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A never-promised rose garden.
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Quickly & briefly: Xmas Day, dinner with Jezebel & friends, none of which I'd met before: Anne the English painter, Joseph the architect/landscape artist (teaching in Athens, GA) and Bob the ex-literary agent turned writer. Notable fact: I was the only one present WITHOUT an apt in Paris. Jez set me up in her office-cum-boudoir (rock-hard bed, good for HER back); on the + side, we both had privacy, I was getting up way before her, playing with Ollie, making tea and reading in peace (Isherwood's "Christopher and his kind", Mary McCarthy's memoirs, a bio of Frank O'Hara), then setting off on interminable walks through the City. The Park in its frozen wintry incarnation, sans skaters, skateboarders, drumming jams. Stood on the corner of 86th & Lex, the ancient hub of my daily traffic, gazing on my past. In my neighborhood, few changes. On 91 & Lex, Juliano recognized me immediately and served my customary double espresso without waiting for the order. "Where have you been?", said he nonchalantly, as if I'd missed a weekend. The chirpy quartet of Vietnamese gentlemen was there, so was the pleasingly ugly Mexican girl with the Times, and the fragile old man with snowy hair reading the Lankavatara Sutra. Almost spooky, stepping into the same living picture I'd left years ago. I went as far as the 96th, the vicinity of Mt. Sinai, got hungry, couldn't find room in ANY of the little food places there, zipped over to the West Side, Lincoln Square, Tower Records (rundown, shabby, doesn't look good for them, bankrupt). Took time to sit in the armchairs (most taken by homeless guys sleeping) and listen to 3-4 CDs. Bought Ronald Smith's Alkan and Beethoven variations (all BUT Diabelli); Ogdon and Gilels. West Village, SOHO, Astor Place (Tower Outlet shut down)--no conscious sightseeing, merely allowing my feet and eyes to touch the City again, without strain, without desire. Met Yvonne and a bunch of her friends over several days. She bought an apt on 87th & 5th, huge rooms, ballrooms. Must've been over a million. The Met and the Park across the street. Cafe Sabarsky. Le Pain Quotidien. Sicaffe, Payard. Fancy spots, elegant people. The gravitas of Park Avenue, noted Yvonne, flapping about in curious bewinged Galliano clothes. Strange to think of her as an Upper East Side matron. Went shopping for furniture with her: 8K sofas, zebra, antelope, unicorn hides—brushed against the impossibly hunky Denis Leary in the showroom, alpha-male hip-swinging and lurching walk. Ellen & Alex, on the devilish 42nd. (One evening it took me one hour to move from the 7th Ave. to 11th; I'd hurt my foot so wouldn't walk.) I like him, I approve. Darling Ellen hasn't changed a bit. Had some coked up fun with them—we’d become strangely loquacious and discussed modern medicine & history of math until the wee hours. Saw Almodóvar’s latest ('La mala educación') with Yvonne and Catherine. Catherine and Liza have a child now, the 18 month-old Francesca with chipmunk cheeks, and Liza wants another one. As Jez says, everybody’s a breeder these days. Met the glamorous Barbara and Chloe twice; pretty Barbara with her glittering long eyes, seductive Chloe of the Dietrich aura, perfect skin, Agnes B. long coat, shoulders gleaming naked in the candlelight. She’s curating a show for the UNESCO in Paris next month. Barbara had been sending books to Sontag until the day she died. G.’s joining Tonegawa’s lab this year, intent to pursue the role of sleep in memory consolidation. A made young man, is he. |