Remembrance

Sacred to the memory of John Stiles.
He came to his death from a bullet from a revolver. It was one of the old fashioned kind and brass mounted, and such is the kingdom of heaven.

Campo Santo Cemetery
San Diego
1849

I'm a Stranger Here Myself

The guys working the counter of my favorite deli on Atlantic Ave are convinced I'm Lebanese. My wool cap, they swear, is a burnoose; my features have a clear Middle Eastern stamp. Not that I know of, I smile, waiting as they take their time packing up my lamb patties. They are unswayed, and throw in a package of pitas for free. Ma'assalama, they call as I head out the door.

Closer to home, I stop by my corner bodega for the Times. The guy working the afternoon shift calls out "Hello beautiful lady!" when I walk in the door. We're friendly; he's had a long day and is eager to chat. It's cold, but at least it keeps the teenagers from loitering on the corner; he has yet to hear about his medical residency interviews. "Are you an immigrant?" he asks, the apparent natural next step in our conversation. "Pretty much everyone in this country is, at some point," I deflect, reaching into the fridge for milk. "No, you look like you just came over." What does that look like, I wonder? Brown hair, brown eyes; I could be from anywhere. I tell him that my mother is first generation American. "Ah, I could see it in your face. And of course, your accent." "I'm from New Jersey, I can't help it!" I laugh in protest as I make my escape.

I myself go through phases of thinking I recognize everyone I pass on the street, but what are the chances of that in New York? In a city of 8 million, I see my deli friends more regularly than I do some closer members of my urban family. No one wants to be anonymous; we all nervously tug at the threads of community, making sure they're there, just in case. Lost in the crowds we recognize what we want to see and, for a moment, feel less alone.

Of note from Sunday's Times Book Review: Jim Harrison's Guide to Living Well

I enjoyed Will Blythe's summary so much I had to post it.

1. Eat well, of course, avoiding the ninny diets and mincing cuisines that demonize appetite and make unthinkable a tasty snack of hog jowls. We're all going to die. Might as well enjoy a little fat along the way.
2. Pursue love and sex, no matter discrepancies of desire and age. Romance is worth the humbling. Doing it outdoors on stumps, in clearings and even swarmed by mosquitoes is particularly recommended.
3. Welcome animals, especially bears, ravens and wolves, into your waking and dream life. An acceptance of our common creaturedom is essential not just to the health of the planet but to our ordinary happiness. We are mere participants in natural cycles, not the kings of them.
4. Rather than lighting out for territory, we ought to try living in it.
5. And finally, love the detour. Take the longest route between two points, since the journey is the thing.

Bonus tip to curing heartbreak...also an excellent way to spend an icy weekend:

Broil a two- to three-pound porterhouse. Eat it with your bare hands. Follow with a hot bath in which you consume the best bourbon you can buy until the bottle is empty. Sleep for a day. Repeat as necessary.

High Drama

Recently, I went to see Jenufa at the Met. Basic plot: Jenufa loves and is impregnated by a well-dressed wastrel who may or may not be her half-cousin and who only appreciates her for her friendliness and her rosy apple cheeks. Another man with rage issues who also may or may not be her half-cousin loves her, but his love goes unrequited. He festers, they tussle, he slices her face open with a paring knife. Her cheeks are no longer rosy nor apple-like. Jenufa goes into hiding, has a son, prays a lot, wears black. The father stops by but can't even stand to look at her scarred face, let alone marry her. The second man stops by, feels guilty, still loves her, would marry her but for the baby. Stepmother freaks out, drugs Jenufa, rushes out into a snowstorm and tosses the infant into the river. Mother is disconsolate, but decides to move on and marry the cheek-slicer, though spends some time feeling guilty because she comes with so much baggage. Come wedding day, all are gathered for the ceremony when news arrives that a baby has been found under the ice, still wearing his red cap. Everyone gets ready to stone Jenufa but the stepmother confesses, and true love between mother and maimer is found at last.

All this in Czech. I love opera.

Some drama was also had off-stage. A friend and I decided to move down from the nose-bleed section into the orchestra for the third act. We shoved our way down the 14 flights of stairs, staggered into the orchestra, and managed to cram all our luggage (2 bulky coats, 3 stuffed tote bags, 1 pair sequined butterfly wings, 1 large box containing 18 glass vases) under seats that we were assured hadn't been taken through the first two acts. I collapsed into my seat, exhausted, only to have a ticket shoved under my nose and a nasally voice intone, "Excuse me; you must be in the wrong seat. I have a press ticket" Blast. I looked up, encountered a black mock turtleneck and helmet hair that looked like it had been subdued by two paddle brushes and a full bottle of Hair Tonic for Men. "Oh dear," I said, all innocence, "we only came down when we saw how many free seats there are in this section." Bat bat, went the eyelashes. I received a basilisk stare in return. "I could find another seat," he said, though made no effort to cast his eyes away from mine. "Oh no, let ME," I growled, and conveyed myself from his seat directly into the empty seat one row ahead. He settled himself in, and my friend decided this would be just the moment to move up into the empty seat next to me. She started tossing luggage around, and I took the moment to look back and have a little chat with our new friend. "So, you're writing a review?" "Yes, I'm with the New Yorker." Oh, really. "Surely you can't write reviews when you've only seen the 3rd act?" I asked, at my most snidely polite. "Well, I would have been here earlier, but the Philharmonic only just let out," he sneered back. We eyed each other coldly. The curtain went up. When it went down again, he was gone.

Great opera. I'm looking forward to reading the review.