Snippets

So, it turns out people want last year's hero clicks as much as they want last year's cell phone. Just in case, Dad is carefully cataloguing them, and storing each collection in its own separate baggie. During his work, he discovered some interesting (though probably not surprising) facts:

All female hero clicks have big gazangas.

The heroines, while well-endowed, are fully covered. The villainesses all have low-cut dresses.

In amongst the collection there are some surprising figures. Dad is particularly taken by the penguin hero clicks. Dad loves penguins. He wishes he could have one as a pet. He'd take it for walks, holding it by the flipper. He'll be saving out at least one of those pieces.

There are also rabbit hero clicks. We really don't understand this game.

None of us were quite ready to part with James' big yellow crocs, the ones that earned him the name Big Bird from his (our) friend Jenny. They're in pretty good shape still, but they were too big for me, Mom and Mary. They fit Dad nicely though. He's not likely to wear them out in public as James did, but even that is possible. His red high-topped Converse are already something of a legend on campus. I hadn't put it together until now: that's where James came by his Converse fascination.

Mom and I took what we hope will be the penultimate load of stuff to Goodwill today, but of course gauging that sort of thing is always risky. We think there will be only one more load.

A close friend of ours, Tom Mullen, died on saturday, at the age of 74, from a stroke. His family and ours were entwined in several ways. His older daughters were close friends of Mary's (I thought of them as additional older sisters). His son Brett and daughter Ruth were both friends of mine and James'. His late wife Nancy was a loving presence in our lives, taking as much interest and joy in our doings as she did in those of her own children's.

Tom was an accomplished man, graduating from Earlham in '56 (several of his student pranks still live in the Earlham oral tradition), then Yale Divinity School, then back to Earlham where he was dean of students, then professor of applied theology, then Dean of the Earlham School of Religion. He wrote books on faith and religion that were known for their humor. He was a smart, loving, principled man who made Earlham, and Richmond, better places. But those aren't the things that immediately spring to my mind with Tom. My first thought is, he was a hoot. Tom was a funny guy. Like many dads, he was particularly fond of tormenting his children, embarrassing them in public whenever he could. Sarah and Martha remember leaving for summer camp, and having their father chase the bus, screaming "they're taking my babies, they're taking my babies!" On another occasion, a close relative asked him please to wear a tie when she introduced him to her fiance. On the day, Tom dutifully showed up wearing a tie over his t-shirt and shorts.

As de facto daughter, Mary came in for some ribbing early on, and when Tom learned she gave as good as she got, he was thrilled. They lovingly sparred for the next forty-odd years. I'm sad to say I hadn't seen him in years, but the rest of the family got to see him one last time, when he came to give his condolences two weeks ago. Like many folks, he had a wealth of James stories (which, as you can imagine, are especially appreciated right now), and he told several of them, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. He mentioned that James and his first wife Nancy became fond of doing jigsaw puzzles together. Mom and Mary opined that James must have bored her at times, but Tom said "Nancy Mullen didn't bore. And she certainly wasn't bored by James." Brief pause. "He bored me sometimes."

That epitomizes Tom beautifully for me, him coming to offer tears, humor and comfort in equal measure to his friends. We say good bye to him on Saturday, then to James on Sunday. We're all grateful to have a chance to offer what comfort we can to a family who has been so quick to help us in similar circumstances. I'm feeling the ties of this community very deeply right now.

Random Thoughts

From Mary:

"I'm sadder than I knew I could be."

"The only way out is through."

From Mom:

"There are no arrears of love."

From Dad:

"This isn't a tragedy. It's an absurdity."

"The circle is unbroken. We're still six."

This latter I find especially comforting; though I initially felt his lack during family grace, that experience seems to have changed. I don't think Dad is just whistling in the dark. You know that feeling when you lose a tooth, and keep feeling the gap with your tongue to see if it's still there? ("Yup, tooth is still gone.") I was doing the emotional equivalent a lot last weekend; that sensation is starting to fade.

We've been clearing out James' place, Mom generally working in the morning, Mary and I working together in the afternoon. Mary said at some point that she'd never seen a space that more spoke of its inhabitant than this one. Very true. Maybe one always feels that way, but James was a collector of various things (his museum training perhaps, though it's probably a chicken-or-egg situation) so everywhere one looked there were coins, polished stones, prisms, antique cameras, swords and keys, posters of Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Tweety-bird, and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models. And the hero-clicks. Holy sweet mother of god, the hero-clicks. They're key elements of one of his more byzantine games and he has them by the cartload, lovingly displayed on bakers racks and bookcases. We're bringing in a friend of his who understands such things (she used to own a store) to recommend actions to take with them. They're starting to oppress me a tad, have to say, but they'll be gone soon. Damn but there are a lot of them. Mary also said "it's weird how much stuff just becomes garbage after a loved one dies." I still find myself reluctant to throw things out that are of no use to anyone, since it still feels like James will object. He loved this stuff, won't he be annoyed if we throw it away? Oh, right.

A sweet, though occasional wrenching discovery, was the number of cards he had saved, most of them from other Laceys. It's been comforting to see words of love to him, in my handwriting. I'm grateful for the evidence that I told him how much he meant to me WHILE HE WAS STILL ALIVE. Yes, of course I knew I had, but it still helped to see them there, tucked into various drawers, shelves and boxes (did I mention the gazillion boxes?) throughout his place. One card that Dad had written him some years back said (I'm paraphrasing) "This is NOT a birthday card, this is just a card to remind thee how much we love thee, and how lucky we feel to have thee in the family." If I hadn't found it, I would have thought it was something Dad had written in the last week, as an attempt to make sense (hah!) of his death. It wrecks me to think of it now (and I'm not sure I did Dad a favor by showing it to him, given how it tore him up), but oh, I am glad he wrote it, and that James saved it.

As I mentioned earlier, James had a gift for connecting with older folks, especially older shy folks. I learned yesterday that when one of his ladies needed cataract surgery, James a) overcame her resistance by reminding her that her precious and hard-won independence would require the surgery, b) accompanied her to all the doctor's appointments, c) learned how to give her eye-drops, since she couldn't do them herself and d) along with Mary, housed and fed her during the necessary recuperation time such surgery required back then. This isn't the only new-to-me story I've heard recently, but knowing this woman, how shy and wary she was of adults, I know that James' sweet, relentless persistance -a quality that could drive you crazy at times - was exactly what the situation called for.

It wasn't just older folks who warmed to James so quickly; like his dad, he was a great favorite with babies and kids. Dozens of times when we were eating in a restaurant, a baby at a nearby table would take a shine to him, and spend the entirety of his/her meal smiling and gurgling at him. One of our friends remembers how sweet he was to her three little girls, saying "how many teenagers would listen so patiently to the goings on of five-, seven- and ten-year-old girls?" More than one person has mentioned James' gift for listening. To be honest, I would not have previously listed that as one of his gifts, but given the deluge of people mentioning it, it's clear it was. What do older brothers know, anyway?

