Monkey business at The Palace Hotel


No, she wasn’t growling at the ladies.  Or barking.  Just carrying on with some narrative or another, more or less removed from her surroundings.  Per usual.

Story of the day soon to follow.  Some hint as to our whereabouts earlier that afternoon might be found in my pants (velveteen) and her animal (rabbit).

Also: I promise this will be the last quasi self-portrait this week.  The psychoanalyst in me sez all this outward self-representation, after a long run with the equivalent of a bag over my head, must be overcompensation for the fact that I feel muter than usual, unable or unwilling to articulate the true angst at the core.  Either that or, you know, coincidence.

A haberdashery interlude


Ever since he turned 80, my sister has thrown our dad a lavish birthday dinner party at her place (our childhood home).  She urges him to invite as many close personal friends as he likes.  She prepares never less than a four course meal; the first year it was seven. 

Exceptions have been made, for a few of the intervening years: eclipsing family events or, thereafter, her living out of the country a bit.  

This year she jumped out the gate and celebrated him a month early, since she’ll be in the Phillipines watching a friend get married during Pops’ 88th birthday proper, upcoming in January.  Whenever my sister throws a dinner party, no one asks too many questions about the occasion, or its timing.  They just ask what time dinner will be served.

Read moreA haberdashery interlude

Favorite things


Pictured above is but a moment in a lengthy interpretive dance.  The lil’ monkey was doing a rendition of “My Favorite Things,” which holds closely, at least in its rhythms, to the Julie Andrews/Sound of Music version.  At this point she was singing “When I’m feeeeeeeling saaaaaad.”  “When the dog bites” and  “bee stings” warranted a clump on the floor.  She rose and swirled around when she got to “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel sooooooooo bad.”

Life’s ordinary rhythms are returning after the Prop 8 battle and vote, but they don’t crowd out the heaviness that has characterized its aftermath (at least for me).  They just kind of sidle up to it, and keep it company.  

I’m still trying to find and filter the words to make sense of it all, and fall silent (or give up trying) more often than not.  Like with all aftermaths, my personal calculus is that one needs as much time (as many months, years) adjusting to the new state as one had in the previous one.  

Read moreFavorite things