attainable dreams

I have been waking up to the sound of sirens whining, helicopters chopping, bad dreams and a feeling of dread. But today I bring you a reminder that the small things are perhaps the most important ones. If our little dreams come true, the big ones may fall in line.

Look how young Phil Ochs is here in 1968. I was 18 that year myself. As a "Quaker youth," I was a big peacenik. HUge. And, yes, I marched on Washington and struck for peace (though how on earth taking over the administration building at Vassar College was meant to help I can't tell you) and had a conscientious objector boyfriend—no women were drafted in those days.
  I have been very disheartened in the half century since. People are still as violent and warlike as they have always been. What good has any of our outrage done? Like Phil Ochs, I ain't a marchin' anymore.

on the street where i live

I believe this. I really do. I can't love everybody, though, without my nearest and dearest suffering neglect. Just ask anybody in public service or social work or teaching or activism—or journalism. Nor can I love in the abstract. I can only hope that loving those nearby will ripple out into into the wider world. I can try to do the other thing, though. I am trying to think of a person I hate, and at the moment can't call one to mind. Trying not to hate in the abstract—that's harder. Especially now.
#invasionoftheswampthings #rulingclasssansclass #inauguration #congress

strange fruit

You have been wondering how the bitter melon (or karela) plant is doing, I know. The one I planted from seed in Missouri, drove to New York and watched crawl six feet up the airshaft almost to Toby's apartment. Well, a spot of cold weather did it in just as it was blooming, and it fell down to my window. You can just see the little flower and a tiny melon, but I doubt we'll get much further with this plant. I have a couple more seeds. . .

day at the shore

One of Dorothy's three porches.

The City—so near and yet so far.

 There were oysters and mussels and expansive views. There were walks and talks and lots of snacks. There was a signature cocktail and even a football game. And there were Lo Ladies. A quarter of a century ago, we were among the first trekkers to visit the Nepalese Kingdom of Lo. Nancy Jo was our leader and inspiration. Miriam was the oldest, and Dorothy was the youngest. (I know Miriam is 86 now, because she's 20 years older than me.) And there we were, at Dorothy's beautiful house in Atlantic Highlands, overlooking Sandy Hook Bay with New York City in the distance. Everything was so easy and comfortable, it felt as if we'd known each other forever. Oh wait! We almost have!

Miriam, Dorothy and Nancy Jo.

in the cat seat

Monsieur Nosebite: Hair guitar

Monsieur Zevon: Ne'er guitar

Nosebite, Esq, has asked me to post these pictures. He points out that his resemblance to the late Warren Zevon is of the most profound. One of Nosebite's greatest hits is Lawyers, Mice and Werewolves. He accompanies himself on guitar. I am assuming that this is homage to Zevon's  Lawyers, Guns and Money, in which Zevon accompanied himself on piano. Not sure what the legal implications of this adaptation might be. However, I would point out that this pose of Monsieur Nosebite's is neither convincing nor becoming to a prominent member of the bar (barre?).

full moon

Oh, and Nosebite? Happy Wolf Moon! Aawoooooooo

give it up

A stuffed peacock. White.
The color of a virgin, a bridal gown, a form of privilege, a white flag.
The color of surrender.

a gaggle of geese

Ed thought I would like this. He was right!

Think of it, all over this great land of ours are empty, tiny buildings with no remaining purpose. And if technology moves as it usually does, there will be many more of them—mid century modern, deco, '60s style. Just think you could each own your very own superfund site! Some people like the owner of the UCM Museum in Louisiana have made some success repurposing old gas stations as art project/tourist traps; others, like the one above, appear to have had less success. Maybe, like the Goose, they are not only victims of dying technologies, but of dying towns. But that can make their surroundings more pleasant. This one, plus house, could be yours for only—see ad!

the vicarious life

Donna photographing her daughter in 2009.

A voyeur spying on a voyeur. Those of us in the vicarious life, like Donna and me, are a little twisted. (Although I would maintain Donna is more twisted than I am!) We set out to do stories believing we were helping people. Helping people to know they were not alone, helping to raise awareness, helping to make things better. And so we seduced our subjects, convinced them to let us tell their stories. Almost everyone wants validation, to know that they are unique and important, so the actual process of gathering a story is flattering to the subject. But people have been harmed in the making of these stories, too. Most people were not prepared for the exposure, and some of them got burned.