I realized today that most of the people speaking about James spent more time with him as an adult than I did. As is probably clear from my memories thus far, the sweet kid (up through first year of college) is the one I knew best. In some ways that gave me a useful perspective. I would see him once or twice a year, and be able to note the ways he had come into his own just a bit more since the last time. The rest of the family, seeing him every day, couldn't always see the changes as much as I did. It's humbling and touching to realize that his friends probably knew him better than I did, or at least knew him in ways I never did. That's probably the norm more often than not, of course. I'm sure friends of my sister and parents also have insights and stories that would surprise me, but I think James probably came with more of them. Frankly that's good.

We're learning too, or relearning rather, how many people we love are part of this sad fellowship, the families who lost adult children. Mom and Dad have very close friends who are proving to be enormous help in all this, even as they both insist they don't have any answers. Mary has learned that one of her friends AND her mother-in-law each have brothers who were killed by cars on June 6th. There's a weird connection to share. I too have been buoyed up by all of you, in particular the ones who have lost loved ones. It's a club we all join eventually, I know, and everyone agrees that doesn't make it any easier.

Even as we're occasionally ambushed by strong emotions (a Joan Osborne song caught Mary and me VERY off-guard on Saturday), we are, of course, grateful for the love that is making this grief so powerful. We know things will get easier to some extent, in time. A new 'normal' will take shape eventually. We don't ever expect to stop grieving though. Nor do we want to.

First Day, Richmond

I feared it would hurt being in the place where I expect to see James around every corner. There is some of that. I already thought I saw him once, coming up the sidewalk to my sister's place, where I am staying. I keep forgetting he's dead, and making plans to do various things with him. Things pop up that trigger the thought "must tell that to James." Holding hands for grace the first time at dinner last night, when it was just four of us, was a punch to the gut I hadn't predicted. The circle was just different. I could feel it. Apparently Saturday night, both Cleo the cat and Fang the dog sensed something was amiss too. Quite uncharacteristically they followed Mom and Dad up to bed that night. Neither of them stayed for long, but they seemed to need to tuck the folks in. For Fang in particular, going upstairs (where baths happen!) is VERY unusual.

Being surrounded by people who knew and loved James, though, makes a big difference. Brian came to be with me on Saturday, and it wasn't until he was there that I realized how helpful it was to have someone to talk to who actually knew and liked James. Here of course, there are hordes of them. It just so happens quite a few of them had seen James in the last week. More than one person has identified James as his/her best friend. College professors, retirees, gaming pals, former co-workers, men, women of all ages have described him as their 'buddy' a lot. His contagious happiness, kindness and forgiving spirit has been mentioned several times, independent of the obituary Dad wrote (see below).

There have been funny stories too, as there should be. Mom says her most vivid memory of him presently is his face turning bright red from laughter, sometimes having to run into the kitchen to spit when he'd been caught unprepared by a comment. Another friend, one who keeps a curse jar (ten cents a letter, apparently), told about a time when she was recounting to James some mistreatment she'd suffered at the hands of a former spouse. Suddenly James began rooting around in his pants pocket, pulled out a handful of change, threw it in the jar and yelled "asshole!"

We've also, in the most affectionate manner, been able to do a bit of laughing AT James too. We've all acknowledged how he could sometimes just BORE YOUR FACE OFF, when he got going on the minutiae of some new game, or documentary he'd seen (one involving sea turtles was particularly memorable), a favorite TV show or god only knows what. The man remembered detail. Dear GOD he remembered detail. It was heartbreaking to see when he knew he was losing his audience, clearly not know what to do -- so he'd talk faster. James had something called pressed speech, which meant he was prone to speaking so quickly he was indecipherable. At its most extreme he would simply leave syllables out, in his need for speed. He was always quick to offer assistance in any way he could, sometimes offering it two, three, or EIGHT MILLION TIMES. He never took offense at the refusals though.

Hearing about the joy he brought other people though, at the lift they always felt when they ran into him, while not surprising, is balm to my vague fears about whether he was truly happy. Being in his environment, around people who knew him in different ways than me, I'm remembering that yes, he really was that happy, straightforward, what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. And on the subject of the kissing: I've learned that James began the habit back in 2005 when Dad suffered his second, more frightening heart attack. There is even more comfort in that habit now; James had breakfast with Mom and Dad on Saturday, then he took some stuff to the dump for them, as a favor. Before he left, as always, he hugged and kissed them both. That expression of love is their last contact with him. I guess I can say the same thing, even if my hug and kiss was back in December. And yes Jeaux, we are maintaining that tradition.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, we had some of the birthday cake last night. We all agreed it was one of the best ones Mom ever made. I'm glad we didn't stomp on it.

Tomorrow the four of us will tackle his apartment.

Below is an exerpt of the obituary Dad wrote for the local paper.

"Our beloved and loving son and brother, he was a man of principle, a gentle, generous man, and a staunch dependable friend to many, always ready to help others in the most practical ways. He knew how to care for others. he had a great capacity for happiness and brought happiness to others, and he knew how to forgive hurts. His wit was quick and always kind. We cherished his company and will cherish his memory all our lives."

James

My brother James officially turned 41 on Thursday, but we were going to celebrate on Sunday (I was going to attend by phone). Saturday morning he was killed in a collision. Mom had just taken his birthday cake out of the oven when she got the news.

I don't know what happened to the cake. I'm a bit afraid to ask. I just know that if my sister got her way, they threw it in the backyard that evening, then she and Dad took turns stomping on it. Mom might have joined in. Not sure what Tony would do.

(Christmas, 2002?)

My baby brother (which is the only was I am able to think of him presently) never knew a stranger. As a more reserved person who has spent the last twenty years living in cities, it sometimes made me nervous to witness him strike up conversations with anybody, anywhere, at any time. Sometimes people were put off by it; even with familiar folks, James didn't always read his audience well. But he was just as likely to end up having a warm lively chat with a new friend. Frankly, given how sensitive, even thin-skinned James could be, I have to assume he got this response far more often than not. Perhaps he tapped into the ethos of our hometown more effectively than the rest of us. Even with a population of 40,000, Richmond can still feel like a small town, and James was very much at home in it. He knew how to talk to people. He bantered cheerfully with middle-aged guys at the gym. At one point one of his bowling buddies was a woman in her sixties. (Mary and James in the kitchen at Ragoora, Co. Sligo)

Actually he had a special rapport with little old ladies. More than one lady living alone came to depend on him for weekly drives to the grocery store. James loved to drive. From day one, we all knew he would be behind the wheel as soon as it was legal. Mom joked that he came out of the womb clutching a matchbox car in each hand (I don't want to imagine what that would feel like). I still see him, as a four year old, using a Frisbee, paper plate or any flat round thing he found as a steering wheel. Had he actually been behind a wheel back then he would have been only turning donuts, since 'steering' at the time seemed to mean constantly turning corners. At a very early age he could identify makes and models of cars. I still can't do that. Even back then poor James would start to tell me the finer qualities of a vehicle and it was as if he was blowing a dog whistle for all the sense I got out of it.

I suppose it's possible he was making shit up though. Around that same time, if any plane passed overhead, he'd look up and exclaim, "hey, private jet!" He wasn't trying to fool anyone; he honestly believed every single freakin' plane he saw was owned by some tycoon. It used to drive me apeshit.

