Around Here

The first Christmas tree that lives on vividly in my memory is the one I almost set on fire, and had my angel not intervened, probably the house along with it. My brother had received his first .22 rifle that year, so I deduce that he was thirteen years old, and I was seven. We had opened our presents on Christmas eve. I have no idea how many seven year olds can sleep all night on Christmas eve. I wasn’t one of them. Up before dawn while the rest of the family were still snug in their beds, I snuck downstairs, plugged in the lights, and the magic was instantly, grandly, reignited. And immediately one of the lights shorted and blew out, sparked, and to my shock and terror flames began licking up the side of the volatile conifer. My hand was still on the plug. I yanked it out, ran like a deer to the kitchen and filled a glass with tap water. I threw it on the tree and was amazed again, and of course relieved, that the fire was subdued. There didn’t...

I love dumplings! Their moist exterior, and dry inside, is such a delectable reversal of nature. They're anapaleolithic, so I don't get to indulge them much of late. Now I'm hungry for some. I always wanted a second burger too. Birthday cake was overrated.  Oh no... Not the dreaded skinny-fat! You're young. There's plenty of toning left in your life. And never underestimate the appeal of a touch of zaftig. You're a stylish girl. You'll always have that. I feel better when my weight is under control, though. Lighter = lighter. Body, mind, and soul. And a bit of muscle, which is power, lightens the burden of carnal existence still more. I was thinking recently how when I was a youngster, except when I was sick or injured, I was transparent to myself, my body scarcely existed. I was all perception, desire, fear, and will. Seems the arc of physical life is calibrated against the influence of gravity.  A quick ramp-up to escape velocity followed by a brief orbit,...

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I worked at the New York University publications bureau for a couple of years when I was in school there. That’s where I developed a lasting fondness for the Optima typeface, an elegant sans-serif font that was used for all of the university’s publications. The bureau was a hotbed of gay copywriters and layout artists. There were summer lunch breaks at Washington Square park and winter weekend parties in Brooklyn Heights. I struck up a friendship with Justin, a talented photographer who owned a beautiful Pentax SLR that I admired. He liked my Nikormat EL. We sometimes traded lenses. Justin derived endless mirth from my pronunciation of kitsch, with a continental i, that I had learned from my european boyfriend. “That’s so keech!” he’d exclaim, his fingers splayed in front of him, spastically flapping, as if to shake off a contamination, when he saw some- thing tacky. We had this game where we’d walk around the Village, and cover up a portion of some random ...