In line at the sandwich shop, Jane asks: "So, um, Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Who's Dr. Pepper?"
23.4.08
Pictures in Her Head, & Mine
Early this morning, Jane stirs beside me. She is crying.
"What is it?"
"I had a bad dream!"
"Oh, dear... What happened?"
"I was dreaming of cats..."
That's funny, because I was dreaming of them, too.
"Me, too," I say. "They were doing funny things."
Which they were. In my dreams, cats always do funny things.
"My thoughts are pictures," Jane says.
"Yes," I tell her. "Mine are, too."
She turns over. Laughs. "That was a funny one!"
"One what?"
"Picture. The cat stuck her tongue out at me," she says, drifting back to sleep.
"What is it?"
"I had a bad dream!"
"Oh, dear... What happened?"
"I was dreaming of cats..."
That's funny, because I was dreaming of them, too.
"Me, too," I say. "They were doing funny things."
Which they were. In my dreams, cats always do funny things.
"My thoughts are pictures," Jane says.
"Yes," I tell her. "Mine are, too."
She turns over. Laughs. "That was a funny one!"
"One what?"
"Picture. The cat stuck her tongue out at me," she says, drifting back to sleep.
22.4.08
In Other Words
"Speaking of Accidents"
Peter Everwine
Given the general murkiness of fate
you might, in my mother's words, "Thank
your lucky stars," a phrase she'd drop
into the lull between calamities
like a rubbed stone, then nod wisely
while it sank home, pure poetry,
meaning she loved the sound of it
more than its truth.
But precisely here one needs discrimination.
Our town drunk, steering by streetlamp home one night,
as was his custom, got fooled
beyond recognition when a fast freight at the crossing
fixed him to its glare. "Some men
are like moths," we said, and that
was the poetry in it,
meaning his sudden somersault into light.
Truth is, the world fell in on him
as it commonly does when you stray
from the garden path and run head on
into the pain that, until then,
was as lost as you.
The trick is to risk collision,
then step back at the last moment:
that ringing in your ears
might be construed as the rush of stars.
We all want stars, those constellations
with the lovely names we've given them blossoming
in the icy windblown fields of the dark.
Desire is always fuming into radiance,
though even a drunk can't hope to ignore
some fixity underfoot, some vivid point
closer to home where all the lines converge --
scars, I mean,
not stars.
Peter Everwine
Given the general murkiness of fate
you might, in my mother's words, "Thank
your lucky stars," a phrase she'd drop
into the lull between calamities
like a rubbed stone, then nod wisely
while it sank home, pure poetry,
meaning she loved the sound of it
more than its truth.
But precisely here one needs discrimination.
Our town drunk, steering by streetlamp home one night,
as was his custom, got fooled
beyond recognition when a fast freight at the crossing
fixed him to its glare. "Some men
are like moths," we said, and that
was the poetry in it,
meaning his sudden somersault into light.
Truth is, the world fell in on him
as it commonly does when you stray
from the garden path and run head on
into the pain that, until then,
was as lost as you.
The trick is to risk collision,
then step back at the last moment:
that ringing in your ears
might be construed as the rush of stars.
We all want stars, those constellations
with the lovely names we've given them blossoming
in the icy windblown fields of the dark.
Desire is always fuming into radiance,
though even a drunk can't hope to ignore
some fixity underfoot, some vivid point
closer to home where all the lines converge --
scars, I mean,
not stars.
16.4.08
Guimauves
How Parisians love their guimauves (marshmallows)! Flavors, from left: green tea, saffron and pimiento, rose water.
Menkes
For all your cross-dressing and flamenco dancing needs. Which are apparently substantial enough to support a nice little shop right here in the 3rd. Oh, Paris!
Waiting Is the Hardest Part
Jane waits for her pot of insanely thick and rich hot chocolate (served with a bowl of butter, I mean whipped cream) at Angelina's. We also ordered macaroons and ice cream. It is probably no coincidence that this is the only place Jane deigned to speak French during her visit. If there's no hot chocolate, no macaroons, no ice cream -- what's the point?
Un Philosophe dans Les Philosophes
MJ philosophizes at Les Philosophes. I forget what he is talking about. Mais, pas de quoi!
MJ hearts Paris.
MJ hearts Paris.
This Is the Small Bottle
A bottle of Baby Jesus brand wine, 85 euros. Your celestial hangover? Priceless.
So Many Wines, So Little Time
You know how, in American grocery stories, there are whole aisles devoted to salty snacks? Same thing in Paris, only it's wine on the shelf, not Fritos. This is a tiny grocery store in our neighborhood.
A Quiet Moment
...In the Tuilieres. Afterward, she bounced for fifteen straight minutes on the trampoline, drank a big cup of hot chocolate, and fell asleep in the cab on the way home.
Another Guiding Spirit.
This is the guiding spirit who shows up after the, uh, spirits and makes you fall off the banquette. Not that I would know anything about it.
15.4.08
Working on Her SAT Vocabulary
In the rue de Vieille Temple, as I am gawping at the merchandise at the Marvelous Shoe Store, Jane says, "I bet you don't know what bats eat."
"No," I say absently, because I am converting euros to dollars and the result is incroyable. "What do they eat?"
"Mosquitoes, and other assorted insects."
"Oh! How useful. I love how you use the word 'assorted,' by the way."
"Thanks," Jane says. "I've been working on it for a while."
"No," I say absently, because I am converting euros to dollars and the result is incroyable. "What do they eat?"
"Mosquitoes, and other assorted insects."
"Oh! How useful. I love how you use the word 'assorted,' by the way."
"Thanks," Jane says. "I've been working on it for a while."
Only in the Marais
As if this striped armchair were not enough to induce a headache, in place of a throw pillow it had been adorned with a stuffed squirrel -- and I don't mean en peluche. Has Little My left Moomin Valley, and gotten herself a job as a Paris shopgirl?
The rest of the display was relentlessly normal.
The rest of the display was relentlessly normal.
13.4.08
Tucked in an Alcove at the Hôtel de Ville
The historian Jules Michelet, a guiding spirit. "There I walked, from age to age..."
10.4.08
April in Paris, Not a Moment Too Soon
I wonder if there are any more romantic words in the English language than the ones I am about to say.
I am off to Paris for a while.
Not taking much -- a notebook, pens, a camera, a few euros.
Il suffisait de te parler ...
I am off to Paris for a while.
Not taking much -- a notebook, pens, a camera, a few euros.
Il suffisait de te parler ...
9.4.08
FTD/Pick's Disease in the News
Today's NYT carried a story about a woman with fronto-temporal dementia who became especially creative after becoming ill.
Wish I could say my mother's experience is like this.
Wish I could say my mother's experience is like this.
1.4.08
Sort of Like an Internet Bezoar
Laughed out loud today when one of my Google searches turned up the following text string, to which I have only added line breaks:
Do you believe in love
Like I believe in pain
Celexa & Trazodone
Are you also doing psychotherapy?
Usually the combination works a little better
Than either one alone
Oh dear, the things that Google coughs up.
Do you believe in love
Like I believe in pain
Celexa & Trazodone
Are you also doing psychotherapy?
Usually the combination works a little better
Than either one alone
Oh dear, the things that Google coughs up.
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