FAST FOOD FRIDAY

About to pack up Lil' Carl and head back to Brewster. As this is one of the Summer Saturdays that Bloomberg closes down some major streets for pedestrians and non-automotive travel, I took the subway to therapy thinking the streets might be congested. I likely could have driven and parked, making a clean getaway, but I did not. Emmylou needed a good 15 or 20 minutes of face and head petting anyway, but now I am about to take off.

Melinda didn't feel like cooking last night, so John took us out. I suggested we go afield, to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, as there was no place to park in Park Slope anway. We ended up a bar called Hope & Anchor, where the karaoke was hostessed by a former Warhol Factory denizen by the name of Kay Sera. We were all so hungry, we ordered a too much fried food and lived to regret it.

Kitten sittin' near the rain.

A SATISFIED CAT

A quiet day in Brooklyn, mostly spent reading and sleeping and hanging out with, well, Melinda in the morning, but then Tupie and a happy-napping Emmy later. We had a lovely lovely cool two-hour snooze. Mostly relaxing.

Martha secured the new novel about Edith Wharton, The Age of Desire, for me, and I am more than halfway through it. (Essentially pedestrian, and not recommended for any but Whartonphiles.)

The Olympics continue to be excellent evening amusement. How will we go back to the dullness of regular television next week, without the thrills and chills and Bob Costa (is that is name?) Our inner sports critics only now fully kicking in? I am a four-year-fair-weather-sports fan, for sure.

More tears today, but no music. Although the weather is supposed to get wetter, I hope to be feeling more like moving around. I do need to go to the Brooklyn Public Library, pay some fines, and renew my card. Well, the car needs to be moved anyway as it is in a Friday spot.

I did get a terrific photo of Tupelo who joined me on the couch for a bit.

Now, that's a cat. Emmy will never sit still long enough for a proper "portrait" kind of picture, never has. It is coming up on the anniversary of losing Miep and soon thereafter getting Emmylou Irene Patsy Clownpaws, (although at the moment, it scarcely feels as if she is mine). Lots of loss lately. And I am extremely grateful for what I do have as clearly it could easily all be gone.

John and Melinda are quite fond of her and she is adjusting to life with Tupelo. She is always glad to see me, though, visiting me for facepets during the night, and sleeping by my side on the coffee table next to the couch here.

A CREATURE NOT IN RAPTURE

My friend/brother, Manuel, rejoined my celebration of desultory with carpe diem cras: seize the day tomorrow, make the most of tomorrow. Gotta love that. Manuel is also the author of the concept of Grump Stump, upon which I awoke this morning.

It's Farmer's Market Day in Brewster. I go to ogle the vegetables and often to eat a reasonably good almond croissant. We don't really need any more veggies, and I am off to Brooklyn for a couple of nights, so no cooking from me. I am trying to curb my I-can-eat-anything habit and was, for a change, able to remember that last week's almond croissant made me feel not so well. (A banana was the better, satisfying choice for a change.) I settled for onions and some local honey, very dark, for my morning reminder to be sweet to myself. Dark honey to start the day; that seems fitting for me.

I was thinking of that, being sweet to myself, this morning as I drank my-welcome-to-another-day hot water and honey. Some days, I barely taste it. I recall that I am missing the point in those cases. Today, the drink tasted quite good and I had a few moments of calmed and soothed spirits.

Irritation, grumpiness, frustration, and sorrow re-entered. (Hey, at least despair wasn't in the mix today.) I popped in an RT cd in the player as I headed out (the Farmer's Market is close enough to walk to, maybe 15 minutes, but it is all in direct sun, there being no trees shading the streets in that direction. There are plenty of trees around, for which I am grateful.) I wasn't ready to head back to my desk and the Sisyphian tasks that make up my current existence, and as I do have the car, I thought I would indulge myself in one of my favorite, albeit ecologically incorrect and not fiscally responsible, pasttimes: driving through the countryside. There really aren't too many places to go 'round here.

