It was beginning to appear that her interesting face covered a most uninteresting mind. – Anne Perry
He would look at you as is he were really interested in all you said. He never seemed to be merely polite. It was almost as if he were half expecting you to turn out to be special, and he did not want to miss any opportunity to find out. – Anne Perry
Don’t mistake a street address for where you actually live. – Ruth Reichl
Art is what we call the thing an artist does. It’s not the medium or the oil or the price or whether it hangs on a wall or you eat it. What matters,
what makes it art, is that the person who made it overcame the resistance, ignored the voice of doubt and made something worth making. Something risky. Something human. Art is not in the eye of the beholder. It’s in the soul of the artist. – Seth Godin
“So was that the reason you left Herminia?” Miss Prim said.
He looked at her in silence for a few seconds, as if trying to guess what lay behind her question.
“I think you didn’t really love her,” she said.
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said firmly. “I did love her. I loved her very much. But the day came, or maybe the moment, I don’t know, when I realized that she was asleep, whereas I was fully awake, absolutely, and totally awake. I’d climbed like a cat up onto a roof and I could see a beautiful, terrible, mysterious landscape stretching out before me. Did I really love her? Of course I did. Perhaps if I’d loved her less, cared for her less, I wouldn’t have had to leave her.”
“I thought the religious were closer to other people than anyone else.”
“I can’t speak for anyone else. I only know what it’s meant to me. It’s been my touchstone, the line that’s split my life in two and given it absolute meaning. But I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy. It’s not easy, and anyone who says it is is fooling themselves. It was catharsis, a shocking trauma, open-heart surgery, like a tree torn from the ground and replanted elsewhere.
“And there’s something else,” he continued, “something to do with looking beyond the moment, with the need to scan the horizon, to scrutinize it as keenly as a sailor studies his charts. Don’t be surprised. My story is as old as the world. I’m not the first and won’t be the last. I know what you’re thinking. Would I turn back if I could? No, of course not. Would a newly awoken man willingly go back to the sleepwalking life?”
– From The Awakening of Miss Prim by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera
Calvin says, “Oh brother, what have you been drinking?”
In a conversation I had with a friend about being raised with money.
“In my mother’s day, the maids who cleaned our houses in the neighborhood arrived in a Cadillac they had bought together,” she said.
Intrigued, I asked, “Did they also dress the part?”
“Yes. They wore wonderful hats, dresses and high heels,” she said. “They changed clothes inside the house, did their work, then changed back out of their uniforms and into their street clothes, got into their Cadillac and drove home.”
A class act, I thought.
“But my mother never left her maid out of her sight. In fact she followed her everywhere pointing out areas that needed attention.”
I wondered how she must have felt about that. Someone who owned a Cadillac must have known how to clean well, I thought.
“That was my mother, never trusting anyone to do the job right. Cadillac or no Cadillac.”
Calvin says, “Mistrust goes deep. Like my breeder who never left me out of her sight in case I barfed on her new carpet.”
We’ve had two weeks of President Trump and the country is upside down in turmoil, or so the media tells us. Now the speculation is whether Melania will be joining her husband in the White House or keeping to her high-rise luxurious surroundings in New York. Either place she can’t go very far anymore without a Secret Service detail following her every step. Where’s the fun in that? She might as well immigrate to the White House where the action is. I hope she emerges as one of the best First Ladies we’ve had in years because she’s certainly going to turn heads wherever she goes.
Now there’s talk of California wanting to secede and become its own country. Sort of what England has done with the EU. Except are we ready for Hollywood to run the place? You don’t think they’ll keep Sacramento as the state capitol do you, when they have studio lots galore where they can set up a throne for the president? And who would be president? Arnold Schwarzenegger? At least he had a real run at politics as governor. Martin Sheen? I suppose he could refer back to his fake experience as president in the West Wing. I know. Tony Robbins. He’s so popular and has helped so many lost souls regain their emotional equilibrium that he’d win by a landslide. Besides, how long can Tony keep walking over live coals and bellowing, “You can do it!” He needs a new gig.
Calvin says, “I like the sound of citizen of California. I’d get a beagle green card and better food.”
It’s the season for Christmas trees. The current culture insists on doing away with anything religious, but I’ve noticed the trees remain. It think it’s because when you see one you immediately think presents. And then you remember your list and have an anxiety attack, which sends you hustling to the mall. Christmas trees are the brain’s signal to get you shopping. If you saw one in February, you wouldn’t react at all.
I see several this time of year. They sit proudly in office lobbies winking their lights and strutting their bows for all who walk by and take a second look inside.
The one with the red bow is in the building that houses Uber and Square. Very traditional in its color scheme for two companies that have broken all the rules of transportation and commercial transactions.
The one with the flowers is one I decorated for our office. Who says you have to stay within boundaries? And the one with all the gold and silver dripping from its branches is found in the Twitter lobby.
Everyone loves to win. Last night the Giants won the game with the Mets. Today in the office the mood was lighter, there were more smiles, and people were huddled in small groups discussing the plays.
I rushed home last night to see the game on TV. Nada. None of the major networks was televising it. I was shocked.
I checked the Internet for live streaming. Nada. I had to download flash players and create accounts in order to see the game.
What once was the right of every American to see baseball on TV for free has been usurped by grubby hungry cable companies in order to make more money.
That’s just plain un-American.
It’s time for a revolt.
Let’s all go to our local sports bar and view the games there. That will teach these cable guys they can’t mess with the public like that.
The bars would love the business, and we’d enjoy watching with others who are mad with us. Besides, it’s more fun being together. After a few drinks, and lots of peanut shells on the floor, we can be as noisy as we want together.
Calvin says, “I’m mad with you. It’s like removing all the rabbits from a field. It leaves you bereft.”
“I just made up my mind to be cremated,” my 93-year old friend told me recently.
“Why not be buried?” I asked.
“I don’t want to rot in a box,” she said.
“Then consider being sprinkled,” I said.
“My mother wasn’t a good cook,” my friend said. “So imagine my delight as a young girl when I came home from school one day to the aroma of stew simmering on the stove.”
“Did she surprise you with a home-cooked meal?” I asked.
“No, she was stewing meat for the dogs and I got a frozen dinner,” she said.
“I had a friend in college who slept in a bathtub,” Jules said.
“Why there?” I asked.
“Because we called him Mr. Machine and he had shifty eyes and I guess he had to live up to his name,” he said.
“It’s not brunch anymore,” said the hostess in the hotel dinning room.
That would make a good title for a novel, I thought. The story would center around a woman of social standing searching for the perfect brunch in her city in order to invite her best friends to join her and announce she was going to kill herself, except in the course of trying different dishes around town she falls in love with the cooking of an old-timer Parisian chef whose food awakens the passions in her life.