1. After the riot of tulips on the streets of New York, I felt a desire to bring tulips in my home. Spring is more subdued in Los Angeles, because the contrast between seasons is not as stark, but tulips always signal it’s time to hit the outdoors and come out of hibernation.
2. There was shopping to be done in New York: a pair of suede orange flats and a new pair of Warby Parker sunglasses. They might be all the fashion conscious rage but I do like Warby Parker’s philosophy: middle men are cut out; an in-house designer team is responsible for all the models and, more importantly, a deal with the best lenses out there (I suspect they are Persol, although the company won’t say) make for pretty glasses, all priced at $99. The company started online: you can either upload a photo of yourself and superimpose different glasses on it or they will send you, free of charge, five pairs of frames for you to try on and decide (they make both prescription and sunglasses). But they do have a few stores in major U.S. cities, N.Y.being one of them. Could not resist. Oh, and every time you purchase a pair, they donate a pair to someone in need.
3. This is Bowie. I found him wandering around, a bit lost and eager to follow me. With no tag, he sent me on a sleuthing expedition which included a visit to the vet; following the trail of his micro-chip; and, finally, a neighbourhood e-mail alert that uncovered his owners. In the meantime, he hang out with me for half a day, much to Ottie and Portia’s displeasure. The end result: the owners invited me over for pupusas on their lanai. All is well that ends well, especially when new friendships are formed.
4. In a process of reverse osmosis, the older I get, the more I am attracted to everything that is contemporary and experimental: dance, painting and theatre. I went to see Man in a Case, a reinvention of two Chekov’s short stories, that included music, movement and images, on the part of Mikhail Baryshnikov and the Big Dance Theatre. It made me want to re-read Chekov.
5. I did not know who Sean O’Brien was until this week but he is a very established English poet. I came across this beautiful poem of his: a more refined, and sensual variation, of the “he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not daisy” game of old. And a reminder that lovers will always have Paris.
Cafe de l’Impremerie
I wait for you inside a glass beside
The long dim window of the Cafe de l’Impremerie.
I see you, beautiful and wry
And not yet here, and yet not here,
While this late-summer evening never ends
And never ends but is infinitesimally
Dimming on the street beside Les Halles, where I
Can see you, beautiful and wry as you draw near,
And I am reassured you are not coming. Yes.
All night I wait for you at the Cafe de l’Impremerie.
Your absence makes you beautiful and wry
And this late-summer evening never ends,
Nor does the beautiful intolerable
Music, where the truth is cut
With sentiment and surely fatal.
Come now. Do not come. Come now. Do not,
And lead me to a room where you undress,
A bare white room at an untraceable address
Where we will stay forever. Come now. Do not. Yes.