There is something potentially deadly, although quite freeing, about driving too fast and listening to killer guitar solos. RT's song Valerie has a manic, repetitive quality to it, but the version on the player was particularly so. I must have played it about 10 times, through the curves and shadows, stopping, starting, downshifting, leaning. Oh, and crying. I'll admit I wasn't the safest of drivers, but I am a pretty darn good driver in general, so there were no near misses or anything.

I find myself started to tears often these days. Guess crying is always just below the surface. Watching the Olympics brings tears of awe, which kind of embarrasses me. But is is a reflex, a response to the awesome and holy, very little of which I feel these days. I think those Olympians as well as those Olympian musicians reflect a wholeness and personal presence that I lack these days. Oh, and the ability to do something wonderful. (I might settle for less than wonderful right now.)

And music, too, when I am focussed and really listening, or sometimes when I least expect it, cuts through the thick hide of "getting through the day" I currently sport. (Probably good that I don't have actual horns. I feel more like a rhino than any other hooved critter. Not that I know what a rhino feels like. From the outside, ungainly, not very pretty, and not all that useful.) Good thing I found my headphones and the plug for the computer speakers, too! That Rodney Crowell-Mary Karr disc is getting a lot of play.

At any rate, back to RT: You can download this version here and hear for yourself. I would that the mix and mastering were better, but lordy can that man play. I really hated hearing those 'hood SUVs with their bombastic bass capabilities crusing down 8th Avenue (or anywhere else for that matter), but I could see the appeal of blasting through a neighborhood not your own and proclaming who YOU are. I might have disturbed suburbia a bit, but I don't have a very good nor loud music system in my car, so there was likely little discomfitting on that street.

This drive reminded me of another I took through Tilden Park in Berkeley about 12 years ago. Another soul-searching sojourn. Sometimes, I don't even know I need to drive and think. I was moving out of my Berkeley apartment and hence giving up my foothold and home there for New York. I was in a difficult romantic situation. Many things in motion, much at stake. And although I had a lot to do, (and anyone who has ever helped me move knows the truth of this: hello John, Melinda, Carol, Louise, Jay(s), Martha, Bryan, DMF, Laura, B, AJ, Dave, etc.) I put on some Van Morrison and hit the backroads.

(And tangentially, because that seems to be the structure du jour, Valerie was the song my romantic entanglement most associated with me. Yeah, that was the jangly, can't-wait-to-jump-some-bones period. )

The song that I hung onto as I swept around the corners and hills of Tilden Park, and along the ridge roads above Oakland and Berkeley was Van Morrison's In The Garden. As I sit here and write, I remember that I wrote about that song fairly extensively when I started this blog.

Turns out this is still true:

"Reading those words, "you had the key to your soul/and you did open" makes me weep. Every time."

This is like visiting someone I am not anymore:


A realm beyond ordinary expression ... or experience. Why that sounds like transcendence! Transcending the you that is uncomfortable and maybe outside of yourself. And the you that doesn't quite know where you are or what to do. And then you feel that deeper parter of yourself."

Right. Where you are or what to do. That sums up my life pretty well.

Well, here I am now, having listened to In the Garden for the past 30 minutes and cried my eyes out.

Melinda was kind enough to send photos of Emmylou this morning. Can't wait to see her. Enough circuitous nattering. (Moving to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah.) Back to ... well, all of those things.

DESULTORY AND CIRCUITOUS: A LAW FIRM IT'S NOT

Oh back in Brewster now.

Louise, Erik, and I had a kind of lazy day in Rhinebeck; well, Erik worked on the syllabus for his class, and Louise did some gardening, but it felt lazy. I sat and watched the Olympics desultorily (and why don't more of you use that word? you know it's a good one. I mean, you can let me corner the market on using it, but I think you are passing up an opportunity there ...) while I played solitaire (still at it, three years later) and snorkled around the net. Louise made lobster salad using the cubanelle peppers I had brought along as she was out of celery. Worked pretty well. There was a short and crazy rainstorm, but this photo doesn't show it well. That dark-leafed tree is quite beautiful. I should have snapped a shot in the morning when the light was better.

Zucchini and tomatoes from Louise's garden.

