacked in the face by the summer of 1982.

It rose up to me, the New York I dreamed of and the New York I remembered and the way I lived and wanted to live. A crazy mix of memory and hopefulness. I don't know if that's just what being young was, or if it's what New York was. There aren't many places where that tiny tiled bathroom could be, or where the old Greek waitress would bring me that wheat toast and grape jelly, or even where there are still little independent neighborhood diners. In the summer of 1982, I couldn't afford to eat in the diner much. It was for going out, for a special treat, after we went to some local club and nursed one drink.

I remembered the loft on Greenwich Street, the typewriter, the table fan with the temperature keys ranging from dark to light blue, the Colgate clock across the river, and the endless mosquitoes. I remembered jogging around the Pomodoro sculpture at the World Trade Center in pink terry shorts, and learning the hard way that the 1/9 never met the A train anywhere downtown. I remembered buying blueberries at the Food Emporium to make a cobbler, and going to an outdoor concert at South Street Seaport. I remembered my raw silk graduation suit, and the dusty rose blouse with pearly buttons that I burned with the iron on the butcher-block desk. I remembered wearing it to countless interviews and finally to the job in the Empire State Building with the Dragon Lady publicist. I remembered the huge bottle of Norwich aspirin on the open shelves of the bathroom.

And of course, I remembered Tom. Gangly in a white polo shirt and round tortoise-shell glasses. Ruffling his curls up the back of his head with long, spatulate fingers. Pursing his lips as he read galleys under the open window. Eating ice cream out of a purple Melmac bowl, and using the purple plate to hold his contact lens solution.

Most of all, I remembered his scent, and the day I discovered what it was: Coast soap. He always chose his toiletries to evoke the beach. He had some sort of coconut scented shaving cream, and sometimes used Bain de Soleil as a year-round moisturizer. But the underpinning was the soap. It really did smell like the ocean, like dunes and pines and fog coming off the water and sun on salty hair.

Back in the diner washroom, I spotted the swirly blue bar on the edge of the tiny sink. I washed my face, my hands, my forearms up to the elbow. For the rest of the afternoon, I recovered the scent of 1982 in New York City, the scent of hope and memory.

2003-06-20T15:38:00.000-04:00

Stood Up

Blown off for lunch today, despite a confirming e-mail yesterday. Waited for half an hour outside the restaurant, and then when I told the maitre d' that I would just go ahead and eat, he told me they only seat complete parties at lunch. I couldn't bring myself to say, "I have given up on waiting for my friend and I just want to eat alone."

I went off and tried to do some shopping while I was in the neighborhood, but I couldn't seem to get any reasonable attention from the clerks. Apparently my cooties are that obvious.

I'm pretty used to feeling unpopular. I never have been one of the Cool Kids. But I really, really hate feeling clueless, imagining that I could have some sort of social life and then having the bitter reality manifested yet again. The most ironic part was that I kept checking my cell phone for messages. One of my express reasons for getting it was to make it easier to go out and interact with people. But only if they call me, I guess.

I ended up having Marlboro Lights for lunch. The first cigarettes I have bought since the week after 9/11.

2003-06-19T06:19:00.000-04:00

Still More New Men

Today I walked into the coffee room at work and heard two men boasting about how long their respective newborns were sleeping through the night.

It was a real Deborah Tannen moment because they sounded totally different than women talking about the same thing. More like the way men talk about their cars' performance than the way women talk about their children. It made me think about something my old friend P.F. said about how men's talk was full of numbers and statistics, that their conversations ranged around sizes and speeds and ratios.

And now, apparently, babies.

2003-06-16T06:05:00.000-04:00

Pennnnnnnsylvania

From the sublime to the ridiculous.

It started out quite high-minded, as a visit to the Impressionist treasures of the Barnes Foundation. About all I remembered from my visit five years ago was the surfeit of swirly vermillion cheeks in the room after room of Renoirs, and the shock of the Van Gogh nude. This visit was inspired by seeing the Musee d'Orsay this spring, and I was more tuned in to the details.

The Van Gogh nude was still absolutely spectacular. A monkey-faced little woman, her hip cocked at an odd angle, lying in a huge, poofy bed. Her dark hair and swarthy skin contrast with the snowy linens. On her body, the brush strokes swirl round and round her belly button, armpits, and breasts, while the bed's strokes fan outward from her. She is vivid in her particularity, a true portrait with no sentimentalism or idealism at all. The Renoir nymphs beside her look insipidly pretty.

