A blog about New York City, my books, and my cats. Mostly.
I am about to start my yearly Spring Cleaning. As readers of my blog know, I make a very big deal about spring (and holiday) cleaning. It’s exhausting, but there’s nothing more peaceful than a thoroughly—and I mean thoroughly—clean house.
Bodhi relaxing on my desk, arms extended.
Every once in a while I have this conversation in my head:
Me: Everything’s going to be okay.
Me: Well, probably. It usually is, but …
Me: Yeah, there is most definitely going come a day when it won’t be okay.
Me: Forever.
Me: Jesus. And there’s just no fucking way around it.
Me: Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Me: Maybe the people who believe in ghosts are right.
Me:
Me: Yeah.
Me: Don’t think about it.
Me: It’s all we have.
A storm was brewing while I ran my errands this morning.
Walking home from work last week I came upon a forsythia bush and a dogwood tree. Instant wash of nostalgia. The good nostalgia. The only thing that could have made it better would have been spurts of wild violets, grape hyacinths, tiger lilies, and rocks with salamanders underneath. Okay, and ponds and rivers and stars at night.
There was music at a pop up jewelry store called Muse on Hudson Street just now. I passed it by on the way back from the laundry. There were bags of flowers on the table, beautiful flowers I would have loved to have! The woman sitting on the bench in the fur coat seem to be a celebrity of sorts, or maybe the owner of the store. She was being treated with deference The singer had a very nice voice. I should have stayed longer. But I was lugging laundry.
