Hers was a unique brand of malcontent. She could find the flaws (micro and macro) in anyone, anything, anytime. She was hard to be around for an evening, much less a lifetime. But they were related by blood, so the family was boxed in. She took full advantage of that, cataloguing their shortcomings ... coming and going. No effrontery was beneath her when she didn't get her way.
His was a zest, a joie de vivre, that lit up all rooms -- that made Cincinnati feel like Le Marais. He was not just interesting but interested. No navel gazing whatsoever. Just questions, trenchant insights and helpful overtures. A rare, Dale Carnegie millennial.
That they were siblings, wending their way in and out of each other's young adult lives, led the neighbors to believe they had different fathers.
No one knew the neighbors were right -- until HE burst his way into their lives, irreversibly and comprehensively upending the apple cart.
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I'm procrastinating by way of fun with fiction.
I'm avoiding the passion project (the raw materials are in the car a few blocks away from the cafe on Chestnut where we are writing, reading, refueling this afternoon -- I always have an excuse), while also trying not to write about the stuff of my dreams. Like finding a homeless baby on the beach and being unable to find shelter for him. Like being in a shelter and having my only blanket stolen. Like falling down an elevator shaft. My therapist -- have I mentioned he's Jewish AND gay AND a thespian? Triple threat! -- tells me the dreams are an essential means of processing my secondary, on-the-job trauma. I suppose he's right, but the cumulative effect is taking its toll. I can't get away ... away. My husband understands this and my imperative, which is why he drove me over the bridge for Project Immersion Elsewhere. For the critical quarterly cultural fix. We've had an idyllic 24 hours. Friend's art opening in North Beach, connection with old (and older) friends, lovely late night meal, luxurious, unhurried morning, hot (NOT Bikram) yoga by candlelight, vegan lunch -- hello, Wildseed SF!, Union St. meandering, French cafe with dueling New Yorkers (Xmas gift "for my husband") and soon ... NFL on Fillmore and (God willing) a Tom Brady* loss. I love where we live but I miss me some city.
My daughter recently decided to attend college in THE city: NYC. The land grant university, smack dab in the middle of the midwest, didn't suit her. She's exhaling as she leans into what is not so much a course correction as it is a new direction. Come fall of 2020, there will be more city indeed. And possibilities heretofore unknown to her -- in what will undoubtedly be her version of away ... away, writ large.
* He's a Trump guy, ergo, dead to me.
His was a zest, a joie de vivre, that lit up all rooms -- that made Cincinnati feel like Le Marais. He was not just interesting but interested. No navel gazing whatsoever. Just questions, trenchant insights and helpful overtures. A rare, Dale Carnegie millennial.
That they were siblings, wending their way in and out of each other's young adult lives, led the neighbors to believe they had different fathers.
No one knew the neighbors were right -- until HE burst his way into their lives, irreversibly and comprehensively upending the apple cart.
/////
I'm procrastinating by way of fun with fiction.
I'm avoiding the passion project (the raw materials are in the car a few blocks away from the cafe on Chestnut where we are writing, reading, refueling this afternoon -- I always have an excuse), while also trying not to write about the stuff of my dreams. Like finding a homeless baby on the beach and being unable to find shelter for him. Like being in a shelter and having my only blanket stolen. Like falling down an elevator shaft. My therapist -- have I mentioned he's Jewish AND gay AND a thespian? Triple threat! -- tells me the dreams are an essential means of processing my secondary, on-the-job trauma. I suppose he's right, but the cumulative effect is taking its toll. I can't get away ... away. My husband understands this and my imperative, which is why he drove me over the bridge for Project Immersion Elsewhere. For the critical quarterly cultural fix. We've had an idyllic 24 hours. Friend's art opening in North Beach, connection with old (and older) friends, lovely late night meal, luxurious, unhurried morning, hot (NOT Bikram) yoga by candlelight, vegan lunch -- hello, Wildseed SF!, Union St. meandering, French cafe with dueling New Yorkers (Xmas gift "for my husband") and soon ... NFL on Fillmore and (God willing) a Tom Brady* loss. I love where we live but I miss me some city.
My daughter recently decided to attend college in THE city: NYC. The land grant university, smack dab in the middle of the midwest, didn't suit her. She's exhaling as she leans into what is not so much a course correction as it is a new direction. Come fall of 2020, there will be more city indeed. And possibilities heretofore unknown to her -- in what will undoubtedly be her version of away ... away, writ large.
* He's a Trump guy, ergo, dead to me.
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