New discoveries were William Glackens (trademark: green) and Chaim Soutine, a tortured portraitist who makes Georg Grosz look cheerful. Several charming Rousseaus and lots and lots and lots of Matisse. In fact, a note in the gift shop said there are more paintings by Matisse (including a mural he created on site) in the Barnes collection than in all of France. I liked the monumental Morrocan man with the shadows in the aqua green of Islamic tiles.

The pictures appear to be hung by size and a bit by subject matter, making it hard to follow themes. Some rooms seemed to be dominated by a particular painter, but there was a mish-mash of French Impressionists among a smattering of German XV and XVI Century religious art, interspersed with Barnes' massive collection of, er, small metal objects, mostly hinges and locks.

Usually I really enjoy personal collections for their quirkiness and the mark of the collector. In this case I ultimately found it frustrating. The hanging is idiosyncratic, the documentation is sorely lacking, and the docents are all in such thrall to the personality cult of Dr. Barnes that they talk more about him than about the paintings. I hope they succeed in getting the collection moved to a more modern facility and get some decent documentation to make it more accessible. It's ultimately an example of what's wrong with keeping cultural treasures in private hands.

After our high culture afternoon, we set out to find an Amish dinner. We meandered out toward Lancaster and found the recommended Zinn's diner. After posing with Amos, the giant fiberglass farmer outside, we sat down to feast. I had finished my waffle with turkey and gravy and was almost through my buttered noodles and chow-chow when A. suggested we could do better justice to the antique stores if we stayed overnight instead of trying to whoosh through before 9 pm. I contemplated over the crumb-top cherry pie and then agreed. We set out to use our cell phones and credit cards to help us return to an earlier time and a simpler lifestyle. After checking into the Pennsylvania Dutch motel, we headed down to Ephrata, where the 24-hour WalMart has buggy parking over by the garden department.

Brief interlude of Retail Stendhal Syndrome and Bargain Euphoria ensues.

Saturday was a further festival of heartland foods and serious shopping. A. ended up with the china cabinet of her dreams, and I found fulfillment at the Reading factory stores, where Jones NY yielded up a decent replacement suit and two fabulous pairs of black wool dress slacks.

I feel like an Amuric'n.

2003-06-01T13:19:00.000-04:00

Grown Up

Bobby Short singing Cole Porter at the Cafe Carlyle, preceded by a dinner of lobster and champagne. This is what I dreamed about all those years I wanted to move to New York.

The Carlyle always makes me feel embraced and clever. It is not obvious. It's a little flashy, but in harmony with the neighborhood and just far enough out of the way to be unnoticed by most visitors to the city. The richness on the inside is old and mellow, not fashionable, just lovely. Quiet lighting, low ceilings, deep colors, a controlled murmur of sound over a tinkling piano and the plop of ice cubes. Old European waiters in white duck jackets who know how to make a martini without a lot of questions.

And the other people at the Carlyle are more interesting than fashionable. Last night there was a couple in their 60s wearing the most extraordinary jewelry. Both the man and the woman had on huge pendants with elaborate cameos and lots of baroque chains. They were wearing matching jackets of a vaguely kimono cut, made from carefully pieced swirls of various black and white silk prints. The woman had some sort of black netting overdress with great bursts of bronze beading, and both had more layers of gray, black, and white clothing that I couldn't quite identify. They sat right at the foot of the piano, exchanging sly glances throughout the show.

Next to them was the couple we called the Woody Allen wannabes. He was an elderly Jewish man in a tweedy sportcoat and big convex glasses. She was a reed-thin Asian woman with long, poorly highlighted hair and too much eye makeup. M, who was seated closer to them, said the woman was really not so young -- she thought the age difference must be "only" about 15 or 20 years. He spent a good half hour going over their bill in the blue light of his PDA after the show.

I remember other Carlyle patrons from previous visits, especially in the Bememlmans bar. A very short man in a perfectly tailored suit smoking an enormous cigar, his feet stretching to reach the rungs on his bar stool. A woman in a white silk suit with swooping, asymmetric lapels who must have been convinced she looked like one of the Collins sisters. And a table full of young, rich drug addicts. All of them had terrible bedhead and their cashmere sweaters were rumpled, but once you have drilled in the good manners, they become automatic. The boys all rose each time one of the girls got up to have a snort in the ladies', and rose again each time she came back.

And it all fades into the softly glowing indirect lights and the muffle of the thick carpeting, and the Carlyle goes on the same as ever.

