Chaos theory

I've begun the ritual of spring cleaning, of cleaning many springs' worth of clutter. I'm doing it my own way, of course, and for whatever reasons, somewhere along the line I became convinced that I am not good at this sort of thing. A self-fulfilling declaration. Not being good at things lets you off the hook. This is one of the reasons that I am rarely the designated driver and never the one to figure out the check.

Having begun this purging ritual, I've become increasingly amazed at the things I've held onto over the decades, the souvenirs I've carted across the country and back again, and for which I have continued to create space year after year. I have proclaimed myself a pack-rat, and I think I am ready to lose this fragment of my identity. The clutter in my environment reflects the clutter in my mind, and I am ready to rid myself of much of this. Mementos of acquaintances long since forgotten, matchbooks from places I've happened upon, photographs of every infant and child whose mother I've known, notes on cocktail napkins, "sentimental" clothing ... a paint chip and a shoelace -- I kid you not -- and so much more: none of this is relevant to the person I am today and the one I will be tomorrow. It's all seemed relevant at one time or another, has anchored me to what I'd thought were better times or important times or evidence of my existence ... I don't need these anymore. I'm so much more me than ever before. I've got the tools I need and the love of great people, myself included. I don't have to hold onto the past for fear of forgetting it, or of "damning" the people with whom I've associated inanimate objects.

And so I purge, and purge and purge. And the levity is intoxicating, addictive, infectious, and many other $7.00 adjectives. I want order and beauty in my environment and mind, not chaos and illusion.

Here's to the late bloomers -- all of us.

Rhythm

So, today I had one of those embarrassing incidents where you're walking along purposefully, happen upon live music and, try as you might, you can't help but walk to the beat of the music. It's an organic process. Walking through a l-o-n-g corridor to the F train (okay, yes, I know) and a gentleman with a weatherbeaten violin case open for tips is playing the saxophone. And he's playing the theme to the Pink Panther (dadant dadant ... dadant ... dadant dadant dadant dadant dadaaaannnnnt ... diddle-y-boop-ah - DA da da da da da dadadada biddly bum ba) and though I was in a cranky mood and had to be somewhere and was wearing little heels, I found myself traipsing along in time to his playing. I sped up, he did. I slowed ... you get the picture. Perhaps I'm in the midst of a wacky caper.

Rabbit Ears

Happy Easter, bunnies!

In lieu (Lou) of a proper bunny photo, I offer you:

The Easter Shiba

Oh, and...

I'm looking for a great book to take on my trip -- character-based narrative fiction, nothing too disjointed. Any recommendations? Books I've read and liked recently: Half of a Yellow Sun, I Know This Much is True, The Emperor's Children.

If there's a fabulous and readable nonfiction I might like, let me know!

the great outdoors

These are your options when you take Louie outside: turn right out the back door and walk past the car wash and its ever present pool of dirty, soapy water and God knows what else; you can avoid this, of course, by crossing the street and cutting through the gas station. Turn left and you'll stroll along what is essentially the West Side Highway. Opt instead for the front door, and you'll find yourself in a land of construction, scaffolding, detours and impressive piles of dirt and debris. Looking forward to rat season.

New York, New York, one hell of a town.

Nastrovya

Because I made Neil pose during the process while I attempted to figure out my I'm-in-over-my-head-it's-complicated camera, I'm posting photos of blini night:

The chef in his domain:

The batter:

The caviar and its garnishes:
Application of melted butter to blini:
The artist at work:

The finished product pre-roll ... the ones at Russian Samovar -- and Neil's -- are much more elegantly presented. But I had to do it myself.


Odd man out:

Baba ganoush

Too many days have passed since I last wrote. As this is not unusual, I announce that I will officially stop apologizing for not writing more frequently. It's not productive. It's like those acquaintances, in my experience usually women, who spend your every moment together talking about how you two need to get together and whining -- in my experience usually drunkenly -- about how you never call them. And it's hard in this distractingly modern world to brush someone off ... how many times will someone believe that you don't have their number anymore because you've lost yet another cellphone? I've used this line twice already on B's friend ... we'll call her Ivanka ... who pulls that shite every time I see her -- nags me and complains that we never get together. I'm running out of excuses. I feel like the duck on the right.