I drove home via a highly circuitous route. Very beautiful. I have so often promised myself that I would drive around upstate New York that I saw no compelling reason to put it off any longer. Well, my extreme depression did dampen my enjoyment, but it was great scenery. I didn't have the enthusiasm to stop and take many photos, but I did get a few. Imagine a SallyAnne who does not brake, stop, nor turn-around for tag sales and antique stores. So is my state these days.

For those of you who are interested and handy with google maps, these landscapes were on Route 22 in eastern New York, not far from the Berkshires and the Connecticut border, between Amenia and Dover. Farmland dotted with many historical markers. Maybe I will shoot some if I ever take such a drive again.

 After stopping at a farm stand to buy an oregano and a marjoram plant, I cruised by the Big W Barbecue in Wingdale only to recognize two humans getting out of the car and heading in. One of the B's and her daughter, AJ, regularly stop there on their way home from their summer rental in Connecticut. Just remarkable timing that I happened to drive by as they were getting out of the car. I couldn't quite see them, but as there was a pretty good chance it was they, it was worth turning around. AJ's face dropped in astonishment when I pulled up. 

Back at the ranch, I hung out with J while he prepared penne with vodka sauce. The kitchen and family room are air conditioned and it was sticky and stifling up in my room. As the doors were closed off to the rest of the house, I thought perhaps it was a good time to try to get Cooder to hang out downstairs and perhaps get a bit more acclimated to Albert. She didn't fall asleep or anything, but she did tolerate it. I made her watch True Blood and The Newsroom with me, too.

So, trying trying trying. CB and Yoda say, "There is no trying, only doing." Yeah, right.

The title comes from an ad in the LA Times for Crosby, Stills, and Nash in the early 1970s. I just repurposed the tag line.

ON TO AUGUST

One of my reasons for heading to Brooklyn this past week, was that the reading group was planning to meet to chat about Proust again. I am enjoying this section much more than the last but alas! the meeting was postponed.

As I sat on the F train on heading back to Emmylou from therapy the other morning, an older man spotted my volume of Proust and just had to talk to me up about the wonders of Marcel. That's one of the things to love about New York and the subway: I have had some lovely and spontaneous chats with strangers about books. I asked this fellow, who was German and must have been somewhere in his '70s or so, what he did. He was currently working as an art model, he had been a book seller and dealer, but he was born to be a reader, he told me.

Too bad there isn't much of a living to be made there.

I drove up to Rhinebeck yesterday afternoon, after a mid-morning nap with Cooder who is likely wondering where the hell I am these days. I finished listening to Rodney Crowell's memoir, Chinaberry Sidewalks (he talks about it in this link). I am glad to have listened to it as hearing it in Rodney's own voice was a treat. And as a bonus, Rodney has recently teamed up with poet/memorist Mary Karr (of The Liar's Club renown) as a songwriter. The resulting cd, Kin, is quite good and just the thing to follow the book.

Now for some more sleep?

WHEN WILL MY SORE HEART

Both Tupie and Emmylou were happy to see me when I got to 8th Avenue on Tuesday. They sat on the leather couch with me. Both of them are accustomed to having their people around most of the time, so with me in Brewster and John back at Charlex, they have to entertain themselves a bit more. And then there's the problem with the weather.

I had dinner with Becky and Devin at their place in Billyburg. I finally met their kittehs, Bubble and Ricky (not sure if that is the correct spelling of Ricky). Bubble's original human had died and she had spent a year in the shelter. Devin couldn't resist. She is pretty large. And sweet. Becky told me Ricky's story but all I really remember is that she had been on the verge of buying a $1400 Burmese kitten when sanity returned to her. Ricky is a nice kitty himself. Very friendly, these two.

Becky has won or placed in a couple of cooking "take-downs" so one is always thrilled to be fed by her. She can't participate in this year's Bacon Takedown as she will be having a baby boy, currently named Clarkity.

The weather is foul again. 77% humidity right now, at 9:37. Tomorrow will be worse. I am driving up to Rhinebeck to hang out with Louise, Erik, and Cosmo. I haven't been up there in months.