(Atop Knocknarea (noc na RAY), Co. Sligo 2002)

(James and Mary, Knocknarea, 1993)

James loved board and role-playing games of all kinds. Sadly for him, he was born into a family of people who hated such things. As a teen and adult he managed to find a large circle of friends who shared his passion, but he'd still try at regular intervals to rope one or more of us in. By funny coincidence, I've found myself playing games with friends more in the last couple of years, especially the last six months, and enjoying myself quite a bit. I was a little wary of opening the floodgates, but had planned on accepting James' offer at least a few times, when I went to visit in August.

I can't think of anything I'd like to do more right now, than play a game of Scrabble with my baby brother.

(Myrtle Beach, 1998)

In the summer of 1993, we decided to take a family vacation for the first time in at least five years. The three children were all adults, I was living in Seattle, but Mom and Dad had spent most of the previous Spring in a farmhouse in County Sligo, Eire,they had become chummy with many of the local farmers, as well as their landlord and his wife and they just had to show us. So off we went. While there was a glitch or two in housing five strong-willed adults in one small Irish farmhouse, the magic of the place touched us all, and we had a fantastic time. We ended up taking family vacations a few more times to other locations after that, heading back to Ragoora (as the farmhouse is known) together in the Fall of 2002. For reasons that presently escape me, Mary, James and I got in the habit of buying the same (or similar) article of clothing before each trip. One year it was green shorts. Another it was hats that made us all look like Chico Marx. I still have mine. Another year it was straw hats. And one year (see above) it was Hawaiian shirts. I still have that too. Funnily enough, once you have a Hawaiian shirt, opportunities to wear it start to pop up. The Chico Marx hat, not so much.

James was a big fan of hats. Most of them were rather dashing, but as he got older he got more willing to court the ridiculous. He had one fur-lined job that (especially if it wore it with his greatcoat) made him look like he was off to patrol the Swiss border. He was also fond of brightly colored converse sneakers. Mary once pointed out that when James went off to the gym, he usually looked like Neapolitan gelato; a bright orange t-shirt might top red shorts, and be finished off with purple sneakers. He also liked bow ties, and would wear one that had belonged to our maternal grandfather to special occasions. Like most kids, James preferred to blend in as much as possible; for that reason I liked watching his rather eccentric style form over the last twenty years. It seemed to me he was carving space out for himself in ways I would have never predicted.

(Mary and Tony's Wedding, 2006)

("Shake the Bunny!" Laceyland 199?)

(Christmas 2002. We all got PJ's)

James also had an abiding love for Tweety-bird. I don't really get that one either. If you look at pictures of him as a little kid, he looks a bit like Tweety-bird, frankly. Some might even see a resemblance now. Whatever the cause, he loved that bird, and managed to find some weird memorabilia related to it. I was particularly impressed by him finding -and using, like, in public- a Tweety-bird bowling ball. In the last year he was part of a team where he was the only non-Jehovah's Witness. They would have lively discussions about evolution and such things while bowling. For some reason the image of James getting up from a debate about a literal interpretation of the Bible, say, to throw his Tweety-bird at some pins makes me really, really happy. I think those guys were devoted to James, even while they despaired of his everlasting soul.

(Christmas 1989. Sybil always knew which was her best side.)

(With Lilly 1985)

(With Fang, 2002)
James inherited the Lacey love for animals, with a special mention for dogs. Like me, he spent some time earning money as a dog walker and pet sitter, expanding his network of canine and feline friends outside the family circle. When we wandered about town, he was just as likely to be warmly greeted by a four-legged friend as by a human one.

Fang seemed to have a special fondness for smooching James on the face. We theorized that the bristly texture of his beard reminded her of her mother. Dad's curly, full beard doesn't have the same dog-muzzle quality. I speak from experience, having been regularly kissed by them both.

Dad has always been an affectionate guy, and though we had to weather some shoals during my adolescence, we came out the other side still able to hug and kiss one another. There was a period where I wondered if James indulged us, the kissing in particular, because he knew it was important to us, but given his preference, we might have been a bit more mainstream manly in our expressions of affection. If that were ever the case, though, it clearly stopped being true a few years back. At that point James made a point of kissing and hugging every single one of us after every meal we shared together (he'd thoughtfully save the dog and cat for after the humans). I don't know what prompted him to start and maintain that ritual. I wonder if he adopted it as a reminder to savor every moment, to cherish the time he had with each of us. It came to mean a lot to me (though I never said anything to him about it) since I'm the only Lacey who lives far away, making family time a rare and special thing.

( Christmas, year ??)

(By Yeats' grave, Co. Sligo, 2002)
So far my three days of grieving seem each to have had a theme. Saturday I was an incoherent, watery mess, pacing about trying to find something to do, by which I mean, make James not be dead. Yesterday I refused to believe it was true, and dove into a staged reading, grateful for an involved task and some human contact. Today, have to say, the regrets, even guilt, are starting to make an appearance. I'm brooding on missed opportunities. I'm wondering if James knew, REALLY knew I loved him. I wondered often over the years if James was happy. He was the family member I was least able to read, and I think the rest of the family felt the same way. Sometimes I thought he was just a straightforward kind of guy; other times I thought he played things close to the vest, keeping sorrows and fears deeply buried.

There were also ways in which he, poor guy, could never escape being the youngest, I think. It was always easy to dismiss, even snap at him, in a way that the four of us would never dream of doing to one another. I keep replaying the tentative expression on his face and tone of his voice when he would invite me to play risk or go bowling, already half-steeled for the 'no' he knew he was likely to hear, wanting me to know he wasn't hurt or disappointed by my refusal.

No, don't worry, I'm not going to wallow in this. Regrets and guilt are useless emotions, and most of the time they're self-indulgent. I know this is one of those times. There is nothing to be gained from self-flagellation, so I won't. I'm just accepting that this is part of the process. This is today's theme.

To be honest, I'm not sure I believe in an after-life, but like my sister, I am deriving great comfort from the fact that James did. He firmly believed that after death you were reunited with all your loved ones, including the dogs. I picture James driving in the mustang he coveted, or maybe flying his private jet, carting his beloved little old ladies and dogs all over creation, stopping off for treats and a game of scrabble whenever they want.

Oh, James. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I miss thee. I hope thee's happy, but I wish thee was here.

(Ox Mountain, Co. Sligo, 1993)

James Andrew Lacey

June 4th, 1968 to June 6th, 2009

Pedestrian Broadway

This last weekend, two stretches of Broadway in midtown were closed to traffic. The situation will be reexamined at a later date, but at this point the goal is for this to be a permanent change. Stop by Father Tony's blog, if you haven't already, for his thoughts and video footage.

This news makes me very happy for a number of reasons. For one thing, you know what this means? Mayor Michael Bloomberg reads my blog! I suggested something along these lines a couple of years ago, and look at that, it happened! I'm just tickled. Okay, maybe the Mayor doesn't read me, but obviously someone on his staff must, and saw to it that my idea got presented to the movers and shakers. I could claim that I deserve some sort of remuneration, some sort of intellectual property fee, but you know what, I'm just so happy to have the policy in place, I don't care about money. Let this just my contribution to the city, a small way I fulfill my duties as a citizen. No, I don't need payment, but maybe a small plaque prominently displayed somewhere, and perhaps a small tax write-off? Doesn't that seem fair?