In truth, we do it as much for ourselves as others. Witness: Clare Hollingworth, war correspondent, who died at 105 with her passport by her bed. Her obit here.

man up

Ok, y'all. This is sort of the equivalent of the annual membership drive.
Yeah, I'm talkin'to you.
I have been writing this blog, almost daily, for a dozen years—since before most of you had even heard the word blog.
I know it's not always that exciting, but I need feedback to get 'er going.

Dudes, you've fallen off.
Katie does her duty. And Doro.
Otra Rubia gives it a shot. And Dianne.
Dada and Ed have fallen off.
Barrett, from being a mainstay, is nowhere in sight.
Hannah hasn't reported in in a decade.
Bill never has figured out how to post. Nor Debby.

It really isn't that onerous. You have to check a box saying I am not a robot.
Big whoop.
It's hard to keep going out here all alone.
Just give me some kind of sign.


  

epiphany

Do birthdays lead to epiphanies? Well they do if you're born on January 1 and you're  talking Epiphany, which is today. But if you mean a lower-case epihany
Definition a (1) :  a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) :  an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) :  an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure
maybe yes, maybe no. You'll have to ask Hannah if she had one.
Or most of my other friends, who have birthdays in Capricorn
In other news:
My friend Bill (a college boyfriend long married to my best college girlfriend, Laura) retired from the bench in Seattle, with perhaps his best known case being the one in which he ruled that gay couples should be allowed to marry for their children's sake.
Speaking of gays, a woman I met when I rented a house on the lesbian commune Hawk Hill in Missouri is interviewed in Vice about the aging out of "women's land."
In media news, word is that my former company, Time Inc., is encouraging employees to rat on one another if they misuse expense accounts. Back in the day we were encouraged to misuse expense accounts!
And finally, if you want a snapshot of how the nation was doing in this past year, you couldn't do better than consult this pantechnicon (or do I mean portmanteau?) of charts and graphs from the New York Times. Whether it will lead to an epiphany, I don't know.


Oh, and this from a friend in case you do have an epiphany:
Want all your representatives' phone numbers conveniently on your phone? If you TEXT YOUR ZIP CODE to (520) 200-2223 you'll get a text back with your senators/reps phone numbers so you can hassle them to do the right thing. It works and takes maybe two seconds. Save them in your contacts ... you'll need them a lot in coming months! 

hooray for the p.o.

The Block Island post office is the best.
   They used to be able to deliver a letter addressed only to Claudia, Block Island. Things have changed. The postmistress used to just stick on-island mail in the appropriate boxes forthwith. Now mail being sent from one islander to another must be sent off the island to be sorted then returned to the island to be put in the post office boxes (there is no house-to-house delivery). 
   Still, they received this letter to Nini in Block Island, and rather than sticking a forwarding address label on it decided to put it in an entirely new envelope and make sure it got to me in New York. Now that's a great post office!

last day of the year

Nice view of CPS

First day of skating. Loved it!

 Due to an unfortunate and very costly picnic (Problem In Chair, Not In Computer) the tickets I thought I had purchased for the Nutcracker matinee at Lincoln Center were for the night before. So we went skating at Wollman Rink in Central Park instead. Last time I was there—must have been before 2001, when he started managing the place—the name Trump wasn't all over the T-shirts, the Zamboni and the walls. New Yorkers have long considered Trump's one real civic contribution his acceleration of the rink's remodeling back in 1986. However, that bit of credit has long since been undercut by his other "contributions" to quality of life in the city.

at 35

As is traditional, Hannah and the boyz pozed late at night on January first, the date of her birth 35 years ago. She doesn't look any older, and we're very pleased with how she's turned out. A good daughter, a good mother, a good granddaughter, a good cousin, a good niece, a fairly good wife (a little bossypants—wonder where she learned that!) a good businesswoman, a good friend, a good person. Happy birthday to my hostage to fortune, light of my life!

Jimmy is not Hannah's husband.

Nor does he usually rock a man bun. That is a joke.