I write this blog in my head all the time, but when I sit down to write these days, I sort of fade away or blank a bit. I think the truth is that given that I don't quite understand my life, I don't quite know what voice or attitude to jump in with. I'm pretty sure that most of you aren't all that interested in all this cat business. I find the kittehs reassuring. Maybe I look to them for guidance.

I'd really like to go to bed, but I think it is too early and that I wouldn't even fall asleep or I would wake up at some ungodly hour and face just that ... the ungodly strangeness of my life.

There are aspect to being back in Brooklyn that are ghostly, walking around my old and not-quite surrendered 'hood, I feel vestigial: traces of me and my life that are disappearing or no longer exist. It might be that I am in my former building too much, smelling the fresh paint going on the walls of my old apartment. I practically run by it as the superstitious might avoid a cemetery. But besides my dear friends, there is Emmylou to see and her delight and pleasure in my being around makes me hang out there, even when it is sad or uncomfortable. And I nearly choke up when I say goodbye to her.

Emmy looks quite a bit like Cooder in this picure.

RT has a beautiful song, Ghosts in the Wind. There aren't any versions on you tube, but I think of this verse quite a bit:

!'m empty and cold, 
I'm empty and cold like a ruin
The wind tears through me, 
The wind tears through me like a ruin
Ah, ghosts in the wind, 
Oh ghosts in the wind
When will my sore heart ever mend
Ghosts in the wind, 
Ah ghosts in the wind

If you don't know it, trust me. Beautiful and evocative.

So, although I am not writing all that much, I am thinking. I think I feel a bit better in general, emphasis on "a bit." Although I don't feel I have a direction or a plan, I do feel as if I can add them onto the to-do list (and it is still quite long).

Today is the one-month anniversary of Cooder and I being here in Brewster.

COOKING UP A MESS

Cooder in excelsis?

She is a good kitty. Mostly. J found her on the stairs once or twice yesterday, kind of wanting to come down, but kind of wanting to not run into Albert or some half-perceived semi-danger. Well, it has been a month for me, officially, yesterday. Cooder didn't come up to the country until the 3rd of July. Perhaps she will yet adjust and move around the house more comfortably. I often find her sitting peering down the stairs ... or sleeping in Emily's room.

Although it is 9:19 a.m., the Brewster house is still asleep. I am working on my second cup of coffee and contemplating what I need to take to Brooklyn for a three-night stay. I have a part-time job interview that I applied for in March. 

I am surprised that the news that Rick Santorum felt the Freeh Report and subsequent NCAA penalties against Penn State was not more widely publicized. I might have suspected that Santorum prioritized football above the safety of children, morality, justice, kindness, compassion, and some of those kinds of things. 'Tis a bit of another thing to have him say it. Seems to me this is the kind of thing one wants to know about a politician.

Now, several hours later, I have yet to finish this post and have lost the many trains of thought I started with.

On Sunday, all the Alcott chillun were home. A barbecue ensued. This was an occasion for me to try out a new recipe or two: Arugula, Golden Cherries, Marcona Almonds with Shaved Parmesan and hummus. The arugula salad was stellar. The hummus needs more work, but it is certainly edible.

Emily had brought home a humongous zucchini and we were neither able to prepare nor eat the whole thing, notwithstanding that there were eleven of us. (Well, there were other things to eat.) Last night, I guess not having satisfied my cooking jones, I made Marinated Zucchini with Mint and Scallions. There's so often something unexpected when you make a new recipe. The marinated zucchini recipe was just not well-written, and although the ingredients were good and harmonious, the amounts of things were too vague. Or maybe I am just too much of an amateur to have intuited the right combinations. At any rate, no more cooking for me for a few days.

As there were inexpensive but reasonably good looking tomatoes at the A&P, I made Marcella Hazan's Tomato Sauce with Olive Oil and Chopped Vegetables, too. I won't be around to try that. It was fun too go kitchen crazy. M is rather astonished (I think) at the mess I can make in the kitchen. My sister-in-law in Oakland is always tried when I cook as she is not much of a mess-maker. I am more focussed on the food than on the floor. And I do clean up when all is said and done.