-End of tangent-

Sherry came over for a bite and a drink last night, which was lovely. Neil made pizza -- he's been working a lot with pizza lately -- as an appetizer, I made salad and dressing, and then he and I dined on tilapia fillets, which I requested with a panko crust, as well as a rice dish. Tonight, he just informed me, we'll be having his homemade buckwheat blinis with some sort of (really inexpensive and surprisingly good) caviar, and the usual accoutrements thereof. Is thereof a word? And if so, did I use it correctly?

Here is a photo of Neil in his cooking attire:


I know it's a strange angle, but I feel I should let him sign off on any real pictures I post. He alternates between the black apron and the Union Jack one that Berun brought us from London.


Here are some of the dishes Neil has made for me and friends. Everything he has ever prepared for me has been incredible:

• Gumbo -- last Friday night for 9 of us, as a matter of fact
• Duck a l'orange
• Japanese-style barbecue
• Etouffee
• Boeuf Bourguignon -- we had my parents over for dinner Monday night, and this was my mom's birthday meal
• Coq au vin
• Buckwheat crepes with wild boar sausage and ligonberry jam
• Paella
• Baba ganoush, for which I just had to look up the spelling, hummus, tabouleh
• Coquille St. Jacques

I could go on and on, but it would get ridiculous. I am a well-fed girl.

Wonderland

This has been an extraordinarily strange winter in New York, the lion-and-lamb effect of March having lasted the whole season, sometimes alternating from moment to moment within the same day. These photos were taken in one afternoon:

See what I mean?

Mark Twain once said, The coldest winter I've ever spent was summer in San Francisco. Having lived in San Fran, I know what he means. However, the coldest winter I've ever spent was winter in New York City. Ugh -- one in particular stands out when the bone-dampening chill matched my mood and lasted about as long. That was a very welcome spring.

Mark Twain also delivered one of my favorites, about one of my favorite cities:
New Orleans is a beautiful woman with dirty fingernails.

This was, of course, before 2005, before our fine government turned a blind eye to that beloved city, a place that is very close to my heart. About a year and a half after Katrina, I visited again, and my dear friend Keith took me for a drive around the lower 9th Ward. It was as if the storm had hit a month prior. It was incredible. We drove these once over-populated streets for 40 minutes before we saw a live human. I have some fairly disturbing photos from that trip -- not sure if this is the right forum for posting them. If you're curious, let me know, and I will post a few. Houses turned on their sides, crumpled on top of one another, plots of land where other houses once stood, still littered with Katrina's detritus, Water marks permanently etched onto buildings, abandoned businesses, graffiti offering salvation and, most disturbingly, the spray-painted notations from the searchers indicating how many bodies they expected to find, how many they did, how many dead, how many alive, etcetera.

As the song goes, Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

I shall return.

Been a long time...

It feels like ages since I've written anything here, as well it should. Apologies for the long delay, just when I'd actually started telling people about this and have gotten nice feedback. Merci.

I'm in a transition stage right now, and transitions are hard. Somewhere on one of my bookshelves is the title Transitions, likely nestled among its self-help brethren, most of which had been recommended or gifted to me by someone I trusted, and nearly all of which I have barely thumbed through. Or I've read enough to get the gist, kept the book(s) on my nightstand with a few half-abandoned novels and journals, wiped off the dust and found them homes on my shelves. Realizing that changing our reality, to any degree, is universally challenging makes it perhaps a bit easier to navigate. It's like quitting smoking - knowing it's going to be difficult, accepting this, and deciding to move forward anyway is half the battle.

I'm in the process of shedding my old skin, as it were. And becoming something better, calmer, more centered and productive. And that's exciting. I used to shy away from verbalizing my inherent optimism. My fear was that if I assumed the best, some higher, not-very-nice power would prove me wrong, for its own amusement and to teach me a disappointing lesson. It has taken me a while, but I have come to realize that there is no such higher power, that any higher power that does exist is on our side. Our job is to be open to it. It may sound trite or corny, but I believe in this. The times that I have been open to whatever you want to call it, God, a higher power, the universe, the messages have come through loud and clear and have energized me. Coincidences and serendipity abound during those times. We meet the right people -- or maybe the right people find us. And everything positive in my world has come to me through people I know.

I will write more soon. And perhaps it will be about more tangible things, like my favorite new eye cream and my upcoming vacation. Perhaps not.