#blonde

 Oh bother. So I bent over the Areobed I was filling up for Hannah guys, and it sucked a hunk of my hair in. I couldn't get it out. Twisted up hair is very strong—I now see how those acrobats hang from their tresses. I could not pull or wiggle it out, so it was the snip snip. Now Hannah wants to cut the rest of it to match.She points out that I haven't changed my hairstyle, like, ever. Had a bad experience with short hair in junior high. (As did she, BTW.)  It would be chin length, like Milla's. Should I?
Be very careful how you respond.

mid century modern

Gifted recently with several lovely recipes, I decided to share Bakeless Fruitcake. So seasonal—and easy—with its base of graham cracker crumbs and marshmallows! If you like, I can also share with you the recipe for Hickory Fruitcake (requires baking) or for Coffee Jelly. And then there's the entry "Delicious Grits." This recipe calls for a stick of butter, a "roll of Kraft's Garlic Cheese" and is topped with crushed Fritos.
Ah, the good old days!

pierced

No one put a gun to her head—or rather, they put two guns to her head. But it was her idea. Five years old, at the same age her mother had her ears pierced, Camilla was bound and determined to go through with it. She carefully picked out the butterfly earrings she would put on when her ears had healed. And then it was time. The dots were positioned on her tender lobes. The guns were aimed (smart to do them both at once so a child doesn't have to go through the waiting all over again). Kachung. Done. And four months later, she can wear the butterflies.

selfies

My Hero, Kate Knapp, 2016

The first self-portrait @1968

 So. It's that self-check time of year. Where are you at? What do you want to change? How do you see your life developing in the coming year? (And concomitantly: if not now, when?) Whatever medium is yours, sit down with it and talk to yourself.  Yoga, meditation, writing, making music, singing in the shower. It doesn't have to be fancy.
   Kate has been painting a self portrait once a year since she was in her teens. (I lost the info she sent me about these pictures, alas.) "I feel like I need to check in with myself every so often," she says. Inspirational.

The Rogue's Gallery: Katie through the ages

gift horse

Gifts can come at any time of the year. The best—and the worst—gifts are things you would never think to buy yourself. The magazine at left falls into one of those categories. Someone has gifted me with subscriptions to Bridal Guide and Popular Photography, a gear magazine. They are addressed to me at a house in Block Island where I do not receive mail and forwarded to me in New York. Not only do I dislike subscriptions that pile up outside whichever house I'm not living in at the time—but these titles? Somebody, somewhere is having a laugh. Please step forward!

happy birthday erin!

As a teenager

My beautiful sister. She is one of the lucky ones: Her birthday falls within two days of Christmas. Over the years, this meant fewer presents (they could be "combined") and less hoopla in general. Others of my near and dear know how that is also. It also means that occasionally, like today, her famous Christmas party falls on the same day as her birthday. Add to that the fact that her daughter Madison is getting home from Americorps on this very same day for a short break before going off to Tacoma to build for Habitat for Humanity, and this is a special, not to mention frantic, day indeed.
Enjoy all the celebrations, E!
This day's for you!

madison's room

Madison's room is waiting for her. She left it to go off for an adventure after high school, and it has been empty since. Well, empty of Madison. A lot of her stuff is there. Neater, since her mom cleaned it up. Will it seem small when she comes home for Christmas? Or will it she sink back into it like a warm, downy nest? Madison will be home soon. Maybe today.
#illbehomeforchristmas #childhoodsend #madisonsroom

the tub, part 3

The tub crate still awaits disposal—the dump was closed when I ditched the truck and split.

 You thought the tub thing was over, right? Think again. It has yet to be installed.
  That's the drain to the previous tub on the left, from below. Note that the water pipes are on the other side of that beam, which they can't be run across. The current water pipes that emerge upstairs will have to be capped off, which means a hole will have to be made—and repaired— in the wall. And then we can install the chic, floor-mounted tub filler that this type of tub is meant to have.

 This will require, if all goes well, at least two visits from a mainland plumber, not to mention a carpenter. Someone was out of their mind when they conceived of this project. And had a contractor quoted me what in the end it will cost, I would have laughed in his (or her) face. Plus I had to, belatedly, ascertain what the structural load of the house frame is to make sure that the nearly one ton of tub, water and people wouldn't fall through the floor.
  But, hey, in the end I won't have a plug-in bathtub with the tease of those non-working Jacuzzi jets

The new tub (foreground)awaits the removal of the old one—if we can get it out.

a nod to christmas

The coffee pot and the elephant amuse me—with thanks to Doro for the bough of holly!

all i want for christmas

I have made something of a tradition of Christmas lists, but usually they were my nice nieces'. Now the kindergartner is getting in on the act. And if you don't know what a hatchimal is, you better get some age diversity into your life. Or google it up.