YAWN

Cats yawn quite a bit. Catching that yawn can be quite difficult. I was quite pleased to get Tupelo on Friday afternoon. Ah Brooklyn.

Emmylou was so so happy to see me, although this is not a picture of her pleasure. She followed me all over the apartment, whenever I got up. She slept next to me on the couch. Happily, I will get to see her again on Tuesday as I need to be back in town for a couple of days.

Friday night, John V. and I had dinner with Z, and our friend Phil ("America's Favorite Canadian"), and Phil's gf, Una, from Iceland. Phil and Una were in town from Montreal as Una had a music video playing at BAM in a film festival. 

Rodney Crowell, the singer-songwriter, wrote an autobiography, Chinaberry Streets. Mart brought me the audiobook. So, on Saturday, when I could finally tear meself away from le kitteh, I popped it into the cd player. I didn't take the weather report all that seriously and blithely headed up the Saw Mill River Parkway, notorious for flooding. 

Hurricane Carla was a "highlight" of Mr. Crowell's childhood and his description is riveting (and funny). Rain pounded my car as I listened and drove: it was nearly a simulcast! 

Okay, I've been bingeing on tv for the last four or five hours, having watched The Simpsons, True Blood, The Newsroom, the first episode of Politcal Animals, and now The Newsroom again. I should just stop writing. 

TRAGIC OPTIMISM OR THE TIREDNESS OF COODER

Last night, we had no internet/cable service due to the storm warnings. Hence, no posting. That needn't have stopped me from writing, but it kinda did. J was in boisterous spirits having had a very promising job interview. M was tired but happy because of said interview and probably because there was celery soup to eat for dinner so she could sit and relax. And me? In a reasonable mood as I had managed to unpack a couple more boxes and make progress in room organization, although you would know it if you looked into my room.

We "battened down the hatches" such as they were, removing the picnic table umbrella on the deck, shutting the windows around the house (and there are quite a few), and then sat around sweltering in the humidity as we waited for the storm to hit. I could have probably driven down to Brooklyn as planned.

Cooder enjoyed the day. She likes to have some physical contact with me, even if it is hot.

I saw an article in some publication yesterday that some unpublished Katherine Mansfield stories had been located. I think I read a nice old British Penguin edition of In A German Pension and was suitably impressed by the writing. Having forwarded this news tidbit to M, I received last eve, The Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield, in order that I might further whet and satisfy my curiosity.

In between our lazy banter and the musing guitar strummings of J as we companionably sat through the storm, (happily, we still had electricity),  I read the first story in the collection, The Tiredness of Rosabel. For nineteen, KM was blazing. Here is the concluding paragraph:

"And the night passed. Presently the cold fingers of dawn closed over her uncovered hand; grey light flooded the dull room. Rosabel shivered, drew a little gasping breath, sat up. And because her heritage was that tragic optimism, which is all too often the only inheritance of youth, still half asleep, she smiled, with a little nervous tremor round her mouth."


How much do you love that phrase "tragic optimism, ... the only inheritance of youth"? That struck a chord as I am so recently reviewing my life's path that led me to my current circumtances. Tragic optimism sounds about right.


I have often confused Katherine Mansfield and Katherine Anne Porter (I mean, haven't you?). Perhaps wading and wafting through these stories will change that for good. Meanwhile, I need to get back to Proust for next week's book group.

And off to see Emmylou.

THE BEAUTY OF SWISS CHARD

Be careful with that listening to Nancy Wilson. My friend Pierre sent me several killah cds worth of vintage Nancy and I am somewhere time travelling to where I am thinking Someone to Watch Over Me makes a lot of sense. And you know that that aint' right, so sayeth Janis.

Picked up the car, again, and there is still another issue with the door and the lock. The door and the lock ... that sounds like a title or a topic for philosophical discussion. I don't feel a pressing need to lock my car here in the suburbs. And I am kind of willing to brave it in Park Slope.

This is Cooder on Saturday afternoon after I had been gone for two nights.