Bobby Short, I fear, is not quite the same as ever. Last night his voice was really ravaged. He warmed up a little after the first couple of tunes, but he never really got rid of the rumble except on a few rare high notes. The fact that he was overmiked didn't help. Nonetheless, he is a wonderful performer. In the small room, he seemed to make eye contact with each person in the audience at least once. He beams with warmth, and seems to savor the privilege of being able to create that kind of music in such a rarefied spot. His histories of the numbers were full of the names of performers and venues long gone, wrapped around a real joy of being able to keep them alive, and a strong sense of what the audience brings to the performance. In his person, he manages to retain the sexual and racial ambiguity that lends the needed raciness to Cole Porter's lyrics. It was a room full of people who still have something to wink at.

I had so many memories of sharing that kind of music with friends I seldom see, and some who are long gone. It's been a thread through my life since I was a teenager, and when I revisit those songs years later, there are layers of experience to each one. Besides thinking about the different times and people I shared them with, I think about the different arrangements and feelings that various performers bring to them. This is a big difference from the singer-songwriter tradition of rock and roll, where "covers" are looked down on. Though in my heart of hearts, I think that Ella's Songbooks are the "real" versions of most of those songs, I appreciate the openness to interpretation of the great standards.

Now that I have more of those layers of my own, I can appreciate even more how good it feels it feels to be a Grown Up in New York City.

2003-05-30T06:14:00.000-04:00

We'll Always Have Paris

Three Way Action is closing.

I completely understand why, but I still hate it. I am not ready yet to think about how much a part of my life it has been. Right now I still just have the cold feeling in my stomach that is my first response to shock and disaster. I just hope I can keep my 3WA friendships going in real life.

2003-05-28T22:34:00.000-04:00

Poems from the Subway

Change

by Janet Ward

there are some

unafraid to show

how life has beaten

them up, or down

they sit on the street

head in hands

or stare

anesthetized

into dumbfounding

space, crowds, rain

others choose

familiar artifice

and carry their defeat like money

they don't have to spend yet

2003-05-26T10:19:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to Me

Some years I take on my new age more easily than others. There is something likable about the number 44 itself, and I have been saying "44" for the last couple of months. I think I will feel quite good about it if/when I get my promotion announced at the quarterly meeting. This year I have a feeling of being pretty much where I should be.

N. has thoughtfully planned a birthday BBQ for me that has ballooned to some 16 guests. Too bad it is pouring rain, the only really stormy day of a generally damp weekend. I will be schlepping 3 bottles of sparkling wine and then picking up a huge order of ribs from Brother Jimmy's to bring over on the bus. Luckily, I have M.'s big duffel bag to return, so there is something to haul it in.

The biggest real problem with the weather is the question of the paint. Yes, being a procrastinator means that I was indeed putting the second coat on the inside of the previously mildewed closet at 11 pm. Luckily, it went much faster than the first. I am hoping it will still cure today in the damp. I'll leave the fan on, but I don't want to run the space heater unattended. As always when I do these projects, I am most leery when I think they are done. Will it really be safe to put the clothes back in the closet? Will the paint rub off? Will the unexpectedly rough finish snag the clothes? Will the mildew come back? If I wait another few days, will it be safe to just tack some plastic over the painted surface before returning the clothes? I think I am going to, just to assuage my paranoia. Maybe I will got down to Canal Street and buy some of that fruity oil cloth I have always admired.

For some reason, the long weekend has brought out a rash of Coen Brothers movies on TV. So much more effectively creepy to me than anything from David Lynch, and more visually striking, as well. They do their audience the compliment of underplaying. Now my eye is all full of their dim, neutral palette. I'm inclined to dig out a brown and gray outfit for today's BBQ.

Overall, though, my morning wallow is a bit spoiled by the alarming ad content of weekday TV. First, on the Today show, every other ad seemed to be for denture or arthritis products, including arthritis pills for dogs. The rest of the shows are full of scary Vo-Tech ads. Time to get back to work.

2003-05-25T09:54:00.000-04:00

Another New Man

In yesterday's NBA playoff game, Jason Kidd collapsed with a twisted ankle, writhing on the floor in agony. Before the game was over, he was back in it. He told reporters that he overcame the pain by using Lamaze techniques.

2003-05-24T19:24:00.000-04:00

One Ringy-Dingy

I have finally got a mobile phone. I refuse to call it a "cell phone" because it is digital. Plus, "mobile" sounds all British and stuff. I have chosen La Donna e Mobile as my ringer sound, because it exactly suits my arch sense of humor.