Okay, kidding aside, I really am thrilled with this new step, in part because it's actually much more ambitious than the idea I floated two years ago. I was sure that the cult of the automobile was far too strong to allow something like a promenade in midtown to be anything but a temporary, holiday arrangement, AND I assumed that if it happened at all, it would be someplace a little less central, like 9th or 10th avenues. It's not just cynicism that led me to that mindset. When I lived in Seattle, a walking street (the Westlake Mall) covering ONE CITY BLOCK was the cause of a great deal of protest, mostly from the businesses affected, who were sure they would lose customers if people could no longer park right outside the store doors. For all I know, the businesses might even have been right. Seattle, at least back then (early to mid '90s), was rather weird on the subject of transportation. All these people who spent their free time hiking, camping, skiing and biking(the place is just crawling with gorgeous calf muscles) nonetheless resisted most things that would get them out of their cars. Light rail proposals continually got voted down, even campaigns to get people to CARPOOL were resisted. For all its (somewhat deserved) stance as a green city, maintaining the right to drive around in one's car was fiercely protected. I don't remember how long Westlake stayed closed to traffic (and did I mention it was ONE BLOCK OF ONE STREET?), but eventually a big chain store made its purchase of a local space contingent on having the block re-opened, and re-opened it was. (I will say that when I visited Seattle back in 2007, for the first time in twelve years, I was pleased to find that a light rail system had been constructed, and was being expanded. Times have changed for all of us, I guess.)

The town I grew up in, Richmond, Indiana, also had a promenade, one with an interesting history I won't go into here, built in 1968. It was the 'downtown' of my childhood (as opposed to 'across town' or 'the east side' where all the strip malls were). A few years back a campaign to re-open this stretch to traffic was finally successful. The argument, as I understand it, was that the economy of the city was tanking, so a way to kick start things again was, yes, to make it possible for people to drive right up to the front doors of the stores down there. What ended up happening is kind of a worst-of-both-worlds, with the walking street not removed, but narrowed, and a two lane road opened to cars. Funnily enough this didn't have the magical effect of rejuvenating the area. The town contined to tank; stores continued to go out of business. The area is mostly a ghost town now, but at least you can drive - very, very slowly - through it.

So, this knowledge, combined with an awareness that previous attempts to tax or limit traffic in midtown had been shot down, led me to assume that something like this could never happen in New York. Obviously it's early days yet. There may be a successful resistance to the idea. But having experienced some beautiful walking streets elsewhere in the world (most notably Copenhagen, Boulder, CO and Ithaca, NY) I am now cautiously hopeful that a majority of folks here will find the change a distinct improvement. Certainly our national attitude towards fuel, transportation, and ecology is undergoing a change. I'm encouraged by the study that suggests traffic in Midtown might be quicker and more efficient as a result of closing Broadway. It makes some sense; Broadway cuts across the grid at an angle, so it's usually turning simple intersections into three-way nightmares. With cars taken off it, there is reason to believe the grid will be more efficient.

Obviously I understand people with physical challenges will need to be accomodated, but I can't imagine the previous situation had been all the convenient for them either. Driving on Broadway has always been problematic. All the cross streets remain open to cars still, so getting dropped off close to one's destination should still be available to those who need it. The pedi-cabs also seem to have multiplied in the area. No idea if that is a good thing or not, just yet. We'll see. Over all though, I'm really pleased by this change, and pleased to have my pessimism refuted for once.

iPhone Artwork

Okay, so maybe I still can't stand the word 'ap', but I did have a chance last night to see a cool one in action. Marc, the artist/illustrator I met at the Draw-a-thon invited me to pose for his drawing group last night. Everyone who attended is a working illustrator or illustration student, and the level of skill and talent was impressive. It was an inspiring environment too; it looked like one of those Italian villas people are always renting in Henry James novels (okay, so it was a former schoolhouse, with fourteen foot pressed-tin ceilings in Williamsburg, but I still felt like I was in Wings of the Dove). For the final hour long pose, Marc switched from colored pencil and paper (old school) to his phone (cutting edge, baby!). If you go here you can see not only the image, but you can also see a short video of the process. Scroll down for more artwork, including another iPhone sketch and video. I'm particularly fond of the pencil sketch of his sleeping wife a bit further down.


I have to say, just in the last year the art modeling has gotten me into some of the coolest spaces in the five boroughs: rescued mansions, 19th century renovated school rooms, the occasional church; oh wait, the churches were usually for rehearsals, not art modeling. So I wasn't always naked in those settings. Not always.


ANYway, go see Marc's iPhone sketches; apparently David Hockney has taken Marc's lead.


I'm still not gonna say 'ap'.

Random Bits and Pieces

In no particular order:

I realize this ship has probably sailed, but do you think we could maybe, just maybe, reconsider the word 'ap'? Those who know me well know I have no problem with word abbreviations per se, or even with making up new words. Shakespeare made up plenty of them, and I figure if one catches on, it's because it fills a need. I'm just having a bit of a problem with this one. I know I shouldn't. I mean, if it doesn't bother any of you that you sound like a barking Pekinese when mentioning your iphones' features, it shouldn't bother me, right? I'll work on that. I will probably have to continue muting the iphone commercials, leaping with a yelp on the remote when I hear the first line ('don't say ap!') for a while though.

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My building super recently planted marigolds, impatiens and a new silver linden in one of the two plots in front of our building. Back on election day of 2006 the city planted trees all along this street. I didn't know what had prompted it, but I was pleased. The linden to the north has been there ever since, unscathed and seemingly healthy. For reasons I've never ascertained, however, the spot to the south has never fared as well. The tree that went in yesterday afternoon is the third one to occupy that spot. The other two were each cut down or vandalized.

As you can see, the super is taking no chances this time. Enlarge the image below if you want a closer look at the elaborate structure that has been put in place to protect the tree and flowers. There's a wooden pen enclosing the tree; serious mesh has been added to the short metal guards, and wire has been strung liberally over the top, all in an attempt not only to keep tree cutters at bay, but also to keep dogs out of the flowers. It's hideous, of course. But I totally see the need. I thanked him for doing all this extra work. Maybe once the tree has taken, and reached a certain size, it will no longer need the protective cage. I just hope its greater security doesn't wind up turning the attention of vandals to the other tree. It's been left alone this long, I hope it stays that way.

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Yesterday I had a free day, and the weather was about as close to perfect as I could get it. Sunny, breezy, cool enough to enjoy walking, warm enough to sit outside happily. I wanted to get some stuff from one of my favorite plant stores at 96th (on the Upper West Side), but stopped off first at one of my favorite bagel places. (I lived in this neighborhood for a while back in '97-'98, which is why I have so many favorites in the area.) I took my sandwich up to Riverside Park, to sit by a fountain I'm fond of. It's a pleasant space for a number of reasons. Everything is made from cool white marble, including the benches, and the large pool is equally enticing to children and dogs, though I've only seen the latter actually climb in. The trees around it, along with the mist and the marble, keep it cool even in hot weather.

But those aren't the only reasons I love it.