Not much to report but not quite so relentlessly distressed. I have just paid attention to other things. Today was the Brewster Farmer's Market. The Swiss chard and celery were so gorgeous I could not resist. This led to a lot of cooking today. The tomatoes looked okay, too, so I made a Marcella Hazan fresh tomato-based sauce. There's celery soup cooling on the stove at 10:38. And I combined a couple of recipes to come up with Swiss chard with raisins and pine nuts.

I have to confess, few things gratify me more than people wolfing, daintily, of course, down my food.  Amazingly, the Swiss chard and the pasta dish were done at the same time so dinner looked much more coordinated than it was. And even I thought the fresh tomato with sauteed vegetable sauce over rotini was superb. It did not even need cheese, in my opinion.

Melinda with Emmylou. Bless her for keeping those photos coming.

Plus, there was wine left over from the celery soup, so I got to drink and cook, which is fun, if dangerous. Now, it is time to put the clothes in the dryer and head for bed.

PRACTICALITY

I have a few friends who are in similar circumstances. Truthfully and gratefully, I am, perhaps, in a better position as I have the staunch and stalwart (you KNOW who you are) who work on my behalf nearly daily. MW saw the photos of the Brewster train station and lamented that this is exactly where he wants to be, if not NYC, and not where he is in a forsaken corner of Southern California.

The other day, MMA responded to my post with this: "I think the key to your situation can be summed up in one word: pragmatism." I've been mulling this over and, as I do with any well-intentioned insight,  attempting to incorporate this into my situation. This is a bit of a challenge as I am so blown-apart internally, spiritually, that I don't feel I can reasonably, pragmatically, reliably, find a bit of ground or experience inside me to start any healing process.

I truly do feel utterly undone, only not undone enough to not exist.

pragmatic: relating to matters of fact or practical affairs often to the exclusion of intellectual or artistic matters; practical as opposed to idealistic ...

I am not convinced that existence is better than non-existence. "I" didn't exist for a long time and the world did just fine without me. "I" am here now and life does not seem to be improving for most.

I will keep working on the pragmatism concept and see what I can come up with.

I believe, thanks to Mom, I pick up my car tomorrow.

Here are some snaps I took in a Bushwick (I first typed Bushwish) coffee shop bathroom a couple of weeks back.

PANIC AND RECALIBRATION

A rainy day here in Brooklyn. I have spent it in utter escapism, reading the crack-cocaine-fucked-up-marriage thriller, Gone Girl. That's what happens when you live with a librarian ... you can mainline the stuff.

Well, that fun is over and I suppose I should shuffle back to some sort of reality or usefulness. I can start by treating you to fresh pictures of Emmylou who is delighted to have me around.  

Lots of head pets while I was drinking my morning coffee ... and the jaunty bent ear from squirming under my fingers.

I took the train down as the Honda won't be fixed until next week. I had gone to the trouble to read Proust for my Brooklyn book group and as I had been one of the proponents of reading it (well, those who attended were all up for it), I didn't want to miss the discussion. Proust is not an escapist read and I wanted to hear what the sage women thought.  (All in favor, and ready to push forward! Next meeting is in two weeks I think, but we only have to read about 100 pages.)

Here's the view from the Brewster platform.

                                                                              

Nothing quite like a train track heading off into the distance. 

I wanted to see Emmy, of course, go to the therapist, and catch up a bit with Melinda and John. I was so sleepy last night, though, that I did not spend much time talking with Melinda last night. She came home from work early today as she is not feeling well, but I was nodding out with my book addiction by then and really couldn't stop until it was all over but the creepy residue of the narrative.     

Emmy was happy to curl up on the bed for the marathon reading. 

Yes, it is strange and a bit trying to be here. I am okay when I am just hanging in John and Mel's apartment, but when I step into the hall, I want to collapse into tears. 

I am still shocked and confused by my place in life. That would, perhaps, account for my lapse of care that resulted in a car in the woods and not knowing how to move forward with my life. I am still gut shot, the sound still ringing in my ears, the gunpowder smell of inexorable events lingering in the air. 