I had come to feel quite contrarian about not having one, and in fact, I do feel suddenly more normal now. I like whipping it out of my purse, even just to check the time. It feels good in my hand. I have a weird sense of belonging on the streets of New York that matches the crazy sense of rightness I felt the first time I drove an SUV around New Jersey. It's silly, really. No one generally would notice that I am not talking on a mobile phone at any given time. But just knowing that I could be makes me feel suddenly with-it.

The whole justification for getting it is to move my long distance calls over to the free nights and weekends of the plan. We shall see how much this really cuts my other phone bill. I am tempted to go ahead and get that fixed price unlimited service for local and long distance on my home phone, just because I am a fan of fixed costs. Even if it is not always a bargain, I like knowing exactly how much it will be. So far I have used the new phone to make a couple of long calls and I've used it to talk while surfing from my land line. The multi-tasking is pretty cool. I also think it will encourage me to keep up with some friends who don't do much e-mail.

Now if I can figure out how to set up the voice mail box, I can actually start giving out the number.

2003-05-23T20:24:00.000-04:00

Fleet Week

Somehow I had never seen the film On the Town, even though it involves two of my favorite things: New York City and Gene Kelly in a sailor suit. It was on today for a Memorial Day weekend marathon of military films, so I sat down to watch.

I love those big postwar location films like Roman Holiday and An American in Paris, so I was eating up all the period New York scenery in this one, even thoug most of it was glimpsed through the windows of a taxicab. In the big New York, New York number, they flash from one monument to the next, but I loved the accuracy of details like pointing the proper directions on "the Bronx is up and the Battery's down" when they were standing in Rockefeller Plaza. I had not realized that this was Gene Kelly's first directing job (well, co-director with Stanley Donen) but it does account for the requisite ballet scene. These are almost always my least favorite parts of Kelly's films, yet it is obvious that they were important to him. This one really does click; Bernstein is a perfect match for that sort of schmaltzy middle-brow aestheticism, so the score for it is lush yet just a little spicy. I have a hard time imagining the two of them together, though. Kelly is so determinedly boyish and athletic, even when he is being artsy, while Bernstein is just plain artsy.

So Kelly moons his way through the ballet number, sighing and shrugging, but it is not half as charming as the dopey-happy look he gets after he finally gets up the nerve to ask his crush on a date, after which he pirouettes into a doorpost and kisses it. This is his real appeal to me, I think. He perfectly conveys the sense of a man who feels not just happy, but blessed, a man who can't believe his luck at what a great life he's having. In his dancing, he leads with his heart, physically. He throws his shoulders back and presents his chest with a sort of vulnerable bravado, offering himself openly. It's totally disarming. Of course his winning smile and square chin don't hurt either.

And then there are those sailor pants.

2003-05-19T21:11:00.000-04:00

The New Man

I was walking by the new, very upscale nail salon on 86th, gawking at the folks through the big picture window. I did a slight double take when I realized that there in the front row was a man getting a manicure. Not a poodle-owning kind of man (he would go somewhere fancier) and not even a French cuffs and stick-pin kind of man. Just a regular Upper West Side guy in a dark green T-shirt and ill-fitting khakis. And strapped to his chest, a baby in a Snuggli.

Definitely the New Man.

2003-04-20T12:10:00.000-04:00

Failure Notice

I put a lot into organizing Easter Bonnets for Peace but nodoby showed up. Not one. They all had good reasons, even the ones who phoned this morning with their regrets, but it made my event into a big, fat flop.

Yeah, in an ordinary setting my hat was pretty attention-getting. But on the scale of street theater that was out there this morning, any single hat had to be at least three feet tall to get noticed on its own. If there had been a group, especially if I'd gotten some kids and pets, as I had hoped, I think we would have attracted some media notice. As it was, I think I got my picture taken twice, and I brazenly stepped in with my placard ("Support our troops; bring them home.") behind a newscaster.

I guess the war news this week wasn't inspiring enough. I would rather think that than admit that none of my friends cared about my project.

2003-04-16T05:59:00.000-04:00

Word from the Fly Guy

The Fly Guy sent me email yesterday. He has been in his undisclosed location in the Middle East for six weeks now, and this is the first word from him. I don't think I realized how much I had been holding my breath for him until I finally got word. It's a big relief to know he is OK, even though, of course, he can't really tell me anything.