The fountain is part of a monument honoring fire fighters, and I'm all in favor of that. What caught my attention though was the fountain itself. Here, take a closer look.

Know who that is? That's one of the guises of Dionysus, and not just any old guise; that isn't the jolly drunk guy, it's not even the beautiful youth, that is him at his pre-Olympian, consort-of-the-great-goddess, let's-all-go-have-sex-outdoors, ecstatic best. He's got the face and teeth of a lion. He's got bull's horns. He's wearing grape leaves, just in case there were any question of who he was. He's roaring. There is nothing decorous, contained or civilized about this fellow. When I see this image, I think of the recurring description of Aslan throughout the Narnia books: "you know, he's not a tame lion." Neither is this guy; he is the life force at its randiest, and most joyful.

I can't for the life of me guess why the sculptor/architect chose this image on a fountain dedicated to fire fighters lost in the line of duty. Frankly I'd think fire fighters might have appreciated someone a little less, oh, I don't know, out there on their monument, but I'm probably making too much about it. I wonder if the sculptor simply saw this image on an older fountain, liked it, and decided to borrow it. For all I know this is a very traditional fountain image, like Poseidon and dolphins. Just because I've never seen this image out of context before doesn't mean it doesn't get used all the time, with all the ferocity removed, like fat cupids on St. Valentine's Day cards. I am not claiming any kind of subversive paganism was deliberately injected into the sculpture.

I just like that that was the result. Or it has been for me anyway. Whenever I stop by for a visit (occasionally throwing a penny into the water) I give the fire fighters their due, of course. But I'll say hello to Old Bromios too.

Meta Blog: Disappointing Expectations

I don't know about you other bloggers, but I've had almost as much fun with the blog counter as I have with the blog itself. I'm still learning how to analyze all the information it provides, mostly I just think it's cool to look at a world map with little markers of all the places people have stopped by for a visit. I can't claim they all stay to read the posts where they land though; it's often quite clear that what I've written was not actually what the google searchers (or 'googlers' if you will) were looking for. Usually I don't think I can be held accountable; it can be wild what gets some people to my site. Someone recently was looking for what Bruce Chatwin said about Donegal. I mention Chatwin in one entry, Donegal in another, so Bob's your uncle. The photos of my aloe plants are very popular, for some reason, and it's not just one person stopping by for multiple visits, not unless she's an international traveler. Right now it's a toss up which of two searches are my favorite for randomness. It's either 'cretan wildcat' or 'good gay, bad gay effeminate'. Actually, both of those searchers may have actually appreciated what I said on their respective subjects, now that I think of it. But many of these searches, whoo boy, I cannot be blamed if they bring people to my site.

Some of the misfires, I will take some blame for. I was unaware, for example, that dragonfly stories are some kind of genre; I don't what defines them exactly (gonna stop by wikipedia later, I guess), but it's clear from many of the searches that people have something specific in mind when they come looking. As it happens, I have two entries entitled Dragonfly Story (I and II, natch), and they both continue to get a steady stream of (I assume mildly disgruntled) visitors almost a year after they were posted. In my defense, dragonflies do figure in both stories, but I doubt I'm observing the rules of the genre. So my bad, but I'm not losing any sleep over this one, since I think it's safe to assume anyone who landed there turned up a whole lot of other hits that gave them what they wanted.

Some of the false expectations, however, are not of my construction. A few weeks back, for example, my steady trickle of visitors suddenly more than tripled in number. I was at a loss to explain why, until friends Java and the Midnight Gardener enlightened me. It turns out another friend had seen a portrait of me hanging in a local art gallery, and mentioned it on his very popular blog. Besides the portrait of me, the post also mentioned visiting a renovated sex club. Having the words 'sex club' in the title probably didn't hurt. Now maybe I am misunderstanding what brought my visitors from Tony's blog, but I strongly suspect they were hoping for something a bit more sexy or racy than, well, a chipper post about Patrick taking a happy jaunt, hippity-hop, to Fort Tryon Park. But that's what was waiting for them there. There were pictures too, but they were of flowers, in particular heather, because I do loves me some heather. The spike in readership lasted for about three days, before things dropped back down to my previous average, so I don't think I won over a whole lot of new people. Next time I'm showing skin on this blog though, I'll be sure to contact Tony.

That was maybe the most amusing example of disappointed expectations, but it was pretty quickly explained. There's another one that perplexed me much longer. Almost at the beginning of this blog (way back in April of ought 6, it was), I wrote a short, very silly little entry that for some reason regularly got hits, and recently has been growing in popularity. At the moment it is the fourth most popular post on my blog, actually. And it's just not that clever or interesting, so I really hadn't a clue what was going on there. It was the first time I specifically mentioned the blogging juggernaut that is Joe.My.God, so if I thought about it at all, I figured people who found themselves there had googled him, and for reasons of their own decided to go WAY down their list of hits. Not much of an explanation, really, but it was the best I could do.

Then I realized that the comments on posts show up in google searches. Ah, that made things much more clear. I had written this one back before blogger made it so ridiculously easy to create links in one's posts that even a computing knuckle-dragger such as myself could create them, and the subject of the post, while actually about how and why I love Joe.My.God, spent a certain amount of time bemoaning the fact that I was reduced to writing out the entire addresses, rather than creating elegant links that don't break the flow of the text. So Brian, ever helpful, particularly on subjects computer and internet, kindly wrote a detailed explanation of how one created links writing the html code. The oh so random example he chose, THAT was the magic phrase that was drawing random strangers to that entry. Since I'm trying NOT to torment these people further, I'm not going to write what the magic phrase was, but you can go see for yourself. Hell, if you know Brian, you can probably make an educated guess.

Now, I didn't feel too badly about getting people's hopes up on this issue either, since again, I assumed their google searches too were turning up more satisfying hits. The thing is, not only is it getting hit more often of late, for some reason this baby has also gone international in a BIG way. More and more the visitors are coming from non-English speaking countries, many of which consider the search topic involved to be criminal behavior. It's even possible just doing the google search is illegal in some parts. So if people are taking that kind of risk, and hell, probably typing one-handed while they do it, I feel bad for misleading them, and boring them on top of it. One poor bastard even had the whole thing translated, just to make sure he wasn't missing anything good. And he really, really wasn't.

So, while I don't mean to suggest my blog has any great clout on the world stage, I think I will be taking that post. It just seems cruel.

Defining Terms

There were, and probably will continue to be, many undigested thoughts about homemaking after I posted the last entry. As I mentioned, both Joanna and Marta are doing the job, living the vocation, with people depending on them, whereas my thoughts are more theoretical still. (My roommate was VERY pleased with the clean kitchen yesterday though. And I can now see the surfaces of both my computer and work desks.) So these are just some disconnected, unformed thoughts I'm presently grappling with, and striving to make sense of. Normally I'd do more of this on my own, but for now I seem to need to bounce my thoughts off the larger blogosphere. You've been warned; proceed at your own discretion.

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An important thing I've learned living with roommates is, home is an archetypal concept. This means everyone has very strong, deep, personal definitions for the term, and -this is key, follow me closely here- we often mistakenly assume everyone else has the SAME DEFINITION. That's where the trouble often starts.

