Stacy Horn

But I’m not.  I’m feeling completely frazzled and how am I going to finish all things I need to get done??

I shouldn’t complain.  All the things I have to do are in support of something I love to do: writing. I just worry that I won’t get them done, won’t do a good job, and yesterday for the first time it occurred to me: what am I going to wear to all these things I’m scheduling??  This just occurs to me now??  What, did I stop being a girl or something?

This gas pump sits in a lot on the corner of Hudson and Charles.  Or is it 10th?  (My brain is useless these days.) The lot was owned by one of the most hated landlords in the Village, who has since died.  It’s a terrible waste of space, although I would hate to have some ugly building going up in its place.

Live West Village of NYC Update:  It’s snowing!  Yay!! Our choir director already sent out email reminding us that we never cancel for weather and rehearsal is still on.  (The only day he ever cancelled was 9/11.)

I think my window has been good for my new plant.  Before …

And after.  See how much fuller it is!  Not very symmetrical though.

And yet, here I am.  Who’s a good boy??  Yes, you are Finney.  Kinda.  (Finney is next to me.)

A friend of mine is collecting love stories for a book. Right now they’re appearing in a series on Salon called Americans Talk About Love. There’s two up now, and I read the one from Louise.

Please go read Louise’s story, but also, please, please read the comments (called letters on Salon).  I was stunned.  I had all sorts of feelings about Louise’s story, and I didn’t see all the hate coming.  It’s astounding.  Who are these people?

I tried posting a link, but it doesn’t work. Go to Salon and look on the left under Special Features.

The guy that is collecting these stories, John Bowe, did a similar book with his sister Marisa, (she’s the one that’s my friend, I know John through Marisa) called Gig: American’s Talk About Their Jobs.  If you’d like to share your love story, they’re collecting all kinds. Here’s their plea on Salon:

We want to know about every type of love in the United States: From rich, poor, left, right, long, short; from Alaska to the Florida Keys. If you think we should interview you or someone you know write us.

I spent last night looking up relatives of Ream Constance Hoxsie (Hoxie). I wrote about her in The Restless Sleep and never forgot her:

The box marked “1921” has several cases from the early twenties including the following four cold cases: … 17-year-old Ream Constance Hoxsie who was hit in the head with a hammer eight times, then posed on a bed …

She was actually murdered on February 4, 1920. I went nuts trying to find her and her relatives on Ancestry.com until I finally thought to look under Hoxie and other misspellings and then I found them. Now I’m on the case. I was already hooked on telling her story but this small part in one of the Times articles really got me.

The District Attorney said the police had informed him that Ream had accompanied her step-mother, Mrs. Marie M. Montrose a professional singer, to fill a singing engagement at a cabaret. He also said that the detectives had learned that Ream was fond of displaying her skill in “make-up,” dressing herself up in various costumes and applying the cosmetics with the expertness of stagefolk. The trip to the cabaret and the play at “making-up,” were done, it seemed, as part of the girl’s training to join her step-mother on the stage.

I just remember being 17, and that sounds so thrilling for a 17 year old. I see a young girl, backstage, all excited, imagining her future, and then hours later it’s all over. Like that.

UPDATE: Ream Constance Hoxie update here.

I wrote that this morning and I just got back from the library, where I was looking for more information about Ream Hoxsie. God, just one sad story after another. Every time a young girl or woman was murdered, Ream’s name came up, plus all these sad pathetic people who were hauled in and questioned, revealing their sad, miserable lives, so much hopelessness and so many unsolved murders of girls. What a story this is going to make.

Onto something happier for now, like practicing Beethoven. I took this yesterday, coming back from Queens. We’re heading for the bridge and the great and wonderful Oz.

I mean Manhattan.