Saturday, September 05, 2015


It is smart to remember, though it is not always easy, that New York is as riddled with pretension as it is seductive, and you shouldn't be taken in by your own fears, and/or history. So I have returned to New York, making my first true, concerted attempt to actually live here, if only for several months.  I will confess to having had an actual sense of dread, as in a Poe story.  Considering that I lived at 255 West 84th St. in my childhood, and on that building is mounted a plaque now (and was only whispered of then) reading that on that site, when he wrote The Raven, lived Edgar Allen Poe.
     I always imagined that was part of the gift that Destiny had in mind for me, to be inspired by his spirit, (coming from the same word base,) oozing over the edges of memory
   Choreographed in large part by my own Little Girl terror, coming back to a home where I never felt fully at home, my return was additionally manacled by being soul-cuffed to the Apple store, where, except for one really smart, kind teacher whose gifts extend in many directions but who has the generosity of spirit to help e-morons, the return seemed a sentence, something to be worked through before my life could re-begin. Eight days in what I will have to describe as the glass-enclosed bowels of not exactly the earth before my computer problems were sorted out, when my building had problems, and and and.   As my legion of Fan understand, I am a believer in Karma, so hope I have paid back a number of my Debts, and the path is sort of cleared.  The only thing that makes me feel a little better is that the nicest, most generous person I knew in California broke her foot, and boatloads of babies trying to escape starvation and misery in Europe sank.  Nobody ever said it would be fair.
     The good news is that having realized I am in New York and had the mercy of an exquisite day, I walked through the park to the Metropolitan Museum, where there was, according to the New York Times a full-to-the-brim exhibition of Chinese garb with a sidebar examination of Anna May Wong that turned out to be a hype.  Not that I am being critical, even if I am, but when it turns out that the Times and the Museum can blow hot air on a day when there isn't any, you need to be careful about what you believe.  The true beauty is that before I made it that far uptown, I went to the Frick and saw a seemingly endless parade of magnificent art, collected by someone who had no training or background in it, but an undeniable gift along with all the money.  I should be ashamed to admit that I had never gone to the Frick until today, except that like love, great art appears when you're ready for it.   There were all those wonderful paintings in all the wonderful galleries and libraries I had the privilege of visiting all over the world before today, including those in suburban Philadelphia, Paris, Rome, and 
George d'Almeida's garage in the Italian mountains.  But never have I felt so satisfied, especially as the article in the Times made it sound like I would have to be in the Met for a good part of my life.  And there is the sidebar of noting that with the Frick, again, the collector came from Pittsburgh, a most unlikely place to spawn sensitivity and taste, except of course for my cousins'. 
    So I am feeling less intimidated at being here than I did.  Now if I can only remember to be present.  I don't mean here, as much as 'Here.'