Let me give an example. After college my first living situation was with four friends in a big house. My friend B and I were in agreement that the dinner dishes were to be done after dinner. What it took us a while to discover was, we each had a different understanding of WHEN DINNER WAS OVER. B had grown up in a household where one snatched the dishes off the table the instant the last bite was taken, preferably while still chewing. I grew up in a household where finishing up dinner was a protracted affair of general family time; second cups of tea were drunk, stories and conversations were allowed to end naturally in a sedate manner. Do you see the conflict in the making? Neither did we. Back in the group house, when it was B's turn to wash the dishes, I assumed she was snatching the plates out from under our masticating jaws because she had other things she wanted to do when the dishes were done. Initially B thought I was dawdling over the end of the meal when it was my turn to do the dishes in a passive-aggressive attempt to get someone else to do them for me. B figured out the problem before she ever said anything to me about it; I suspect I wouldn't have had a clue anything was up if she hadn't told me what her thinking had been. She came to see that I did, in fact, get the dishes done, usually only about ten minutes later than she would have (but ten minutes is an eternity, when you think someone is waiting you out), and more importantly, she realized, and revealed to me, that there were unspoken assumptions we each had about how these things were to be done. We didn't merely have different approaches, we were previously unaware that there WERE OTHER APPROACHES.

Generally when we decide to live with another person or two, we have probably asked ourselves the big questions about group living (smoking or non, drinking or non, noise-levels, and yes, cleaning issues), but there are likely to be a host of unconscious assumptions that won't become conscious (assuming they ever do) until they've generated conflicts. Cleaning is perhaps the biggest arena for these conflicts, perhaps because clean is an equally archetypal (deeply personal) concept. On the Felix-to-Oscar Scale, I probably fall somewhere in the middle, closer to Felix on the dirt front, closer to Oscar on the clutter front, with fluctuations usually related to my mood and unorthodox schedule; one can often map the progress of a play or project in my life, for example, by looking at my residence; the deeper I am in the project, the worse the clutter is. Tech week, it will look like a paper and clothing bomb went off in the place. So in my position as a clean-continuum 3 (which I think is akin to a Kinsey 3) I have been the Oscar making some clean-freak unhappy, but I've also been the Felix wondering why it's so damn hard to hang your coat up in the closet once in a while. Initially I felt that the person with the most rigid views of cleanliness got to set the standards, because, well, clean is just more virtuous, right? Cleaner is always better, and it's unfair for slobs to make other people live amidst their messes, right? It's inconsiderate, disrespectful even, a way of dominating a space unfairly.

I think I'm still more of that mind than not, but over the years I've come to the conclusion that in every group living situation, an understanding of what 'clean' means has to be made explicit. It needs to be discussed, and yes, compromises have to be reached. Maybe the slobby shmoes need to do more of the adjusting, especially in shared spaces, but if a viable, working system is going to be created, the clean-freaks may have to shift some too.

There are nuances to this situation in a heterosexual arrangement that I have witnessed, but obviously haven't experienced (or again, I have played every role, with both male and female roommates). Women are more likely to fear being judged by others if the place is less than pristine, while men will fear ridicule if their places seems too clean or 'interior decorated'. Be honest, which one did you consider more manly, Oscar or Felix? Who got portrayed as ridiculous more often? Who was more likely to be the butt of the joke? Which one seemed fussy and effeminate, which are, of course, the worst things you can call a guy? A man is also likely to play the Ignorance Card, thus making it a struggle for the woman between teaching her caveman how to mope the floor correctly --perhaps having to stand over him the whole time-- or just doing it herself.

So experience has taught me that terms need to be defined, sometimes in detail that can seem ridiculous, in each new living arrangement if a truly equitable arrangement is going to be achieved. My recent living arrangements have often come with significantly lower expectations. More than one person has commented over the years that this apartment 'is surprisingly clean for two guys living together." Societal double standards still give us an A for effort; if we avoid living in a junk heap, with bacteria the size of beagles frisking about the place, we get the good housekeeping seal of approval (and yes, it's almost always been women making this observation). We benefit from lower expectations, but I can't help but wonder if that's not the way to go in most situations. Both Joanna and Marta point out that throughout history showcase homes -even middle class ones- often have involved paid servants to do much of the work. It's interesting to note that I am presently typing in what was almost certainly the maid's quarters in this apartment. I live in Harlem, in a building built in 1909. This apartment has five rooms, including this tiny space. In both Dickens and Austen one will find examples of families who are considered destitute, but still have a live-in servant. Our standards of what is possible may need some serious adjusting.

In this vein, just as it's better to commit to a three-times-a-week exercise regimen (that one actually keeps) as opposed to an every day arrangement (that will never, ever, ever happen), so it's better to have a standard of clean that everyone involved understands and will maintain. Discussions like this may also help unearth what just isn't negotiable. If you find you can't agree on a minimum, it's better to find out before the conflicts start, right? With roommates this sort of thing can be a make-or-break situation, while with lovers and partners, my limited experience tells me a much more complex arrangement gets created, with a delicate balance spanning across many levels of homemaking. Maybe he seems to be INCAPABLE OF PUTTING HIS DIRTY SOCKS IN THE HAMPER LIKE A GROWN-UP, but he always has dinner waiting for me when I get home, and listens when I talk about my day, so let's call it even. I guess this touches again on the distinction I draw between homemaking and housekeeping.

It's funny to realize that in all my babbling on, I'm still not getting at the question of homemaking as vocation, which is the issue at the center of all this for me, and I think my fellow bloggers. Over the years I've certainly written more than one entry about how quotidian tasks have taken on a deeper significance -and pleasure- for me, becoming paths to meditation. Cleaning, or preparing a meal can often be a way for me to immerse myself in real life, when my brain has gone into the stratosphere. All that seems very self-directed though, or at least highly internal. It's vocation as connection with self, or the divine. I guess what I'm starting to explore, ever so ineptly, is how my home can be an arena for relating to others. I've been better at that in the past, but I'm out of practice. I'll get back to you on that.


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My sister recounted a childhood experience to me not long ago; she was maybe six or seven years old, and was seeing a male playmate out the door one day, taking him past Mom reading in the living room. Before he left, the kid looked around the house and observed, "your mom doesn't clean much, does she?" After he left, Mom called Mary over to remind her that cleaning wasn't just the mom's job, that it was the responsibility of everyone who lived there. Even at that age, Mary felt Mom was preaching to the choir; she also remembers thinking her obnoxious friend should have noticed the smell of something delicious cooking for dinner. I haven't even begun to excavate all the reasons I love this story.

Homemaking with Roommates

Sometime back my friend Marta approached me and another blogger, Joanna, about the possibility of doing some shared posting on the subject of homemaking. We both loved the idea, and decided to post our first endeavors today (ed: I'm over an hour late, forgive me, friends!). The first topic we chose is homemaking: who does it? You can find Marta's essay here. Marta and I knew each other in college, but have been getting to know each other much better through blogging. With her I have a lovely sense of getting to know someone new and reconnecting with an old friend, all at once. For Joanna's essay, go here. I have yet to meet Joanna in person, but I've been enjoying getting to know her from her writing. Both other writers have children and spouses, so I feel like a bit of a fraud posting on the subject of homemaking in their company; my thinking will probably be pretty theoretical, compared to their more boots-on-the-ground experience. That isn't stopping me from piping up though. Go read their essays, and spend some time perusing their archives. You'll be glad you did. I've certainly enjoyed it.

