Sprained Ankle

Back on the west coast, back from baby service in the east. New York was warm and harsh, my new neices soft and sweet. The babies ate around the clock. Every three hours we were up, feeding them, feeding them, feeding them.

Three days I went around the city. I took the A train through Harlem and into midtown. I must have run around a lot. I remember running, vaguely. I sprained my ankle somewhere along the line, I don't remember when or where. I remember running.

The last day I went into New York with my camera, determined to take some photos, to dispel some ghosts. New York is fantastic.. and horrible. I am glad to be home, hobbled with my sprained ankle. I ignored it all week and now I am laid up in pain. Artie takes good care of me.

My photos of New York

Oh, Merry Christmas.

The Lake

by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot

in the Frick Collection, New York City

Phebe and Lucia in New York

I'm in New York City now. It's the first time I've been alone in New York since a year after I left in 1990. It's been a long time.

My sister had twin girls a couple of months ago, Phebe and Lucia. I'm here alone, helping out. They eat every 3 hours which necessitates exhaustion.

I ventured out into the subway yesterday and today. I see my demons clear as day. They are real, but it's ok. I will survive. On my first outing I saw school kids jumping onto the subway tracks for fun. On the second day I saw a schoolgirl being arrested for attacking someone on the subway platform. New Yorkers are still New Yorkers. I dressed all in black and covered my hair and body. I was a New Yorker again and didn't want to be one.

Back in my adolescence I visited the Frick Collection on East 70th street a lot. I would walk there after school regularly or even make a weekend visit. The atmosphere is so peaceful, elegant and contemplative. There is a central atrium with a long, lily-scattered pond surrounded by lush, shade-loving flowers and greenery. You can sit on a marble bench and think. There are many paintings there that I love so well. Corot's The Lake, Titian's Portrait of a Young Man, Rembrandt's The Polish Rider among them. It was like visiting old friends who comforted me in my time of need, and who still had the power to console and uplift. And pose questions that help to answer others. In all the chaos, cruelty and stench there is still beauty somewhere. Memento mori is not a downer. What is most important, what is truly precious? I made the right choice; now to be happy.

There are things about myself that I don't understand

Why hello there..