If this were a real blog, I'd say Feeling: Grateful

2003-03-28T12:49:00.000-05:00

Runaround

The day the war started, my wallet was stolen. In general terms, this is not the end of the world. However, it is a considerable disadvantage to have to replace all my documents the week before I leave for vacation. Not to mention the hassle of having all my credit blocked.

Summary of my experiences:

Ch@se bank is actually quite friendly and helpful.
C!+!bank is even more obstructionist than in any of our previous encounters.
The New York DMV is surprisingly well organized, and was able to pull up everything from my existing records including, my photo.
The New York Public Library in my neighborhood is open approximately 20 minutes per week when I am not otherwise busy.
If the police officer tells you it is his first day out of the academy, call back every day to make sure that someone who knows what they are doing has seen you paperwork.

And now, TGIF. I am off to London and Paris at last!

2003-03-23T12:43:00.000-05:00

On Broadway

Beautiful Spring day. Ugly desert war. Casey and Josh and thousands of other peaceful protesters.

The most moving moment: As we walked past Macy's, there was a man standing on the sidewalk, watching us eagerly. His handsome face was softening into middle age, but he was tall and carried himself well. Dressed in a white shirt and loosened tie he wore a set of battered dogtags around his neck. His neatly printed sign said "Veteran for Peace."

2003-03-16T20:51:00.000-05:00

Candlelight Vigil

I hate the thought of war, but I do love the way communities have come together to oppose it.

I tried to watch the press conference from the Azores summit today, but the four world leaders seemed incoherent to me. By contrast, the crowd that gathered on the steps of the Cathedral tonight seemed naturally united in a joint purpose.

When I walked up the street at a few minutes before 7:00, there were lots of other people arriving, and I looked up the steps, like stadium bleachers, to find the faces of friends. In the twilight I recognized a group I knew and walked up to join them. It was wonderful to stand at the top of the steps and watch people coming from all directions to take up candles and participate.

Pretty soon some people started singing. I fell in with two women, Margaret and Elizabeth, who had good voices and knew words to a lot of songs. We sang many verses of "Amazing Grace," stuttered through the revised, gender-free version of "Let There Be Peace On Earth," and sustained several choruses of "Dona Nobis Pacem" as a round. Another group began singing over on the other side, "We Shall Overcome" and "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." We all drew together and joined in "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" and "Blowin' In the Wind."

The spirit of the singing seemed to rise and grow like a loaf of bread, expanding and surrounding us. In the middle of "America the Beautiful," a fire engine roared down Amsterdam Avenue. The driver honked his horn and the firefighters leaned out waving as we all raised our candles high. We could see people in the buildings across the street holding up little children to watch.

It's good to feel part of something larger than myself.

Photo from the vigil.

2003-02-19T19:54:00.000-05:00

Snow

Two days after the storm, the snow is still mostly white. Even in the city, it hasn't got much of that sooty look yet, and the surfaces are smoothed by the wind. The playground across the street gleams under the streetlights, and the big drifts in Central Park reflect the pale, cloudy sky.

The Hudson is still full of ice. Crackly chunks of white float on the greenish gray surface. It all looks muddy and half congealed and dangerous, dirtier, even, than the brackish puddles that form at the streetcorners where pedestrians have worn little tracks through the heaps of snow piled on every curb.

It's too bad the snow can't decompose from the inside. If it could wilt from within, then the soft, white, marshmallow surface would just deflate slowly until it floated off prettily down the gutters. I'm not looking forward to the filthy, treacherous, hard-edged thaw I know is coming. If only New York could spend a few more days snugged beneath this smooth, white counterpane!

2003-02-18T20:08:00.000-05:00

Walking Meditation
by Thich Nhat Hanh


Take my hand.

We will walk.

We will only walk.

We will enjoy our walk

without thinking of arriving anywhere.

Walk peacefully.

Walk happily.

Our walk is a peace walk.

Our walk is a happiness walk.



Then we learn

that there is no peace walk;

that peace is the walk;

that there is no happiness walk;

that happiness is the walk.

We walk for ourselves.

We walk for everyone

always hand in hand.



Walk and touch peace every moment.

Walk and touch happiness every moment.

Each step brings a fresh breeze.

Each step makes a flower bloom under our feet.

Kiss the Earth with your feet.

Print on the Earth your love and happiness.



Earth will be safe when we feel in us enough safety.

2003-02-15T21:14:00.000-05:00

We Shall Not Be Moved

There is nothing that gets to my heart like singing with a bunch of people. I got to sing a lot today.