I am sitting on a park bench, a spiral notebook in my lap. The lake has grown still, with jewel-bright patches of algae on its surface and the dissipating wakes of the water birds. The tire swing is empty, dripping with dew. Everyone is walking in unmatched pairs: an old Asian lady with a towheaded child of three; teenage boy, dark as mahogany, and a middle-aged white man in a button-down shirt; an overgrown boy in plastic glasses, bent sideways to look into his father’s face as they walk together down the path. The father is limping, the son padding eagerly underfoot. Pooooor Daddy! the son says, and the older man’s expression is equal parts love and masculine chagrin. He switches the aluminum cane to his other hand–a one-post fence in the space between them.
Who did you see today?
I’m going to swoon a bit over your day. The water. The notebook. You are in heaven, my dear, I can hear it.
I saw not a soul. I sat — “sat” being the loosest of terms — on my couch and read and read and read, all day long. I finished RULES OF CIVILITY and, as predicted, cried over the last 3 pages. You see it coming, sure, but you’re never quite prepared. The tears started about here:
“It is a bit of a cliche to characterize life as a rambling journey on which we can alter our course at any given time — by the slightest turn of the wheel, the wisdom goes, we influence the chain of events and thus recast our destiny with new cohorts, circumstances, and discoveries. But for most of us, life is nothing like that. Instead, we have a few brief periods when we are offered a handful of discrete options.”
And on that note, I think it’s about time for a glass of wine…
“Instead, we have a few brief periods when we are offered a handful of discrete options.”
This kind of pressure makes me want to reach for a glass of wine myself. It’s 6:20am. Too early?
Yes. It’s too early. In the late 1980s I was a full-time writer but I had a full-time drinking habit. Much worse than being a pot-head. Still upsets me to think about it. So whenever I hear a writer making casual remarks about drinking I get all panicky and god-no-don’t! about it. John Gardner wrote that drink was the greatest danger to the writer and I am here to testify that he was right. So don’t.
Not to worry. I’m a social drinker who has no friends.
I went running this morning and soon saw I was in the middle of some charity’s 5K race. I saw some funny faces when the lead runners reached me and looked at me, amazed that such a slowpoke could have been ahead of them!
haha!
A sit-com scene in real life!
I saw a red-headed, blue-eyed baby girl giggling and laughing as she stop-motion-crawled up the aisle during the Prayers of the People (for the sick, the poor, for peace) at church this morning. She crowed with joy as her mother caught her up in her arms—and I could feel the mood of the entire congregation lift as though we thought those prayers might be answered sooner rather than later.
I think she even lifted my mood from afar. Sweet little pumpkin.
Susan and I went to see a matinee performance of “The Killer Angels” at The Filling Station. We saw a dozen local actors costumed as and playing the roles of soldiers in the Civil War. We saw audience members most of whom were our age or older. We saw a young couple on the front row on the other side of the stage and she got cold halfway through the performance and he gave her his checked flannel shirt to wear and he watched the rest of the show in his t-shirt. We saw a skinny guy in a red hoodie hanging out in front of the flophouse across the street from the playhouse. He was there when the show began and he was there a couple hours later when it was over.
A man offering his jacket is the sexiest thing in the world. Not only because it’s so chivalrous, but because the fabric will still be warm with his body heat, and will smell like him, and be comfortingly enormous. If men knew the seductive power of the loaner jacket, they’d never let us leave home with one of our own.
I saw my husband and daughter go out together for a run. I saw my son playing football with his friends. Cats finding new places to nap in the rearranged living room. A Carolina Wren hopping around the deck and a young male cardinal hogging the bird feeder even though it was full and the small house finches couldn’t have possibly posed a threat to him. It was like American economics in action.
{snort} So fitting that cardinals are red.
‘Twas a unusually beautiful day in MI, so Henry and I saw couples with kids and dogs on our daily rounds. And lots of squirrels too–Henry’s favorite!
The squirrels in our backyard are hilarious, chasing each other up and down the trees, fighting with the crows. One of them likes to pace back and forth on our fence like he’s patrolling the place. I am thinking of making him a sign: GUARD SQUIRREL ON DUTY.