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"Compared to what we ought to be, we are half awake." William James.

"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be awake, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." Henry Miller.

"Everybody, soon or late, sits down to a banquet of consequences." Robert Louis Stevenson


Homemaking: who does it? Oh how deceptively simple that question is. I was tempted at first to be something of a smart-ass and say "short answer: me." I’ve lived most of my adult life with roommates. For the last ten years, while I have stayed in one place, four roommates and one boyfriend have passed through here, and that’s not counting the temporary house-mates (more than a month, but less than a year). In other words, the one constant in this space has been me. My three years living with Brian did teach me some of how homemaking is different with a partner compared to a roommate, but not only do I not think that's enough time to have collected enough data, I also don't want to put Brian on the spot by talking too much about our past. After twenty years of living with roommates, on the other hand, I do think I have something to say on that subject.

I wrote in an earlier post about how I seem to have developed very personal definitions for –and distinctions between– housework and homemaking. In a nutshell, I see housework as the basics required to keep a household going, while treating all the residents with respect. Homemaking, while including that, is also an expression of love: for one’s partner, one’s family, even one’s living space.

When it comes to housework, it’s inaccurate and unfair for me to claim that I’m the only one who does it here. My roommates have always dependably helped with bills, even if I’m the one who actually puts the check in the mail. Splitting expenses, of course, is the main reason most of us have roommates. With each roommate I have usually also developed a list of shared items: certain food staples, spices, cleaning supplies, toilet paper, trash bags. All of that contributes to the running of the household, and I don’t do it all alone. The other tasks I see as essential to running a house -cleaning and cooking- are where issues of intimacy come into play for me.

Let’s start with cleaning. Over the last ten years, I’ve found that while I cannot claim it happens all that often, when it does, I’m usually the one who does it. There has never been an attempt made in this apartment to have a chore chart, to divvy up tasks and rotate them equitably; no rules have been set down for what constitutes a clean bathroom or kitchen, nor how often it needs to be accomplished. I just do it, and I'm fine with that. I should acknowledge that a case could be made that some territory-marking is involved here. I’ll do the cleaning because I feel it’s my responsibility, and I think it’s more my responsibility because this is my place. I have the lease. It's my apartment, you're welcome to live here, I think I'm pretty laidback and accomodating, but you're the roommate and I'm the leaseholder, let's just be clear. I’ve been lucky so far that everyone has been comfortable with that and with the relaxed approach to cleaning; if someone wants the place cleaner, he cleans. (Side note: an additional benefit to being the one who cleans most often is, I usually get to choose the products used; over the years I’ve gotten fond of eco-friendly cleansers for all sorts of reasons, but since they tend to cost more, and require more elbow grease to be effective, I’d prefer to be the one who spends the money, and does the work)

I will also admit that sometimes roommates have occasionally gotten my back up by taking unilateral action on things I thought ought to be discussed, such as putting up artwork ('I’d prefer a blank wall to that poster'), or replacing furniture or electrical equipment with ‘better’ models ('the old TV is working just fine'). There was no malice going on here, I know that, but there were plenty of unspoken assumptions, and not all of them were the other guys’. I found it rather interesting what I was willing to kick up a fuss about (don’t change bills that are in my name, Dude) and what just wasn’t that important (I hate that painting, but is this a shared room or not?). I acknowledge that there are some double standards at play as well; I feel free to take some unilateral actions I don’t allow the other guy. Again, it’s my apartment. Did I mention I’ve held the lease for ten years?

Okay, so maybe some of my motivations to clean are less than noble. Ultimately though it benefits us both, and so far I’m just talking about the basics of playing well with others, right? Maybe a pleasant living arrangement has been created, but I don't think a home has been made.

Which then brings us to cooking. I’ve been surprised recently at how charged this task has become for me. This is what has evolved for me over the last two roommates; if we’re both home and one of us is cooking, he’ll make enough for two, or at least ask if the other is hungry. We may even sit down together to eat. Where I start to get antsy is when attempts are made to plan it too far in advance. The question "will you be home for dinner" sends me into a bit of a panic, and I’m not sure why. I love having meals with friends; shared meals is joyful part of time with my family; Brian and I had dinner together almost every night we lived together, and it was one of my favorite times of day. I firmly believe meals are best eaten with others. So why do I get weird when a roommate tries to pin me down? Why do I even use the phrase 'pin me down' to describe a perfectly pleasant invitation, one I would jump at in any other context?

I think what is at play is a sense of intimacy. We can have a nice dinner together, but don’t make too much of it. Don’t light candles. Don’t garnish the plates. Don’t ask me what my plans are for the day, let alone for the week. I don’t know, Man. Don’t try to pin me down. I gotta be free, I gotta be me. I’m like the wind, Dude.

I’m sorry, what? Who the hell is that? Who talks like that? Who thinks like that? Good lord.

Here’s what I think is going on. The thing about relationships with roommates is, they come with an expiration date. No matter what agreements are made, it’s understood, even expected that eventually one or both of you will find that this arrangement, while it was fine for a time, no longer serves your needs. Chances are somebody is moving in with a partner, or maybe into a place he bought. In other words, he’s now ready to make a home. The roommate situation usually arises as "this will do for now." I’ve had long term arrangements with at least three different roommates, spanning four or more years. But we always knew there would come a point when it was time to move on, and it always did. In every case we parted friends, and I remain on friendly terms with each of them. But we didn’t share a home, and frankly I think that's just fine. Over the years it felt better, maybe even more homelike, for the two of us to develop our own living routines, being cordial ships-that-pass-in-the-night, rather than intimates in any way. Sharing meals just happens to be one of my favorite ways to bond with people. Breaking bread with someone is an act of love, especially if I baked it. So it can happen with a roommate, we just have to tread a bit lightly.

This has all been a useful excavation for me. And yes, one result is I will lighten the hell up with my present roommate and get over my meal planning weirdness, even if I still prefer the friendly but not intimate approach. Another consequence is I may take something of a ‘love the one you’re with’ approach, and I’m not talking about my roommate, nice as he is. I’m talking about this space. Making a home involves creating a haven, someplace that rejuvenates you spiritually, emotionally and physically. What I have right now is a perfectly adequate place to stay, because that’s what I’ve created. And I’ve been making do with this situation assuming that eventually my real home would just show up, somehow. Frankly, that’s the same as waiting for one’s ‘real life’ to show up. This is it. You’re doing it right now, Sparky. The term is homemaking. I was so focused on the first half of the word, I didn’t really notice the second half.

As simple to the point of glibness as that conclusion may be, it actually suggests quite a bit of work ahead of me. There are some deep resentments, fears, failures, and regrets mired in this place, and they’re going to have to be dealt with. Good times. Fortunately I do like to clean. And that’s as good a place to start as any.

