The temps are steadily rising in Tucson, which is a vast relief, but it’s still in the 30s at night. Maybe in just a few weeks my bones will unlock, and I’ll be frisky again. You know, everything hurts when I’m cold, and nothing hurts when I am warm. I find that very profound. By February, I can’t even turn my head, or touch my toes. My hips and hands ache like I’m elderly. In summer I can do anything, I feel supple, powerful, strong, Ninja. All I want in life is one sunny, warm room, a fresh market within walking distance, a bottle of wine, a few sundresses. If I’m lucky, my whole life will succeed in being that. I don’t mind if the one room is a succession of rooms. Who cares. I like seeing new places, feeding birds, sweeping the floor, waking up with the dawn. I don’t dream of winning the lottery. I don’t like Beyonce, plastic fences, expensive cars, or processed cheese.
I do have plastic chairs, I have to admit this. They are blue, and are souvenirs of the time a friend called me, weeping, from Home Depot, saying “I’m sitting in a plastic chair, crying, and people keep asking me if I’m fine.” I said, “They won’t bother TWO people weeping in plastic chairs” and so I came over and sat in them with her. We laughed, and talked, and had such fun I bought the chairs we sat in, to commemorate the moment. Here they are:
There are about a thousand birds in this photo. And I’m not even kidding. Hummers, finches, cardinals, towhees, sparrows, warblers, mockingbirds, cactus wrens, woodpeckers. We haz them. Soon our black-chin hummingbirds will be home for summer, so tiny, so zzzy.
Time Magazine has struck me since childhood as an organ of things like parents, Republicans, and the Establishment in general, but here I am linking to them. I love the photo spread on the six miles of new tunnels they are busily boring beneath NYC and Long Island.
Photos by Patrick Cashin, for the NY MTA