Folks ask me if I am sorting through my belongings to downsize. And while that needs to happen, I have no idea what kind of life or situation I am preparing for. What criteria? Where? 

And then when I try to put it together with any perspective, I am stunned again into the moment after, before the pain has set in entirely, in those seconds of panic and recalibration. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

AND SO IT GOES

Melinda sent me pictures of Emmy this morning. Cooder sat in the window as I started my day. Just another one to get through. No disasters, no specific backsliding. And I got in a nice nap. Everyone complained about the heat, but somehow I escaped the brunt of it.

And so it goes.

NO TIME FOR RAIN

Writing does not come easily these days. I just may still be in some form of shock or maybe I just don't want to be too contemplative and reflective right this minute. Plus, it is too hot for much of anything.

We spent the weekend re-organizing the kitchen. That took quite a bit of time; you might be surprised. Mart and I were pitching out food and integrating my left-over kitchen stuff as well as what I got out from Tim and Missy before they left for California. We might well have enough balsamic vinegar and olive oil to last us the rest of our natural born days. Lots of allspice and nutmeg, ground and in nut form.

In the midst of this, there was a torrrrrrential downpour, complete with cracking thunder. Mart and I did not pay too much never mind, but, fortunately, Jay was vigilant. There was some kind of leak and water was pouring into the basement. And yes, I did have a bunch of stuff down there. Still to early to tell, but my iPod, docking station, and AirPort were all "exposed" to water.

Placed next to my head at the Thai restaurant on Friday night. I could live without ever seeing a troll doll again.
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So, today was back to triage, trying to unpack, figure out what was most likely to be water damaged, given the panoply of boxes down there. 

Well, I am giving this up to watch the first episode of this season of Breaking Bad. It is after my bedtime, but I thought I might be able to stay awake to watch. Not so sure now.

GRUMP STUMP MUGGY

A muggy, hot day that produced a very cranky Ms. SallyAnne. I did have to struggle to do much of anything. Allview was Grump Stump Central. Can a day both drag and be a blur? It seemed like I ate a lot, which is something that I have not done for a few months: crinkle potatoe chips, French Vanilla ice cream, toast with rosewater tea jam, and then Mart and Jay treated me to some damn good Thai food. I did not offset this eating frenzy with my usual stairmaster day. And it did feel as if I were eating out of frustration and mugginess. Must watch that.

Martha asked if I missed Brooklyn. I am mostly conscious of missing Emmylou. In other ways, I am not thinking much beyond what is right in front of me. Given that what is right in front of me is, for the most part, pleasant, I am not thinking much about my life, my loss of myself and my home, the future, or what it all means.

I mean, I'm not complaining as much about being in pain, although my knees are still a bit tricky. I guess I am kind of stunned. None of this is particularly normal; it feels a bit like a vacation or a time out, only I have lots of my crap to deal with. And when I start thinking about that and one thing leads to another, yeah, I do find myself crying.

Meanwhile, due to the excellent grace of my mother, my car will be fixed sometime next week and I will have mobility if not gas to go anywhere. I know that others are struggling as well and there is SOME comfort in thinking that my situation is not ALL my fault. Perhaps a positive attitude is closer than I can see right now.

Photos to follow.

MORE FROM BREWSTER

Okay. I don't have a lot to say really. This is all a brave new world for me, and I don't know who "me" is. 

In my shock and dismay over my car fiasco, I spent yesterday mostly sleeping and reading Michael Connolly's The Poet for escape. Jay was particularly sweet in trying to cheer me, taking me to the local Farmer's Market and out to lunch at his favorite diner, George's in Carmel, NY. I am not sure I am "cheer-up-able" at this point, but I loved him for trying.

Here is a wall at George's. Arthur Godfrey as a noteworthy celebrity? Martin and Lewis? Where did these come from?

Here are a couple more pictures of the car. Both passenger side windows out (still must finish vacuuming up glass), door and side mirror destroyed. 

As I mentioned, the engine and basic body are a fine as 'twas a tree that stopped the car.

And for those of you who are trying to get a better picture, can you see the grade?

So here's the front yard and the house.

This is the street.

That should keep you occupied for today.