Spring Galore

Last weekend I once again worked the all night drawing session I've mentioned in the past. It seemed like it might have been a smaller group, especially compared to last year, but there was still a lively energy, and people doing some beautiful work. I think many of the foundation students -who make up the bulk of the group- realize at this event just how much they've learned over the year. Their skill set has expanded and deepened, they've maybe gained greater rigor, then this event comes along at just the right point for them to rediscover the joy they feel in drawing as well. I don't know if that was the original intention of this event, but it's a nice result. As is often the case, I connected with some nice new people, including this artist. Marc spent the night in the costume room, which I was working for the first time this year; I went up in the very last session (starting at 4:30 am), right before the big nudie writhe-fest that is the grand finale. You can see many of the sketches he did that night if you go here, including the one he did of me, in my Dickensian garb. I think Marc deserves special credit for doing work of that quality at 5 o'clock in the blessed am. The sketch directly to the right is an excellent likeness of my friend Kika, who worked right before me, so, still really freakin' early in the morning. This draw-a-thon phenomenon (say that out loud, it's fun) is bizarre little undertaking, but it often has some fun results.

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Much as I regret it, I am basically monolingual. I have studied other languages though, and that has given me a tiny glimpse of how different languages can create different world views, maybe even different worlds. The first time I noticed this was with a couple of translations for the word 'enough'.


Take Italian, for example, where the word is basta. I'm sure the word gets used in all the ways we use enough, but it is seems to me basta is a word designed to be a command. Its collection of plosives and sibilants, its emphasis on the first syllable, and its matched pair of vowel sounds all make it a surprising combination of bark and hiss that stops people in their tracks, telling us the speaker has reached her limit. Basta! Try it, if you haven't already. Isn't that satisfying? Sure, yelling 'enough' is clear; we know a person means business when he does so, but the sounds just don't have the same power, if you ask me. Enough is a gentler, perhaps more objective word. Only one voiced consonant (and n's don't exactly strike fear in a heart) an iambic rhythm, no, this word doesn't really command attention in the same way. It implies a middle ground, an acceptable, Goldilocks state, neither too much nor too little, no extremes or excess. It's a comforting word, in a way I would never imagine basta could be, though maybe fluent Italian speakers would disagree.



Then there's the Irish word, which is go leor. This word has actually made it into common usage in English, as the word galore, but its meaning is hardly that of restraint or a middle ground. As used in English anyway, galore suggests opulence, extravagance, or at least an elegant sufficiency far beyond a Puritanical idea of mere adequacy. I suggest this difference of opinion of what constitutes a sufficiency illustrates a key distinction between the world views of the Saxon and the Celt.


I've had a number of experiences recently that have me using the word galore. Something about this season calls for it, I think. The explosion of growing things hasn't even reached its peak yet, and I'm already overwhelmed by a sense of exuberant life all around me. Blossoms and scents are cascading all over the city, and as usual my seasonal amnesia has me marveling, as if I'm seeing all this for the first time. A sense of rebirth is easy for me to tap into at this time of year. Guilt and regret may not entirely lose their hold on me, but their power definitely wanes as I wander about an earth getting on with the 'business of life'. Spring brings out the Celt in me, where too much is never enough.


As usual, my attempt to organize my photos according to an intended narrative was thwarted by Blogger. So in no particular order, please enjoy my photos galore.

This clump of my little friends were the first ones to tip me off that it might already be violet season. I wouldn't even have gone looking for them for another week or two if it weren't for this bunch. They're in a very protected area, and are clearly early scouts for the tribe, which just makes it all the better for me.

Having gotten the heads up, I checked in with my Central Park field, to find that while most of the blossoms haven't opened fully yet, they are definitely making a strong showing, and what's more, there is less tall stuff obscuring their presence than I'm used to seeing here. I feel like I lucked out and got tickets to an excellent preview. I'll be back many more times to see this show.

Elsewhere in the park I saw this white violet, and below, you'll find a photo of a yellow one, that grew nearby. One of the reason I love violets so much is they always feel like treasure I've come across by accident, even when I know where and when to look. I also just live their apparent enthusiasm. Galore comes up a lot when I look at violets too.

Camille and I are coming to a better understanding all the time when it comes to photos of people. Witness this shot I took of my friend Burton (in front of the Metropolitan Opera) when he was here for a visit last week. Reconnecting with old friends (Burton and I have known each other for nearly a quarter of a century) takes on an additional sense of blessing in Spring, for some reason.

Camille and I still have some work to do reaching an understanding of color. But I remain optimistic.

Easter morning I was invited to have brunch with my friends Jeff and Genna. For once I managed to snap a photo, in focus, of handsome Jeff before he noticed and made a goofy face. It was not to happen ever again that day. I am pleased nonetheless.

This was my first time seeing Chula (yes, Chula; she came with that name from the pound) after she spent a week in my apartment. I didn't get quite the cuddling I was hoping for, but she, like her roommate Jeff, allowed me a photo of her without a struggle for a change. All the photos I have from her week here are of the back of her (usually blurry) head.

A festive Spring table setting.

My beloved Genna, talking on the phone to her family in Ohio, just before her nephew, my little buddy Rhys, asked to speak to me. Getting to know and love Genna's family has been one of the many blessings of our friendship.

Here is what I hope is a better photo than the one I took last year, of a bush that puts out an intoxicating scent. It smells the way a lemon drop (the candy, not the drink) tastes, if that makes sense. I still have no idea what it is, but I've now found it in both Central Park and close to my home. Sunday I think I stood next to the CP bush for close to twenty minutes inhaling deeply. I must get back soon, I don't know how long these blossoms last. Does anyone know what it is? I want to plant huge banks of it in my yet-to-be garden.

Right or wrong, it seems to me like the daffodils are later than usual this year, and the violets earlier than usual, resulting in a combination I've never noticed before. Daffodils have never interested me much in the past, but I find myself rethinking that policy this year. They've been spectacular.

Perhaps this image more than any other will benefit from enlarging.

Because it's early spring, I'm able to enjoy the austere beauty of winter trees, and blossoms at the same time.

I caught my beloved Melissa by accident in this image, but I loved the effect, even if she's cropped more than I would have chosen. This photo reminds me of something else, and I can't quite place what it is. Is it the cover of a Duran Duran album? The one containing the song "Rio"? Well, whatever it is, I love the way even this sliver of an image shows you the way Melissa radiates light.

And look here! I'm even managing to take a photo in focus of me with Melissa! And I don't even have that "I'm concentrating really really hard to hold the camera steady" look. Camille and I are making great strides. Can anyone tell me what this flower is? I love how this tree seems to be spot-lit.

This image perhaps best epitomizes this winter-into-spring time of year.

Near Bethesda fountain there was a moment I found myself standing between skilled acrobats with an impressive show (and polished patter), and an equally skilled string ensemble playing Handel's The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba. I found the acrobats first, and one of them said "if you see something you can't do, make some noise." There followed, naturally, several good excuses to do so. As I was listening to the strings, I realized that gymnastics and chamber music were both things I had dabbled in - and loved - at some point. That dabbling gave me a greater understanding of just how often I could have been making noise while watching both groups. It was humbling, but also pleasing somehow. I was able to keep the "you're a dilettante" voice in my head largely muffled.

I hope the sap is rising for you, and the season of new beginnings is inspiring joy and optimism.