1000 words

I was meeting Patrice here at my favorite coffee shop (well, one of
them) and I snapped this photo to send her. WOW, I thought ~ this
is so pretty with the pink and green and all. CafeSeventy8 is one
of my happy hangouts with lots of outdoor seating...29th and Tiffany,
right across from my Harvest cannabis store.

an afternoon with C.S. Lewis

We three widows (Neti, Pat and da Blogger) had an unexpectedly lovely time
with David Payne who "does" C.S. Lewis. This takes place in 1963, and Mr.
Lewis is hosting a group of Americans at his home near Oxford, England.
There was a lot of humor and a few tears were shed when he tells us of the
death of his wife. C.S. Lewis was friends with Tolkien and we are hoping
for a two-man show next year detailing their lively relationship.

almost like Paris...

Jon, Dancing Jen and I had a fine brunch/lunch here yesterday. Cafe
de la Presse is such a pleasant spot at Bush and Grant and oddly enough
it wasn't packed with tourists yesterday. I had time to run a couple of
errands before meeting my friends ~ there are things one can only
DO downtown. I know you understand....

important cat news

We all know and love Miss Puma

May I introduce you to Baby?

Carlini has extended his stay in Philly until July 4th. I don't blame him
one bit as I loved that city too. He has met a new man who has a
beautiful cat and of course the similarities are apparent here. So
let's just appreciate cats and life this sunny Saturday, OK?

my next trip

Granddaughter Lauren is getting married in Elgin, Illinois in June. I
will spend a few days in Chicago first, a city that Bill and I loved and
visited a few times. So glad I had Philly so I can get used to the whole pack-
up-and-go experience. Onward.

early summer?

Lunch with Gini yesterday at Starbelly's meant two good long walks and
rides on the J Church car which I always enjoy. When we first moved to SF
we lived on Church Street ("as poor as Church Street mice," we used to say
because we were) and now of course those sometimes rough years are
bathed in the glow of weren't-we-lucky?

a drop in the ocean

Yesterday I visited Meriel in San Leandro and she gave me this pretty
bracelet from 4ocean. I admire this organization and wonder how
they keep their spirits up as we continue to dump all the wrong and
dangerous things into our glorious oceans. Send $$ to 4ocean.
Please. (Thanks to the Fevered Brain I did a little link correction
here, please let me know if it isn't working.)

let's talk tile

The sidewalk in front of the Precita Eyes store on 24th Street is finally
finished after weeks of delay due to rain and because all of us passerby
people wanted to chat with the artist who was so pleasant and engaging.
So beautiful.

holiday gratitude

Such a warm and happy gathering yesterday. Way too much food: ham,
sweet potatoes, scalloped potatoes, broccoli, fruit salad, fried chicken,
corn muffins fresh out of the oven (thanks, Barb) and then angel food
cake with berry compote for dessert. But the conversation and laughter
was what keeps me smiling this morning as I do the who-said-what
stuff this morning. Husbando would have approved.

passover memories

Passover 2015

Passover 2013 

This blog makes it too easy to go back in time to relive experiences and
although the memories are sweet, I sometimes feel biter like the herbs
of the seder ceremony. (Well, not bitter, but sad. I just wanted to throw in
the bitter herb line.) Today I'm having eight dear friends in to celebrate
Passsover and Easter and there will be laughter and joy and just a few
tears, as per usual. Annabelle will spend some quality time down in Bill's
office until things settle and then she will come upstairs to the usual
ooooohs and ahhhhhs as she searches for food. I might wear Bill's brown
beret today, or not...

based on history

I'm really enjoying The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See which takes place
on Jeju in South Korea. For generations these women supported their
families by free-diving deep into the ocean to harvest all sorts of sea
creatures. The men stayed home to raise the children. The novel begins
in 1938 and ends in 2008, so we are treated to lots of history and drama.
Once again women's friendships are the key. Ain't it the truth?

a walk to/fro lunch

Horses on Precita Avenue

Tree on Precita Avenue

Tree in Precita Park

The Great Plotniks invited me over for lunch on their back deck and I
neglected to get a photo of their lush garden or Doug's new piano from
his mother who died recently. It was one of those perfect SF days and
I enjoyed the good, long walk as you can see. I am getting used to the
feeling that I will miss Bill forever but I no longer burst into tears when
I see a tree or a restaurant or the kind of day (like yesterday) that he loved.

as the sea soothes

Ginger and I had a lovely long walk on the Great Highway yesterday and
I vowed once again to get out there more often. Really, it is only about
20 minutes away from Casa Annabelle. No air is fresher, no people happier
than the ones walking by the ocean with their (forbidden) dogs and
acceptable children. And now for the Mueller Report...

the cat, the poem

O Annabelle 

Ode to the Cat  (Pablo Neruda's Oda al Gato) 

The animals were imperfect:

Their tails were too long, and they had 

unfortunate heads.

Then they started coming together,

little by little, becoming a landscape, 

developing spots, grace, flight. 

