Stacy Horn

I’m not getting anything done today. I think I should just surrender and do something fun, instead of sitting at the desk, hating myself for not being productive. I’ve been berating myself for two hours now.

My cats. Admit it. Wouldn’t you like to curl up with them? Oh good god. Bodhi just walked across the keyboard and something about how he does it always turns on “voice over.” This happens every other day. There must be a keyboard shortcut to turning it off.

I lugged Bali through the snow and rain, and from the #1 train to the Q to take him to see a doctor at the ASPCA. I thought he might have a urinary tract infection, but the vet thinks it could be feline idiopathic cystitis. She’s going to call me today with the results of the blood and urine tests. While there, Bali tried to bite Maria, one of the techs who trained me. Not cool Bali.

I’ve been reflecting on how Bodhi and Bali have changed roles. When I first took them home Bodhi was the love bug, the one who had to be in my arms and near me at all times. Bali was sweet, but shy, and would cuddle up from time to time. But now that they’re comfortable in their new surroundings, Bodhi is constantly on the move, playing, jumping, running (my poor downstairs neighbor) and Bali can usually be found quietly curled up on my lap.

That’s Bodhi on the left, giving his perpetually alert look, and Bali with his sincere face. (I took this picture in the fall. They’re bigger now.)

Strecker Memorial Laboratory was a pathology lab connected to City Hospital, which I wrote about in my book about Blackwell’s Island. The lab was closed by the 1950’s and a photographer named Anna Kaysen went inside in the 1960s and took pictures of what was left behind. Which was a lot it turned out. This one was the saddest.

Anna must have found it among all the artifacts in these jars. This one seems to have been taken with a different camera. It almost feels like it was taken in the 19th century, and not just because of the sepia tone. I enlarged it to try to see what was in the rest of the jars, but it was not clear enough to tell.

This appears to be a foot just laying on the floor. How could it remain so well preserved?

I have a book coming out in May, and I have to figure out what I’m going to wear for all the wonderful events my publicist is lining up (thank you, Jackie!). I think I can get away with buying a few tops. If they’re cute enough I can throw them on over a pair of jeans, put on a glittery necklace, and I’m good to go. Right? I’m going to wait until the end of April to shop.

I loved this dress in the window of Cynthia Rowley’s store on Bleecker. I don’t want it for my book events, I don’t want to own it, I just appreciate it.

A Banksy artwork was stolen. He’d painted a rat in the now missing clock (on the corner of 16th and 6th). Bastards. It reminds me of the people who ripped the Keith Haring drawings off the subway walls in the 80’s. I understand the impulse. I wanted to have them too, and considered taking them. But I decided they were supposed to be for everyone.

They’re worth a fortune now, and likely the people who took them are congratulating themselves, and rationalizing what they did by saying they saved the drawings from eventual destruction. Which is probably true. But they’re still greedy, selfish bastards.