Wednesday, April 27, 2011


outside my window- stormy day    26-04-11     6 p.m.

Sunday, April 24, 2011


                                                  A tree grows on the Upper East Side. NYC. Palm Sunday. 2011.

The Lord has risen.

And I got out of bed feeling spring! Petaled branches pull blue to this tree as I look up. I feel like putting on a dress of pink or lavender or yellow. Where is my basket? And the eggs that I dyed? I can almost taste the daiquiris that my parents would blend for brunch. Pale green and tangy. It was a frozen treat that even those in patent and ruffles got to taste.

I spent last evening going into a letter box that has been left alone for a long time ... resurrection? But life is not born of this exercise. Roots do not push up a bud or sprout.  Love is not brought back to life. My beloved has not risen. Why does my heart look for you in spring? That tree above was not dead through the many months of snow and wind and storm. It was quiet. Dormant. And that blue sky. That warmth that the brilliancy of the blue connotes, pulls it back to life. But is it the same tree? Or has it changed in its cycle of life to death to life? It is born again. Though taller or broader or broken, it is resurrected. The love written in those letters is finite. It has ended. But their spirit comes to me and I feel loved. I feel more loved that when I read them first. How can that be? I read them with eyes that have seen cycles. Eyes that have been amazed by blue sky and soft petals every spring. I dare to turn away and take that love ... somewhere else.

Friday, April 22, 2011

forty-nine party

after the game. call. home alone. off we go.

I thought that tonight I would be alone facing the new year. Well, me and the Bulls. I was glad to get the call to move out. We went to the top of the John Hancock and looked out at the grid. The lines were intoxicating. Foreign tongues described the beauty of it.

Next we went to a very crowded, small bar and met the eighties. I asked if any 'new' stuck and I was glad to discover that our singer in the small bar was glad to share not only the eighties, but today as well.

I'm grateful for the friend who knows to pull me out of the funk. It's so easy to get me out.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


The Bulls are playing in the third game of the series against Indiana in the first round of the NBA playoffs. Earlier today it was my brother's birthday wish for me that they win for my birthday. The Sox are losing. The Hawks are almost done. It's up to the Bulls to give me a winning team for my 49th year. And my year is balancing on a 54-54 game at :55.4. It is appropriate that this is the case. I do not control my destiny. It is left to fate. To the performance of men that I do not know. I accept this because I know sport. I am a fan. I know the superstition of the game, and I worry that my year won't be that great if the Bulls don't win tonight. What? A whole year's luck based on a professional sport?! Que?! Si. It may as well be that than anything. Recently walking down a busy city street a woman looking for customers said to me, 'sweetie, why don't you come, I'll give you a reading.' Sweetie, I think now, my reading for the next year is at :17.8. I bet on that more than your cards. More than your gypsy skirt and Eastern European accent. Men in shorts will tell me what my year will be. :1.1.  Bulls up by two. Foul. Shot. 87-84 Bulls. Second foul shot. Made. 88-84. They are shooting under 40% but are still up. Bulls win. It will be a good year for me. Even if I shoot at 40%.