But the cat, 

only the cat, 

turned out finished 

and proud: 

it walks alone and knows what it wants. 

Man wants to be a fish and a bird, 

the snake would rather have wings, 

the dog is a lost lion, 

the engineer wants to be a poet, 

the fly studies to be a swallow, 

the poet tries to imitate the fly.

But the cat 

wants nothing more than to be cat, 

and every cat is pure cat 

from whiskers to tail, 

from sixth sense to squirming rat, 

from nighttime to its golden eyes. 

Nothing hangs together like a cat, 

neither moon nor flower has such consistency: 

it’s a thing by itself,

like the sun or a topaz, 

and the supple curve of its back, 

firm and delicate, is like 

the prow line of a ship. 

The cat’s yellow eyes have just one groove

to coin the gold of nighttime. 

O little emperor without a realm, 

conqueror without a country, 

tiny tiger of the living room, nuptial

sultan of the sky, of the erotic roof-tiles:

when you pass in the storm

and pose, four delicate feet on the ground,

sniffing, 

suspicious of all earthly things, 

(since everything feels filthy to the cat’s immaculate paw)

you claim the touch of love in the air. 

O independent household beast, 

arrogant vestige of the night, 

lazy, agile and strange, 

O fathomless cat, 

secret policeman of human chambers

and insignia of a disappeared velvet.

Surely there is no enigma to your manner.

Perhaps you aren’t a mystery after all.

Everyone knows of you and you belong 

to the least mysterious inhabitant.

Everyone may believe it,

believe they are master, 

owner, uncle or companion of a cat,

colleague, disciple or friend of their cat.

Not me. 

I don’t buy it. 

I do not know the cat. 

I know everything else, including life and its archipelago, seas and unpredictable cities, 

botany, the harem and its frenzies, 

the pluses and minuses of mathematics. 

I know the earth’s volcanic protrusions and 

the unreal shell of the crocodile, 

the fireman’s unseen kindness, 

and the priest’s blue atavism.

but I cannot figure out the cat. 

My reason slips on its indifference.

The cat’s eyes hold ciphers of gold. 

~Pablo Neruda

deep in our hearts

We all watched Notre Dame burn yesterday and felt the sorrow through
our own perceptions and (for me) memories. My writing partner this
week is Anna who lives in Baltimore and New York State and this
is what she wrote. I'm sure she won't mind if I publish this here. (Anna
is the cousin of my old friend Michael who died in 2010. She is very special.)

I imagine you are even more upset than I am about Paris. I hadn’t gotten 

to see it yet which makes me feel sorry for myself a little too. I studied and 

wrote papers about the Cathedral of Notre Dame in college. My focus was 

on the art, the architectural style, and what those two things said about the 

people’s relationships to those in power and to religion. I do wish I could have 

seen the rose windows.  And then tonight I read that it cannot be rebuilt as it 

was. Did you read this too? Thirteen thousand 300-400 year old oak trees 

were cut down to build the Cathedral. That is twenty one hectares, approximately 

fifty acres of ancient woods and those trees don’t exist in that number, that age, 

anywhere on our planet anymore. That stopped me in my tracks. It is almost a 

crime against nature to cut down that many old trees and bad karma, if you believe 

in that sort of thing. How in the world did the Notre Dame make it through WWI 

and II and, the French Revolution! Those oaks at least were cut to make art and 

were not the chopped up for firewood and used to heat a porridge or heat the 

water to wash clothes, which somehow seems worse though we should all know 

by now it is the little details like the sole of a wooden shoe clicking on the cobble

stones as you walk, the carved bowl and the spoon catching the afternoon light, 

and the worn door handle that end up being the really important details that carry us.

fun in the sun salutation

Joe and I both thoroughly enjoyed Yoga Play at the SF Playhouse
yesterday. He recently returned from a long trip to India and there
were lots of references to places there to make it more personal. As
someone who went to yoga class for years (and still practice it at home
every morning, almost) I loved it. I'm a huge fan of yoga but that
doesn't mean we can't make fun of it and this was a comedy. (I do
believe that Husbando benefitted greatly from yoga too and he would
do his stretches religiously for more than 1/2 hour each morning.)
Namaste.

our lunch on the bay

Marsha is back from her trip to Italy and Turkey and we celebrated with
her two dogs in Tiburon at the Luna Blu ~ we sat where Bill and I did
on my last visit there so that was special, as was the food and sunshine.
Last night was dinner with Neti over at Pat's, so my entire day centered
around food and women friends. Not bad, that.

yes, this is so true

My writing partner sent this to me yesterday. I have these same thoughts
about a billion times a day. In fact the vinegar is sitting out now ready to
pour down the bathroom sink today to prevent (I hope) inevitable clogging.
It's the everyday stuff that sometimes wears down the griever.

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up.

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve.