I saw a dog-walk acquaintance/friend ahead of me in the distance with her very shameless and very loving Corgi and didn’t say hello, even though I wanted to.
I am so looking forward to getting a dog. We’re in the perfect place for one, and it’s the perfect time. Now if only I had some money. . . .
I was at the SFMOMA to see the cindy sherman exhibit. there was a wall of portraits of typical american women posing for portraits– you know the ones– the cheesy, posy, awkward, close-cropped kind of photos you see at malls– and I turned around and there were two bleach blonde women with snug jeans and cleavage and heels (the kind of women you might see in LA but not in SF so much) and I did a double-take. why don’t they let you take pictures in museums? i swear, i would not be taking pictures of the pictures. only of the picture-lookers today.
You’d have a field day in Vegas, it’s a magnet for bleach blondes and maroon redheads and deep, dark cleavage. Those chicks always seem a little off-balance to me, what with the tits and heels and all, but I suppose the jewelry anchors them down.
Today I saw some major stink eye coming from the person trying to hand me copies of religious literature at the bus stop. I think the poisonous look came not because I (very politely!) turned it down, but because I was reading a David Sedaris book — the one with a big skeleton smoking a cigarette on the cover. This I chose to read over their doomsday pamphlet — the nerve!
I love this Laura!
Hahahaha!
Don’t you sometimes want to whip out a pamphlet of your own, with conflicting reports on the coming apocalypse? Just sow a tiny seed of doubt and leave it behind to germinate: “It is written that only a man who has never cut his hair shall pass into the kingdom of heaven.”
Taking refuge in our neighborhood coffee shop while a realtor opened up all my worldly belongings to a total stranger, I endulged in a latte with the most beautiful leaf sculpted into the foam — and a bit of eavesdropping. At the next table was a woman of about 50 meeting a woman of maybe 75 for coffee. The younger tutored the elder at what she should order (she ended up with a latte with three shots, my kind of woman) and then they sat to talk. Clearly the younger thought her friend needed someone to talk to. Nearly every sentence began with “Tell me about…” I couldn’t hear her responses but she had lots to say. Maybe she was a new widow, maybe she had just moved to town, I don’t know, but the younger gave up part of her Sunday to give her someone to talk to. I liked that.
One small act of kindness, yet look how far it has spread.
XO
I saw my nine-day-old grandson’s face. Tiny, shapely, with a pointed chin. Elegant. Why do we love?
There is nothing, nothing on this earth, like a brand new baby. Congratulations!
And nothing like new-baby smell. Mmmm…..
I saw my youngest in the rear view mirror, crossing the road with his school bag, trying to look cool in a bunch of white Italian kids. I saw a trio of Bangladeshi brothers and sister holding hands walking past my favourite bar (closed on Monday). And another group of three Senegalese kids sweeping along by the traffic. All new Italians, the next generation.
I also saw a beefy tanned creature in a lemon bathing cap and teensy lemon swimmers roaring down the pool in the lane next to me. He pushed me off course!
The beefy creature in teensy lemon swimmers was trying to show off to some cute little Aussie chick. (And the American in me has collapsed into giggles at the idea of the banana hammock. Eewww.)
I saw a looming deadline.
What the hell are you doing on the interwebs? Get back to work, bad girl.
I think I finally figured out how to have a Gravatar.
Snazzy.
Yesterday we took the brood apple picking. I saw a man, kidding around with a group of kids. It was clear he was the “Uncle.” He had too much energy and silliness to be the father, who was standing nearby, exhausted. I also saw a woman, worry etched in to her brow. She screamed at her husband to locate the kids’ wipes and I’m fairly certain I saw his body droop in reaction. On the way home, we saw a man in dirty clothes, standing under the Expressway with a sign that read, “Homeless. Hungary. God Bless.”
Today I didn’t see anyone. It was rainy and windy and I was cooped up with the mob. It was not pretty.
Did I really just spell hungry, hungary?
You did. Maybe it’s your subconscious saying that you need a vacation. In Hungary.
Nice, descriptive.
Walking around Brooklyn this last weekend has sure showed me unlikely pairs. (At least to my sheltered, Midwestern sensibilities.) Most notable have been the very young children with very old parents. My daughter tells me that becoming a parent at 39 is almost the norm around here.