#the vicarious life

The sewing machines were idle. Everyone else had left for the day. She sat, looking down, maybe searching wedding dresses or texting with a friend via WhatsApp. Or just waiting for the end of her shift. Had I still been a journalist, I might have gone in and asked her what she was thinking. I might have sat with her until she closed up and went home to Queens. I might have met her family, eaten their food and patted their dog. I might have tried to sleep on the floor and wondered whether the money—the life—was worth the sacrifice of country and culture and how I could find out what she was dreaming. I might have gone back to work with her the next day and lived with her until she was sick of me and my black T-shirts, if a little flattered that someone found her fascinating. But I no longer live the vicarious life. So I walked on, in my own shoes, with my own dreams. #thevicariouslife

66: almost the number of the beast

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“And how are you?”

    This is what people ask. I say, “I’m good.” I don’t really like talking about myself. And I am good. I have a loving—and huge— family, wonderful friends, enough money, great places to live, work, health, a rich social life. OK, I don’t do enough museums or go out enough. But, hey, I drive all over the freaking country!

    Every year one of my friends paints a self-portrait to record how she’s doing. Every time I sit down at the keyboard, I am doing a selfie, even if I am not technically writing about myself. I will have to ask her if she feels that way about her quotidian paintings.

   Yes, I drink too much beer, and I weigh too much. My mother is absolutely convinced that the two are related. Does it also have something to do with my blood pressure?  Not that I’ve dared measure it in the last year and a half.

    Most of you know that my heart was broken then. (Maybe literally, though that’s for a cardiologist to say. I will go to the doctor when I have lost the 20 pounds I spent the past year putting on—which is all a physician would tell me to do anyway.) How someone can tell you they love you for more than two decades and then dump you over the phone. . .  Insult to injury: a gift certificate to Zabar’s discovered in my bedside drawer.

    I may debut a new hashtag for journalists, specifically photographers. #thevicariouslife.

    I’m pretty much over it. I like living alone, not having to compromise 24 and 7 and tell someone where you’re going and how you’re spending your money and discussing every meal. “What’s for lunch?” Fuck that! I think, I write, I party. For the first two, I need solitude. For the latter, I need company.

    Once in a while I wish I had someone to make love to. And tell secrets. And every time I open and close a house for the season—six times a year—I like the concept of someone who has my back. That requires deep history or blood. The people I love mostly have other, nearer, claims on their attention. But every coupled one of you is going to be where I am now—unless you die or file for divorce before your partner. Sorry. Truth. (And quite appositely, here is a lovely piece in the New Yorker.)

    So don’t forget about the other people you love. You will need them, and they will need you. I feel badly about the relationships I’ve let slide and vow to do better. Let me know if I’ve been neglectful. I love you.

   And how are you?

horse of a different color

 From the moment she saw The Ugly Horse, Kate Knapp, painter of legend, believed that it needed repainting. She always thought the horse should be blue. (Channeling Franz Marc?) So when she got here, she started asking for paint. She wound up buying a kids' palette of acrylic paint at the Guggenheim, used one of my housepainting brushes and went to town. Fifteen minutes later—et voila!—a horse of a different color. And somehow or another the animal looks friendlier, too.

grinch stuff

Sorry, Christoween always gets me a bit cranky. I'm all for evergreens and cookies and carol singing and candles and eggnog and hot cider and even midnight mass (atheist as I am). But I am not into consumerism. At all.
    So for others with similar urges to puke when mama goes mouth-to-mouth with Santy Claus, I offer up the 2016 Hater's Guide to the Williams-Sonoma Catalogue.
  I am sure that other such misanthropic sites exist. Feel free to flag me or weigh in.

Take that, Santa Baby

the doctor is in

Now saving the world one person at a time.

Miriam's outsider artist sister, one of whose fabulous works

 Miriam was a reporter at Life magazine when I met her. Elegant and beautiful, she didn't resemble the ink-stained wretches of legend. And she wanted something more than a career in journalism: She wanted to help people. It was a hard road of late-night math classes and serious testing—between stories—but she got into medical school, specialized in psychiatry and opened up her practice while

is here, was part of Miriam's inspiration for a career change.

having twins—and a husband dying of cancer. Talk about multitasking. And all of that in her late 30s.
      And here she is today: Supershrink. A doctor, mother, wife and all round good person. A story in herself. Fortunately for me, she has moved her office into my neighborhood so perhaps I can see her more often. Her gentle, caring presence alone is curative.

"So, how's it going?" Miriam in her office.