With only dreams of you …


In the night sky is a perfect crescent of a moon and two blue beams reaching up for the stars. On this night 12 years ago it rained hard, so hard that the clear blue skies and perfect feel of the following morning were a delightful surprise. That Monday we went to a fundraiser, then sloshed through the puddles to Cedar Tavern for a late-night burger. When the skies open up in the city the city comes together. In blizzards strangers offer strangers rides. In hurricanes dogs have more options. I’ve never been as grateful for this town as I was in the aftermath of 9-11; twelve years later I sit in Bottino with a glass of wine and watch the people stream in from Fashion Week and gallery openings and hear them get incensed by the tiniest glitches and in my building neighbors ignore one another and feign ignorance as the elevator doors close too soon.  Every [wo]man for [her]himself it’s a dog eat dog world look out for number one blah de blah blah. Oy vey. Tomorrow night twelve years ago we went to Gus’s on Waverly and Waverly, then (no longer) the spiritual vortex of Manhattan, according to Nicholas Christopher. We went despite it all – we needed to eat – we needed companionship – we had no idea what the fuck to do and all around us was kindness and shock and the stages of grief personified and amplified. Then we met friends at the pub up the road and “rallied” around the one who hadn’t yet heard from her mother, who worked in one of the towers. The towers. I visited them once, on a class trip in second grade; they were new to the skyline. I needed my mum to come with – I was (am) terrified of heights – and she did. Two weekends ago twelve years ago we hosted a surprise 30th for a friend – Yankees/Red Sox then El Parador then plans to go to Windows on the World diverted at the last moment. At the last moment. My lost former love’s last words, “Oh fuck!” from the 96th floor – he was on a conference call and this was reported to his then-wife. Sweet you you’re forever in my heart.

So much more to write – so many Fashionistas and Galleristas in my lines of vision and hearing. I knew this walking in here, but I needed to be around people tonight.

Live, love, laugh.

And, in the spirit of all three, please follow this beautiful project.

Jeux sans frontières


Yesterday two British gentlemen were walking behind me, one apparently new to the social mores of our fine nation. The first one (I don’t know why he’s first but he is) explained this to his mate: “If you catch a ball you’re not meant to keep it. You must give it to a small child in the vicinity. That’s, like, a big faux pas in America.”

Though not entirely accurate, that is very sweet.

I speak a tiny bit of several languages – one or two words in some cases – and so it is rewarding to overhear something that I happen to understand. Once while walking my little Louie in the park, a young girl pointed to him and said to her mum (or guardian, or aunt, or neighbor, etc.), “собака!” which, in my novice cyrillic, looks like the Russian word for dog. Is this correct, unusual-number-of-visitors-from-the-Russian-Federation?

In theory I am off to my new gym. In fact I am wearing fitness apparel and sitting on my sofa. Truth be told, I’m a bit intimidated by this place, though it promises not to have any of the ickiness associated with gym culture–ogling men and competitive women. It does have a big, lovely lounge from which I can work on the Great American Novella I started yesterday.

Alright. Wish me luck. Or don’t, it’s just a gym.