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

Marie Howe

precise preparation for the mess ahead

Note the green line above the counter. The guy came to measure for my
kitchen project today ~ 8am and I was prepared. Annabelle, not so much
as that is her morning nap time. So he used a laser gizmo and I honestly
asked myself WHY I was doing this a few times, but I hope I will love the
results. If not, I will live with them and chalk it all up to yet another life
lesson. Actual work will start sometime after Easter.

it's about the sun, the view...

And tradition. Our Giants are re-building (meaning they are not hitting
or pitching or winning this year) and the Padres beat us. But what a
glorious day to sit out in the sun and eat garlic fries, hot dogs and
ice cream. Lots of new players whose names we don't know yet, but
baseball beats work, that's for sure.

April is Poetry Month

My thick and messy poetry file

I have to print out the poems that I love. I read them many times and
the best is to read each one aloud. I used to love this month at Borders when
I would get to "work" the poetry section. Here is a poem I like from
an email from Knopf that I received this morning. I too live in a Bubble.

Vincent Katz, a New York poet, whose collection Broadway for Paul is forthcoming from Knopf next year, reflects on the so-called “liberal bubble” inhabited by city dwellers like him. (This poem appeared in Resistance, Rebellion, Life: 50 Poems Now, a gathering in response to the divisive presidential election of 2016 and its aftermath, as well as in Resist Much/Obey Little, published by Spuyten Duyvil, and in From Somewhere to Nowhere, from Autonomedia.)

This Beautiful Bubble Everyone takes the subway, and you can look up, And look at all the people, and each one is different, And they look different, and each one has a story, and suddenly, You are awake and want to know each story, only you can’t, Don’t have time, they don’t, don’t want to maybe. But some you do, you glean, you approximate yourself to something     of them, Like the beautiful, chestnut-skinned woman, who, leaning, Listened to the announcer before getting in, and, confused,     because the 2 was called a 5, Asked advice, and three people responded, Explaining in their different ways, some of them silent, Eyes met with approval, warmth only subway-known, Among equals, fellow travelers, denizens; She sat and smiled, and looking at an infant, Smiled more, her hair was a flag of self-joy too, She was real, at ease among people. The rule is: to speak. Make contact, and you will find more people than you thought. But back to our bubble. It is everywhere around us. Everywhere, walking in the city, you are seeing people, All different kinds, shapes, sizes, the best education You can give a child is to bring them up inside this Beautiful bubble. I complain, but I’ll never leave. I feed off the looks, the stories, the hungering here. I’m aware, we’re all aware, what goes on outside the bubble. We’re not stupid. We just thought people outside the bubble wanted     the same thing: To live as variously as possible. Or, put another way: I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. It took us sixty years or so to understand What the word “boundless” meant. And now we know.

an all-woman cast

Neti and I went to a play reading last night at the SF Playhouse.
All across the country little theaters were presenting 12 Angry Men
with women. This play was written in 1954, nineteen years before
women were allowed to serve on juries in all 50 states. Good
lord. Anyway, this was terrific because the tempers get short and
the jurors become very angry indeed.

Easter prep ~ two views

I've been buying Salvation Army used rabbits for my Easter table.  Friends
will join me and I look forward to this celebration. Once in awhile Bill
and I would "do" Easter, but Passover took precedence, especially over
at the Great Plotniks' and I have many memories and photos of those
colorful and sometimes l-o-n-g dinners.

the book report

And great cover too, no? When Dancing Jen recommends and/or
loans me a book I know it will be a good one. The Museum of
Modern Love was no exception and even though it is mostly about
NYC, this novel was my "time to relax" book while I was
in Philly. I loved it and the characters stay with me. Thumbs up.

the binge report

It's been too long since I was hooked on a series, but Hanna from
Amazon Prime is just what I've been looking for. The two adult
actors here worked together in The Killing which Husbando and I
loved a few years ago. Hanna was raised in a forest and so far
there isn't much she can't or won't do. Maybe just ONE more
episode after breakfast?

Philadelphia = great restaurants

Parc on Rittenhouse Square ~ Thursday night and so French

Fitzwater Cafe ~ solo lunch on Friday (nabe place)

Tinto for dinner Friday night ~ fabulous

Saturday lunch at Dim Sum Garden ~ good and cheap

Sunday Brunch with bacon with Marathon

Final dinner Sunday night ~ p.s. & co. pure vegan

The Barnes

walking to the museum

the main gallery one of thirteen on the first floor

Carlini is in awe

Dr. Barnes collected Renoir, Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, Van Gogh and this
might be the best impressionist collection in the world. There is almost
too much. Last time I was here we spent two days, on Saturday, Carlini
and I spent two hours, but it was a fine introduction for him and a joy
for me to be back. I so love this museum.

The Magic Gardens

From the outside on South Street

Non-stop color

Up, down and around

My new motto

Details...

photos ~ Philly Friday Day #1

Morris House Hotel built in 1797 ~ excellent

Betsy Ross House

Betsy Ross Herself

Typical street scene ~ great walking town